Hakan Nesser - Hour of the wolf

‘How are things for you?’ he asked in the end. ‘Financially and so on, I mean?’

That was heavy-handed, and she buttoned up immediately. Went out into the kitchen without answering, but came back half a minute later.

‘Why do you ask?’

He thrust out his arms and tried to adopt a mild, disarming expression. That was not something that came naturally to him, and he felt like a shoplifter who had been caught red-handed with six packets of cigarettes in his pockets. Or condoms.

‘Because I’d like to help you, of course,’ he admitted. ‘Let’s not beat about the bush — I’m bloody useless when it comes to beating about the bush.’

That was much more disarming than any facial expression, it seemed, for she smiled at him after a moment’s hesitation.

‘I can manage,’ she said. ‘So far, at least… And I have no desire to become a burden on anybody. But I like the fact that you exist. Not with regard to money, but because of Erich, and this.’

She stroked her stomach, and for the first time Van Veeteren thought he could discern a slight bump there. A trace of a protuberance that was just a little bit more than a normally rounded female stomach, and he felt a faint wave of dizziness surge through him.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you exist as well. Do you think we know where we stand now?’

‘I think so,’ said Marlene.

Just before leaving, he remembered another thing.

‘That note,’ he said. ‘That scrap of paper with the name. Did you phone the police about it?’

She raised her hand to her forehead.

‘I forgot all about it,’ she said. ‘I didn’t give it another thought… But I’ve still got it, if you’d like to look at it.’

She went back into the kitchen, and returned with a small piece of lined paper, evidently torn out of a notebook.

‘I’ll take care of it,’ said Van Veeteren, putting it in his inside pocket. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll phone Reinhart tomorrow morning.’

When he got back home he checked the telephone directory. There was half a column of people with the surname Keller in the Maardam section. Twenty-six, to be precise. He wondered whether he ought to ring Reinhart straight away, but as it was a quarter past nine by now, he let it be.

No doubt they are up to the eyes in it, he thought. I’d better not keep poking my nose in all the time.

It was three quarters of an hour before Moreno put in an appearance. Meanwhile Reinhart had managed to drink three cups of coffee, smoke the same number of pipefuls, and started to feel queasy.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I really had to gobble a sandwich and take a shower first.’

‘You look like a young Venus,’ said Reinhart. ‘Well, what the hell do you have to say for yourself?’

Moreno hung up her jacket, opened the window and sat down opposite Reinhart.

‘A doctor,’ she said. ‘It could well be him… Although I’m afraid I had second thoughts after I’d rung. I mean, I could be quite wrong.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Reinhart. ‘Who is he, and how do you know it’s him?’

‘His name’s Clausen. Pieter Clausen. But I haven’t spoken to him.. He seems to have disappeared.’

‘Disappeared?’ said Reinhart.

‘Well, disappeared might be an exaggeration,’ said Moreno. ‘But he can’t be contacted, and he wasn’t at the hospital today, despite the fact that he ought to have been.’

‘Rumford?’

‘New Rumford, yes. He was off sick all last week, but he should have been back on duty today. This morning. But he didn’t turn up.’

‘How do you know all this? Who have you spoken to?’

‘Doctor Leissne. The doctor-in-charge of general medicine. He’s Clausen’s boss. Obviously, I didn’t tell him all my suspicions, or what we were really looking for and so on; but I thought… Well, I thought I was on to something. Leissne was annoyed, obviously — his secretary had been trying to phone Clausen all morning but nobody had answered. And nobody on his ward knows where he is. There might be something fishy about his week on sick leave as well, but I’m only guessing, of course.’

‘Family?’ said Reinhart. ‘Is he married?’

Moreno shook her head.

‘No, he lives alone. Out at Boorkhejm. Divorced several years ago. But he’s been working at Rumford for ten years, and he hasn’t collected any black marks.’

‘Not until now,’ said Reinhart.

‘Not until now,’ repeated Moreno thoughtfully. ‘But we shouldn’t get carried away. I only had time to speak to Leissne and one of the ward nurses — it didn’t crop up until half past four.’

‘How did it crop up?’

‘Dr Leissne’s secretary came and said she wanted to talk to me. I’d just finished one of these.’

She foraged in her handbag and produced three cassettes, which she put on the table.

‘I see,’ said Reinhart. ‘Have you got any more information about him?’

Moreno handed over a sheet of paper, and Reinhart studied it for a while.

Personal details. Posts held and qualifications. A black-and-white photograph of a man about thirty-five years old. Short, dark hair. Thin lips, long thin face. A little birthmark on one cheek.

‘Could be anybody,’ he said. ‘Is it an old photo?’

‘Five or six years, I reckon,’ said Moreno. ‘He’s just turned forty now.’

‘Does he have any children? From that old marriage, for instance?’

‘Not as far as Leissne knew.’

‘Women? Fiancee?’

‘Not clear.’

‘And no black marks?’

‘None that has been recorded, at least.’

‘What about his ex-wife?’

Moreno went to close the window.

‘Nobody knows. They didn’t even know what she was called. But I’ve got the name of a colleague who Leissne thought might be able to give us a bit more information. Apparently he knocked around a bit with Clausen outside working hours.’

‘And what does he have to say?’

‘Nothing. I’ve only spoken to his answering machine.’

‘Oh, bugger,’ said Reinhart.

Moreno looked at the clock.

‘Half past seven,’ she said. ‘Maybe we could drive out and take a look? To Boorkhejm, I mean. We’ve got his address.’

Reinhart knocked out his pipe and stood up.

‘What are you waiting for?’ he asked.

On the way out to Boorkhejm they were subjected to a hailstorm that made the suburban gloom even gloomier than usual. It took them a while to find Malgerstraat, and when Reinhart pulled up outside number seventeen, he felt even more sorry for the human race than he usually did. It must be difficult to find any sort of meaning of life when you live out here, he thought. In these grey boxes in this dreary climate. The street that God forgot. Grey, wet and narrow.

But it was middle-class even so. Standing outside each of the row of houses was a caravan of more or less identical small Japanese cars, and a blue television screen could be seen in every third window.

But number seventeen was shrouded in darkness. Both downstairs and upstairs. The house was one of a terrace of two-storey boxes in grey or possibly brown brick, with nine square metres of garden and an asphalted drive leading to the garage. A soaking wet flowerbed overgrown with weeds and a letter box made of concrete with black iron fittings.

Reinhart switched off the engine, and they remained sitting in the car for a while, looking at the house. Then he got out and lifted the lid of the letter box. It was fitted with a lock, but through the slit he could see several newspapers and rather a lot of mail. In fact, it was crammed full — he doubted if there would be room for another newspaper. He returned to the car.

‘Would you like to go and ring the bell?’ he said to Moreno.