Hakan Nesser - Hour of the wolf

‘From the airport,’ said Krause. ‘It looks as if Aron Keller left on a flight last Saturday afternoon.’

‘A flight?’ said Reinhart. ‘Where to?’

‘New York,’ said Krause. ‘Left Sechshafen at 14.05. British Airways.’

‘New York?’ said Reinhart. ‘Hell’s bells.’

Nothing happened the rest of the day, apart from the fact that it snowed.

At least, that was how it seemed to Reinhart. It snowed and something had slipped through his fingers. He spent hour after hour in his office, and every time he looked out of the window all he could see was those flakes drifting down over the town. Occasionally he stood by the window, watching the scene. Stood there smoking his pipe, his hands in his pockets, and thinking about The Chief Inspector. About what he had promised him at the beginning of the investigation, and how he had been so close to fulfilling that promise.

Or had he? Had he never been close, in fact?

And what was the situation now? What had happened between Clausen and Keller? He thought he knew the answer to that, but refused to dig it up and look at it. Not yet. Not just yet. Perhaps in view of The Chief Inspector and that promise he had made… Yes, on second thoughts that was precisely why, of course.

Shortly after lunch Moreno came back, now with Bollmert and deBries at her heels. They sat down and began reporting on Keller’s friends and acquaintances. Just as they had feared, there weren’t any. None of the people in the address book they had impounded — the dozen or so they had made contact with — had claimed to be especially close to the man. Some of them didn’t even know who Aron Keller was, and couldn’t understand why their names and addresses were in the book. In toto there were only two people who admitted that they had any kind of dealings with him: his two sisters in Linzhuisen. Without hesitation they both — independently — called him a crashing bore and a hermit, but said that even so they took it in turns to visit their respective families.

About once a year. At Christmas time.

Sometimes he came, sometimes he didn’t.

As for his life and way of living, there was hardly anything to say. He had been a bit odd ever since he fell off a tractor and hit his head when he was about ten. Perhaps even before that. He had been married to a woman just as pig-headed as he was, and they had split up after less than a year. She’d been called Liz Vrongel, and was probably still called that.

His only interest had been silence. And football.

‘Hmm,’ said Reinhart. ‘Well, at least they won’t need to send him an invitation this Christmas. He won’t be going.’

‘How do you know that?’ wondered deBries, who was unaware of the message from Sechshafen.

‘He’ll be celebrating Christmas in New York,’ said Reinhart with a sigh. ‘The bastard. We’ll get round to that in a minute. What about the other Keller in the book? I seem to recall that there were three.’

‘His father,’ said deBries, pulling a face. ‘A seventy-five-year-old boozer up in Haaldam. Lives in some kind of home, some of the time at least. He hasn’t been in touch with any of his children for twenty years.’

‘A marvellous family,’ said Moreno.

‘Idyllic,’ said deBries. ‘The old man’s a right pain in the arse, it seems. Perhaps his son takes after him?’

‘I expect so,’ said Reinhart. ‘Any other information?’

‘Yes,’ said Bollmert. ‘We think we know how Erich Van Veeteren knew him. Aron Keller worked as a probation officer for a few years.’

Reinhart produced something reminiscent of a snarl.

‘Isn’t that just bloody typical!’ he said. ‘It’s scandalous that they let types like him become probation officers. Who do they think is going to be helped to fit back into society by an arsehole like Keller…? The only meaningful relationship he can have is with a vacuum cleaner.’

‘He hasn’t had any customers for three years,’ said deBries. ‘If that’s any consolation. We’re not sure yet if he took care personally of Erich Van Veeteren, but it won’t take long to check that out.’

‘Why haven’t you done it already, then?’ asked Reinhart.

‘Because you wanted us here at one o’clock,’ said deBries.

‘Ah,’ said Reinhart. ‘Sorry.’

He stood up and watched the snow falling for a while.

‘I wonder…’ he said. ‘Yes, that’s it, of course.’

‘What?’ said Moreno.

‘He must certainly have had some kind of hold over Erich. They can hardly avoid it in that business… And then he must have used it to get the lad to go and collect the money for him. Damn and blast! Damn and bloody blast!’

‘We did say that blackmailers aren’t usually very nice people,’ said Moreno. ‘Keller seems to be no exception.’

Reinhart returned to his chair.

‘I’ll ring and look into that probation business,’ he said. ‘If it’s true, and I assume it is, I reckon we can say that we’re clear about most of what happened. You can all take the afternoon off.’

‘Good,’ said deBries. ‘I’d thought of proposing that myself. I haven’t had any time off since Easter.’

He left together with Bollmert. Reinhart sat in silence, staring at the cassettes which would never be listened to. Not by him, or by anybody else.

‘All that work,’ he muttered, and glared at Moreno. ‘All that blasted work and all that wasted time. If you can answer one question for me, I’ll put a good word in for you to Heller and suggest he gives you a winter holiday.’

‘Shoot,’ said Moreno.

‘What did Keller do to Clausen last Thursday evening? What the hell went on?’

‘I need some time to think about that,’ said Moreno.

‘You can have all afternoon,’ said Reinhart. ‘Go and sit in your office and watch the snow. It makes thinking easier.’

Van Veeteren took out a newly rolled cigarette and lit it.

‘So you know who did it?’ he said.

Reinhart nodded.

‘Yes, I think we’ve found the right man. It’s not a pleasant story, but then it never is. It all started with an accident, more or less. This Pieter Clausen is driving along a dark road at night, hits a young boy and kills him. He drives off, but doesn’t know he’s been seen. He might have stopped to check what happened, that seems likely. He’s on his way home to Boorkhejm, and so is a certain Aron Keller — probably on his scooter. It’s foul weather, heavy rain and strong winds, but he recognizes Clausen. They are near neighbours. Keller decides he’s going to make some money out of what he’s seen… We’re dealing with a very nasty piece of work, I think I can promise you that.’

‘Blackmailers are rarely nice chaps,’ said Van Veeteren.

‘Too right,’ said Reinhart. ‘Anyway, he sends your son out to Dikken that Tuesday to collect the money. I don’t know if you are acquainted with Keller, but he was the probation officer in charge of Erich for a few years… It’s not even clear that Erich was going to be paid for what he did. Keller might well have had some kind of hold on him. Clausen doesn’t know who the blackmailer is, he already has one death on his conscience, and doesn’t want to find himself constantly under threat. He kills Erich, thinking he’s killed the blackmailer.’

He paused. After five seconds which seemed like five years to Reinhart, Van Veeteren nodded and indicated he should continue.

‘Then we have the murder of Vera Miller. Do you want to hear about that as well?’

‘Of course.’

‘I don’t know why Clausen kills her, but it must have something to do with Keller and Erich. Clausen and Vera Miller were having an affair, they’d only started shortly beforehand. Anyway, we were finally beginning to understand what it was all about. You put us onto the blackmail motive, and Aron Keller. The annoying thing is that we were so late in catching on. Something must have happened on Thursday or Friday last week — presumably it was time for Clausen to pay up once and for all. He’d had a loan granted by the Spaarkasse. Withdrew two hundred and twenty thousand in cash — and then he disappeared.’