Hakan Nesser - Hour of the wolf

The usual procedures? Reinhart wondered.

Two minutes later everybody was in place. Pavarotti stayed in the car with his mobile in one hand and his gun in the other. When Bloomguard gave the signal Reinhart walked up the eight steps and rang the bell. Bloomguard followed twelve centimetres behind him. The door was opened by Mrs Ponczak.

‘Yes?’ she said in surprise.

Three seconds later there were four men inside the house. Sergeants Stiffle and Johnson took the upstairs floor, Bloomguard and Reinhart stormed into the living room and kitchen downstairs.

He was sitting in the kitchen.

When Reinhart clapped eyes on him he had just turned sideways on his chair and seen the two hefty-looking police officers on the kitchen terrace, each of them aiming their 7.6 millimetre Walthers at him. Bloomguard was standing shoulder to shoulder with Reinhart, aiming his own gun at him as well.

Reinhart put his gun into its holster and cleared his throat.

‘Dr Clausen,’ he said. ‘I have the doubtful pleasure of arresting you for the murder of Erich Van Veeteren and Vera Miller. You have the right to remain silent, but anything you say might be used in evidence against you.’

He shrank back slightly, but not a lot. Put down the mug of coffee he’d been holding in his hand. Looked Reinhart in the eye without moving a muscle. His dark face looked haggard — a few days of stubble and bags under his eyes. Hasn’t had much sleep, by the look of it, Reinhart thought. No wonder.

But there was something else about his appearance, something that looked completely fresh, he noted. As if it had only landed on his face a few seconds beforehand. A sort of relief.

That’s probably what it was. Perhaps that’s what he felt, at last.

‘Keller,’ he said in a low voice, hardly more than a whisper. ‘You forgot Keller. I killed him as well.’

‘We suspected as much,’ said Reinhart.

‘I’m sorry.’

Reinhart said nothing.

‘I’m sorry about it all, but I’m pleased I killed Keller.’

Reinhart nodded.

‘We’ll take the rest at the station. Take him away.’

Mrs Ponczak hadn’t said a word since they stormed in, and she didn’t say a word when they led away her brother. Reinhart was the last one to pass her in the vestibule: he paused for a moment and tried to think of something to say.

‘Sorry to intrude,’ was the best he could think of. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

She nodded and closed the door behind him.

He interrogated Pieter Clausen for three hours in a light-blue room in the police station of the 22nd district. Recorded it all on tape, but postponed the transcription and signatures in view of the language problem. When he had finished he left Clausen in his cell, securely guarded, and went to Bloomguard’s office in order to telephone Maardam. After a short pause he was put through to Moreno.

‘I’ll be returning with him tomorrow evening,’ he said. ‘He’s confessed to everything — I think he’s relieved that it’s all over.’

‘What happened to Keller?’ asked Moreno.

Reinhart took a deep breath and began to explain.

‘Clausen killed him. He’d worked out who he was… Ambushed him and killed him, just like that. More or less the same method as he’d used for Erich and Vera Miller. Just outside his home in Boorkhejm, in the centre of the estate — but it was the middle of the night and nobody saw anything… It was just as Keller was about to set off to collect the money. If there’s anything he doesn’t regret, it’s doing Keller in. He claims Keller knew that he was on his trail because he was armed with a big knife that evening. But Clausen was quicker. Anyway, he put the body in his car, drove out towards Linzhuisen and buried him among some trees. I’ve got a description of the location, but maybe we can leave him there for a few more days.’

‘Certainly,’ said Moreno. ‘The ground frost will keep him in check. Winter has set in over here. How did he manage the role change?’

‘It was straightforward, it seems. Before burying the body he took Keller’s keys and wallet. Drove back to Boorkhejm, let himself into Keller’s flat and… well, stole his identity, I suppose you could say. They were quite similar in appearance, that was what The Chief Inspector had caught onto, and anyway, who the hell looks like his passport photo? On the Friday he rang and ordered a ticket to New York, took the scooter around lunch time and rode out to Sechshafen. Stayed one night at one of the airport hotels, then flew out here. No problems at passport control — a two-month tourist visa and white skin solves all the problems, I expect. Checked in at that hotel in Lower East — you know the place. Then moved out after just the one night. Rented a little flat among all the Russians on Coney Island — saw an advert in a shop window and followed it up. I don’t understand why he didn’t find something better, he had plenty of money after all. But in any case, it wasn’t as good as he’d thought…’

‘Alone with his conscience?’ said Moreno.

‘Presumably,’ said Reinhart. ‘He contacted his sister and told her he’d got problems — that was before I went to see her. She phoned him and warned him, but she probably didn’t realize who I was and he couldn’t stand being on his own any longer. He didn’t tell her what he’d done, just that he had problems. So he came to visit her when he thought the coast was clear — but of course it wasn’t. He must have felt really cut off. The more people who live in a city, the more space you have to feel isolated. I think he’d been taking quite a lot of medication as well — that’s presumably what enabled him to go through with it all… It’s only just beginning to sink in that he’s killed four people.’

‘So he’s on the edge of a breakdown, is he?’ wondered Moreno.

‘I suspect so,’ said Reinhart. ‘We can go into more detail when I get back. Can you inform The Chief Inspector, by the way? I’ll be arriving with Clausen tomorrow evening… It will be good if he can let us know how he wants to go about things. What do you think?’

‘All right,’ said Moreno. ‘I expect he’ll be wanting one last round.’

‘It looks like it,’ said Reinhart. ‘Anyway, over and out.’

‘See you soon,’ said Moreno.

It snowed again on Wednesday morning. There were four of them in the car out to JFK: Bloomguard and Reinhart in the front seats, Clausen and a gigantic black police constable by the name of Whitefoot in the back — the two latter were linked together by handcuffs for which Whitefoot had a key in his back pocket, and Reinhart had another in reserve in his wallet. It was obvious that Christmas was coming: the journey took only half an hour, but they managed to hear ‘White Christmas’ twice and ‘Jinglebells’ three times on the car radio. Reinhart was feeling homesick.

‘It was great to meet you,’ said Bloomguard as they stood outside the security check. ‘We plan to make a little trip to Europe in three or four years’ time, Veronique and I. And Quincey, of course. Perhaps we can meet over a cup of coffee? In Paris or Copenhagen or somewhere?’

‘Sure,’ said Reinhart. ‘Why not both? You’ve got my card.’

They shook hands and Bloomguard vanished into the departure hall. Clausen seemed to have become more lifeless with every hour that passed since they found him, and Whitefoot had to more or less drag him onto the plane. Reinhart was deeply grateful that he wasn’t the one who would have to sit handcuffed to the murderer for the seven hours of the flight. He had offered to take the doctor back home himself, but there had been no question of the offer being accepted. Whitefoot had been on this kind of mission before, and knew what it was all about. Without a word he dumped Clausen into the window seat, sat down next to him and left the aisle seat for Reinhart. He explained to Clausen that he would be allowed one toilet visit, no more, and that he should regard his right arm as having been amputated. Everything — eating, turning the pages of a book or newspaper, picking his nose, the lot — would have to be done with his left hand. It was no problem, said Whitefoot, they had more time than in fucking hell.