Hour of the wolf ivv-7

by Håkan Nesser

  ‘Thanks for asking,’ said Munster. ‘It’s been quite a while.’

  ‘Are you still in bed?’ Reinhart asked.

  ‘It’s Sunday,’ Munster pointed out. ‘It’s not even nine o’clock yet. What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Something bloody catastrophic has happened,’ said Reinhart. ‘I need your help.’

  Munster thought for a couple of seconds.

  ‘Are you that short of staff?’ he asked. ‘I’m still tied up with that inquiry, have you forgotten that? I won’t be back at work until February at the earliest.’

  ‘I know,’ said Reinhart.

  ‘What’s it all about, then?’

  There was silence for a few seconds. Then Chief Inspector Reinhart cleared his throat and explained what had happened.

  ‘Hell’s bells!’ said Munster. ‘I’ll be with you in a quarter of an hour. Of course I shall help.’

  ‘Let’s take the long way there,’ said Reinhart. ‘I need a bit of time.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Munster. ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘A heavy blow to the head,’ said Reinhart. ‘Manslaughter or murder, probably the latter.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tuesday, it seems.’

  ‘Tuesday? It’s Sunday today.’

  ‘They only found him yesterday. He didn’t have any papers on him that could identify him. I thought I recognized him, but I’ve only ever seen him once or twice… Anyway, that woman rang this morning to report him missing. She’s already been to identify him. There’s no doubt about it, unfortunately.’

  Munster said nothing, studied the movement of the windscreen wipers.

  Oh hell! he thought. Why did something like this have to happen? What’s the point?

  He knew they were futile questions, but the fact that they always cropped up might indicate something even so. Something to do with hope and positivism. A sort of refusal to surrender to the powers of darkness? Perhaps that was a way of looking at it, perhaps that was how one should interpret that eternal why.

  ‘Have you had much contact with him lately?’ Reinhart asked when they had crossed the river and started to approach the high-rise apartment buildings out at Leimaar.

  Munster shrugged.

  ‘A bit,’ he said. ‘About once a month. We usually have a beer now and again.’

  ‘No badminton?’

  ‘Twice a year.’

  Reinhart sighed deeply.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Not too bad, I think. So far. He’s found himself a woman as well.’

  Reinhart nodded.

  ‘I’m grateful to you for agreeing to join me.’

  Munster made no reply.

  ‘Bloody grateful,’ said Reinhart. ‘I don’t know if I’d be able to cope with it on my own.’

  Munster took a deep breath.

  ‘Let’s get it over with,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to be gained by putting it off any longer. Have you rung to check that he’s at home?’

  Reinhart shook his head.

  ‘No. But he’s at home all right, I can feel it. This isn’t something we can avoid.’

  ‘No,’ said Munster. ‘We can’t. Nor can he.’

  There was a shortage of parking places around Klagenburg. After circling the block a few times Reinhart finally found a space on the corner of Morgenstraat and Ruyder Alle, but they had to walk a couple of hundred metres through the rain before they were able to ring the bell on the door of number four.

  At first there was no reaction from inside; but after a second more insistent ring, they could hear somebody coming down the stairs. Before the door opened, Munster noted that despite the wet conditions his mouth was absolutely dry, and he began to wonder if he would be in a fit state to force even a single word past his lips. The door opened slightly.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Reinhart. ‘May we come in?’

  Van Veeteren was dressed in something dark blue and red that presumably was — or had been — a dressing gown, and something brown that was certainly a pair of slippers. He didn’t look as if he had just woken up, and was carrying a newspaper folded up under his arm.

  ‘Reinhart?’ he exclaimed in surprise, and opened the door wide. ‘And Munster? What the hell?’

  ‘Yes,’ Munster managed to utter, ‘you can say that again.’

  ‘Come in,’ said Van Veeteren, gesturing with the newspaper. ‘All this bloody rain is a pain. What’s the matter?’

  ‘Let’s sit down first,’ said Reinhart.

  They all walked up the stairs, the visitors were ushered into the cosy-looking living room and flopped down into armchairs. Van Veeteren remained standing. Munster bit his lip and plucked up courage.

  ‘It’s your son,’ he said. ‘Erich. I’m sorry, but Reinhart says he’s been murdered.’

  Looking back, he was convinced that he’d closed his eyes as he said that.

  8

  When Jung and Rooth parked outside the Trattoria Commedia at about two o’clock on Sunday afternoon it had stopped raining for the moment. Two forensic officers were still working on the abandoned Peugeot, supervised by Inspector le Houde: the car had been cordoned off by red-and-white police tape, as had the spot where the body was found some ten metres away. Plus a narrow corridor between the two. Rooth paused and scratched his head.

  ‘What do they think they’ll find in the car?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Jung. ‘He’d had it on loan for a few months from that jailbird mate of his — maybe he’s involved as well in some way?’

  ‘It can’t have been Elmer Kodowsky who bashed his head in,’ said Rooth. ‘He hasn’t been out on parole for eight weeks — it would be hard to get a better alibi than that.’

  ‘I dare say you’re right,’ said Jung. ‘Shall we go in and attack the barman then, or do you intend standing here and searching for nits a bit longer?’

  ‘I’ve finished now,’ said Rooth. ‘God, but I don’t like this bloody business. I don’t like it when crimes affect one of us. Somebody like VV should have the right to immunity, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘I know,’ said Jung. ‘Don’t go on about it. Let’s go in and do our job, then we can go for a coffee somewhere.’

  ‘All right,’ said Rooth. ‘I’m with you there.’

  The barman’s name was Alois Kummer, and he looked anything but happy.

  He was young, suntanned and athletic-looking, so Jung didn’t really understand why. They sat down opposite him in the bar, which was deserted — as long as no customers turned up they might just as well sit here and talk. Both Jung and Rooth agreed on that, and apparently herr Kummer as well, as he made no objection.

  ‘So you were on duty last Tuesday evening, is that right?’ Jung began.

  ‘Only until nine o’clock,’ said Kummer.

  ‘Let’s concentrate on that time,’ said Rooth. ‘Did you have many customers?’

  Kummer displayed his teeth. They looked strong and healthy, and presumably were expressing an ironic grin.

  ‘How many?’ asked Jung.

  ‘A dozen or so,’ said Kummer. ‘At most. Can I get you anything?’

  Jung shook his head. Rooth laid out the photographs on the counter.

  ‘What about this person?’ he asked. ‘Was he there? Don’t answer until you’re sure.’

  The barman studied the pictures for ten seconds, pulling at his earring.

  ‘I believe so,’ he said.

  ‘You believe so?’ echoed Rooth, ‘Are you religious?’

  ‘I like it,’ said Kummer. ‘Yes, he was here. He sat eating at one of the tables through there. I didn’t pay much attention to him.’

  ‘At what time?” asked Jung.

  ‘Between five and six, or thereabouts… Yes, he left at about a quarter past six, just before Helene arrived.’

  ‘Helene?’ said Jung.

  ‘One of the girls in the kitchen.’

  ‘Have you got something going with her, then?’ Rooth wondered.

  ‘What t
he hell has that got to do with it?’ said Kummer, starting to look annoyed.

  ‘You never know,’ said Rooth. ‘Life is a tangle of remarkable connections.’

  Jung coughed and changed the subject.

  ‘Was he alone, or was there anybody else with him?’ he asked.

  ‘He was on his own,’ said Kummer without hesitation.

  ‘All the time?’ Rooth asked.

  ‘All the time.’

  ‘How many diners did you have altogether? Between five and six o’clock, that is.’

  Kummer thought for a moment.

  ‘Not many,’ he said. ‘Four or five, perhaps.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to be high season just now, does it?’ said Rooth.

  ‘Would you like to play golf in weather like this?’ Kummer wondered.

  ‘Golf?’ said Rooth. ‘Isn’t that a sort of egg-rolling on a lawn?’

  Kummer made no reply, but the tattoo on his forearm twitched.

  ‘He didn’t come over here to sit in the bar, then?’ said Jung, trying to get the interview back on course. ‘For a drink or whatever?’

  Kummer shook his head.

  ‘How many were there in the bar?’

  ‘Two or three, perhaps… I don’t recall for certain. One or two customers popped in and only stayed for a couple of minutes, I think. As usual.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Jung. ‘When he left — this lone diner, that is — you didn’t notice if anybody followed him, did you? Very soon afterwards, I mean?’

  ‘No,’ said Kummer. ‘How the hell would I be able to remember that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jung. ‘But the fact is that he was killed out there in the car park only a few minutes after leaving here, so it would help us a lot if you could try to remember.’

  ‘I’m doing my best,’ Kummer assured them.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Rooth. ‘We don’t want to demand the impossible of you. Is there anything at all that evening that you recall? Something that was different, somehow or other? Or remarkable?’

  Kummer pondered again.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘No, everything was as usual. It was pretty quiet.’

  ‘Had he ever been here before, this person?’ asked Jung, tapping his pen on the photographs.

  ‘No,’ said Kummer. ‘Not while I’ve been working here, at any rate.’

  ‘You seem to have a good memory for faces.’

  ‘I usually remember people I’ve met.’

  ‘How long have you been working here?’

  ‘Three months,’ said Kummer.

  Rooth noticed a bowl of peanuts a bit further along the bar counter. He slid off his chair, and went to take a handful. The bartender observed him with a sceptical frown. Jung cleared his throat.

  ‘That car,’ he said. ‘The Peugeot out there in the car park — that’s been there all the time since Tuesday, has it?’

  ‘They say so,’ said Kummer. ‘I never gave it a thought until today.’

  ‘You’re better at faces than at cars, is that right?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Kummer.

  ‘What was the weather like last Tuesday evening?’

  Kummer shrugged.

  ‘Overcast, I suppose. And windy. Mind you, the bar is indoors, as you may have noticed.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ said Rooth, taking the rest of the peanuts.

  ‘How do you get here?’ Jung asked. ‘Do you also use the car park? I mean, you don’t live in Dikken, do you?’

  Kummer shook his head and displayed his teeth again.

  ‘I generally come by tram,’ he said. ‘I sometimes get a lift with Helene or one of the others. But none of the staff uses the car park. There are a few private parking places round the back.’

  ‘How many staff are there here?’ Rooth asked.

  ‘A dozen or so,’ said Kummer. ‘But only three or four of us are on duty at any one time. As we’ve already said, it’s low season at this time of year.’

  ‘Yes, as we’ve already said,’ said Rooth, looking round the deserted bar. ‘So you don’t know who the murderer is, then?’

  Kummer stood up straight.

  ‘What the hell do you mean? Of course I don’t bloody well know. It’s not our fault if somebody gets attacked in our car park.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Rooth. ‘Anyway, thank you for your cooperation, but we’d better be moving on now. We might well be back.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Kummer.

  ‘Because that’s the way we work,’ said Jung.

  ‘Because we like peanuts,’ said Rooth.

  Moreno and Reinhart went together to Ockfener Plejn on Sunday evening. It was only a few blocks from the police station, and despite the wind and the driving rain, they went on foot.

  ‘We need to give our minds a good soaking and blow away all the dust,’ explained Reinhart. ‘And it would be no bad thing if our internal and external landscapes were in harmony.’

  ‘How did he take it?’ Moreno asked.

  Reinhart thought it over before answering.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ll be damned if I know. But he didn’t have much to say for himself, that’s for sure. Mun-ster found it hard to cope. It’s such a bloody mess.’

  ‘Was he on his own?’

  ‘No, he had his new woman with him, thank God.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ agreed Moreno. ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Reinhart.

  They came to the old square, and located the property. One of a row of cramped houses with high, narrow gables: pretty run-down, filthy frontages and badly maintained window frames. A few steps led up to the front door, and Moreno pressed the bell push next to the handprinted name plate.

  After half a minute and a second ring, Marlene Frey opened the door. Her face seemed to be a little swollen, and her eyes were about three times as red and tearful as they had been when Moreno interviewed her in her office at the police station that morning. Nevertheless, the frail-looking woman displayed signs of willpower and strength.

  Moreno noted that she had changed her clothes as well. Only a different pair of jeans and a yellow jumper instead of a red one, it was true: but perhaps that indicated that she had begun to accept the situation. Understood that life must go on. Nor did she give the impression that she had been taking sedatives — although that was hard to judge, of course.

  ‘Hello again,’ said Moreno. ‘Have you managed to get any sleep?’

  Marlene Frey shook her head.

  Moreno introduced Reinhart, and they went up the stairs to the second floor.

  Two small rooms and a cramped, chilly kitchen, that was all. Wine-red walls and a minimum of furniture, mainly big, colourful floor cushions to sit or lie down on. A few big, green plants and a couple of posters. In the bigger room two wicker chairs and a low stool stood in front of a calor gas stove. Marlene Frey sat down on the stool, and invited Moreno and Reinhart to sit on the wicker chairs.

  ‘Can I offer you anything?’

  Moreno shook her head. Reinhart cleared his throat.

  ‘We know that this is extremely difficult for you,’ he said. ‘But we have to ask you a few questions even so. Say if you don’t feel up to it, and we can come tomorrow instead.’

  ‘Let’s get it over with now,’ said Marlene Frey.

  ‘Have you got anybody staying with you?’ Moreno asked. ‘A girlfriend, for instance?’

  ‘A friend is due this evening. I’ll get by, you don’t need to worry.’

  ‘So you lived here together, is that right?’ Reinhart asked, moving a bit closer to the stove. It was evidently the only source of heat in the whole flat, so it was important not to be too far away from it.

  ‘Yes,’ said Frey, ‘we live here. Or lived…’

  ‘How long had you been together?’ Moreno asked.

  ‘Two years, more or less.’

  ‘You know who his father is, I take it?’ said Reinhart. ‘It’s not relevant, of course, but it mak
es it all rather more unpleasant from our point of view. Even if-’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Frey, interrupting him. ‘They didn’t have much contact.’

  ‘We’d gathered that,’ said Reinhart. ‘Was there any at all? Contact, that is?’

  Frey hesitated before answering.

  ‘I’ve never met him,’ she said. ‘But I think… I think things were getting a bit better recently.’

  Reinhart nodded.

  ‘Did they meet at all?’ Moreno wondered.

  ‘Erich went to see him a few times during the autumn. But that’s irrelevant now.’

  Her voice shook a little, and she stroked the palms of her hand quickly over her face, as if to switch it off. Her red hair looked dyed and not very well cared for, Moreno noted, but there were no obvious signs of drug abuse.

  ‘Let’s concentrate on last Tuesday,’ said Reinhart, taking out his pipe and tobacco, and receiving an encouraging nod from Marlene Frey.

  ‘Erich drove out to that restaurant in Dikken,’ said Moreno. ‘Have you any idea why?’

  ‘No,’ said Frey. ‘No idea at all. As I said this morning.’

  ‘Was he working?’ Reinhart asked.

  ‘A bit of this, a bit of that,’ said Frey. ‘He did odd jobs as a carpenter and painter and labourer… On various building sites and similar. Most of it was the black economy, I’m afraid, but that’s the way it is nowadays. He was good with his hands.’

  ‘What about you yourself?’ Moreno asked.

  ‘I’m attending a course for the unemployed. Economics and IT and that kind of crap, but I get a grant for doing it. I do the odd hour in shops and supermarkets when they’re short-staffed. We get by in fact… Or got by. Financially, that is. Erich worked at a printing works as well now and then. Stemminger’s.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Reinhart. ‘He had a bit of form, if one can put it like that…’

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ said Frey. ‘But we were on the straight and narrow, I want you to be quite clear about that.’

  It looked for a moment as if she were about to burst into tears; but she took a deep breath and blew her nose instead.

  ‘Tell us about last Tuesday,’ said Reinhart.

  ‘There’s not a lot to say,’ said Frey. ‘I attended my course in the morning, then I worked for a few hours in the shop in Kellnerstraat in the afternoon. I only saw Erich here at home between one and two — he said he was going to help somebody with some boat or other, and then he had something to see to in the evening.’