Hour of the Wolf Read online

  Taken over and raised the stakes.

  No, this was a possibility that couldn’t be ignored. He decided to find out the name of the man he’d killed outside the Trattoria Commedia, and use that as the starting point of further investigations. In any case there had to be a link – some kind of a link – between him and the other one.

  The other one? he thought.

  His opponent.

  I’d give my right hand for his identity.

  Time seemed to be both for and against him.

  Naturally he needed time to prepare himself and plan ahead. Even if he had no intention of raising the money that ‘A friend’ had demanded. No, a different sort of time. Time in which to act. Time to find things out, and to prepare himself.

  But it wasn’t long before the respite designated (‘Exactly seven days’ – a phrase used in both the latest letters, one might wonder why) seemed to have the opposite implications from those at first thought. It seemed a long time. Exactly what ought he to do? What? Sort out what plans? Make what preparations?

  The only thing he eventually managed to find out was the name of his second victim. Erich Van Veeteren. He memorized the name – placed him in the same box as Wim Felders. The dead persons’ box. But actually taking the next step – starting to investigate and poke around into this unknown person’s private life: that was too much. He didn’t have the strength. He found his home address in the telephone directory, of course, and on the Wednesday evening he stood for a while in Ockfener Plejn staring up at the grimy façade, wondering which of the flats it could be. Stood there shivering in the wind, but without being able to summon up the will to cross over the tramlines, walk up six steps and read the list of names beside the doorbell.

  Having killed him is enough, he thought. That’s bad enough, I don’t need to invade his home as well.

  That same evening he gave up all thought of playing the detective. He’d begun to realize that doing so could be dangerous: he might attract the attention of the police – they must be working all out to try to find the murderer of the young man. No, it would be better to wait, he decided. Wait for the further instructions that were a hundred per cent certain to arrive with Monday’s post.

  Wait for that pale-blue letter, and then work out how to solve the problem on the basis of how the handover was supposed to take place this time.

  Because that would have to take place, he reasoned. At a certain place and at a certain time there would have to be physical contact between himself and the blackmailer.

  Or rather, between himself, the money and the blackmailer – there were three links in the chain, and of course it was probable that this time his opponent would be even more careful about his own safety than he had been on the previous occasion. Highly probable: he wasn’t dealing with an amateur, that was now crystal clear. But that opponent would have to acquire the money somehow or other, and in some way or other he would have to be outfoxed.

  Only time would tell how this was to be done. Time and the next letter.

  After visiting Ockfener Plejn he spent the whole evening in front of the television in the company of a new bottle of whisky, and when he retired shortly before midnight, both the bed and the bedroom were spinning round.

  But that was the intention. He really must sleep through the hour of the wolf tonight at least. Thursday was his day off.

  Thursday was the day when Vera Miller was due to phone him.

  Three days without contact, that was what they had agreed. A short time that she would use to discuss matters with her husband. Tell him about their affair. Liberate herself.

  It was seven p.m. when the call came, and he could still feel the effects of his excessive drinking the night before.

  She sounded sad. That was unusual.

  ‘It’s so hard,’ she said.

  She didn’t usually say that. He didn’t respond.

  ‘He’s going to take this very badly, I can see that.’

  ‘Haven’t you told him yet?’

  She said nothing for a couple of seconds.

  ‘I’ve started,’ she said. ‘I’ve hinted at it . . . He knows what’s coming. He’s keeping out of the way. He’s gone out tonight, I’m sure he’s only done that because of this business . . . He’s running away from it.’

  ‘Come round to me.’

  ‘That’s not on,’ she said. ‘Andreas will be back home in a couple of hours. I have to treat him above board from now on. I’ll see you on Saturday, as we agreed.’

  ‘I love you,’ he said.

  ‘And I love you,’ she said.

  ‘You’re not changing your mind, I hope?’ he said.

  ‘You must give me time,’ she said. ‘No, I’m not changing my mind. But you can’t rush something like this.’

  Time? he thought. Three days. Then it would be Monday. Just think if she knew . . .

  ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘The main thing is that things turn out as we’ve planned. And that I can see you on Saturday.’

  ‘I shall be attending my course on Saturday.’

  ‘Eh?’

  She laughed.

  ‘My course. Come on, you know about that. It’s the fourth weekend in a row. I love that course.’

  He thought about what she’d said with regard to treating Andreas above board, but he didn’t follow it up.

  ‘I love it as well,’ he mumbled instead. ‘I need you.’

  ‘You’ve got me,’ she said.

  When they’d hung up he started crying. He remained seated in the armchair for quite some time, until it had passed over and he’d had a chance to think about when he had last wept.

  He couldn’t remember.

  He took two Sobran tablets instead.

  15

  ‘We’re not exactly making progress,’ said Reinhart, eyeing the investigation team. Five of the original seven were left: Krause had been hijacked by Hiller, and Bollmert was still tracking down obscure candidates for interrogation in the provinces.

  ‘But on the other hand, we’re not going backwards,’ said Rooth. ‘What we knew a week ago we still know today.’

  Reinhart ignored him.

  ‘Moreno,’ he said. ‘If you would be so kind as to summarize the situation, the rest of us can lean back and enjoy the sound of a beautiful voice for a change.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Moreno. ‘Man’s ability to keep on inventing new compliments never ceases to amaze us females. However, let’s get to the point.’

  Reinhart smiled slightly, but said nothing. She flicked through her notebook until she found a summary. Noted that Jung was wearing a tie for some inexplicable reason, and that deBries had a sticking plaster over the bridge of his nose. For some other inexplicable reason. She took a deep breath, and began.

  ‘What we know more or less for certain is as follows: Erich Van Veeteren was killed by a powerful blow to the temple and the back of his head with a blunt instrument shortly after six p.m. on Tuesday, the tenth of November. I won’t go into the weapon, which was presumably some kind of metal pipe. But as we haven’t found it, it is hardly of much importance at this stage. There were no witnesses to the actual attack: the car park was deserted, it was dusk, and the murderer had time to drag the body of his victim into the surrounding bushes. We have interviewed everybody who was in the Trattoria Commedia at – and before – the time of the murder. All but two, that is – the victim and the killer, assuming the latter had also been in there. Ten customers and four members of staff, at any rate: we’ve spoken to all of them. Nobody had anything of direct importance to tell us, apart from the fact that three of them saw a strange-looking character sitting in the bar for a short time. Between six and a quarter past, roughly speaking. We have a pretty detailed description of him, and it seems highly likely that he was disguised, with a wig, a beard and dark glasses. It also seems highly likely that he was the murderer.’

  ‘As I seem to recall somebody saying a week ago,’ said Rooth.

  ‘That’s true,’ said Mor
eno. ‘We advertised his description and a Wanted notice several days ago, but he hasn’t contacted us, so I suppose we can give a brownie point to Rooth. Anyway, none of the witnesses noticed any kind of contact between this Mr X and Erich Van Veeteren – who was sitting in the restaurant section, and left the premises shortly after Mr X. They might well have been in eye contact; Erich was sitting at a table with quite a good view of the bar.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Reinhart. ‘He sits there waiting for an hour. And when the man appears he does nothing, but the man follows him out into the car park, and kills him. There we have it in a nutshell. Can you tell me what the hell it’s all about?’

  ‘Drugs,’ said deBries after a while.

  ‘Any other suggestions?’ asked Reinhart.

  ‘I’m not convinced that deBries is right,’ said Jung. ‘But if we assume it was in fact a delivery of some kind of goods, there are two things I wonder. First of all: did they know each other? Did they both know who the contact person was that they would be meeting in the restaurant? Or was there just one of them who knew the other’s identity?’

  ‘Was that one or two wonderings?’ asked Rooth.

  ‘One,’ said Jung. ‘The other is: which of them was delivering, and which was receiving?’

  Nobody spoke for a couple of seconds.

  ‘Another question, in that case,’ said deBries. ‘If it was a delivery, where did it take place?’

  ‘It wasn’t a delivery,’ said Rooth. ‘He murdered him instead.’

  ‘Where would it have taken place, then?’ said deBries, fingering his plaster in irritation.

  ‘The car park, it has to be the car park,’ said Moreno. ‘It’s also obvious that Erich must have identified Mr X. He recognized him when he came in and sat in the bar, then followed him out as had been agreed.’

  ‘Possible,’ said Reinhart, lighting his pipe. ‘Very possible. But that arrangement seems to me more like the meeting of a couple of secret agents than a drugs deal. But I agree with deBries in principle, and I also agree that it must have been Mr X who was delivering the stuff . . .’

  ‘. . . and that he didn’t have anything to deliver, in fact, but killed his contact man instead.’

  There followed a few more seconds of silence. Reinhart closed his eyes and blew out smoke with full force.

  ‘But where exactly is this getting us?’ wondered Rooth. ‘And what the hell could it have been about if it wasn’t drugs? Is there anybody apart from me who votes for a postage stamp? One of those bloody misprinted ones that sell for eighteen million . . .’

  ‘A postage stamp?’ said deBries. ‘You’re out of your mind.’

  Reinhart shrugged.

  ‘Could be anything,’ he said. ‘It could have been stolen goods . . . Something that was dangerous but useful in the right hands . . . Or it could have been money, that’s surely the simplest explanation. One of them was going to pay the other for something or other. Something that needed a degree of discretion, as it were. But I don’t think we’re going to get much further than this at the moment. Maybe it’s time to change the perspective a bit. As long as we can’t work out what he was doing out there, we’re stymied and just marking time – I agree with Rooth on that score.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Rooth.

  ‘Okay, let me sum up where the brains trust has got to so far,’ said Moreno. ‘Erich knew that the contact person was Mr X when he arrived and sat down in the bar. And when he left he followed him out in order to collect something from him, and instead was given a blow to the side of his head and another to the back of it. Fatal. Have I got that right?’

  ‘I would think so,’ said Reinhart. ‘Any objections? No? Well, remember for Christ’s sake that this is no more than speculation. Right, let’s go over to the Western Front. We’ve got no end of information there. Marlene Frey and the address book. Who wants to start? DeBries has volunteered.’

  It took an hour and twenty minutes to deal with the Western Front. A hundred and two interviews had taken place with people who had known Erich Van Veeteren in one context or another, according to the list in the black address book.

  All of them had been duly recorded: deBries and Krause had spent all Wednesday afternoon and a good part of the night listening to every one of them. They had also produced a list of the people who had been in contact with Erich Van Veeteren during the weeks immediately before his death, a list so far comprising twenty-six names. But several further interviews were still outstanding, so the list could well expand before the end of the road was reached.

  The result of all this was not too bad, from a quantitative point of view: but as they were not involved in a macro-sociological investigation, as deBries pointed out, the real result was very meagre indeed.

  To be frank, so far – sixteen days after the murder and twelve since the body had been found – they had not succeeded in digging up anything looking remotely like a lead or a suspicion. Not with the best will in the world. It was enough to drive one up the wall. However, with the aid of the interviews and above all of Marlene Frey, they had begun to establish what her boyfriend had been up to during the last days of his life. It had been a very tiring process, and as far as being fruitful was concerned, it had not yet produced so much as a gooseberry. As Detective Inspector Rooth chose to put it.

  Nobody seemed to have the slightest idea why Erich Van Veeteren had driven out to Dikken that fateful day.

  Not his fiancée. Not the police. Not anybody else.

  ‘How reliable is Marlene Frey?’ asked Jung. ‘Bearing in mind drugs and all that stuff.’

  ‘I believe her,’ said Reinhart after a few moments’ thought. ‘It might be a misjudgement, of course, but I have the impression that she’s on our side one hundred per cent.’

  ‘It’s not really very odd if we don’t discover anything right away,’ said Moreno. ‘If we have in fact stumbled upon the killer somewhere among all these interviews, it would be a bit much to expect the person concerned to break down and confess simply because we’d switched on a tape recorder. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Why bother to do it, then?’ Rooth wanted to know. ‘Doesn’t the law say people must tell the police the truth?’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Reinhart. ‘You haven’t seen the point of spending a dark night in front of a tape recorder trying to catch on to a murderer’s slight slip of the tongue . . . But perhaps you couldn’t be expected to? Anyway, let’s press on! What do you all think? There must surely be one of us – and for the moment I’m discounting Rooth’s postage stamp theory – one of us with an idea of some sort? We’re getting paid for doing this, for Christ’s sake. Or is it just as black in your bird-like brains as it is in mine?’

  He looked round the table.

  ‘Pitch black,’ said deBries eventually. ‘My tape recordings are available to anybody who’s interested. It only takes eighteen hours to listen to them all. No doubt there’s one-tenth of a clue somewhere among them, but Krause and I have given up.’

  ‘I’ll pass for the time being,’ said Rooth.

  ‘It might be an idea to have another chat with one or two of those closest to him,’ suggested deBries. ‘With Erich’s best friends – there are three or four who knew him pretty well. Get them to speculate a bit, perhaps?’

  ‘Could be,’ said Reinhart with a sombre nod. ‘Why not? Does anybody else want to raise anything?’

  Nobody did. Rooth sighed and Jung tried to conceal a yawn.

  ‘Why are you wearing a tie?’ Rooth asked. ‘Doesn’t your shirt have any buttons?’

  ‘Opera,’ said Jung. ‘Maureen has won two tickets at work. I won’t have time to go home and change, I’ll have to drive straight there after work.’

  ‘Make sure you don’t get dirty this afternoon, then,’ said Rooth.

  Jung made no comment. Reinhart lit his pipe again.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘we’re certainly not making any progress. But we’re bloody brilliant at being patient.’

  ‘How poor are they
that have not patience,’ said Rooth.

  ‘Have you spoken to The Chief Inspector lately?’ asked Moreno.

  ‘Not for a few days,’ said Reinhart.

  Van Veeteren took the tram out to Dikken. There was something about the car park there that prevented him from even thinking about taking the car.

  Perhaps it was the risk that he would happen to park at the very spot where his son was killed.

  It was just as empty and deserted as it usually was at this time of year, apparently. Only four cars, plus a chocked-up trailer from a long-distance lorry of which there was no trace. He didn’t know precisely where the body had been found – there were several hundred metres of undergrowth to choose from. He didn’t want to know anyway. What would have been the point?

  He hurried across the empty space and into the Trattoria Commedia. The bar was immediately in front of the entrance door. Two elderly men in crumpled jackets were sitting there, drinking beer. The bartender was a young man in a yellow shirt, with a ponytail: he was busy, but nodded to Van Veeteren.

  Van Veeteren nodded back and continued into the restaurant section. Three of the eighteen tables were occupied; he chose one with a good view of the bar and sat down.

  Maybe this is the very table that Erich was sitting at, he thought.

  He ordered the dish of the day from a waitress with blonde plaits: lamb cutlet with potatoes au gratin. And a glass of red wine.

  It took half an hour, waiting to be served and then eating the meal. It didn’t taste bad at all, he decided. He had never set foot inside the place before, and for obvious reasons would never do so again; but as far as he could see they served decent food. Golfers in general probably couldn’t be fobbed off with any old rubbish, he assumed.

  He gave the dessert a miss. Ordered a coffee and a little cognac in the bar instead.

  Perhaps this is exactly where the murderer sat, he thought. Maybe I’m sitting on the very chair my son’s killer had occupied.