Hour of the Wolf Page 24

  ‘I have a date with a certain Oscar Smaage,’ he said. ‘Convener of Verhouten’s Angels. You stay here and see if we have any unsolved deaths. Missing persons as well . . . It’s not certain that it has anything to do with the hospital, even if there’s plenty to suggest it might have.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Moreno. ‘I hope Smaage has something to contribute, though I can’t see what. I think everything depends on one thing, in fact.’

  ‘Thursday?’ said Reinhart.

  ‘Yes. What the hell happened last Thursday evening? It seems obvious that’s when he was supposed to hand over the money. Or what do you think?’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Reinhart. ‘It would be remarkable if nobody turns up who’s seen or heard about them – or one of them at least – after the handover. We just need to bide our time. Have some patience – didn’t somebody recommend that some time ago?’

  ‘I think you’re wrong,’ said Moreno.

  It took her no more than an hour to find what she was looking for. In any case, she felt instinctively that it was right, when the name came up on her computer screen. Her heart missed a beat, and the hairs on her forearms stood on end – those were usually sure signs.

  Tell-tale signs of female intuition. Hers at least.

  Wim Felders, she read. Born 17.10.1982. Died 5.11.1998. Or possibly 6.11. Found by a passing cyclist on road 211 between Maardam and the suburb of Boorkhejm at six o’clock in the morning. The investigation carried out by the traffic police (headed by Chief Inspector Lintonen) showed that he had probably been struck by a vehicle and died after hitting his head against a concrete culvert at the side of the road. A Wanted notice had been publicized in all the media, but no perpetrator had come forward. No witnesses of the accident. No suspects. No tip-offs. The guilty driver had disappeared and refused to make himself known.

  She remembered the incident. Recalled reading about it, and seeing reports in news bulletins on the television. The sixteen-year-old-boy had been on his way home to Boorkhejm. He had been visiting his girlfriend somewhere in the town centre, and was assumed to have missed the last bus.

  He had evidently been walking along the side of the road in bad weather, both fog and rain, and been hit by a driver who had fled the scene.

  It could have been anybody at all.

  It could have been Clausen.

  Keller could have passed by shortly afterwards and seen it all. Or been sitting next to Clausen in the passenger seat, if they knew each other . . . Although so far there was nothing to suggest that they did.

  A road accident?

  That was certainly a possibility. When she began thinking about how probable it seemed, she noticed that she found it difficult to feel certain. Perhaps it was no more than a coincidence, a fleeting fantasy: but in any case, the thread needed to be followed up until it broke.

  Intuitively, she knew that this was exactly what had happened. She had found the first link. No doubt about it.

  She saw that it was now half past five, and wondered what to do next. Decided to go home and phone Reinhart later that evening. If it could be established that Clausen had been driving home from the town centre on that day, at that time – on evidence supplied by Wim Felders’ girlfriend they knew that the accident had happened shortly before midnight – well, there could be no more doubts.

  How it would be possible to establish or be certain that Clausen had been driving the car was another thing altogether: but as they had already linked him with two other murders, perhaps that didn’t matter.

  On the other hand, if he had indeed been in central Maardam that evening, surely he must have met somebody? Somebody who could provide evidence.

  Let’s hope it wasn’t Vera Miller, she thought. It would be better if it were those angels, whatever they were called. Verhouten’s . . .?

  But more important than all that was finding Clausen. Naturally.

  And Keller.

  Having got that far, Ewa Moreno switched off the computer and went home. However she looked at it, she reckoned she had done a good day’s work.

  33

  She had just completed the phone call to Reinhart when there was a ring on her door.

  Half past eight, she thought. What on earth . . .?

  It was Mikael Bau, her neighbour in the flat directly below hers.

  ‘Do you fancy a bite to eat?’ he asked, looking miserable.

  Bau was in his thirties and had moved into Falckstraat only a few months ago. She didn’t know him. He had introduced himself when she bumped into him on the stairs the first time, of course, but since then they had merely said hello when they happened to pass each other. Three or four times in all. He looked rather handsome, she had decided from the start. Tall, blond and blue-eyed. And with a smile that seemed to have difficulty in suppressing itself.

  But just now he was serious.

  ‘I’ve made a beef stew,’ he explained. ‘A sort of boeuf bourguignon – it’s all ready, so if you’ve nothing against it . . .?’

  ‘It’s a bit out of the blue,’ said Moreno.

  ‘I can understand that,’ said Bau. ‘Er . . . I didn’t plan to invite you, but my fiancée dumped me just before it was ready to eat. Please don’t think that . . .’

  He couldn’t find a satisfactory way of finishing the sentence. Moreno didn’t know what to say either.

  ‘Okay, thank you very much,’ she said in fact. ‘I don’t think I’ve eaten today, as far as I can recall. Can you give me a quarter of an hour to have a shower first? It’s not too difficult to keep stews warm.’

  He smiled now.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ll expect you in a quarter of an hour.’

  He went back downstairs, and Moreno closed the door.

  Is this how things happen? she wondered, but dismissed the thought immediately.

  To add to his good looks and polite behaviour, Mikael Bau proved to be an excellent cook. Moreno was full of admiration for the stew, which she ate to her heart’s content; and the subsequent lemon sorbet had precisely the subtle touch of tartness that the recipe usually promises, but the dish rarely delivers.

  A man who can cook? she thought. I’ve never met one of those before. He must have a skeleton in his cupboard. She would have dearly liked to ask him why his girlfriend had dumped him; but there was no real opportunity to get as intimate as that, and he didn’t raise the subject himself.

  Instead they talked about the weather, the block of flats and the neighbours. And their respective jobs. Bau was a welfare officer, so there were a few points of contact.

  ‘God only knows why I chose to get involved with the seamy side,’ he said. ‘I won’t go so far as to say that I don’t enjoy it, but I don’t think I’d make the same choice today. Why did you become a police officer?’

  Moreno had asked herself that question so many times before that she no longer knew if there was an answer. Or ever had been. Things just turned out the way they did, that was all there was to it; she suspected the same applied to lots of people. Life just turned out the way it did.

  ‘I think quite a lot comes down to pure chance,’ she said. ‘Or at least, to decisions made without an awful lot of thought. We have less control than we think we have . . . That we pretend we do have is another matter.’

  Bau nodded and looked thoughtful.

  ‘But it could be that we land up where we belong even so,’ he said. ‘I read the other day about the billiard ball theory – are you familiar with it? You roll along over a level, green surface among lots of other balls. The speeds and directions are fixed, but it’s not possible to work out in advance what’s going to happen . . . when we collide and change direction. Everything is predestined, but we can’t predict it – there are simply too many contributory factors. Well, something like that.’

  She came to think about what The Chief Inspector used to say, and couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘There are certain patterns,’ she said. ‘They say that there are certain patterns that we never
discover – not until afterwards. Then they are perfectly obvious. It’s reminiscent of a police investigation, in fact. Everything becomes clearer if you can approach it backwards.’

  Bau nodded again.

  ‘But you can’t approach it backwards,’ he said. ‘Not in real life. That’s the problem. A drop more wine?’

  ‘Just half a glass,’ said Moreno.

  When she looked at the clock for the first time it was a quarter to twelve.

  ‘Good gracious,’ she said. ‘Don’t you have to go to work tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Bau. ‘We who work on the seamy side never rest.’

  ‘Many thanks for a lovely evening,’ said Moreno, standing up. ‘I promise to invite you back in return, but I’ll have to practise a few recipes first.’

  Bau accompanied her out into the hall and gave her a carefully restrained hug by way of goodnight. A quarter of an hour later she was lying in bed, thinking about how pleasant it was to get on well with your neighbours.

  Then she thought about Erich Van Veeteren. He must have been about the same age as herself and Mikael Bau. Possibly slightly younger – she hadn’t thought about it until now.

  And the others?

  Vera Miller was thirty-one, and Wim Felders only lived to celebrate his sixteenth birthday.

  When you raised yourself above the restricted horizons of good-neighbourliness, quite different considerations applied.

  Reinhart was woken up by Joanna pulling at his lower lip. She sat on his stomach with a blissful smile on her face.

  ‘Daddy’s asleep,’ she said. ‘Daddy’s awake.’

  He lifted her up high. She screamed in delight, and a stream of saliva cascaded into his face.

  Good Lord, he thought. This is marvellous! It’s six in the morning, and life is pouring down on me already!

  He wondered why it was so light in the room, then he recalled that his daughter had just learned how to flick switches on and off, and liked to practise this new skill. He tucked her in beside Winnifred and got up. Established that every single light in the house was switched on, and started switching them all off again. Joanna soon came toddling after him, babbling on about something to do with frogs. Or possibly dogs – she had a dummy in her mouth and it was difficult to make out what she was saying. He took her into the kitchen with him, and started making breakfast.

  Halfway through he remembered what he had been dreaming about. Or rather, what had popped up in his mind at some point between sleeping and waking.

  They had forgotten to send out a Wanted notice for Keller.

  Oh, shit, he thought. Lifted Joanna up into her high chair. Put a plate of mashed banana and yoghurt in front of her and went to his study in order to phone the police station.

  It took a while to get the message over, but Klempje, who was on call, eventually seemed to understand. The Wanted notice would be sent out immediately, he gave his word of honour.

  I don’t know how many words you know, or how many of them are honourable, Reinhart thought: but he thanked him even so, and hung up.

  Careless, he thought. How the hell could anybody have forgotten a thing like that?

  Two hours later he was ready to go to work. Winnifred had just got up, and he thought she looked like a thoroughly rested goddess. He toyed with the idea of staying at home for a while and making love to her instead. There was nothing to prevent it, in principle. It would soon be time for Joanna’s nap, and the babysitter wasn’t due until after lunch.

  Then he remembered the situation. He unfastened his wife’s dressing gown and embraced her. She gave him a bite on the neck. He bit her back. That would have to suffice. He fetched his overcoat.

  ‘Are you going to have time off like you thought you would?’ she asked as he stood in the doorway.

  ‘Nie ma problemu,’ said Reinhart. ‘That’s Polish and means that we’ll have sorted out this business within the next three days. Three days at most.’

  Chief Inspector Reinhart was deceiving her somewhat on that score, but it was not the first time. The main thing was that Winnifred didn’t do that to him.

  After Moreno had reported in more detail about the Wim Felders accident, Reinhart phoned Oscar Smaage, whom he had spoken to the previous afternoon. Smaage was news editor on the Telegraaf, and hence not all that difficult to get in touch with.

  ‘There was something I forgot yesterday,’ Reinhart explained. ‘Regarding Clausen, that is. I wonder if you had one of those meetings of yours on . . .’

  He gestured to Moreno, who handed over a sheet of paper with the relevant date.

  ‘On the fifth of November? The Angels, I mean. It was a Thursday. Can you fill me in on that?’

  ‘Just a moment,’ said Smaage, and Reinhart could hear him leafing through some book or other. One chance in ten, he reckoned as he waited. At most. But nevertheless he knew that he wouldn’t have hesitated to bet on it.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Smaage. ‘Thursday, the fifth of November. We were at Ten Bosch. All the brothers were present. It was an enjoyable evening. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I realize that it’s asking a lot,’ said Reinhart, ‘but we’d like to know when Clausen went home. Roughly, at least.’

  Smaage burst out laughing.

  ‘What the hell? . . .’ he said. ‘No, I haven’t a clue. It would have been half past eleven-stroke-twelve o’clock – we don’t usually hang around longer than that. I don’t suppose there’s any point in my asking you why you—’

  ‘Absolutely right,’ said Reinhart, cutting him short. ‘Many thanks for the information.’

  He hung up and took out his pipe.

  ‘We get lucky sometimes,’ he said. ‘It fits. Bugger me if it doesn’t fit! Clausen could very well have killed that lad, the timing’s right . . . So that could be the root cause of it all. Hell’s bells, it’s just too awful when you come to think about it.’

  ‘What’s too awful?’ wondered Moreno.

  ‘Don’t you see? What started this whole business off could have been a pure accident. Erich Van Veeteren’s death. Vera Miller’s . . . And God only knows what happened last Thursday. A bloody straightforward accident, that’s all, and then the wheels started turning . . .’

  Moreno thought about her discussions with her neighbour the previous evening. About accidents and patterns, billiard balls cannoning or not cannoning. Sudden changes of direction . . . ‘The butterfly effect’?

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s remarkable. But we need to investigate it all in more detail yet. It’s still only a possibility at this stage . . . Even if I also think it all fits in. Do we still have people out at Rumford, by the way? Isn’t it time now to pull people out and cut back on resources? As far as Clausen’s concerned, at least.’

  Reinhart nodded. Lit his pipe and started leafing through some papers.

  ‘It’s all about these two bastards,’ he muttered. ‘Clausen and Keller. Three dead bodies so far . . . And they’ve both vanished. What a bloody disaster.’

  He eventually found the document he was looking for.

  ‘Nobody has had anything to say about Keller,’ he said. ‘He seems to be a real hermit. Just the kind of background you need if you’re going to become a blackmailer . . . Exactly the right type, come to think about it.’

  Moreno had certain reservations about this broad generalization, but she had no chance to spell them out because Constable Krause stuck his head in through the door.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘but we’ve just had an important fax.’

  ‘Really?’ said Reinhart. ‘Let’s hear it.’

  ‘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.’

  34

  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.