by Håkan Nesser
Hour of the wolf
( Inspector Van Veeteren - 7 )
Hakan Nesser
Hakan Nesser
Hour of the wolf
ONE
1
The boy who would soon die laughed, and sat up straight. Brushed the remains of some crisps off his shirt and stood up.
‘I must go now,’ he said. ‘I really must. The last bus is due in five minutes.’
‘Yes,’ said the girl, ‘I suppose you must. I daren’t allow you to sleep over. I don’t know what Mum would say, she’ll be home in a couple of hours. She’s working late tonight.’
‘That’s a shame,’ said the boy, pulling his thick sweater over his head. ‘It would be great to spend the night with you. Couldn’t we maybe… maybe…’
He hesitated about what to say next. She smiled and took hold of his hand. Held on to him. She knew he didn’t really mean what he said. Knew he was only pretending. He would never dare, she thought. He wouldn’t be able to cope with a situation like that… And for a brief moment she toyed with the idea of saying yes. Letting him stay.
Just in order to see how he reacted. See if he would go along with it, or if he would chicken out.
Let him think just for a moment that she would agree to lie naked in bed with him.
It would be fun, no doubt about that. It could have taught her a lot about him. But she dropped the idea: it wouldn’t have been fair, and she liked him too much to be as egotistic and scheming as that. She really did like him an awful lot, come to think about it, so sooner or later they would get to that stage no matter what. Lying in bed, both of them naked under the same duvet… Yes, that was what she had been feeling for the last few weeks, there was no point in shutting her eyes to the fact.
The first one. He would be her first one. But not tonight.
‘Another time, then,’ she said, letting go of him. Ran her hands through her hair to get rid of the static electricity from the silky cover of the sofa. ‘You only ever think of one thing, you bloody stallions!’
‘Huh,’ he said, trying to produce an appropriately disappointed expression on his face.
He went out into the hall, she adjusted her jumper and followed him.
‘We could be as quiet as mice and pretend you were asleep, then I could sneak out tomorrow morning before she wakes up…’ he said, not wanting to seem to give up too easily.
‘We can do it another time,’ she said. ‘Mum’s working nights next month — maybe then?’
He nodded. Put on his boots and started looking for his scarf and gloves.
‘Oh, shit! I’ve forgotten my French book. Could you fetch it for me, please?’
She went back to get it. When he had buttoned up his duffle coat they started hugging again. She could feel his erection through all the layers of cloth: he hugged her close, and just for a moment her head spun. It felt good — like falling without having to worry about landing, and she realized that the link between reason and emotions, between mind and heart, was just as weak as her mother had said it would be when they sat at the kitchen table speaking seriously about such matters only the other day.
Not something you can rely on. Your reason is nothing more than a handkerchief you can blow your nose into afterwards, her mother had said, looking as if she knew what she was talking about.
Which she did, of course. Her mother had had three men, none of whom had been worth keeping, if she understood the situation correctly. Certainly not her father. She bit her lip and pushed him away. He laughed, sounding slightly embarrassed.
‘I like you a lot, Wim,’ she said. ‘I really do. But you must go now, or you’ll miss your bus.’
‘I like you a lot as well,’ he said. ‘Your hair…’
‘My hair?’
‘You have such amazingly beautiful hair. If I were a little insect, I would want to live in it.’
‘Oh, come on!’ she said with a smile. ‘Are you suggesting that I’ve got nits?’
‘Of course not!’ He grinned broadly. ‘I just mean that if I die before you do, I hope to be resurrected as a little insect and come and live in your hair. So that we’d be together despite everything.’
She turned serious.
‘You shouldn’t talk like that about death,’ she said. ‘I like you so much, but please don’t talk so casually about death.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think…’
She shrugged. Her grandfather had died a month ago, and they had talked for a while about that.
‘It’s okay. I still like you a lot. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.’
‘Yes, I’ll see you then. Anyway, I really must go now.’
‘Would you like me to come to the bus stop with you?’
He shook his head. Opened the door into the porch.
‘Don’t be silly. It’s only twenty metres from your front door.’
‘I like you a lot,’ said the girl.
‘And I like you a lot as well,’ said the boy who was about to die. ‘An awful lot.’
She gave him one last hug, and he hurried off down the stairs.
The man who would soon kill somebody couldn’t wait to get home.
To his bed or his bath, he wasn’t sure which.
Probably both, he decided as he stole a glance at his wristwatch. First a lovely hot bath, then bed. Why say either-or when you could have both-and? For God’s sake, he’d been sitting with these wimps for over four hours now… Four hours! He looked around the table and wondered if anybody else was thinking what he was thinking. Anybody who was as bored as he was.
It didn’t seem so. The expression on most faces was jolly and exhilarated — due to some extent to the alcohol, of course; but it was apparent that they enjoyed one another’s company. Six men in their prime, he thought. Successful and prosperous, reasonably so at least, by normal worldly standards. Perhaps Greubner looked a bit on the tired side, worn out; but that was doubtless because his marriage was on the rocks again… or maybe problems at work. Or why not both?
No, I’ve had enough, he decided, knocking back the remains of his brandy. Dried the corners of his mouth with the table napkin and made to stand up.
‘I think I ought to…’ he began.
‘Already?’ said Smaage.
‘Yes. Tomorrow is another day. There’s nothing else on the agenda, is there?’
‘Hmm,’ said Smaage. ‘Maybe another little conniyacky, how about that? Hmm?’
The man who would soon kill somebody stood up.
‘I think I really must, no matter what…’ he said again, purposely leaving the sentence unfinished. ‘I wish all you gentlemen a very good night — don’t sit up for too long.’
‘Your very good health,’ said Kuijsmaa.
‘Peace, brother,’ said Lippmann.
When he entered the foyer he suddenly felt he’d been right, he really had had enough. He had some obvious difficulties in putting his coat on, sufficiently obvious for the tattooed athlete behind the desk to come out and help him with it. It felt a little embarrassing, and he hurried down the steps and into the refreshing coolness of the night.
There was rain in the air, and the glistening black paving stones in the square bore witness to the fact that a shower had only just blown over. The sky seemed threatening; more rain was evidently on the way. He knotted his scarf, dug his hands into his pockets and started walking along Zwille towards Grote Square, where he had parked his car. A little walk is a good idea, he thought. A few hundred metres, and your head is a lot clearer. Just what the doctor ordered.
The clock on the Boodwick department store said twenty minutes past eleven as he passed by its lit-up entrance, but Ruyders Plejn was as dark and deserted as a forgotten churchya
rd. The mist had begun to settle on the Llanggraacht canal, and as he was walking over the Eleonora Bridge he slipped several times: the temperature must have fallen to zero or thereabouts. He reminded himself to be careful when he got to the car: slippery roads and alcohol in the blood was not a good combination. For a brief moment he considered hailing a taxi instead, but there was no sign of one and so he abandoned the thought. Besides, he would need the car tomorrow morning, and to leave it standing in Grote Square overnight was not an attractive prospect. Even if he had recently had a rather expensive alarm system installed, he had no illusions about what could happen. It would be a piece of cake for a few skilled thieves to break in, steal the stereo equipment and disappear into the night before anybody had a chance to stop them. That’s a fact of life, he told himself with a sigh of resignation as he turned into Kellnerstraat.
Another thing to be taken into account was the fact that he had driven with a bit of alcohol in his blood before. More than once, to be honest, and he had never had any problems. As he crossed over the square and approached his red Audi, he tried to work out how much he had drunk during the evening, but he simply couldn’t remember. He gave up, unlocked the car with the remote control and slumped down behind the wheel. Slipped four throat pastilles into his mouth and started thinking about that foam bath.
Eucalyptus, he decided he would choose. Checked his watch. It was twenty-eight minutes to twelve.
The bus zoomed past just as he emerged onto the pavement.
He raised his hand automatically, in an attempt to persuade the driver to stop. Then he launched into a long series of curses as he watched the rear lights fade away up the hill towards the university.
Shit! he thought. Why do they have to be dead on time tonight of all nights? Typical. Bloody typical.
But when he checked the time he realized that in fact he was five minutes late — so he had nobody to blame but himself.
Himself and Katrina. Mustn’t forget her. Thinking of her made him feel better. He gritted his teeth and heaved up his rucksack, opened up his hood and adjusted it, then set off walking.
It would take him forty-five or fifty minutes, but he would be home by shortly after midnight no matter what. No big deal. His mother would be sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for him — he could take that for granted, of course. Sitting there with that reproachful look she had perfected over the years, saying nothing but implying everything. But it was no big deal. Anybody could miss the last bus — it could happen to the best families.
When he came to the Keymer churchyard, he hesitated — wondering whether or not to take the short cut through it. He decided to skirt round it: it didn’t look all that inviting in there among all the graves and the chapels, especially in view of the frosty mist creeping through the streets and alleys from the black canals. Intent on tucking the town into bed in its funeral shroud, it seemed. Once and for all.
He shuddered and started walking more quickly. I could have stayed, he thought out of the blue. Could have phoned Mum and stayed with Katrina. She’d have kicked up a fuss of course, but what could she have done about it? The last bus had already gone. A taxi would have been too expensive, and it was neither the time nor the weather for a young boy to be wandering around on his own.
Nor for his mum to be urging him to do so.
But these were mere thoughts. He pressed on notwithstanding. Through the municipal forest — along the sparsely lit path for cyclists and pedestrians, half-running if truth be told, and emerging onto the main road sooner than expected. He took a deep breath, and slowed down. Not far to go now, he thought. Just the long, boring walk along the main road — nothing to look forward to, to be honest. There wasn’t a lot of room for pedestrians and cyclists. Just a narrow strip between the ditch and the road along which to walk the tightrope, and the cars travelled at high speed. There was no speed limit, and no street lighting to speak of.
Twenty minutes’ walk along a dark road in November. He’d only walked a few hundred metres before a cold wind blew up and dispersed the mist, and it started pouring down.
Oh, shit! he thought. I could have been in bed with Katrina now. Naked, with Katrina pressed up against me, her warm body and caressing hands, her legs and her breasts that he had very nearly managed to touch… This rain must surely be a sign.
But he kept on walking. Kept on walking through the rain and the wind and the darkness, thinking about the girl who would be his first.
Would have been.
He had parked slightly askew, was forced to back out, and just when he thought he had managed it to perfection he bumped into a dark-coloured Opel, hitting it with his right rear wing.
Oh, bugger! he thought. Why didn’t I take a taxi? He opened the door carefully and peered back. Realized that it was only a glancing blow and nothing to worry about. A mere bagatelle. He closed the door. Besides, he told himself, the windows were all misted up and he could hardly see out of them.
He didn’t bother to work out just how relevant that was, but instead drove rapidly out of the square and down to Zwille with no difficulty. There wasn’t much traffic about; he reckoned he would be home in a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes at most, and while he sat waiting for the traffic lights in Alexanderlaan to turn green he started wondering if in fact there was any of that eucalyptus bath gel left. He was slow to react when the lights changed, and stalled. Restarted in a hurry and raced the engine — this bloody dampness was causing havoc… Then he cut the corner as he turned and hit the traffic island.
Only with the front wheel, of course. Not much damage caused… None at all, to be precise. Keep a straight face and press on, he told himself — but it dawned on him that he was rather more drunk than he’d thought.
Damn and blast! he thought. I’d better make sure I don’t drive off the road. It wouldn’t be a good idea to…
He wound down the side window a couple of inches and turned the air conditioning up to maximum to get rid of the mist. Then drove commendably slowly for quite a while as he wormed his way through Bossingen and Deijkstraa, where there had not been a sighting of a traffic policeman for the last thirty-five years; and when he emerged onto the main road it became obvious that the danger of icy roads was non-existent. It had started to pour down: he switched on the windscreen wipers, and cursed for the fiftieth time that autumn for having forgotten to change the blades.
Tomorrow, he thought. I’ll drive to the service station first thing tomorrow morning. It’s madness, sitting here driving without being able to see anything properly.
Looking back, he could never work out if it was what he saw or what he heard that came first. But in any case, what persisted most clearly in his memory was the soft thud and the slight jerk of the steering wheel. And in his dreams. The fact that what flashed past in a fraction of a second on the extreme right of his visual field was linked with the bump and the minimal vibration he felt in his hands was not something that registered on his consciousness.
Not until he slammed on the brakes.
Not until afterwards — after the five or six seconds that must have passed before he drew to a halt and started running back along the soaking wet road.
As he ran, he thought about his mother. About an occasion when he was ill — it must have been just after he’d started school — and she’d sat there pressing her cool hand onto his forehead while he threw up over and over and over again: yellowish-green bile into a red plastic bucket. It was so devilishly painful, but that hand had been so cool and comforting — and he wondered why on earth he should think about that just now. It was a memory of something that had happened over thirty years ago, and he couldn’t recall ever having remembered it before. His mother had been dead for more than ten years, so it was a mystery why she should crop up just now, and how he…
He saw him when he had almost run past, and he knew he was dead even before he’d come to a halt.
A boy in a dark duffel coat. Lying in the ditch. Contorted at impossible angles, wit
h his back pressed up against a concrete culvert and his face staring straight at him. As if he were trying to make some kind of contact. As if he wanted to tell him something. The boy’s face was partly concealed by the hood, but the right-hand side — the part that seemed to have been smashed against the concrete — was exposed like… like an anatomical obscenity.
He stood there, trying hard not to throw up. The same reflexes, the same old reflexes he’d felt thirty years ago, definitely. Two cars passed by, one in each direction, but nobody seemed to have noticed anything amiss. He had started shaking, took two deep breaths, and jumped down into the ditch. Closed his eyes, then opened them again after a few seconds. Bent down and tried to feel a pulse, on the boy’s wrist and on his bloodstained neck.
No sign of a heartbeat. Oh hell, he thought, feeling panic creeping up on him. Bloody fucking hell — I must… I must… I must…
He couldn’t work out what he must do. Cautiously, he slid his arms under the boy’s body, bent his knees and lifted him up. He felt a stabbing pain at the bottom of his back: the boy was rather heavier than he’d expected. Perhaps the saturated clothes were adding to the problem. In so far as he’d expected anything at all. Why should he have done? The rucksack caused a bit of a problem. The rucksack and the boy’s head. Both of them insisted on leaning backwards in a way that was quite unacceptable. He noted that the blood from the side of the boy’s mouth was dripping straight down into his hood, and that he couldn’t be more than fifteen or sixteen years old. A boy aged fifteen or sixteen… About the same as Greubner’s son. You could tell by the sort of half-finished features of his face, despite the injuries. Quite a handsome boy, it seemed: no doubt he would develop into an attractive man.
Would have done.
He stood down there in the ditch with the boy’s body in his arms for quite some time, while thoughts whirled around in his head. It was only a metre or so up to the road, but it was steep and the rain had made it slippery and treacherous: he doubted whether he would be able to get a sufficient foothold. No cars passed by while he stood there, but he heard a moped approaching. Or possibly a low-powered motorbike, he thought. When it passed by he could hear that it was in fact a scooter, and he was momentarily blinded by its headlight. Presumably — or so he thought later on with hindsight — presumably it was that very second of blinding light that started him functioning again.
