Hour of the Wolf

by Håkan Nesser

  ‘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.’

  ‘A boat?’ said Reinhart. ‘What sort of a boat?’

  ‘It belongs to a good friend,’ said Frey. ‘I assume he was helping with fitting it out.’

  Moreno asked her to write down the friend’s name and address, which she did after consulting an address book she fetched from the kitchen.

  ‘That something he had to see to in the evening,’ said Reinhart when the boat business was over and done with. ‘What was that about?’

  Marlene Frey shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Was it a job?’

  ‘I assume so.’

  ‘Or something else?’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Well . . . Something that wasn’t a job.’

  Frey took out her handkerchief and blew her nose again. Her eyes narrowed.

  ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘I understand exactly what’s going on. It’s only for his celebrated father’s sake that you’re sitting here being so damned polite to me. If it weren’t for that you’d treat him like any other yob you care to name. And you’d treat me like a drugged-up whore.’

  ‘Steady on . . .’ said Moreno.

  ‘You don’t need to put on a show,’ said Frey. ‘I know the score. Erich had a lot on his conscience, but he’s packed all that in during the last few years. Neither of us shoot up nowadays, and we’re no less law-abiding than anybody else. But I suppose it’s a waste of time trying to make the fuzz believe that?’

  Neither Moreno nor Reinhart responded. Marlene Frey’s outburst remained hanging for a while in the warm silence over the calor gas stove. But this was shattered when a tram clattered past in the street outside.

  ‘Okay,’ said Reinhart. ‘I understand what you’re saying and you may be right. But now we’re where we are, and it’s a bit bloody annoying if we get told off for treating people decently for once . . . I think we know where we stand now, without going on and on about it. Shall we continue?’

  Marlene Frey hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

  ‘Dikken,’ said Reinhart. ‘Why did he have to go there? You must have some idea, surely?’

  ‘It could’ve been anything at all,’ said Frey. ‘I suppose you’re fishing for something to do with drugs, but I can swear that it had nothing to do with that. Erich gave all that stuff up even before we started living together.’

  Reinhart gave her a long, hard look.

  ‘All right, we’ll accept that,’ he said. ‘Was he going to get something out of it? Money, I mean . . . Or was he just going to meet a friend out there, for instance? Or do somebody a favour?’

  Frey thought for a while.

  ‘I think it was a job,’ she said. ‘Some sort of job.’

  ‘Did he say he was going out to Dikken?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor what it was about?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even a hint?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you didn’t ask?’

  Frey shook her head and sighed.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Erich and I could have seven or eight different jobs in any given week – we hardly ever talked about it.’

  ‘Did he say when he’d be back?’ asked Moreno.

  Frey thought that over again.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that, but I’m not sure. I had the impression he’d be back home at around eight or nine in any case, but it’s not definite that he actually said that. Who bloody cares anyway?’

  She bit her lip, and Moreno saw that her eyes had filled with tears.

  ‘Cry,’ she said. ‘It’s possible to cry and talk at the same time, you know.’

  Frey immediately heeded this advice. Moreno leaned forward and stroked her arm somewhat awkwardly, while Reinhart squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. Fumbled with his pipe and managed to light it.

  ‘Names?’ said Moreno when the sobbing became less violent. ‘Did he name any names in connection with what he was going to do last Tuesday evening?’

  Frey shook her head.

  ‘Do you know if he’d been there before? If he went there regularly?’

  ‘To Dikken?’ She couldn’t help laughing. ‘No, it’s not exactly our kind of place out there, wouldn’t you say?’

  Moreno smiled.

  ‘Had he been worried about anything recently? Had anything special happened that you could possibly link with the accident?’

  Frey wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her jumper and thought again.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Nothing I can think of.’

  ‘Had he met any new acquaintances lately?’

  ‘No. Erich knew an awful lot of people . . . Of all kinds, you might say.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Reinhart. ‘This Elmer Kodowsky, for instance, whose car he borrowed?’

  ‘For instance, yes,’ said Frey.

  ‘Have either of you had any contact with him lately?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘He’s inside. I don’t know where. He was an old friend of Erich’s, I’ve never met him. I’ve only seen him once or twice.’

  ‘And you yourself haven’t felt threatened in any way?’ Moreno asked.

  ‘Me?’ said Frey, looking genuinely surprised. ‘No, definitely not.’

  There followed a brief silence. Frey leaned forward, closer to the stove, and rubbed the palms of her hands together in the waves of heat floating upwards.

  ‘You waited for rather a long time before contacting the police,’ said Reinhart.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Why?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Perhaps it’s the way it is in cases of this sort. Or what do you think?’

  Reinhart said nothing.

  ‘Had either of you any contact with Erich’s mother?’ asked Moreno.

  ‘No,’ said Frey. ‘None at all. But I would like to speak to his father – please tell him that if you happen to see him.’

  ‘Really?’ said Reinhart. ‘What do you want to say to him?’

  ‘I’ll tell him that when I see him,’ said Frey.

  Afterwards they spent some time in Cafe Gambrinus, trying to sum up their impressions.

  ‘Not much in the way of lines to follow up yet,’ said Reinhart. ‘Or what do you think? Damn and blast.’

  ‘No, not a lot,’ said Moreno. ‘Although it does seem as if he had a date with his murderer out at Dikken. Even if he didn’t really know what was going to happen. The odd thing is that he sat in the restaurant by himself, waiting. Assuming we can trust what Jung and Rooth say, that is. That could suggest that the person he was waiting for didn’t turn up according to plan.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Reinhart ‘But it could have happened much more straightforwardly, we mustn’t forget that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Moreno, taking a sip of her mulled wine.

  ‘A no-frills robbery,’ said Reinhart. ‘A junkie with a hammer who th
ought he could do with a bit of cash. The victim’s pockets were emptied, even his fags and keys were nicked – that ought to tell us something.’

  Moreno nodded.

  ‘Do you think that’s what happened?’ she asked.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not,’ said Reinhart. ‘Besides, it doesn’t need to have been the same person – the one who killed him and the one who went through his pockets, that is. The character who rang to report finding the body didn’t exactly give the impression of being a blue-eyed innocent, did he?’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Moreno. ‘But in any case, I’m inclined to think it wasn’t just a case of a mugging that went wrong. I reckon there’s more to it than that – but whether or not I think that because of who the victim was, I don’t know . . . I suppose it’s a bit warped to think along those lines.’

  ‘A lot of thinking is warped when you look closely at it,’ said Reinhart. ‘Intuition and prejudice smell pretty much alike in fact. But we can start off with this, no matter what.’

  He took out the well-thumbed address book Marlene Frey had lent them – on condition they returned it as soon as they had copied it.

  ‘This must mean that they really were on the straight and narrow path nowadays,’ said Moreno. ‘Who hands a whole address book over to the police of their own accord if they have something on their conscience?’

  Reinhart leafed through the book and looked worried.

  ‘There’s a hell of a lot of people in here,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I think we’d better talk to her again and get her to narrow it down a bit.’

  ‘I’ll do that tomorrow,’ Moreno promised. ‘Anyway, I think I ought to be moving on. I don’t think we’re going to lay any golden eggs this evening.’

  Reinhart looked at the clock.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he said. ‘But one thing is crystal clear in any case.’

  ‘What’s that?’ wondered Moreno.

  ‘We must solve this. If we don’t solve another single bloody case between now and the next century, we must make absolutely certain that we sort out this one. That’s the least we can do for him.’

  Moreno leaned her head on her hands and thought.

  ‘If it were anybody else, I’d think you were nattering on in the spirit of romanticized boy scout mentality,’ she said. ‘But I must admit that I agree with you. It’s bad enough as it is, but it’ll be even worse if we let the murderer get away with it. Will you be contacting him tomorrow? I suppose he’ll want to know how things are going.’

  ‘I’ve promised to keep him informed,’ said Reinhart. ‘And I shall do just that. Whether I want to or not.’

  Moreno nodded sombrely. Then they emptied their glasses, and left the cafe and the town and the world to their fate.

  For a few hours, at least.

  9

  He woke up and looked at the clock.

  A quarter to five. He had slept for twenty minutes.

  Erich is dead, he thought. It’s not a dream. He’s dead, that’s reality.

  He could feel his eyes burning in their sockets. As if they wanted to force their way out of his head. Oedipus, it occurred to him. Oedipus Rex . . . Wandering around blind for the rest of my life, seeking God’s grace. Perhaps that would be an idea. It might give things a meaning. Erich is dead. My son.

  It was remarkable how the same thought could fill up the whole of his consciousness, hour after hour. The same three words – not even a thought, strictly speaking: just this constellation of words, as impenetrable as a mantra in a foreign language: Erich is dead, Erich is dead. Minute after minute, second after second; every fraction of every moment of every second. Erich is dead.

  Or perhaps it wasn’t remarkable at all. Presumably this was exactly as it had to be. As it would always be from now on. This was the keystone for the rest of his life. Erich was dead. His son had finally taken possession of him: thanks to his death he had finally captured the whole of his father’s attention and love. Erich. That’s how it was. Quite simply.

  I shall fall short, Van Veeteren thought. I shall fall to pieces and sink to the bottom, but I don’t care. I ought to have made sure I died at the right time.

  The woman by his side stirred and woke up. Ulrike. Ulrike Fremdli. The one who had become his woman despite all the uncertainties and convulsions of the mind. His convulsions, not hers.

  ‘Have you slept all right?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Not at all?’

  ‘Half an hour.’

  She stroked his chest and stomach with her warm hand.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I can go and make you one.’

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘Do you want to talk?’

  ‘No.’

  She turned over. Crept up closer to him, and after a while he could hear from her breathing that she had fallen asleep again. He waited for a few more minutes, then got up cautiously, tucked the covers round her, and went out into the kitchen.

  The red digital numbers on the transistor radio in the window said 04.56. It was still pitch black outside: only a few faint streaks of light from a street lamp fell onto the corner of the building on the opposite side of the street. Guijdermann’s, the bakery that had closed down. The objects he could make out in the kitchen were wreathed in this same pale, shadowy half-light. The table, the chairs. The cooker, the sink, the shelf over the larder, the pile of copies of the Allgemejne in the basket in the corner. He opened the refrigerator door, then closed it again. Took a glass from a cupboard and drank some ordinary tap water instead. Erich is dead, he thought. Dead.

  He went back to the bedroom and got dressed. As he did so, Ulrike moved restlessly in the bed but she didn’t wake up. He stole out into the hall, closing the door behind him. Put on his shoes, a scarf and an overcoat. Left the flat and tiptoed down the stairs and out into the street.

  Light rain was falling – or rather, drifting around to form a soft curtain of floating, feathery drops. The temperature must have been seven or eight degrees above freezing. No wind to speak of either, and the streets deserted – as if a long-awaited bomb attack were now imminent. Dark and self-absorbed, caught up in the all-embracing sleep of the surrounding buildings.

  Erich is dead, he thought, and started walking.

  He returned an hour and a half later. Ulrike was sitting in the murky kitchen, waiting for him with her hands wrapped round a cup of tea. He could sense an aura of reproachful worry and sympathy, but it affected him no more than a wrong number or a formal condolence.

  I hope she can cope, he thought. I hope I don’t drag her down with me.

  ‘You’re wet,’ she said. ‘Did you go far?’

  He shrugged and sat down opposite her.

  ‘I walked out towards Löhr and back,’ he said. ‘It’s not raining all that hard.’

  ‘I fell asleep,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I needed to get out.’

  She nodded. Half a minute passed: then she stretched her hands out over the table. Left them lying half-open a few centimetres in front of him, and after a while he took hold of them. Wrapped his own hands round them and squeezed them tentatively. He realized that she was waiting for something. That he needed to say something.

  ‘There was an old couple when I was a little boy,’ he began. ‘They were called Bloeme.’

  She nodded vaguely and looked enquiringly at him. He contemplated her face for a while before continuing.

  ‘Maybe they weren’t that old in fact, but they gave the impression of being the oldest people in the whole world. They lived in the same block as we did, just a few houses away from ours, and they hardly ever went out. You only ever saw them very occasionally on a Sunday afternoon . . . And when they appeared all games and all signs of life in the street came to a standstill. They always walked arm in arm on the shady side of the street, the husband always wore a hat, and there was an aura of deep sorrow around them. A cloud. My mother told me their story – I was no more than seven or eight, I shou
ld think. The Bloemes used to have two daughters, two pretty young daughters who travelled to Paris together one summer. They were both murdered under a bridge, and ever since, their parents stopped associating with other people. The girls came back home, each of them in a French coffin. Anyway, that was the story . . . We children always regarded them with the greatest possible deference. A hell of a lot of respect, in fact.’

  He fell silent and let go of Ulrike’s hands.

  ‘Children shouldn’t die before their parents.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes please. If you add a drop or two of rum.’

  She stood up. Went over to the work surface and switched on the electric kettle. Searched round among the bottles in the cupboard. Van Veeteren remained seated at the table. Clasped his hands and rested his chin on his knuckles. Closed his eyes and once again felt his eyes throbbing in their sockets. A burning sensation inside them and up into his temples.

  ‘I’ve experienced it before.’

  Ulrike turned to look at him.

  ‘No, I don’t mean at work. It’s just that I’ve imagined Erich’s death many times . . . That it would be me who had to bury him instead of vice versa. Not lately, but a few years back. Eight or ten years ago. Imagined it pretty tangibly . . . The father burying his son – I don’t know, perhaps it’s something all parents do.’

  She put two steaming hot cups down on the table, and sat down opposite him again.

  ‘I didn’t,’ she said. ‘Not in detail like that, at least. Why did you torture yourself with that sort of thing? There must have been reasons.’

  Van Veeteren nodded, and took a cautious sip of the strong, sweet tea.

  ‘Oh yes.’ He hesitated a moment. ‘Yes, there were reasons all right. One at least . . . When Erich was eighteen he tried to commit suicide. Swallowed enough tablets to have accounted for five or six fully grown people. A girlfriend found him and rushed him to hospital. But for her he would have died. That’s over ten years ago now. I dreamt about it every single night for quite a while. Not just that vacant, desperate, guilt-laden expression on his face as he lay in bed at Gemejnte . . . I dreamt that he had succeeded in taking his own life, that I was putting flowers on his grave. And so on. It feels as if . . . as if I was practising for what’s happened. It’s reality now, and during those years I knew that it would be, one of these days. Or thought so, at least. I had almost managed to forget it, but we’re there now. Erich is dead.’