Hour of the Wolf (24 page)

‘Eh?’ said the chief of police. ‘What the devil do you mean by that?’

‘I’ll explain some other time,’ said Reinhart, opening the door. ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry, if you’ll excuse me.’

Jung and Moreno were sitting in his office, waiting for him.

‘Greetings from the Fourth Floor,’ said Reinhart. ‘The master gardener has a new suit again.’

‘Has he been on the telly?’ Jung wondered.

‘Not as far as I know,’ said Moreno. ‘But perhaps he’s going to?’

Reinhart flopped down on his chair and lit his pipe.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘What’s the situation?’

‘I still haven’t got hold of her,’ said Jung. ‘She’s with her boyfriend somewhere. She won’t be back at work until tomorrow afternoon. I’m sorry.’

‘Damn and blast,’ said Reinhart.

‘Who are you talking about?’ asked Moreno.

‘Edita Fischer, of course,’ said Reinhart. ‘That nurse who implied to the other nurse that Vera Miller had implied something . . . Huh, what a wishy-washy set-up, for Christ’s sake! Any luck with the list of doctors?’

‘Tip-top,’ said Moreno, handing him the file she’d had on her knee. ‘You have there the names and photographs of all the hundred-and-twenty-six doctors who work at the Gemejnte. Plus a handful who left during the last year – they are all marked. Date of birth, date of appointment, medical qualifications, specialist training and everything else you could possibly want to know. Even civil status and family members. They are well organized at Gemejnte Hospital.’

‘Not bad,’ said Reinhart, leafing through the files. ‘Not bad at all. Are they split up according to clinic and ward as well?’

‘Of course,’ said Moreno. ‘I’ve already put a cross by those who worked on Ward Forty-six, Vera Miller’s ward. There are six doctors permanently linked, and another seven or eight who work there from time to time. There’s quite a lot of movement from ward to ward, not least among the specialists – anaesthetists for instance.’

Reinhart nodded as he continued thumbing through the documents, studying the series of smiling faces of men and women in white coats. It was evidently part of the routine to be photographed in this way. The background was the same in most of the pictures, and everybody – the vast majority in any case – were sitting with their heads at the same angle and their mouths fixed in a broad smile. Apparently the same photographer: he wondered what awful joke he must have told them to make them all roar with laughter the way they seemed to be doing.

‘Not bad,’ he said for the third time. ‘So here we have the murderer complete with photograph and personal details down to shoe size. It’s just a pity we don’t know which of them it is. Which one of the hundred-and-twenty-six . . .’

‘If we’re still sticking to Rooth’s hypothesis,’ said Moreno, ‘we can eliminate forty of them.’

‘Really?’ said Reinhart. ‘Why?’

‘Because they are women. But I don’t know how we should proceed with this – it seems a bit much to interrogate the whole lot of them, rather than thinning them down a little. Even if they look friendly enough in the photos, they might well be rather more difficult to deal with in reality. Especially when they catch on to what we suspect them of . . . Not to mention
esprit de corps
and goodness knows what else.’

Reinhart nodded.

‘Let’s start with those most closely connected,’ he said. ‘Only them for the time being. What was it you said? Six attached to the clinic and a few more who keep dropping in. We ought to be able to deal with them before Jung’s witness turns up again. Who should we send to deal with this?’

‘Not Rooth,’ said Jung.

‘Okay, not Rooth,’ said Reinhart. ‘But I can see two reliable police officers before my very eyes just now. Get on with it – good hunting.’

He closed the file and handed it back. As Jung left the room first, he was able to put a question to Inspector Moreno.

‘Have you been sleeping well lately?’

‘Better and better,’ said Moreno, and she actually smiled. ‘What about you?’

‘I get my deserts,’ said Reinhart, cryptically.

Tuesday’s post comprised a few bills and a couple of letters.

One was from the Spaarkasse, informing him that his loan had been granted. The sum of 220,000 had already been credited to his account.

The other letter was from his opponent.

A different kind of envelope this time. Simpler, cheaper. The letter paper itself was a folded page, apparently torn out of a spiral pad. Before he began reading he wondered if this in itself was a sign of something, if it had some sort of significance, this reduction in quality.

He failed to find a satisfactory answer; and the instructions were just as simple and clear as before.

This business concerning his mobile phone had already occurred to him. He’d rung and investigated the possibility of doing that, but it gradually became clear to him that the caller could always establish whether the call had been diverted from one number to another. Otherwise, of course, he would have been very tempted to hide himself some twenty metres into Bremers Steeg, which he knew was a dark, narrow alley . . . To stand there and wait for his opponent, with the pipe hidden inside his overcoat. Very tempted.

Another thing that struck him when he read the instructions again was the sheer damned self-confidence of the blackmailer. How could he be certain, for instance, that his victim wouldn’t use an assistant, just as he had done out at Dikken? How could he be so sure of that? It was even possible that he could arrange for the assistance of a good friend without needing to reveal what it was all about. He could get somebody else to answer the telephone, for instance. Or did his opponent know his voice so well that he would recognize such a move immediately? Was he so well acquainted with him?

Or had he refined his tactics this time? Polished them in some way? It looked like it. Perhaps the telephone call would involve further instructions to guarantee that the money could be collected behind the grill bar in peace and quiet.

But how, in that case? What instructions might they be, for Christ’s sake? Would he be armed?

That last point cropped up without his having thought about it, but it soon became clear that it was the most significant of them all. Would his opponent have a weapon, and – in the worst-case scenario – would he be prepared to use it in order to collect his money?

A pistol in his jacket pocket in a dark corner in Bremers Steeg?

He put the letter back into its envelope and checked the clock.

Eleven thirty-five. Less than sixteen hours left.

Time was short. Very short, and this was the last round now. No further delays were conceivable.

Time to run away? he thought.

Moreno and Jung spoke to a dozen doctors on the Thursday morning. Including three women – if for no other reason than to avoid raising suspicions.

Suspicions that the police had suspicions about their male colleagues. Or one of them, at least.

Instead, the ostensible starting point of the conversations was that they needed information about the murdered nurse, Vera Miller. General impressions of her. Her relations with patients and colleagues – everything that might, in some way or other, contribute to a more complete all-round picture of her. Especially with regard to her work.

As far as Moreno and Jung could judge, all the doctors told them without reservation all they knew about Nurse Miller. Some had quite a lot to say, others naturally enough rather less, due to the fact that they hadn’t had so much to do with her. But impressions and judgements were remarkably unanimous: Vera Miller had been an outstanding nurse. Knowledgeable, positive, willing to work hard – and with that little bit extra feeling for patients that was so very important: if only everybody who worked in health care had that little bit extra!

De mortuis
. . . Moreno thought; but it was only an automatic thought that seemed hardly appropriate in this case. Nurse Miller had been well liked and much appreciated, it was as simple as that. Nobody had any idea as to who might have wanted to kill her in the way that she was killed – nor in any other way, come to that. Not the slightest idea.

Nor did Moreno and Jung after they had finished their questioning, and sat down for lunch in the restaurant in Block A. Not the slightest idea.

They had finished their unusually substantial pasta meal by a few minutes past one, and decided that they might as well wait for Edita Fischer up in Ward 46. She was due to come on duty at two o’clock – after two-and-a-half days’ leave. Time off she had spent with her boyfriend at some unknown location. His name was Arnold, but that was all they knew about him. When Jung had finally succeeded in contacting fröken Fischer that morning, after no end of trials and tribulations, she had declined to disclose where they had been, and what they had been doing.

Not that he was especially interested, but even so . . .

‘Presumably they were robbing a bank,’ he explained to Moreno, ‘but so what? The important thing is that we can talk to her. In any case, it had nothing to do with Vera Miller.’

Moreno thought for a moment, then agreed.

The important thing was that they could talk to her.

Edita Fischer was young and blonde, and looked more or less how a nurse in an American television series was supposed to look. With the possible exception of the fact that she was slightly cross-eyed: but Jung at least thought that made her even more charming.

She was obviously embarrassed by what she had set in motion. Blushed and apologized several times, even before they had settled down in the pale-green reception room that had been placed at their disposal thanks to the ward sister’s determined efforts. It was usually reserved exclusively for discussions with the next of kin after a patient had died, she explained: green was said to have a calming effect.

‘For Christ’s sake,’ exclaimed Fischer, ‘it was nothing! Nothing at all. I gather it was Liljana who told you about this?’

Jung admitted that the matter had cropped up during one of his conversations with Liljana Milovic.

‘Why couldn’t she hold her tongue?’ said Fischer. ‘It was just a throwaway remark I made as we sat talking.’

‘If everybody held their tongues, we wouldn’t find many criminals,’ said Jung.

‘What sort of a throwaway remark was it?’ asked Moreno. ‘Now that we’re sitting here.’

Fischer hesitated a little longer, but it was obvious that she was going to come clean. Jung exchanged glances with Moreno, and they both refrained from asking questions. All they needed to do was wait. Wait, and gaze at the comforting green walls.

‘It was over a month ago . . . Nearly one-and-a-half, in fact.’

‘The beginning of November?’ said Moreno.

‘About then. I don’t think I’ve ever cried as much as I did when I heard that Vera had been killed. It’s so awful – she was such a happy, lively person . . . You don’t think anything like that could happen to a person you know so well. Who did it? – It must be a madman.’

‘We don’t know yet,’ said Jung. ‘But that’s what we’re going to find out.’

‘Did you socialize outside working hours as well?’ asked Moreno.

Fischer shook her head.

‘No, but she was a wonderful colleague – ask all the others.’

‘We have done,’ said Jung.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Fischer, with a sigh. ‘But you must understand that it was of no importance, in fact. Liljana tends to blow things up out of all proportion . . . She’s okay, but that’s just the way she is.’

‘Let’s hear it now,’ said Jung. ‘We can usually work out what’s important and what isn’t. But we like to know as much as possible before we do that.’

‘Of course,’ said Fischer. ‘Forgive me. Anyway, the fact is that Vera made that visit to Rumford.’

‘The New Rumford Hospital?’ wondered Moreno.

‘Yes, there was a patient who needed to be transferred there. That happens sometimes. A woman with pulmonary emphysema – they have better resources at Rumford for dealing with that than we have here. Sometimes we transfer patients to them, and sometimes they send patients to us . . .’

‘Sounds sensible,’ said Jung.

‘Yes,’ said Fischer. ‘It is sensible. Anyway, Vera accompanied this patient, and she stayed half a day at Rumford. To make sure that the patient was all right, felt she was being properly looked after and so on. Vera was very particular with that kind of thing – that’s why she was such a good nurse. When she came back that afternoon we were having our coffee break, and we pulled Vera’s leg a bit. Asked her why it had taken her so long – whether it was because they have such handsome doctors at Rumford. They do, in fact . . .’

She seemed embarrassed again, and squirmed on her chair.

‘Much younger than ours in any case,’ she added. ‘And that’s when Vera said what she said. “You’ve hit the nail on the head,” she said.’

‘Hit the nail on the head?’ said Moreno.

‘Yes, she laughed and said: “You’ve hit the nail on the head, Edita.” That was all. I don’t know if she was joking or if there was more to it than that. Good God, have you been sitting and waiting here all this time just to hear that?’

‘Hmm,’ said Jung. ‘We’re used to sitting and waiting, you don’t need to worry about that.’

Moreno pondered as she scribbled something in her notebook.

‘What do you think?’ she said. ‘What did you think she meant when Vera Miller said that? Don’t be afraid of misleading us, it’s better if you tell us your spontaneous reaction.’

Fischer bit her lip, looked down at her hands which were clasped in her lap, and squirmed again.

‘I thought there was something going on,’ she said eventually. ‘Yes, when I look back now, I really did think so.’