Hour of the Wolf by Håkan Nesser Page B

back in his desk chair and thought for a while with his hands clasped behind the back of his neck. ‘If you’d like to have a session with Marlene Frey instead, that’s fine by me,’ he said. ‘There are two things that have wounded her in life: police officers and men. At least you’re only half of that.’
    Moreno nodded and said nothing for a while.
    ‘What do you think?’ she said eventually. ‘What do you think happened to Erich?’
    Reinhart bit the stem of his pipe and scratched his temples.
    ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I haven’t the slightest idea, that’s the worrying bit. We usually have some kind of suspicion of what’s going on . . . An indication, at least.’
    ‘But you haven’t a clue?’
    ‘No,’ said Reinhart. ‘Do you?’
    Moreno shook her head.
    ‘Does Marlene Frey know something that she’s holding back?’ she asked.
    Reinhart pondered again. Tried to replay the afternoon’s conversation for his inner ear.
    ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think so. Mind you, you might have a different impression – who knows what to make of female intuition?’
    ‘I know all about that,’ said Moreno. ‘Have you spoken to The Chief Inspector again?’
    ‘Not since yesterday,’ said Reinhart. ‘I might ring him this evening. It feels really uncomfortable, poking our noses into his son’s dealings. I mean, he hasn’t exactly been your blue-eyed innocent. It’s not nice, sifting through that dirty linen, and it can’t be much fun for him sitting at home mourning, and knowing what we’re up to. Holy shit, what a mess!’
    ‘Is it really all that dirty nowadays?’ Moreno asked. ‘His linen, I mean.’
    ‘Maybe not,’ said Reinhart, standing up. ‘It was a bit dirtier a few years ago at any rate. It’s possible that it’s exactly how she says it is, fröken Frey – that they are following the straight and narrow nowadays. It’s just a pity that he didn’t get a bit further along that path. But then, you have to agree with Strindberg and feel sorry for the human race.’
    He went over to the window. Prised apart a couple of the slats in the Venetian blind and looked out over the town and the dark sky.
    ‘How many of the people he met last week – who we know he met last week – have you been in contact with?’
    ‘Seven,’ said Moreno without hesitation. ‘And as many again tomorrow, if all goes to plan.’
    ‘All right,’ said Reinhart, letting go of the slats. ‘What we’re looking for is just the end of a thread that we can follow up. We’ll find one sooner or later, it’s just a question of being patient . . . That’s not exactly unusual, is it?’
    ‘Not unusual at all,’ agreed Moreno. ‘Although it would help if things started moving pretty soon. So that we get an indication, as we’ve said.’
    ‘Some hopes,’ said Reinhart. ‘Anyway, that’ll do for today. I seem to remember that I have a family. At least, I had one this morning. How are things with you nowadays?’
    ‘I’m married to my work,’ said Moreno.
    Reinhart looked at her with raised eyebrows.
    ‘You must file for a divorce,’ he said in all seriousness. ‘Can’t you see that he’s just exploiting you?’
    On Thursday evening they made the first rather more formal attempt to sum up the state of the investigation. Five-and-a-half days had passed since Erich Van Veeteren’s body had been found in the bushes at the car park out at Dikken. Nine days since it had been put there – unless they were much mistaken. So it was high time. Even if they hadn’t discovered very much so far.
    They started with the victim’s fiancée.
    Marlene Frey had been pinned down several times by both Reinhart and Moreno – and been shown the greatest possible amount of consideration and respect, of course – and as far as both of them could judge, she had done everything in her power to supply them with information and assist the police in every way. There were no grounds at all for complaining about