Hour of the Wolf Read Online Free PDF Page A

his head into the pillow. Breathed in her scent and tried to go back to sleep, but in vain. The vacuum was too vast. This really was amazing, bloody amazing.
    The biggest difference in the world, he thought. That between a woman still in your bed, and a woman who has just left. A woman you love. A new woman?
    He gave up after a while. Went to collect the newspaper, had breakfast and then took out the letter again.
    It wasn’t necessary, of course. He knew it off by heart. Every single formulation, every single word, every single letter. Nevertheless, he read it through again twice. Felt the paper – high-quality stuff, no doubt about it; and the letter paper and envelope the same design. Thick, hammered paper: he guessed it had been bought in one of the bookshops in the city centre where you could buy by the sheet rather than in packs.
    Sophisticated nuances as well. Pale blue. Stamp with a sporting motif – a woman swinging round before throwing a discus. Meticulously placed in the top right-hand corner of the envelope. His name and address handwritten with the same slightly sloping letters as in the message itself. The name of the place underlined.
    That was all. All there was to say about it. Nothing, in other words. Or almost nothing, to be precise. It didn’t even seem possible to establish the writer’s sex. He tended to think it was a man, but that wasn’t much more than a guess. Could be either.
    Ten thousand? he thought for the hundred-and-fiftieth time since Monday evening. Why only ten thousand?
    It was a considerable sum of money, to be sure, but still – as the letter-writer very rightly pointed out – not exactly a preposterous demand. He had more than twice that in the bank, and he owned a house and various other assets worth ten times that amount. The blackmailer had also used the expression ‘a man of your stature’, suggesting that he was familiar with his circumstances and financial status.
    So why only ten thousand? Perhaps not ‘a piffling amount’, but a cheap price even so. Very reasonable, considering what was involved.
    A pretty well-educated person too, it seemed, this letter-writer. The handwriting was neat and tidy, there were no grammatical errors, the wording was clear and concise. No doubt the person concerned ought to have (must have?) known that he would have been able to squeeze out more. That the price for his silence was low.
    He kept returning to that conclusion. And looking back, he was also surprised by how easy he found it to sit there reasoning with himself along such comparatively rational lines. The letter had arrived like a bomb, but as soon as he’d been able to get used to and accept the fact of its existence, it was the logical and relevant questions arising that occupied his mind.
    All week, and now on Sunday afternoon.
    So, why only ten thousand?
    What were the implications? Was it just a first instalment?
    And who? Who had seen him, and was now exploiting the opportunity of earning money from his accident? And the boy’s?
    Was it the scooter rider, or one of the two motorists who had passed by while he was standing in the ditch, holding the lifeless body in his arms? Or up on the road.
    Were there any other possibilities? He didn’t think so.
    In any case, what gave him away must have been the car, his red Audi – he soon decided that this must be the case. Somebody had seen it parked in an unusual place, memorized the registration number and traced the owner via the licensing authority.
    He was convinced that this is what must have happened. Increasingly convinced. He soon decided that there was no other possibility – until a dreadful thought struck him.
    Perhaps the boy hadn’t been alone that evening. Perhaps there had been two young people, for instance, walking along the side of the road, but it was only Wim who had hit his head against the concrete culvert.
    A bit further away, perhaps a couple of metres on the other side of the culvert, there might