The Bone Man by Wolf Haas Read Free Book Online Page A

Krennek. Because it was his last day of work before a four-week vacation, and he’d already been sweating blood all afternoon that he might have to postpone his trip to Thailand on account of some damned soccer player’s head.
    Kaspar Krennek was an unusual boss in this regard, though. He enjoyed playing the deputy to his subordinates. Because all that office and politics and eating asparagus all the time—in the long run, that’s a small death sentence, too.
    When Kaspar Krennek turned up at Löschenkohl’s, needless to say, people recognized him right away. And not just because half the soccer team had gotten there before him and had already given everybody the blow-by-blow about the incident in question. No, Kaspar Krennek was known throughout the country. Because ever since he’d joined the Graz police force—and it’s going on nearly ten years now—he’s been coddled by the newspapers.
    You should know, his father was August Krennek, the famous post-War Hamlet. Now, the son becoming a cop, that was a certain kind of rebellion against the father. But when he made a career of it as a detective, well, father and son finally reconciled on the father’s deathbed.
    And, these days, when your father’s an actor, then you’ve got a bit of the theater bug in you, too. Even though, with Kaspar Krennek, you have to look pretty closely to discover the actor within. Because you don’t notice his vanity right away. First glance: a quiet, modest man. And only on the second glance:
I am the Prince of the Murder Department
.
    When, at a quarter after six, he came walking into the dining room at Löschenkohl’s in his twenty-thousand-schilling leather jacket, he didn’t act coy for long.
    “Where’s the junior manager?” he asked the first server he saw.
    “What junior manager?”
    Because Gudrun had only been working at Löschenkohl’s for a few weeks, and she’d only caught sight of the junior manager maybe once. Just then, though, the head waitress came to her aid.
    “Is it Paul you’re looking for?”
    “It’s Paul whom I’d like to speak with.”
    Kaspar Krennek had learned from his father that a man must express himself with precision. And that “speaking with” hasn’t meant “looking” for some time now.
    “To speak,” the head waitress said in a tone as if to say:
don’t get clever with me, you Schlaumeier
. “Paul doesn’t live here.”
    “Where does he live, then?”
    “You’ll have to ask his father that.”
    “So, he can be spoken with.”
    “Not until I find him,” the waitress smirked and disappeared into the kitchen.
    Krennek was a little surprised by the cheery mood of the place. On the other hand, there’s just a certain cheerfulness about people after a glimpse at death has sent them filling their pants.
    Two minutes later the waitress returned. But not with old man Löschenkohl. With a man roughly Kaspar Krennek’s age. But a head shorter and a foot and a half wider. And with skin like sandpaper.
    “Brenner.”
    Krennek was a little annoyed at first that the headstrong waitress had been able to lure him out of his reserve so quickly. Now he was glad to have won back his modesty again. He put out his hand to Brenner, and out of sheer reservation, didn’t quite get to introducing himself before Brenner said, “You’re looking for Herr Löschenkohl.”
    This time, though, Krennek didn’t correct him—even if his father was rolling over in his grave.
    “Unfortunately, Herr Löschenkohl isn’t here today,” Brenner said.
    “Which one, junior or senior?”
    “Neither one’s here. Junior’s never here anyway. And the old man drove to Graz today for a doctor’s appointment. He’ll be back first thing tomorrow.”
    Doctor’s appointment. Brenner couldn’t have known what a scare he gave Krennek with that one. Because ever since Krennek was a kid, he’d had the
idée fixe
, if you will, that on his fortieth birthday, he would die of cancer. And he was alreadypushing