by Håkan Nesser
‘Twenty-four hours a day or just twelve? The degree of discretion or intrusion – the kind of thing I mentioned earlier.’
She inhaled and blew out a thin stream of smoke as she pondered. Just for a moment he had the feeling that she didn’t normally smoke at all, and had just bought a packet of Gauloises to make an impression on him. Some sort of impression.
‘Whenever he’s not at home,’ she decided. ‘That will be sufficient. From the moment he sets off in the morning until he comes back home – either early or late in the evening.’
‘And you don’t want him to notice me.’
There was another brief pause, and he registered that she still hadn’t quite made up her mind on that point.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Don’t let him see you. If I change my mind about that I’ll let you know. How much do I have to pay?’
He pretended to think about that, and wrote down a few figures in his notebook.
‘Three hundred guilders per day, plus any expenses.’
That did not seem to worry her.
‘Payment for three days in advance. I might have to rent a room in Linden as well . . . When do you want me to report to you?’
‘Once a day,’ she said without hesitation. ‘I’d like you to ring me every day at some time during the morning. I’m always at home in the mornings. If I think it seems necessary, we can meet – but I hope it won’t come to that.’
Verlangen had another ‘why?’ on the tip of his tongue, but he managed to swallow it.
‘Okay,’ he said instead, leaning back on his chair. ‘I take it that we are in agreement. If you can give me your address and telephone number, I can start tomorrow morning . . . And I need the advance, of course.’
She took out a dark-red purse and produced two five-hundred-guilder notes. And a business card.
‘A thousand,’ she said. ‘Let’s round it up to a thousand for the time being.’
He took the money and the card. She stood up and reached out her hand over his desk.
‘Thank you, herr Verlangen. I’m very grateful that you could take on this job. It will . . . It will make my life easier.’
Will it really? he thought as he shook her hand. How? She was looking him straight in the eye for a long fraction of a second, and he wondered once again what it would feel like to touch some other part of her body than the firm and pleasantly cool palm of her hand.
‘I shall do my best,’ he promised.
She smiled, turned on her heel and left his office.
He remained standing, listening to her footsteps as she walked up the stairs. It almost felt as if he were waiting for some sort of curtain to fall.
Then he opened the refrigerator and took out a beer.
2
The moment he opened the door of his cramped little flat in Heerbanerstraat he realized that the vacuum-cleaner bags were still in the drawer of his desk in the office.
On the other hand, not a single one of the beer cans was left in the refrigerator. You win some and you lose some . . .
So his cleaning intentions would have to be put on ice: but one lost day was neither here nor there, of course. The smell of old, stuffy dirt and the stench of something stale which was presumably the mould underneath the bathtub, struck him as a sort of ‘welcome home’ greeting. One shouldn’t simply shrug off old habits and sell off the things that make you feel safe and secure just for the sake of it. Dust and dirt should not be held in contempt . . .
There was a pile of advertising leaflets and two bills on the floor underneath the letter slot. He picked it all up and threw it onto the basket chair, which was full of similar stuff. My home is my castle, he thought as he opened the balcony door, then turned back to observe the devastation. He contemplated the unmade bed, the unwashed dirty crockery and the rest of the chaotic mess. Switched off the stereo equipment, which must have been on for at least twenty-four hours. Noted that the right-hand loudspeaker was broken, and that he ought to do something about it.
Then he went into the bathroom, glanced at the filthy mirror and confirmed that he looked about ten years older than he had looked that morning.
Why do I bother to go on living? he wondered as he stepped into the shower and switched on the water.
And why do I keep on asking myself these optimistic questions, day in and day out?
An hour later it was eight o’clock and he had washed up three days’ worth of dirty dishes. He flopped down in front of the television and watched the first ten minutes of the news. The murder of a policeman in Groenstadt and a ministerial meeting in Berlin in connection with unrest in the financial markets. A mad swan that had caused a pile-up on the motorway outside Saaren. He switched off and telephoned his daughter.
She was not at home, and so he was obliged to exchange a few pleasantries with his ex-wife’s new boyfriend instead. It took half a minute, and afterwards he was able to congratulate himself on not having sworn a single time. Two cheers.
There were four beers in the fridge and a bottle of mineral water. He made a sandwich with salami, cheese and cucumber – but with no butter as he had forgotten to buy any – and after a brief inner struggle he selected the water. Sat down on the sofa again, took out his notepad and read what he had written.
Barbara Hennan. The beautiful American woman.
Maiden name Delgado, but now Hennan – thanks to having married that bastard Jaan G. Hennan. For some damned reason.
G, he thought. Why on earth pick G when there was a whole world of men to choose from?
And why the hell should he, Maarten Baudewijn Verlangen, have to spend what little time he had on something so bloody stupid as shadowing Jaan G. Hennan? The man he – more or less on his own – had made sure was placed under lock and key some . . . yes, it was almost exactly twelve years ago, he decided after some rapid mental calculations. The end of May 1975. While he was still working as a respectable police officer.
While he still had a proper job, a family, and a right to look at himself in the mirror without averting his gaze.
While he still had a future.
It was at the beginning of the 1980s that it all went to pot. 1981–2. Buying that house out at Dikken. All the arguments with Martha. Their love life simply shrivelling up like . . . like a worn-out condom.
The bribes. The sudden opportunity of earning a bit extra on the side by turning a blind eye to things. Not just a bit extra, in fact. Without the extra income they would never have been able to afford the interest and mortgage payments on the house. He had tried to explain that to Martha afterwards, after he had been caught out and his world had collapsed. But she had just shaken her head and snorted.
What about that lady? she had wondered. In what way had it been necessary for the preservation of their marriage for him to spend so many nights with her? Could he kindly explain that to her?
No, he couldn’t.
Five years, he thought. It’s five years since the world collapsed, and I’m still alive.
Just occasionally there were now moments when that didn’t surprise him any more.
He gulped down the rest of the water and went to fetch a beer. Moved over to the armchair with the reading lamp, and leaned back.
Barbara Hennan, he thought, and closed his eyes.
How the hell could such a beautiful woman become involved with an arsehole like G?
It was a riddle, to be sure, but not a new one. Women’s judgement when it came to men had backfired before in the history of the world. Gone astray when confronted by rampant stags in rut amidst the superficial values of everyday life. He dug out the photographs and studied them for a while with a degree of distaste.
Why? he wondered. Why does she want me to keep an eye on him?
Was there more than one answer? More than one possibility?
He didn’t think so. It was the same old story, of course. The unfaithful husband and the jealous wife. Who wanted proof. Evidence of his betrayal in black and white.
Maarten V
erlangen had spent four years playing this game by now, and he reckoned that about two-thirds of his work was of this nature.
If he excluded the work he did for the insurance company, that is: but that aspect of his work was not really a part of his sleuthing activities. It was rather different. The insurance company Trustor had wanted a sort of detective who could investigate irregularities using somewhat unorthodox methods – and what could possibly be more appropriate in the circumstances than a police officer who had been sacked – or rather, had chosen to leave the force rather than be hanged in a public place. A gentleman’s agreement. There had been no question of a formal appointment; but as time went by there had been a commission here and another commission there – usually resolved to the advantage of the company – and so their cooperation had continued. When Verlangen occasionally checked his somewhat less than prodigious income, he concluded that it was about fifty–fifty: roughly half came from the insurance company, and half from his sleuthing activities.
He lit a cigarette – the day’s fortieth or thereabouts – and tried once again to conjure up the American woman in his mind’s eye. Fru Barbara Hennan. Thirty-seven or thirty-eight? She could hardly be any older than that. At least ten years younger than her husband, in other words.
And ten times more desirable. No, not ten times. Ten thousand times. Why on earth would anybody want to be unfaithful if they had a woman like Barbara? Incomprehensible.
He inhaled a few times, and thought the matter over. Was it really all that likely that it was the same old story, the same old motive? Had Barbara Hennan née Delgado come to him because she suspected her husband was having an affair with another woman? After only a few months in the new country?
Or was there some other reason? – In which case, what?
He would have liked to ask her straight out – he had been on the point of doing so several times during their conversation, and he didn’t usually beat about the bush in such circumstances. But something had held him back.
Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to embarrass her. But perhaps there were other reasons as well.
Just what they might be was something he couldn’t be sure about. Not then, when she had been sitting on the other side of the table; and not now, as he sat there in his cramped and stuffy lair, trying to think things over and work out a strategy.
A strategy? he thought. Rubbish. I don’t need a strategy. I’ll drive there tomorrow morning. Sit in my car outside his office all day, staring at him. Smoking myself to death. Given the extent to which I’ve grown older, there’s no chance of him recognizing me.
This is an easy job. A classic. If it was a film, the building would no doubt blow up at about half past four.
He drank the rest of the beer, and wondered if he should allow himself another one before going to bed. During the course of the day he had drunk eight. That was close to the maximum – which was ten – but why not allow himself the luxury of a clear conscience for once?
Two still to go? Somewhere deep down inside him, of course, a voice was whispering somewhat pitifully that ten beers a day wasn’t a deal that was beyond discussion. But what the hell, he thought. Everything is relative apart from death and the anger of a fat woman. So what?
He had read that last thought somewhere. Quite a long time ago, in the days when he could remember what he had read in books.
He belched, and stubbed out the last cigarette of the day. Did what was necessary in the bathroom in just over a minute, then wriggled his way into his unmade bed. His pillow smelt vaguely of something unpleasant – unwashed hair perhaps, or sadness, or something of that sort. Turning it over didn’t help matters.
He set the alarm clock for half past six, and switched off the light.
Linden? he thought. If I book a room in a hotel, at least I won’t have to sleep in dirty sheets for a few nights.
Five minutes later Maarten Baudewijn Verlangen was snoring, with his mouth open wide.
3
Belle rang next morning just as he was coming out of the shower. As usual, the very sound of her voice set something alight in his chest. A spark of paternal pride.
Apart from that, the call did not give him much cause to be cheerful. They had more or less agreed to meet at the weekend. To spend a day together. Possibly two. He had been looking forward to it – in the grimly reserved way he ever dared to look forward to things nowadays: but she had now been invited along on a boat trip out to the islands instead. So if he didn’t mind . . . ?
He didn’t mind. Who was he to begrudge a seventeen-year-old daughter he loved more than anything else in the world the opportunity of going on a boat trip with like-minded friends – instead of having to trudge around with an overweight, prematurely grey-haired and frequently drunk old fart of a father? God forbid.
‘Are you sure?’ she wondered. ‘You’re sure you won’t be upset? Maybe we can meet up next weekend?’
‘Quite sure,’ he assured her. And he claimed that strictly speaking, next weekend would be better for him as well. He had rather a lot of work to get through at present.
Maybe she believed him. She wasn’t all that old yet.
She sent him a kiss down the line, then hung up. He swallowed to remove a small lump from his throat, and blinked away a trace of dampness from his eyes. Went down to the corner shop to buy the Allgemejne. Have your breakfast and read the paper, you big softie! he told himself.
And that is exactly what he did.
He was at Aldemarckt in Linden by a few minutes past nine, and a quarter of an hour later he had found his way to Kammerweg. He parked diagonally opposite Villa Zefyr, wound down the side window and settled down to wait.
Linden was not much more than a small provincial town – round about twenty or thirty thousand people. A few small industries. Quite a well-known brewery, a church from the early thirteenth century, and housing estates that mainly sprang up after the war – little family houses and occasional blocks of flats, within easy commuting distance of Maardam. He recalled having met a girl from Linden when he was a teenager: she was cool and pretty, but he had never dared kiss her. She was called Margarita. He wondered what had become of her.
But there wasn’t much more to Linden than that. The sluggish little beck Megel – no doubt also cool and pretty, and if he remembered rightly a tributary of the River Maar – meandered its way through the town and then over the plains to the north-west. To the south of the beck was a ridge, and that was the location of Kammerweg – a good four kilometres from the centre of Linden with a town hall, a police station, a square, and all the trimmings of civilized living. Plus that thirteenth-century church.
And a brewery – he began to feel thirsty.
Verlangen sighed, put on his dark glasses although the sun had not yet succeeded in breaking through the greyish-white clouds, and lit a cigarette. Gazed at the house, which could only just be made out behind the rows of trees and flowering shrubs that had been planted alongside the street precisely to prevent passers-by from peering in, and tried to assess its market value.
Not less than a million, he decided. Probably not even less than one-and-a-half. Mind you, they were only renting it, if he had understood fru Hennan correctly.
The situation was ideal in many respects. A large plot with some kind of woods or overgrown park at one end, and another plot at least as big at the other end, with a house that was also half hidden among greenery. He guessed that must be where the Trottas lived – the pilot family with the awful children – but you can never tell for certain.
On the side of the street where he was parked there were no buildings at all, just a steep slope down to an asphalted cycle path alongside the beck into town.
Rather splendid isolation, in fact, decided Verlangen with an involuntary stab of envy. The Hennan house that he could just about see in among the greenery was pale blue – not the prettiest colour he had even seen, but what the hell? His own forty-five-square-metre flat contained more glaring nuances than Kandinsky c
ould ever have dreamt of . . . And just to the right of the house was a clinically white diving tower – or at least, that’s what he thought it must be.
So they had a swimming pool as well. And why not a tennis court and a sizeable cocktail terrace round the back? He couldn’t help wondering how easy it might be to torch the whole set-up – preferably with G surrounded by flames on all sides while the private dick played the hero and rescued the young wife, carrying her over his shoulder to safety. But he was forced to cut short all such thoughts when a shiny blue Saab glided slowly out between the two black granite pillars that marked the entrance to the drive of the house. They stood there like two immobile but well-dressed and somewhat ominous lackeys, making no attempt to hide their silent disapproval of any unwelcome visitors.
The only occupant was the male driver, and Verlangen had no doubt that it was none other than Jaan G. Hennan himself – despite the fact that he only had a very vague impression of him.
Who else could it possibly have been? Surely one could take it for granted that Barbara Hennan had given Verlangen the correct address . . .
He gave the Saab a fifty-metre start, then switched on the engine of his faithful old Toyota and began tailing him.
A classic set-up, he thought with an intentional lack of emotion.
Hennan parked in one of the narrow alleys behind the church, then walked the hundred or so metres down towards the square and vanished through the main entrance of a three-storey block of shops and offices of typical beige-coloured fifties design. Verlangen managed to squeeze his Toyota into a cramped space on the other side of the street. Switched off the engine, lit another cigarette and wound down the window again.
He fixed his gaze on the row of featureless rectangular windows in the storey above the ground-floor shops – a shoe shop, an undertaker’s, a butcher’s.
After a couple of minutes one of the windows over the undertaker’s opened: Jaan G. Hennan leaned out and emptied half a cup of coffee onto the pavement below. Then closed the window.
