by Håkan Nesser
While they were drinking their first whisky Hennan explained why he had recognized Verlangen and remembered his name.
As they sank the second one, Verlangen recalled the twelve-year-old investigation and said it had completely vanished from his memory – but now that Hennan had raised the matter, well . . .
While they were drinking the third one Hennan took the initiative once again and went on at length about what it was like, spending two-and-a-half years in prison despite being innocent.
Innocent? thought Verlangen, beginning to feel annoyed again. You were more guilty than Crippen, you arsehole!
But he didn’t start arguing. Merely said that he could no longer remember any details of the case – he’d had so many to deal with over the years. He noticed that he was beginning to have difficulty in articulating, and immediately laid down a rule that he swore he would stick to, come what may, for the rest of the evening: Don’t let Hennan have the slightest idea why you are here! No matter what. Be faithful to your employer!
Hennan went on about all kinds of things, but the fourth whisky evidently had a detrimental effect on Verlangen’s hearing. He was simply incapable of understanding a meaningful series of sounds any longer – but nevertheless made a point of muttering and humming and hawing inventively during the pauses. When he next looked at the clock, it was twenty-five minutes past midnight. Hennan also seemed to have had enough.
‘Home,’ he said. ‘Time to go home.’
Verlangen agreed and slid down from the bar stool.
‘I’m staying just down the road,’ he said.
‘I must order a taxi,’ said Hennan.
The bartender, a gigantic young man with red curly hair, intervened and informed them that there were always taxis queuing up just round the corner. A mere fifty metres away – that was easier than phoning and ordering.
They went out together into the warm early-summer night. Verlangen had some difficulty in keeping his balance, but Hennan put an arm round his shoulders and kept him more or less upright. When they came to the row of yellow-and-black cars, Hennan said goodnight without further ado, clambered into a back seat, waved, and grinned broadly through the window.
Verlangen raised a hand as he watched the taxi drive off. He suddenly felt a painful stab of repugnance, which he had difficulty in pinning down. On the whole Hennan had behaved reasonably, and the reason why his wife wanted him to be kept under observation was more enveloped in mystery than ever.
But he had fraternized with his quarry. In no uncertain terms. He had babbled on and hummed and hawed and drunk way too much whisky . . . On top of all the beer and cognac – and God only knew what he might have said and not said.
On his way back to the hotel he took wrong turnings several times, and ended up in the cemetery where he made the most of the opportunity of emptying his bladder between what seemed to be a mortuary and a collection of dustbins.
But he eventually managed to find his way back to the Belveder hotel, and by the time he staggered up to his room it was a quarter past one. That was a point in time that had not registered on Verlangen’s consciousness, but with the aid of a few independent witnesses and observations, it could be established later with a high degree of certainty.
5
Police probationer Wagner yawned and looked at his watch: twenty-five to two.
Then he looked at his crossword puzzle. It was unsolved.
Almost totally, at least. He had filled in eight squares. Two words. But he wasn’t sure if either of them was correct.
In order to pass the time he counted up the number of empty squares.
Ninety-four. He could hardly claim that he had made all that much progress . . . He wondered for a moment if he ought to go and kip down for a while. You didn’t need to be awake just because you were on call. It was sufficient to be in the right place, and able to answer the phone if anything happened. The instructions in that respect were just as clear and unambiguous as everything else in the police station.
Linzhuisen’s police station, that is. Wagner had been working there for almost a year now, and liked it. He was twenty-five years old, and could well imagine himself being a police officer for the rest of his life. Especially in a little place like this one. Everything was well organized, the pension terms were advantageous, and there was no crime to speak of.
And pleasant colleagues, to boot: Gaardner, his boss, and Willumsen, with whom he often played tennis.
Linzhuisen was not an independent police district, but was a part of Linden, which was run by the chief of police, Chief Inspector Sachs. Linden had slightly more staff: two inspectors and three or four constables and probationers.
But they shared emergency coverage. It was obviously unnecessary to have a probationer or an inspector sitting half asleep throughout the night in both Linden and Linzhuisen – it was only twelve kilometres between the two places, and if a call-out became necessary whoever was on duty would need to summon assistance in any case. Wake up colleagues on stand-by at home, or telephone to Maardam.
As far as Wagner was concerned, this meant he was on emergency duty at the police station four nights per month, and he had no complaints about that.
On the contrary. There was something rather special about these lonely nights that quite appealed to him. Sitting here in the blacked-out police station keeping an eye on law and order while the rest of the world enjoyed its well-deserved sleep. Ready to arrange a call-out as soon as any stricken citizen in need asked for assistance. Indeed, was it not that role that was the most important reason – albeit not the one he talked about most – why he joined the police force four years ago?
Watching over people’s lives and possessions, and being the ultimate guarantee of their safety.
Sometimes when he found himself thinking such thoughts, Probationer Wagner told himself that maybe he ought to write them down. Perhaps they would come in useful for teaching and recruitment purposes. Why not?
And that was probably also why – when all is said and done – he didn’t like to lie down and fall asleep. Mind you, if nothing happened – and there were hardly ever any alarm calls – he would probably give way and have a lie down in the early hours, he knew that. It was almost impossible to keep awake after half past two or so, even with the assistance of all the crossword puzzles in the world.
He chewed his pencil, took a drink of coffee and tried to concentrate.
Four down, seven letters, the second one might be ‘a’: ‘Literary bloodhound in Paris’.
I suppose one ought to read a book now and then, Wagner thought with a sigh.
Checked the time again: a quarter to two.
Then the telephone rang.
Chief Inspector Sachs dreamt that he was a dolphin.
A young, fit and handsome male dolphin swimming around in cool emerald-green seawater surrounded by a whole school of female dolphins. They all rolled and romped around, swam close to one another, made impressive leaps towards the sun over the glittering surface of the water then dived down to the bottom of the seabed. Rubbed breasts and backs and stomachs against one another in an ever more joyful dance.
This is where I always want to be, he thought. I always want to be an elegant male dolphin surrounded by randy females.
The sound of the telephone cut through the marrow of his spine and his cerebral cortex like the blade of a saw. He picked up the receiver without even opening his eyes.
‘Sachs.’
‘Chief Inspector Sachs?’
‘Hmm.’
‘Wagner here.’
‘Who?’
‘Probationer Wagner in Linzhuisen. I’m on emergency duty and have just received a—’
‘What time is it?’
‘Seven minutes to two. I’ve just had a phone call – at 01.45 to be exact – about a dead woman.’
Sachs opened his eyes. Then closed them again.
‘And?’
‘It was a man. Who rang, that is. And his wife is dead . . . He
nnan, that’s his name . . . Jaan G. Hennan. They live in Linden, and so I thought—’
‘Hang on a minute. I’ll go to the other phone.’
Sachs stood up and tiptoed out to his study. Picked up the receiver of the telephone on his desk.
‘Go on.’
‘Well, I’ll ring the medics and the rest of them, but I thought I ought to inform the chief inspector first.’
‘Good. But what exactly has happened? Try to calm down a little bit, if you can.’
Wagner cleared his throat and took a deep breath.
‘Her name’s Barbara Hennan. They live in Kammerweg – that’s some way away from the centre of town . . .’
‘Linden, you said?’
‘Yes.’
‘I know where that is.’
‘Of course. Anyway, this man, Jaan G. Hennan, had evidently come home pretty late – at about half past one – and found his wife in the pool.’
‘The swimming pool?’
‘Yes.’
‘Drowned?’
‘No, on the contrary.’
‘On the contrary? What the hell do you mean by that?’
‘She was lying . . . She was lying on the bottom, he said . . .’
‘Without having drowned?’
‘Yes. There is no water in the pool, it seems.’
Sachs was staring straight ahead, and found himself looking at the framed photograph of his children, which was hanging on the wall over the desk. They were twins, but apart from the fact that their skin was the same colour and they had the same parents, they were as different as two people can possibly be.
‘No water?’
‘No, that’s what he said. She’s lying at the bottom of the pool, he says she must have fallen in and killed herself.’
Sachs thought for a moment.
‘All right. What instructions did you give him?’
‘That he should stay at home and wait for us to come.’
‘Is there any reason to suspect foul play?’
‘Well . . . Not as far as I know, but I thought it was best to—’
‘Yes, of course. Did you get any more information out of him? What did he sound like?’
‘A bit drunk, I think.’
‘Really? How drunk?’
‘I don’t know. It’s hard to say– but pretty drunk, I think.’
Sachs sighed.
‘So in fact it could be a hoax? Somebody having us on? In theory, at least.’
‘In theory, yes. But that’s not the conclusion I reached. And in any case, I suppose we have to—’
‘Yes, of course. Of course. What was the address, did you say?’
‘Kammerweg 4. And his name is Hennan, as I said.’
Sachs managed to find a pencil and noted it down.
‘I’ll see you there in about ten minutes,’ he said. ‘If you arrive before I do, don’t go in until I get there. Ring the doctor, but we’ll wait with the rest until we’ve been able to check up on the situation. Is that clear?’
‘Everything clear and understood,’ said Wagner.
‘Excellent. Let’s go!’ said Sachs, and hung up.
He went back to the bedroom. When he switched on the bedside lamp in order to be able to find his clothes, his wife, Irene, turned over and muttered something in her sleep. He eyed her briefly.
It’s actually true, he thought. She really does look like a dolphin.
Her face, at least.
He gathered together his clothes, switched off the light and crept out into the kitchen.
Wagner hadn’t yet arrived, but Dr Santander, the forensic medical officer, was already there. As Sachs made his way through the rather overgrown garden, he could see Santander standing next to a little collection of deckchairs at the edge of the swimming pool, talking to a sturdy-looking man in his fifties.
He could see them very clearly even though he was still some distance away, because the whole of the pool area was bathed in light. Several spotlights were attached to trees all the way round, and when the chief inspector emerged from the darkness the doctor gave a start and seemed almost scared. Just for a moment Sachs had the feeling that he had barged in on the set of a film being recorded, and it was not easy to shake off this impression despite the fact that Santander broke into a broad smile as soon as he recognized the newcomer. He introduced Sachs to the broad-shouldered man.
‘Welcome,’ said the latter. ‘My name is Hennan. Jaan G. Hennan. It’s my wife lying down there.’
He pointed with the hand holding a thin, black cigar between his index and long fingers. He was holding a glass in the other one. Sachs went up to the edge and looked down.
At the bottom of the empty and unexpectedly deep pool, a few metres out from one of the narrow ends, was a woman’s body lying on its stomach. She was wearing a red bathing costume, her arms were stretched out at odd angles, and a small pool of blood had spread underneath her head, in stark contrast to the white tiles. Her hair was also reddish, but a somewhat lighter shade. Sachs did not doubt for one second that she was dead, despite the fact that she must have been lying some fifteen to twenty metres away.
‘How do you get down there?’ he asked.
‘There’s a ladder over there.’
Now it was Santander doing the pointing.
‘I’ve had a quick look at her,’ he explained, adjusting his heavy, horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘It seems to be as Hennan says: she must have fallen down and . . . well, died instantly.’
Sachs alternated his gaze between the doctor and Hennan several times. Hennan put down his glass.
‘What time was it when you found her?’ Sachs asked.
Hennan checked his gold wristwatch.
‘Just over an hour ago,’ he said. ‘I came home and couldn’t find her anywhere, so I went out, and . . . well . . .’
He thrust out his hands in an uncertain gesture. Turned round and looked down at the body at the bottom of the pool for a moment. Sachs tried to make eye contact with Santander, but the latter had opened his medical bag and was busy taking out various instruments.
‘It’s diabolical,’ said Hennan, taking a puff of his cigar. ‘Absolutely bloody diabolical.’
Sachs nodded and tried to form an opinion of him. He was obviously drunk, but at the same time he kept himself detached and under control in a way that seemed almost absurd in the circumstances – as if they were talking about a sick dog or something of the sort, rather than a dead wife. He was wearing light-coloured cotton trousers and a short-sleeved blue shirt hanging down over his waistband. And bare-footed – Sachs assumed he had taken off his shoes and socks before beginning to look for his wife.
Suntanned and trim. Dark, short-cropped hair with a touch of grey here and there, but not at all receding. A powerful-looking face with a wide mouth and very deep-set eyes.
‘How do you feel?’
Hennan seemed to weigh up various alternative answers before actually speaking.
‘I don’t really know,’ he said. ‘I suppose I’m not completely sober, unfortunately.’
Sachs nodded.
‘But I assume you must have had quite a shock . . . Of some kind.’
‘The reaction usually comes later,’ said the doctor. ‘It often takes quite a while.’
‘Obviously I need to have a detailed discussion with you about what has happened,’ said Sachs. ‘But I suggest we wait until my colleague arrives – he should be here at any moment.’
‘Why do you need—?’ began Hennan, but Sachs interrupted him.
‘It looks like an accident, of course. But we can’t exclude the possibility of something else.’
‘Something else?’ said Hennan, but the penny seemed to drop immediately. ‘You mean . . . ?’
‘Exactly,’ said Sachs. ‘One never knows. Ah, here comes my colleague.’
Wagner emerged out of the darkness and greeted everybody present. Sachs noted that his uniform looked as if it had come from the tailor’s a mere ten minutes ago.
&nb
sp; ‘I’ve rung for assistance from Maardam,’ said Santander. ‘But you might like to go down and take a look before they get here?’
Sachs thought for a moment.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait. But take Wagner down with you, and I can have a chat with Hennan in the meantime.’
If there is any reason to suspect foul play, he thought, it will be the Maardam CID who take charge of things anyway. And his young eyes are better than my old ones.
The doctor and the probationer went off towards the ladder at the far end of the pool. Sachs gestured towards the deckchairs. Hennan nodded somewhat nonchalantly, and they sat down. Sachs took out his notebook.
‘I’m going to ask you a few questions,’ he said. ‘It’s pure routine. We have to proceed in this way, so don’t take it personally,’
‘I understand,’ said Hennan, relighting his cigar that had gone out.
‘Your full name?’
‘Jaan Genser Hennan.’
‘And your wife’s name?’
‘Barbara Clarissa Hennan.’
‘Her maiden name?’
‘Delgado.’
‘Age?’
‘She . . . She was due to celebrate her thirty-fifth birthday in August.’
‘A little younger than you, then?’
‘Fifteen years. What does that have to do with it?’
Sachs shrugged.
‘Nothing, presumably. And you live here?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Children?’
‘No.’
‘A nice place. How long have you been living here?’
Hennan puffed at his cigar and fingered his glass without picking it up.
‘We just rent it. My wife is . . . was . . . American. We lived in Denver for many years, but we moved here last spring.’
‘You come from here, I gather?’
‘I was born and grew up in Maardam.’
‘I see. What is your work?’
‘I run an import firm.’
‘Where?’
‘Here in Linden. It’s just a little office at Aldemarckt so far.’
‘What do you import?’
‘Various things. Stuff that pays well – mainly electronic products from south-east Asia. Components for music systems, pocket calculators and things like that.’
