The G File

by Håkan Nesser

  Münster could only agree: it was a peculiar situation. He thought more about it after dropping Van Veeteren off at Randers Park, and was stuck in the traffic jams on the way to the suburb where he lived.

  If Barbara Hennan really had employed a private detective to keep an eye on her husband, there must surely be some reason for doing so. But what? Münster thought. What? Perhaps she had suspected that she was somehow in danger. Surely that had to be the case. Maybe she had suspected that her husband was going to attack her in some way. In any case, this Verlangen must have relevant information to pass on.

  And the Chief Inspector was brooding over it. Münster had begun to realize that Van Veeteren’s suspicions and intuitive whims were not to be scorned. Three years ago, when he had first been transferred to the CID, Münster had found it hard not to be irritated by the Chief Inspector’s odd behaviour and bizarre ideas, but as time passed his doubts had grown into respect.

  Respect and a degree of reluctant admiration.

  Because of the fact that he was hardly ever wrong. In case after case it seemed that Van Veeteren always managed, unerringly, to pull the right strings. To pick out precisely the person who needed to be interrogated again, or to demand a more detailed account of what herr X or fru Y or fröken Z had been doing on Wednesday evening the previous week.

  Among this mish-mash of information and misinformation that accumulated quicker than the blinking of an eye in every new case.

  Intuition, as it was called. It had to be acknowledged that Van Veeteren possessed this controversial but gold-plated quality. In spades.

  And it had also to be acknowledged, Münster thought as he turned off the motorway and became stuck between a bus and a van transporting fish, that his boss had a point in the current case as well.

  If Van Veeteren thought that this remarkable character G was behind the death of his wife, then no doubt that was true. In one way or another.

  But how? How had he managed to do it? A good question. Had he slipped out of that restaurant for as long as was necessary? Was that possible, given the time scale? Or had he had a henchman?

  The latter possibility seemed more credible. A contract killer? That would be unusual, very unusual – unless they were in the sphere of so-called organized crime, and surely the Hennans were not part of that world? Or?

  And how should they go about nailing him?

  There were a lot of question marks, Inspector Münster acknowledged as he parked in the street outside his terraced house.

  A lot of questions that were probably impossible to answer just yet, he decided. Certainly not before he knew rather more about what the private eye and former copper Verlangen had to say for himself. And what the information about Hennan that the Chief Inspector had ordered from the USA might reveal.

  It would be stupid to start speculating too soon – that was a well-established fact. It would be better to devote his attention to his wife and child instead.

  That was a much better rule to follow – especially if one had a wife called Synn who was the most attractive woman on the planet. And a son called Bart who about thirty seconds from now would come running up to him, laughing away, and jump into his arms to be lifted up to the heavens, squealing in delight.

  Good Lord, Inspector Münster thought. I’m the happiest bloody copper in Maardam – how come I sometimes almost forget that?

  Not long after midnight, when they had finished making love, he told Synn the Hennan story and asked what she thought. She lay for a while with her head on his arm, breathing directly into his ear, before answering.

  ‘I would never jump out into the darkness from a diving tower,’ she whispered in the end. ‘Never ever.’

  ‘Exactly what I thought as well,’ said Münster. ‘Let’s go to sleep now.’

  12

  On Wednesday morning Chief Inspector Van Veeteren had a quarrel with his wife. It was far from crystal clear what the problem was – presumably they were talking at cross purposes. In any case, it was Renate who had the last word, in that she slammed the palm of her hand down on the table and declared that it was no wonder Erich was as he was, with a father like his.

  Van Veeteren would have liked to respond by saying that his mother’s good genes and qualities could perhaps compensate for his father’s inadequacies, at least to some extent, but she had already left the kitchen by then. As he solved the chess problem in the Allgemejne, he wondered yet again why they didn’t bring matters to a head and separate once and for all – and what effect such a development might have on their wayward son.

  Things couldn’t become any worse, he concluded. You always knew what you had but you never knew what you might get. As everybody knows.

  The minor controversy over breakfast had one good outcome, he realized as he emerged into the sunshine in Wimmerstraat. It had banished G from his mind for a while, and that was very much needed. It was not normal for investigations to nag away at him like this – and so far as Hennan was concerned it was not even an investigation yet. The case, if one could call it a case, was still on Chief Inspector Sachs’s desk in Linden. The Maardam CID were involved in a sort of advisory capacity, but they had not yet taken over the case.

  Not yet? he thought as he paused on the pedestrian bridge over the Wimmergracht and lit a cigarette. What do I mean by that? If it is only a matter of time, there’s surely no reason to keep extending it?

  Especially as I lie awake at night, thinking about it. Damn it all!

  He had at last got in touch with Verlangen the previous evening, but did no more than get confirmation of what Chief Inspector Sachs had told him, apart from arranging a meeting with the private detective in his office at the police station.

  This morning. Half an hour from now, to be precise, he realized as he passed by Keymerkyrkan and glanced up at the large pale yellow clock face on the tower.

  That ought to clarify quite a lot. At least, Verlangen ought to be able to put a sufficient amount of meat onto the bare bones of the case for Van Veeteren to decide whether or not to take over the investigation. Whether it was worth setting up a preliminary investigation featuring that damned G character in the leading role, and get things moving at last.

  But it was certainly an odd situation. Extremely odd indeed. With regard to the peculiar way in which Barbara Hennan had died, and the dubious role played by this private eye. He wondered how he would have assessed the situation and what action he would have taken if it had been anybody other than G involved.

  At least he would have avoided this annoying appointment, he told himself – but surely the private aspect did not necessarily mean that he would be influenced by vague prejudices? Not necessarily. Knowing people involved in an investigation was an advantage, of course. Provided one was able to handle the fact correctly; to keep it at arm’s length, as it were.

  He resolved to try to remember to keep personal knowledge at arm’s length. Paused outside Kooner’s bookshop for a moment, gazing up at the cloudless sky and wriggling out of his jacket. The sun was very warm, and the crowds of tourists in Keymer Plejn were growing bigger. He contemplated the scene in the square. The obligatory South American folk music group were setting up their instruments outside Kellner’s, despite the fact that it was only half past nine. Two girls aged about twelve were scampering diagonally over the square with ice creams in their hands, already clusters of blue-haired ladies and pot-bellied gentlemen were sitting at tables outside the cafes, drinking breakfast.

  Summer, he thought. It even looks as if we’re going to have a summer this year. Well, I’ll be damned.

  Private detective Verlangen was ten minutes late, but even so had evidently not had time to shave. Probably not yesterday either, Van Veeteren decided as he asked his visitor if he would like coffee.

  He would. Van Veeteren suspected he had only had time for a beer for breakfast, and ordered a couple of ham sandwiches as well as coffee via fröken Katz in the front office downstairs.

  ‘Thank you,’ s
aid Verlangen. ‘I was a bit late getting up this morning. It’s sometimes impossible to get a wink of sleep.’

  The Chief Inspector noted that his visitor looked distinctly scruffy. A short-sleeved washed-out cotton shirt with a button missing. Worn-out black jeans and down-at-heel sandals. Bags under his eyes and lank, rat-coloured hair that ought to have been cut or perhaps shaved off ages ago.

  Evidently Maarten Verlangen had not exactly been living on a bed of roses since he left the police force five years ago. Van Veeteren hadn’t expected anything else, but nevertheless felt a pang of sympathy for the decrepit-looking man who was glancing around listlessly as he felt in his pockets for a cigarette.

  ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

  ‘Please do,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘There’ll be coffee and sandwiches shortly, as I said.’

  Verlangen lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  ‘I didn’t sleep at all last night, in fact,’ he said. ‘It’s a hell of a peculiar story, this fru Hennan business.’

  ‘Why didn’t you contact us earlier?’ asked Van Veeteren. ‘Nearly a week has passed now.’

  ‘I apologize,’ said Verlangen. ‘But I didn’t realize what had happened until Monday – the day before yesterday, that is. You mustn’t think that I . . . That I have a bone to pick with you after what happened five years ago. That was my fault, and I’ve learned my lesson.’

  ‘I know about what happened,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘People sometimes find themselves in situations they can’t cope with. You took the consequences, and that’s that as far as I’m concerned.’

  Verlangen stared slightly unsteadily at him for a few seconds.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Water under the bridge. But I suspect we’re on the same side when it comes to a little rat like Hennan, no matter what. He’s an unpleasant bastard, and nothing would please me more than putting him behind bars once again.’

  Van Veeteren nodded.

  ‘If I understand it rightly, you are the one who nailed him last time?’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Verlangen. ‘Me and a colleague. He got two and a half years, but he should probably have had double that.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But sometimes you have to be thankful for small mercies.’

  ‘That’s something I’ve learned as well,’ said Verlangen, allowing himself a wry grin. ‘During the last few years, for instance. But shall we run through the facts now? I also have a splendid bit of news, but I think we should leave that until last.’

  ‘A bit of news?’ said Van Veeteren. ‘About Hennan?’

  ‘A bombshell,’ said Verlangen. ‘You can no doubt prepare to put quite a lot of resources into this lark – but shall we start at the beginning . . . ?’

  Van Veeteren switched on the tape recorder, but switched it off again immediately as there was a knock on the door and fröken Katz came in with coffee and a plate of sandwiches. Verlangen waited until she had left the room, took two bites of a sandwich, washed it down with a swig of coffee, then began.

  It took half an hour, with questions from the Chief Inspector, extra details and repeats – especially when Verlangen got as far as Thursday evening and the Columbine restaurant. When Van Veeteren said he was satisfied with what he had heard so far, it was time for the bombshell.

  ‘F/B Trustor – does that mean anything to you?’

  ‘The insurance company?’

  ‘Yes. I work a bit for them as well – or used to do, at least. I was called to see the director yesterday afternoon. For two reasons, in fact. One was to give me the sack because they were not satisfied with my efforts, but the other was to give me an opportunity of rehabilitating myself . . . As it were. Can you guess what that entailed?’

  The Chief Inspector shook his head. How the hell could I be expected to guess that? he thought.

  ‘Jaan G. Hennan.’

  ‘Hennan?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. The man himself. The fact is that, a month ago, he signed up for a life insurance policy on the life of his wife. If it turns out that she died of natural causes in that empty swimming pool, he will collect one point two million.’

  ‘What?’ said Van Veeteren.

  ‘One million two hundred thousand. What do you say to that?’

  Van Veeteren stared at Verlangen.

  ‘A million . . .’

  ‘And two hundred thousand, yes. For Christ’s sake, it’s lunacy. If there has ever been a man who had a motive for getting rid of his wife, it’s Jaan G. Hennan . . . Getting rid of her by natural causes, that is.’

  Van Veeteren realized that he was sitting there with his mouth wide open. He closed it, and shook his head slowly.

  ‘That’s just . . .’ he said. ‘And you said nothing about it on the telephone last night. Why the hell . . . ?’

  ‘Come on, it was you who said that it would be best to talk face to face. Besides, I needed a bit of time to think about things as well.’

  ‘Why? Think about what things?’

  Verlangen looked embarrassed for a brief moment.

  ‘My own role, of course. With regard to Trustor. If I can nail Hennan without anybody else’s help, my daily bread is assured for some time to come . . . If you see what I mean. But I eventually decided that we might be able to give each other a helping hand.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ snorted the Chief Inspector. ‘You sound like a self-conscious American crime movie from the nineteen forties.’

  ‘It goes with the territory in my job,’ said Verlangen. ‘I’m sorry. Anyway, now you know as much as I do. It was fun to call in at the station again.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘And it probably won’t be the last time, either.’

  ‘No,’ said Verlangen. ‘Presumably not. The fact is that I’m dead keen to see that swine put behind bars. To be honest . . . Well, to be honest, he scares the shit out of me.’

  Out of me as well, thought Van Veeteren – but he didn’t say so.

  After the conversation with Maarten Verlangen the Chief Inspector took the lift down to the basement and spent an hour in the sauna. That was presumably a variation on yet another Borkmann rule.

  ‘When you feel that your head is about to burst thanks to an excess of thoughts and energy, hop off the train for a while and calm down,’ Borkmann had advised him some twenty years ago. ‘It’s very seldom that haste is linked with reason and perspicacity.’

  But as he sat there on the bench, sweating and pondering, nothing became any clearer – apart from the fact that this rule was especially relevant in this particular case.

  Haste was the last thing he needed, he decided as the sweat really began to flow. If G – somehow or other – had taken his wife’s life, he had done so in order to collect the insurance money – one point two million! Van Veeteren was very tempted to investigate the state of judgements and mental contortions at F/B Trustor.

  But no doubt they would refuse to cough up anything at all while a police investigation was taking place, that was clear. Jaan G. Hennan would gain nothing by doing a runner, or trying to hide himself away. Insurance companies were not renowned for tracking down people and asking permission to pay them lots of money.

  Van Veeteren poured more water onto the hot stones so that the steam produced was very close to the limits of tolerance.

  The only option open to G, therefore, was to wait. To wait while the mills of justice ground away at their usual extremely slow pace. As far as the police and the prosecution services were concerned, their job was to ensure that a preliminary investigation was launched, and then allow time to pass. Allow G to sweat and wonder what was happening. Two months was the normal time stipulated, but if more time was needed no doubt the prosecutor could be persuaded to grant a month or two extra.

  Assuming that incriminating evidence had not been produced, that is: and of course he would make damned sure it was. Surely to God he would be able to dig up sufficient incontrovertible proof to condemn this exceptionall
y unpleasant person. The murderer Jaan G. Hennan!

  And no doubt sufficient resources would be made available.

  He poured another scoop of water onto the hot stones, and suddenly the image of an animal appeared in his mind’s eye. Some sort of mental – or perhaps psychophysical? – hybrid of a dragon and a sphinx, as far as he could judge: with evil spurting like white-hot lava out of its eyes and mouth, and he himself, the indefatigable and incorruptible Chief Inspector Van Veeteren like a . . . well, like a noble knight embodying goodness and light, spurring on his white steed with the long arm of the law like a lance or vehement sword . . .

  Everything was swimming before his eyes, and he staggered out of the sauna. Good Lord! he thought. What’s the point of boiling your brain as well?

  Before meeting Chief of Police Hiller he drew up guidelines together with Münster. It was not all that complicated: Münster made notes and was eventually able to sum up by stating that they should proceed along six different paths. To start with, at least.

  First of all they should make a thorough search of Villa Zefyr. With technical teams, vacuum cleaners, the lot: it was true of course that G had had aeons of time in which to clean up, but nothing should be left to chance.

  Secondly they needed to establish in as much detail as possible what Barbara Hennan had been doing on that fateful Thursday. Had she really driven to Arlach? If so, what had she done there? When had she returned to Linden? Why had she drunk so much alcohol? And so on. There was an apparently endless list of question marks, and if they could remove some of them, so much the better.

  In the third place they needed information about the couple’s background in the United States. For now they could no doubt wait for the arrival of the information that had already been asked for: with luck that should arrive later today, or tomorrow. On the basis of what it said, they could then decide if it was necessary to follow that path up in more detail.