The G File

by Håkan Nesser

  Fourthly, Jaan G. Hennan’s circle of friends and acquaintances should be investigated. What exactly had he been doing since his return from the USA? What contacts had he made? Were there any friends and acquaintances left from the seventies? And had the Hennans really had no other social contacts apart from the Trottas, with whom they hadn’t seemed to get on particularly well?

  Fifthly – and here it was Münster who insisted – it would be useful to keep in touch with the private detective Verlangen. Perhaps he might have forgotten some detail in his conversation with the Chief Inspector? Perhaps he could be useful in other ways as well? As he had insisted, they were very much on the same wavelength as far as this case was concerned: Verlangen had a personal interest in nailing Hennan, and it would be a pity not to take advantage of that fact. In one way or another. Even if it was a pretty down-at-heel private eye they were working with.

  Van Veeteren thought for a few seconds about Münster’s argument on this point, then expressed his approval. At least it could do no harm.

  Sixthly – and for now finally – it was of course absolutely essential to deliver the crucial body blow, as effectively as possible: the interrogation of Jaan G. Hennan. They could not afford to put a foot wrong. Even during that first conversation Van Veeteren had suspected that there would be a trial of strength in the offing, and needless to say G was not exactly in the dark about what lay ahead. He must be just as aware of it as he was of the quality of his breath on a Monday morning, the Chief Inspector thought.

  No kid gloves. No silly making allowances. Van Veeteren knew that Jaan G. Hennan was guilty, and Hennan knew that he knew.

  It could hardly be any clearer.

  Or harder.

  As there was no urgency, Münster and Van Veeteren agreed to delay the first important confrontation for a few days. It would be better to let the scene-of-crime technicians put him under the microscope first. Better to let him wait and wonder. Van Veeteren decided provisionally on Friday evening: that was two days ahead, and whenever possible it was always an advantage to interrogate a suspect at an unusual time of day.

  In fact Van Veeteren would have preferred to pick G up in a Black Maria in the middle of the night – he sometimes couldn’t stop himself from imagining what it would have been like to be a chief inspector in the Soviet Union of the thirties instead – but he desisted from mentioning this possibility, in view of Inspector Münster’s innocent soul.

  ‘That’s that then,’ he said instead, collecting the notes from Münster. ‘I suppose it’s about time for a visit to the King of the Flowers. Would you like to come too?’

  Münster smiled and shook his head.

  ‘I take it there won’t be a problem in getting the required resources?’ he asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘This is one hell of a case . . . I’ll buy you a beer once we’ve got him under lock and key.’

  Now it’s serious then, thought Münster. Deadly serious.

  13

  Having explained the situation in broad outline to the chief of police – and been promised all the resources available – Van Veeteren retired to his office with a cup of coffee and a packet of cigarettes.

  The first thing that struck him after he had taken off his shoes and put his feet up on his desk was that they had forgotten to include the Trustor insurance company on Münster’s list of things to do. To avoid unnecessary complications he picked up the telephone and asked to be connected directly to herr Kooperdijk.

  He was in a meeting, he was informed eventually, but would ring him back as soon as it was over. In ten minutes or so.

  Van Veeteren smoked two cigarettes and emptied his cup of coffee while waiting, but after twenty minutes he had the director on the line at last.

  The Chief Inspector summed up his conversation with Verlangen, and in tactfully chosen words wondered if it was permissible to sign up to insurance policies based on even the most stupid of conditions.

  Of course it was, Kooperdijk informed him haughtily. It was all a question of investments and calculated risks. A business arrangement between the company and the client – two independent parties in a free market.

  Van Veeteren asked for more relevant details concerning Barbara Hennan’s life insurance policy, and soon discovered that it was exactly as Verlangen had said. The whole amount – one point two million – would be paid to the beneficiary – Jaan G. Hennan – the moment F/B Trustor had it in black and white that the cause of death did not come into the categories of manslaughter, murder or suicide.

  The Chief Inspector wondered if it was usual to use those particular categories.

  Kooperdijk assured him that it often happened. One had the right to include whatever conditions the parties concerned wanted in the policy. It was a matter exclusively between the company and the policy-holder. In principle it was possible to have a policy which would be paid out only if the insured were the victim of murder or manslaughter – but that was not exactly common practice, he claimed: it was only possible in principle. He had never come across such a policy, and he had been in the business for over thirty years.

  Thirty-one-and-a-half, to be precise.

  Van Veeteren said he would get back to Trustor in due course. Thanked the director for his cooperation, and hung up.

  I must check what company my own insurance policies are with, he thought. If it’s Trustor, I shall cancel them tomorrow.

  Then he checked his watch and realized that he wouldn’t have time for lunch before his meeting at two o’clock.

  He found a sandwich among the debris left behind after Verlangen’s visit, went to fetch another cup of coffee and convinced himself it was better than nothing.

  All but two of those on the list attended the meeting – Intendent Nielsen was busy with an arson case out at Sellsbach, and Inspector deBries was on leave.

  But all the others were present in the conference room. Intendent Heinemann. Inspectors Reinhart and Rooth, and the newly appointed probationer Jung. And Münster, of course. Six qualified CID officers, including Van Veeteren himself. Not bad: but it remained to be seen how many foot-soldiers were available: he reckoned they would need rather a lot for several days, but all being well things should ease off after that. Intendent le Houde, who was in charge of the technical team, was already informed and satisfied with the situation. A meticulous search of Hennan’s house at Linden would begin the following day.

  Van Veeteren cleared his throat and welcomed everybody. Urged all present to pin back their ears and listen with both halves of their brains switched on for the next ten minutes. Then there would be a coffee session, and the allocation of duties.

  Any questions?

  There were none.

  He recounted the case chronologically – not in the order that it had come to his notice, but from the arrival of the Hennans in Linden until Verlangen’s visit to the police station that morning.

  When he had finished, Reinhart commented that it was the most outrageous situation he had come across for as long as he could remember. Rooth claimed it was the most obvious set-up he had heard for twice as long as that, and the timid Heinemann was of the view that it was a most intriguing case.

  ‘What do we do if this Hennan character simply flatly denies everything?’ wondered Jung.

  ‘He will flatly deny everything,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘It doesn’t matter how much circumstantial evidence we find, or however many pointers we discover aimed straight at him. He will never confess to anything. Everything seems to be just as obvious as Rooth says – but the problem will be to make it stick in court.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ said Rooth. ‘Didn’t you say that the comments session was supposed to coincide with coffee?’

  Van Veeteren picked up the telephone and spoke to fröken Katz.

  The discussion, coffee and allocation of duties took an hour. As it was taking place Van Veeteren noticed to his surprise how he gradually lost interest. Questions
about Barbara Hennan’s trip to Aarlach, about the couple’s social circle and how they might go about checking it – it all slowly drained away from his mind in a very strange way. A cloud of lethargy which slowly but surely enveloped his consciousness, and seemed impossible to resist.

  Too much coffee and nicotine, he thought. Tomorrow I shall eat an orange.

  Instead it was mainly Münster and Reinhart who made sure that no detail was overlooked. Workloads within the CID were already relatively onerous – Rooth and Jung had been working intensively over the last few days in connection with a robbery out at Löhr, and there were inevitable questions about priorities. Reinhart, for instance, was owed so many days off that he would have time to circumnavigate the globe twice, he maintained.

  ‘By air?’ wondered Rooth.

  ‘By bicycle,’ said Reinhart.

  What distracted Van Veeteren more than anything else, and dominated his phlegmatic thoughts, was the imminent interrogation of Hennan. No doubt about that. When the meeting was over he went back to his office to think again about the priorities for this important meeting.

  If there was any aspect of police work that he excelled in above all else, this was it. Interrogation techniques. It was an opinion shared by all his colleagues, he was aware of that, and only false modesty would make him deny that fact.

  He knew how to deal with people who had things on their conscience, that was what it boiled down to. It had been suggested that – in eleven cases out of ten, as somebody put it – after just a few leading questions and answers, a few hesitant looks or exaggerated expressions of self-confidence, he could be certain of whether his interviewee was guilty or not guilty. It was a gift, of course. A knack about whose provenance he had no idea – but something that never let him down and could save hundreds of hours’ work in an investigation.

  Once you have the answer to the question Who?, all other aspects of a case shrink and are reduced radically. It becomes a different ball game. Usually man against man. Eye to eye over a rickety hardboard table. We know you did it. Look me in the eye. You can see that I see, can’t you? You can see that I know. We are in complete agreement – I see that you know that I know. Are you going to confess straight away, or are you going to carry on dancing around for a while longer? All right, I have all the time in the world . . . No, you may not smoke. Two more hours, okay? Then I shall lock you up in your cell for the night, and visit you again tomorrow morning . . . No, I’m afraid there is no coffee left.

  A slow pace, with pauses. It has its own brand of beauty. A sort of cruel aesthetic reminiscent of bull-fighting, or the vain fight to the death of an encircled beast. He didn’t usually try to analyse why he enjoyed it.

  And now it was all about G.

  He wondered once again about the business of antipathy and keeping one’s distance. How it would affect the interrogations – he didn’t doubt for a moment that there would be several. The fact, that is, that he had such a deep-rooted dislike, not to say hatred, of the suspect. That he regarded him, to be honest, as an enemy.

  It was hard to say. There was a private level and a professional level – perhaps the fact that they coincided in this case would be a strength? After all, he thought, it must be easier for a boxer or a duellist to defeat his opponent if he hates him than if he doesn’t? Surely that must be the case?

  It was a warped and confusing comparison, and he decided to proceed no further down that path. It would be better to keep a tighter rein on his approach. To ask rather more penetrating questions.

  Was Jaan G. Hennan really guilty of his wife’s death? Was there any doubt?

  Was it beyond reasonable doubt, as the law put it?

  He produced a sheet of paper and a pencil and wrote down the usual hobby horses once again.

  Motive?

  Method?

  Opportunity?

  It was a copybook case if ever there was one, of course. There were no end of motives. At least one point two million. And method was basically just as straightforward: a push in the back and a fourteen-metre fall onto a white-tiled concrete floor – or possibly a blow to the head first before heaving the victim over the edge.

  Opportunity was less straightforward. As all human experience suggests that a person cannot possibly be in two different places at the same time, Jaan G. Hennan could not have carried out the deed himself if he was sitting at the Columbine restaurant in the centre of Linden when the murder took place.

  And it would be necessary for a prosecutor to have condemnatory evidence – overwhelmingly convincing evidence – on all three points. Not just one. Not just two.

  Ergo? thought Chief Inspector Van Veeteren as he wondered whether to fiddle with a cigarette or a toothpick.

  Does this mean that I am doubtful about his guilt?

  He selected the toothpick, and began poking it into his teeth.

  Not at all. He is as guilty as Cain.

  Ergo again?

  He thought for five seconds.

  Ergo there were two alternatives.

  One: that G had in fact left Columbine at some point during the evening in question, despite everything. Despite the fact that Verlangen had been keeping an eye on him – presumably a slightly drunken eye.

  Two: he had an accomplice.

  It was the tenth time in the last twenty-four hours that he had reached the same conclusion.

  Excellent, he thought. The analysis has progressed by leaps and bounds.

  He noted that it was now half past four, and decided to go home. As it was Wednesday he had at least one game of chess against Mahler down at The Society to look forward to.

  As he stood in the lift on the way down to the exit, he wondered if G played chess.

  I hope not, he thought, and wondered simultaneously why he hoped not.

  It turned out to be three games. One win, one loss, one draw. Spanish, Russian, Nimzo-Indian. The draw ought to have been another win, but he frittered away an extra pawn at the end. It was half past eleven when he left The Society’s premises in Styckargränd, and he could feel that the summer warmth from that morning was still in the air.

  Not the kind of evening to go and lie down in a dodgy marital bed, he thought as he strolled homewards along Alexanderlaan and Wimmergraacht. Certainly not. So what should he do? What was the alternative?

  The answer struck him as he passed by his parked car some twenty metres from his front door: he felt in his pocket for the car keys and found that they were in fact there.

  Why not? he thought and unlocked the driver’s door. What’s one hour here or there?

  Villa Zefyr seemed as silent and remote as a mortuary when he parked in Kammerweg twenty-five minutes later. He switched off the engine and observed the greenery behind the metre-high brick wall. No sign of any lights inside there. Was G at home? Presumably not – if he had been, surely there would have been a light on somewhere. Indoors or outdoors, and the bushes and branches couldn’t be that dense: some little strip of light would have shone through. On the other hand, he might be asleep in bed. It was turned midnight, and it was not impossible that G had the occasional good habit as well. Even if that seemed unlikely. Van Veeteren wound down the side window, but even so he could see no outlines, either of the diving tower or the house itself.

  Ideal, he thought. An ideal place in which to get rid of one’s wife.

  He got out of the car and lit a cigarette. Toyed for a moment with the idea of climbing over the wall and taking a closer look at the heart of darkness, but decided not to. Melodramatic nocturnal break-ins were not his style, and coming up against a wide-awake murderer could hardly serve any useful purpose. He started walking along the street towards Villa Vigali instead, and found that it seemed just as lifeless there as well: a street light cast a dirty yellow beam a few metres into the garden, but that was all. He dropped his cigarette onto the pavement and stamped out the glow. What am I doing here? he thought. What are the powers I am trying to appeal to?

  He shook his head and re
turned to his car. And suddenly felt hungry.

  How the hell can I possibly think about food in the middle of all this? he wondered. There must be something wrong with my body fluids.

  So as not to ignore the signals from his body altogether, he drove back towards the centre of Linden and found a hamburger bar that was still open. He somehow managed to generate enough willpower to go in and order something called a Double Hawaii Burger Special. He ate half of it while sitting on a bench in the square, and threw the rest to the pigeons. Two women whose intentions were as obvious as they were morally questionable hovered around while he was sitting there, but neither of them made a serious attempt to seduce him. With a sudden pang of shame he recalled the only visit he had ever paid to a whore: he was nineteen years old, and along with a friend had called in at a brothel in Hamburg. In a room filled with the smell of sweet perfume and deep-fried fish he had endured the most painful twenty minutes of his life. His friend had found the experience moreish, however, and their friendship ebbed away as fast as when you remove the plug from a sink full of dishwater.

  It was ten minutes to one by the time he crept back into his clapped-out Ford, and during the drive back to Maardam weariness and an urge to be sick fought an unresolved battle inside him.

  For Christ’s sake, he thought, a Hawaii Burger. Never again.

  14

  ‘My name is Rooth,’ said Rooth. ‘Detective inspector. It was me who rang.’

  The woman in the doorway looked somewhat shifty. She was pale and thin, and he would have thought she was a little over fifty, if he hadn’t known. Her hair was the same colour as a soft cheese he usually ate in the morning, and hung down like two washed-out, worse for wear curtains on either side of her face. She was wearing jeans and a baggy grey jumper. Rooth realized that he was smiling at her in the hope of preventing her from falling to pieces.

  ‘Well?’ she said.