by Håkan Nesser
The prosecutor had no doubt that all those present in this courtroom, once all the facts had been revealed and presented, would be totally convinced that Jaan G. Hennan was not only guilty of one wife’s murder, but of two. It was the duty of all concerned to make sure that he was given a long and justified sentence.
For most of this introductory harangue, Münster kept a close watch on the five members of the jury – three women and two men (a proportion which perhaps, but presumably only peripherally, according to the Chief Inspector, might work to Hennan’s disadvantage, since women, thanks to tradition and their concern for their own sex, were less inclined to find wife-murderers not guilty than men were) – and tried to assess from their facial expressions and subtle reactions how they were thinking on the starting line, as it were.
It was of course impossible to obtain a clear indication on that basis. When Silwerstein had just finished his verbose introduction, one of the two men on the jury – a grey-haired gentleman aged about sixty-five who reminded Münster vaguely of the actor Jean Gabin – took out a colourful handkerchief and blew his nose with a muffled but audible trumpeting noise, and it seemed to Münster that if he had to interpret it, it was not an especially good omen for the outcome.
As for the main character himself, Jaan G. Hennan, he sat for almost all the prosecuting counsel’s speech with his head bowed and his hands demurely clasped on the table in front of him. He was wearing a discreet, medium-grey suit with a black band on its lapel. White shirt and black tie. It was not hard to understand that he was trying to look as if he were in mourning.
Nor was it difficult to see that he had succeeded rather well in this respect.
After the prosecutor, it was the defence counsel’s turn.
She was a woman, which perhaps restored Hennan’s position. If a woman was prepared to defend an alleged wife-killer – well, there was something in all normal women (the Chief Inspector had maintained with a worried sigh), a faint biological voice whispering that the accused couldn’t be a wife-killer in fact.
Fru Van Molde said nothing about whether or not the prosecutor was naked under his gown, but she did not mince her words. For rather more than half an hour she devoted herself to describing the so-called case for the prosecution as a badly constructed house of cards without so much as a single trump. She described her client, Jaan G. Hennan, as an upright and honest man who had suffered a terrible loss – yet again! – and instead of sitting here in the dock defending his honour, he should be set free immediately and in the interests of common decency allowed to get on with making the funeral arrangements. In the most tragic circumstances imaginable he had been robbed of his wife, and it was nothing short of a scandal that – without so much as an ounce of proof! – he had been taken to court, and in the grim light of all the facts there was only one verdict that could to some degree restore one’s faith in the judiciary. The case should be dismissed without further ado, and the accused set free immediately.
Münster couldn’t read any unambiguous reactions on the part of the jury to this demand either, and Judge Hart did not dismiss the case. Instead, he changed his glasses once again, yawned, and stated that it was time for lunch. Proceedings would resume at two o’clock.
During the afternoon session both Chief Inspectors Sachs and Van Veeteren spent half an hour in the witness stand. Sachs reported in detail about what he and Probationer Wagner had done during the night when Barbara Hennan had been found dead, and Van Veeteren gave a very different account, covering other details of the case. He explained the dubious input of the private detective, Verlangen; Hennan’s background; the mysterious death of Philomena McNaught, and the business of the insurance policy. Münster could see that the Chief Inspector was not exactly enjoying himself, neither with regard to the infantile leading questions from the prosecutor, nor to the defence counsel’s somewhat arrogant tone of voice as she attempted to portray the police input into the case as amateurish.
‘But for God’s sake, why didn’t you drop the investigation when you didn’t manage to find the slightest bit of technical proof?’ she asked at one point.
‘Because we CID officers consider it to be our duty to catch and lock up murderers,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Unlike you, fru Van Molde, who are keen to set them free.’
Then it was Meusse’s turn. If it were possible, he seemed to enjoy sitting in the dock even less than the Chief Inspector – but then again, Münster couldn’t recall ever having seen the introverted pathologist enjoying himself. Not in any circumstances. In any case, he described the unclear situation with crystal clarity. There was nothing to support the suggestion that Barbara Hennan had been pushed from the diving tower, and nothing to suggest that she had been rendered unconscious first: but on the other hand there was nothing to contradict either possibility. The injuries to her head, neck, nape and spine were extensive, Meusse asserted: but a little push in the back seldom resulted in any marks at all. Not in general, and not in this case either.
Neither the prosecutor nor the defence counsel had many questions to put to the pathologist, since they had both – so to say – been given carte blanche for their respective points of view, and Meusse was able to leave the witness stand after less than fifteen minutes. Despite the fact that it was only half past three, Judge Hart declared proceedings closed for the day. He wished everybody a pleasant evening, urged the members of the jury not to discuss the case with one another nor with anybody else, and expected to see all those involved in court by ten o’clock the following morning.
‘Perhaps one could have expected a little more of the prosecutor,’ said Münster in the car on the way back to Maardam.
‘Silwerstein is an ass,’ said Reinhart from the back seat.
‘That may well be,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘But we can’t do anything about that. And in any case, what happened today isn’t what will decide the outcome.’
‘Let’s hope not,’ said Reinhart. ‘Are you saying that the outcome depends on Hennan? I thought he managed to look pretty broken-hearted today, the berk. As if he were attending a funeral . . . Or sitting in a dentist’s waiting room, or something of that sort.’
Van Veeteren sighed.
‘What the hell did you expect? If he was stupid as well, on top of everything else, he would have been in jail for a long time by now.’
Reinhart thought for a moment.
‘What had I expected?’ he said eventually. ‘Okay, I’ll tell you. I’d expected that by now we would have found that damned accomplice . . . The one who actually killed Barbara Hennan. We’ve been looking for him for a month now, and I don’t think I’ve ever been involved in anything that produced so few results. Or what do you have to say?’
Neither Van Veeteren nor Münster had any comment to make.
‘We have Kooperdijk and Verlangen as well,’ said Münster after a while.
‘That’s true,’ muttered the Chief Inspector. ‘Witnesses for the prosecution. Let’s hope that they don’t turn out to be henchmen for the defence . . .’
‘Hasn’t fru Van Molde called a single witness?’ wondered Münster.
‘No,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘She hasn’t. Let’s hope that Silwerstein is able to score a point on that fact, at least. That it was not possible to find a single character witness to speak in favour of Hennan. That says quite a lot, after all.’
‘It’s not compulsory to produce character witnesses,’ said Reinhart. ‘When the accused doesn’t have a character, it could be stupid to do so.’
‘That’s what I’m saying,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘For God’s sake, let’s go to Adenaar’s. You have time for a beer, I hope?’
Münster checked his watch.
‘Well, just a small one,’ he said. ‘At least the trial didn’t drag out all day. Every cloud, and all that.’
‘One must be grateful for small mercies,’ said Reinhart. ‘When the big ones are a cock-up. So, full steam ahead for half an hour at Adenaar’s. We need to talk a bit of crap ins
tead of going on and on about this damned case.’
23
The building was on Westerkade, almost as far out as the Loorn Canal, and when Verlangen saw it he didn’t understand why the local authorities hadn’t insisted on demolishing it ages ago.
Nor did he understand how anybody could consider living in it. The dirty and decrepit brick building had four floors, but the street frontage was no more than twelve to fifteen metres long; on one side of it was a scrapyard, and on the other some sort of warehouse made of rusty corrugated iron. Nevertheless, when he entered through the disintegrating wooden front door he couldn’t help but feel a little twinge of satisfaction: despite everything there were evidently folk who lived in worse conditions than he did himself.
Inside the vaulted entrance hall it was as dark as inside a sack of coal, and he was forced to light a match in order to find the door leading into the stairwell. There were no name plates on any of the doors he passed, but The Wheelchair had said the top floor, so he assumed he should continue up the stairs. He found it hard to believe that anybody lived in the flats he passed, but of course you never can tell. A sort of dirty, dusky half-light filtered in through a broken window, and the whole place was suffused with a smell of pissoir and decay. Lumps of plaster had fallen off the ceiling and walls here and there, and something that must have been a large rat slunk into a hole in the wall between the first and second floors.
At the top of the stairs were three doors, but two of them were covered by heavy planks nailed onto the frames. After hesitating for several long seconds, he pulled himself together and knocked hard on the third one.
Nothing happened, so he knocked again, even harder.
More time passed, then he heard a sort of shuffling noise from inside. As if somebody was dragging a piano or a coffin over the floor. That same somebody started coughing and hawking up phlegm, and then there was a rattling noise from a security chain and the door opened ten centimetres.
‘Kekkonen?’ said Verlangen.
Kekkonen wasn’t really called Kekkonen, but he was the spitting image of an old president of one of the Nordic countries, and nobody called him anything else.
‘Verlangen?’
‘Yes.’
He unhooked the chain and opened the door. A grey-spotted cat slunk out, and Verlangen slunk in. Kekkonen closed the door. Verlangen looked around. The flat comprised one room, a window, a humming refrigerator and a mattress on the floor. There might have been a toilet as well – it smelled like it.
‘Welcome, for God’s sake,’ said Kekkonen. ‘What the hell do you want?’
‘Do you live here?’ asked Verlangen.
‘At the moment,’ said Kekkonen. ‘Have you got a fag?’
Verlangen gave him one and watched him lighting it with shaking hands. Kekkonen had aged enormously since Verlangen had last seen him. He looked like a hunched little old man, despite the fact that he couldn’t have been more than about forty-five, and his completely bald head, which in the old days at least had a certain lustre about it, was now more reminiscent of a skull. He wondered what drugs Kekkonen was on, and how many years he had left. Or months.
‘What do you want?’ he asked again, flopping down onto the mattress among all the blankets, crumpled daily papers and something that must once have been a sleeping bag. Verlangen had no desire to join him, and remained standing.
‘I thought The Wheelchair had explained. Hennan. Jaan G. Hennan.’
‘I don’t know him,’ said Kekkonen.
‘Don’t talk crap. You’ve told Duijkert and The Wheelchair that you’ve met him, and I’ve been looking for you for over a week.’
‘I don’t know anybody called Hennan,’ said Kekkonen.
Verlangen dug out a fifty-guilder note from his pocket, and dangled it in front of Kekkonen’s nose.
‘You helped us to nail him last time, and we let you go free as a thank-you gesture. Have you forgotten that?’
He could see that Kekkonen’s memory did not extend all that far back in time, but fifty guilders were fifty guilders no matter what.
Kekkonen sat up, leaning against the wall, and took a few puffs of his cigarette.
‘A hundred,’ he said.
‘Fifty,’ said Verlangen. ‘This is only a tiny matter. I gather you met Hennan somewhere or other: what was it about?’
Kekkonen grabbed the note and tucked it underneath the mattress.
‘Not met,’ he said. ‘Saw.’
‘Okay, saw. Out with it – surely I don’t have to cross-examine you?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Not sure?’
‘Yes. That it was him.’
‘That it was Hennan?’
‘Yes, it was . . . a bit unclear. I could have been somebody else.’
‘That’s not what you said to The Wheelchair.’
‘I couldn’t care less about The Wheelchair.’
‘I’m sure that’s true. Come on now, out with it.’
‘You’re not a cop any longer, is that right?’
‘You know that I’m not a cop any more.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Kekkonen with a grin. ‘It’s always good to know that people are making progress in life. How about another fag?’
‘For Christ’s sake, you haven’t even finished that one yet,’ said Verlangen, nodding in irritation at Kekkonen’s right hand.
‘Good Lord,’ said Kekkonen in surprise, and took a puff. Dropped the butt into an empty bottle and was given another cigarette.
Please, God, Verlangen thought. I can’t take much more of this.
‘Come on, now,’ he urged. ‘You say you saw Jaan G. Hennan: tell me about it, and then I’ll leave you in peace.’
Kekkonen coughed for quite a long time, then he sat absolutely motionless for several seconds, with his mouth half-open and staring into space. Verlangen realized that he was trying to pull himself together for a big mental effort.
‘Yes, I saw him,’ he said. ‘If it really was him.’
‘Go on,’ said Verlangen.
‘In the park, that bloody park . . . what’s its name . . . Wollersparken, something like that?’
‘Wollerimsparken?’
‘Wollerimsparken, yes. I slept there for a few nights not long ago . . . I sometimes sleep outside when the weather’s good.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ said Verlangen. ‘So you saw Hennan together with somebody else, is that right?’
‘Yes,’ said Kekkonen. ‘He came with that bloke who was in Maardam then for a few days . . .’
‘Who?’ said Verlangen.
Kekkonen shrugged.
‘When?’
‘God only knows. A month ago, or thereabouts. A big bloke with a ponytail . . . a killer if ever I saw one . . . a dangerous bastard, no doubt – I think he was an Englishman . . . or an Irishman, something like that . . .’
‘Name?’ said Verlangen.
‘No idea,’ said Kekkonen. ‘I think they called him Liston, something like that . . .’
‘Liston?’
‘Yes. That’s a boxer. Or was . . .’
‘I know,’ said Verlangen. ‘So he was coloured, was he?’
‘Not at all,’ said Kekkonen. ‘But he certainly seemed to be a strong bugger.’
‘I see. Anyway, what did Hennan and this Liston fellow do in the park?’
Kekkonen furrowed his brow and concentrated again.
‘They sat on a bench,’ he said. ‘They sat there talking . . . for quite a long time . . . I was sort of lying in the bushes behind them. I remember that they carried on talking for ages –I needed to go for a piss, but I didn’t dare, sort of . . . It was in the morning. A lovely morning, lots of birds twittering away and all that – that’s what’s so brilliant about—’
‘Did you hear what they were talking about?’
Kekkonen shook his head.
‘Not a word,’ he said. ‘I just lay there, waiting. I very nearly pissed myself, but I just managed to avoid it. When they lef
t he got a great bloody big envelope . . .’
‘Who got the envelope?’
‘Liston, of course. That big bloke . . . He got an envelope from the man who might have been Hennan, and then they left.’
‘And what happened next?’
‘I went for a piss.’
Verlangen thought for a moment.
‘Was that all?’ he said.
Kekkonen snorted.
‘For Christ’s sake, of course it was,’ he said. ‘I told you it was nothing . . . Anyway, you know all there is to know about it. Are you sure you’re not a cop any longer?’
‘I’m not a cop,’ Verlangen assured him. ‘This Liston, did you see him again afterwards?’
Kekkonen thought that over.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think so. I’d seen him once before, that’s all . . . At Kooper’s, I think.’
‘But not with Hennan?’
‘No, not with Hennan. God, but you do go on and on . . .’
‘All right,’ said Verlangen. ‘I won’t disturb you any longer. I expect you’ve got a lot to be getting on with.’
‘You can bet your bloody life I have,’ said Kekkonen. ‘But I think it was worth a bit more than fifty.’
‘Kiss my arse,’ said Verlangen and left the room.
Huh, he thought when he emerged into the drizzle in Westerkade. What the hell am I supposed to make of this?
He checked his watch: it was half past seven. In less than twenty-four hours he would be giving evidence in the courtroom in Linden.
Liston?
Unless Kekkonen had made it all up thanks to his mashed-up brain, there had been somebody in Maardam in the beginning of June called Liston. Or somebody who was known as Liston, at least.
