by Håkan Nesser
Who had been given an envelope by Jaan G. Hennan one morning in Wollerimsparken. A man who might have been Hennan.
That was all.
As he was wandering back alongside the canal, he tried to imagine Kekkonen in the witness box. It was not a pleasant sight – or wouldn’t be if it was possible to get him there. Probably not, he thought. Kekkonen had an ability to disappear if it was in his interest to do so: that was in fact probably the only ability he had kept intact over the years.
But if by hook or by crook they managed to get him in there, what would Kekkonen say? If Verlangen knew him right he would shut up like a clam, or possibly claim that he couldn’t remember anything at all. That’s what he used to do twelve years ago, and it was probably what he would do today.
Or perhaps he would say that he had been given a fifty-guilder note by Verlangen to spill the beans, and so he had made something up.
Damn and blast! thought Maarten Verlangen as he made his way home through the increasingly heavy rain. This is pointless.
Utterly pointless.
By the time he finally reached Kleinmarckt he was soaked through. He hesitated for a moment, then slunk into the Café Kloisterdoom and ordered a beer and a gin.
No, it would do more harm than good if I involved that bald-headed halfwit, he decided. KBO – it’s best to keep buggering on.
24
Silwerstein started in the simplest possible way.
‘Did you kill your wife, Barbara Hennan, in the evening of Thursday, 5 June?’
‘No.’
‘Had you made an arrangement with some other person to kill her?’
‘No.’
Hennan’s voice was loud and clear. Van Veeteren noticed that he been sitting there and holding his breath as he waited for the two ‘nos’, and that everybody else in the courtroom had done the same. It was really the same suppressed excitement you experience at a wedding before the ‘I do’ from the bride and the bridegroom, and he reflected briefly over how simple and straightforward our fundamental craving for drama is.
A yes or a no, the tipping of the scales.
‘Did you kill your then wife, Philomena McNaught, at some point during your journey through Bethesda Park in the USA in June 1983?’
The defending counsel rose to her feet.
‘Objection! My client is not accused of anything that happened four years ago.’
Judge Hart changed his glasses and eyed her for a while with something that most resembled scientific interest – a biologist who had stumbled upon a remarkable living organism and was keen to be precise in establishing its species.
‘My learned friend no doubt realizes that it could be useful for us to have a little background information,’ he proclaimed, pointing at her with the earpiece of his spectacles as if it were a gun. ‘Please sit down! Herr Hennan, please be so good as to answer the question.’
Hennan nodded.
‘No,’ he said. I didn’t kill Philomena. It was our honeymoon trip, I loved her.’
A cheap point, Van Veeteren thought grimly. But a point even so.
‘What is your occupation?’ asked Silwerstein.
‘I’m a businessman.’
‘A businessman?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what kind of business do you conduct?’
Hennan leaned forward and placed his hands on the bar. Van Veeteren noticed that he was wearing a wedding ring on this occasion, something he hadn’t done during any of the interrogations at the police station.
‘As you may know we had just arrived from the USA, my wife and I, when this accident happened . . . I ran an import company in Denver, and it was my intention to do the same here in Linden.’
‘An import company?’ asked Silwerstein. ‘And what do you import?’
‘As I was trying to say, I haven’t had time to establish myself yet. In Denver I dealt mainly with tinned goods from south-east Asia – fruit and vegetables. But also some technical products. One needs to conduct some research into markets and patents before one can get going.’
During the introductory questions and answers Silwerstein had remained standing on the same spot, three metres in front of the accused: now he took two paces to the side and looked at the jury instead.
‘So one could say that your so-called company hasn’t yet actually done anything at all?’
‘No, you could of course—’
‘One could say that it is merely a facade for what was your real intention when you came to reside in this country, couldn’t one?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘You don’t? I think you understand perfectly clearly. Is it not the case, Herr Hennan, that you only had one thing in mind when you moved here from Denver in the USA? That is, doing the same as you had done with Philomena McNaught all over again? Getting rid of your wife and collecting another sky-high insurance pay-out? One point—’
‘Objection!’ shouted the defending counsel. ‘The prosecutor is casting unfounded aspersions around, left right and centre. I really must—’
‘Thank you,’ interrupted the judge. ‘That’s enough. Might I ask the prosecutor to calm down somewhat.’
Silwerstein nodded submissively.
‘Is it true that you took out an insurance policy on the life of your wife with the company F/B Trustor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you inform the court of the amount the policy involved?’
Hennan cleared his throat.
‘One point two million.’
‘One point two million guilders?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you not think that is an unusually large amount?’
‘No.’
Silwerstein turned away from the defendant once again.
‘If we were to conduct a survey of these people,’ he said, holding out his arm in a theatrical gesture, ‘how many do you think there would be with life insurance policies of a similar size? I myself have a policy for a hundred and fifty thousand. I spoke to my insurers yesterday and that is considered to be a relatively large amount. Let me repeat my question, herr Hennan. Do you not think that one point two million guilders is an unusually large amount for a life insurance policy?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Hennan. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it would be considered all that high in the USA . . . And I’ve been living there for ten years.’
The prosecutor tried to look pleased. He walked back and forth several times before stopping in front of Hennan again.
‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘You did the same as you had done in America. Can you tell us how much you collected after the death of your former wife, Philomena McNaught?’
‘Objection!’ said Van Molde again. ‘This has nothing at all to do with—’
‘Overruled,’ said Hart without so much as glancing at the defence counsel. ‘Would you kindly answer the question, herr Hennan.’
‘Four hundred thousand,’ said Hennan.
‘Guilders?’ asked Silwerstein.
‘Dollars,’ said Hennan.
‘Four hundred thousand dollars?’ repeated Silwerstein in staccato tones. He tapped the tip of an index finger against his chin and pretended to do a calculation. ‘That corresponds to about twice that amount in guilders, doesn’t it? Eight hundred thousand. Can that be right?’
‘More or less,’ said Hennan. ‘I don’t know what the exchange rate is at the moment.’
‘You don’t? Never mind, if we sum up the situation using approximate figures, we can conclude that within the last four years you have got rid of two wives in unclear circumstances, and that you are expecting to rake in a total of two million guilders in insurance pay-outs. Don’t even you find this appears to be a little . . . remarkable?’
Hennan contemplated his wedding ring, but made no reply. The prosecutor paused briefly. Then asked:
‘Do you know if your wife felt threatened by you?’
Hennan raised his gaze and looked at the jury. One
by one, it seemed.
‘She did not feel threatened. To say she did is rubbish.’
‘I must object again,’ said the defence counsel. ‘If the prosecutor doesn’t stop making these baseless accusations, what we are doing will no longer be classifiable as legal proceedings.’
‘Harrumph,’ growled Judge Hart. Changed his glasses and glared at the defence counsel. ‘Calm down, fru Van Molde! If you want to object, then by all means object. But let’s have no more of this coquetry!’
Van Molde sat down. Hart turned to Silwerstein.
‘Explain what you mean,’ he said. ‘Threatened?’
Silwerstein bowed humbly.
‘So you didn’t know about it?’ he asked.
‘About what?’ said Hennan.
‘That your wife was worried that something was about to happen.’
‘She was not worried and she didn’t feel threatened, as I have said.’
‘So how would you explain the fact that she hired a private detective to keep an eye on you?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Hennan.
‘But you know that she did so?’
‘I do now, because the police claim that she did. I didn’t know at the time . . . and I very much doubt it.’
‘You doubt that your wife hired a private detective to keep a watch on you?’
‘Yes. There is . . . There was no reason for her to do so.’
‘Really?’ said Silwerstein. ‘I must say that I disagree completely on that point. If she had gone to a better detective – or why not to the police? – well, she might be alive today.’
‘Objection!’ shouted the defence counsel, now with an obvious note of despair in her voice.
‘Sustained,’ said Hart. ‘Members of the jury are requested to erase the prosecutor’s last comment from their minds.’
Silwerstein went for a short walk again, then stopped by the side of the accused, leaning his elbow on the bar.
‘Can you tell us what you did in the morning of the fifth of June?’ he asked.
‘I had several things to see to at home,’ said Hennan. ‘I didn’t go to the office until after lunch.’
‘I’m mainly interested in what you did with your swimming pool.’
‘It needed cleaning.’
‘Explain what you did.’
‘I emptied it. As you know.’
‘You emptied out all the water?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘You have to do that. It had to be cleaned, and there were some cracks that needed repairing.’
‘Did your wife know about this?’
‘Of course.’
‘Was she at home when you were busy emptying it?’
‘No, she had left for Aarlach quite early in the morning.’
‘I see. So you had the pool emptied during the morning, and then you drove to your so-called office; and in the evening, when your wife came back from Aarlach, she dived into the pool and killed herself. Is that how you see the situation, herr Hennan? She dived down – head first – from a tower ten metres high into a swimming pool she knew was empty!’
‘I have no other explanation,’ said Hennan. ‘She was lying on the bottom when I came home. What do you expect me to think?’
‘I don’t care what you think,’ said the prosecutor, ‘but I do know what you want us to think. But we don’t, herr Hennan. Can’t you see how implausible the whole situation is?’
‘I have no other explanation,’ said Hennan again.
‘But I do,’ said Silwerstein. ‘An explanation that I am convinced everybody in this room will be prepared to give credence to. Your wife did not die as a result of an accident. She died because first somebody rendered her unconscious, and then he threw her down from the very top of the diving tower. Some accomplice or other that you had hired to carry out the deed. A contract killer. Isn’t that in fact a much more plausible explanation than your doubtful—’
‘Objection!’ interrupted the defence counsel angrily. ‘Can the prosecutor produce any evidence to support these horrific claims? A contract killer? Proof, please!’
A degree of unrest became audible in the public gallery, and Hart thumped his hammer down on the desk in front of him.
‘Order!’ he shouted. ‘Objection overruled – but the prosecutor must justify his accusation.’
‘Common sense justifies it,’ maintained Silwerstein confidently after an artificial pause. ‘Common sense! And if necessary: one point two million guilders. And if that’s not enough: Philomena McNaught and four hundred thousand dollars! I have no more questions to put to the accused at the moment.’
He bowed discreetly once again, and went back to sit at his desk.
Defence counsel Van Molde stood up.
‘Where were you in the evening of June the fifth, herr Hennan?’
‘At the restaurant Columbine here in Linden.’
‘From when and until when, roughly?’
‘I arrived there soon after eight o’clock, and stayed until about half past twelve.’
‘Did you leave the restaurant at all during the evening?’
No.’
‘Thank you.’ She turned to the Judge. ‘I have written statements from the staff at the Columbine confirming that Jaan G. Hennan was at the restaurant for the whole of that evening. I haven’t bothered to call them up as witnesses because this afternoon we shall hear another witness say the same thing. According to the pathologist Dr Meusse, whom we heard yesterday, Barbara Hennan died at some time between nine thirty and ten thirty p.m. that same Thursday. During that time, and for all the rest of the evening, the accused was at the Columbine restaurant. He cannot – I repeat the word not – have killed his wife. Did you hire some other person to kill your wife, herr Hennan?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Of course not, no. Did you love your wife, herr Hennan?’
‘Yes. We loved each other very much.’
‘Thank you. Is it your view that in this country we have a right to take out an insurance policy on the life of somebody we love?’
‘I hope so.’
‘I hope so too. Thank you, I have no more questions for the accused.’
Before Hennan left the dock he remained seated for a while, as if there was something he would have liked to add. His gaze wandered over the three rows of listeners, and when he came to Van Veeteren in the second row he paused for a moment and gave a sort of thoughtful nod, that was no doubt impossible for most of those present to see. Then he stood up and returned to his seat at the side of the defence counsel.
The bastard! Van Veeteren thought, and fought hard to suppress an impulse to stand up as well. Stand up and leave the courtroom. Why do I find it almost impossible to control this? he wondered. What makes me prepared to go on the attack if he simply looks at me for a second? Damn it all, I really shouldn’t have come here today.
He clenched his fists and closed his eyes. Judge Hart changed his glasses again, and summoned Director Kooperdijk into the dock.
The prosecutor’s and defence counsel’s cross-examination of the dynamic director of the insurance company did not produce any surprises. Kooperdijk’s answers were convincing and predictable in every tiny detail, and while he was being questioned, the Chief Inspector wondered – doubtless along with several others of those present – whether he ought to transfer his insurance policies to F/B Trustor after all. If the company was prepared to sign up to such generous deals as the one they had made with Hennan – and if needs be pay out the amount involved (oh yes, Kooperdijk assured the court, they had plenty of capital, enough to pay ten times that amount) – well, perhaps others could benefit from taking out policies with them . . .
Kooperdijk left the dock after just over twenty minutes. It was a quarter to twelve by that time, and Judge Hart decided to adjourn proceedings for lunch until half past one. He urged everybody to be punctual after the break, and thumped his hammer down on the statute book.
Van Veetere
n had lunch at the Columbine. After all, there was a limited number of eating places in Linden – and at least they didn’t have Hawaii Burger Special on the menu.
Instead he had fillet of veal, and drank two glasses of expensive but value-for-money Rioja while wondering if he might actually be sitting at the same table as Hennan had occupied that Thursday evening – and if he really wanted to be present at the afternoon session in the courthouse.
No, he didn’t, he soon concluded, certainly not; but some sort of vague sense of duty compelled him to be present in the public gallery even so, when the time came.
Until the bitter end, he thought gloomily. Let’s hope to God that this hopeless Verlangen character can make a useful contribution despite everything!
However, the next witness to be called by the prosecutor was not Maarten Verlangen, but Doris Sellneck.
25
‘Can you tell us, fröken Sellneck, about your relationship with the accused, Jaan G. Hennan?’
Doris Sellneck performed a series of rather strange head movements before answering. As far as Van Veeteren could judge, she seemed to be about fifty years old – a tall, slim woman with an air of introversion about her. As if she were not really present. He remembered who she was the moment he heard her name.
He also remembered why he hadn’t bothered to interrogate her.
‘I really don’t understand why you have called me here,’ she began. ‘Jaan G. Hennan is a closed chapter in my life. It’s over twenty years ago.’
‘Precisely,’ interrupted the defence counsel. ‘I submit that fröken Sellneck should be allowed to leave the dock immediately.’
‘Yes, please,’ said Doris Sellneck.
‘Overruled,’ said Hart.
‘My dear fröken Sellneck,’ said Silwerstein. ‘We have talked about this. It’s true that it’s a long time since you were married to the accused, but we are trying to fill in a little of the background, so to speak. His character, and things like that. If you—’
‘He has no character,’ exclaimed Doris Sellneck with sudden enthusiasm. ‘He is a person without a spine.’
‘Objection!’ intervened the defence counsel.
‘Might I request the witness to be careful with her choice of words,’ said Hart.
