The G File

by Håkan Nesser

  With regard to the concept of penance, that is.

  A bank of cloud had slowly worked its way in from the north-west during the morning, and only five minutes after he had set off again after lunch, the rain came pelting down. The countryside, the broad rolling plains, lost both their contours and their colours: he replaced Schnittke with Preisner, and found the right mood music in Kieślowski again.

  Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal.

  That was true. During the last five years he had learned that they were hellishly true, those famous words from the First Letter to the Corinthians.

  It had taken almost a whole lifetime, but he had learned that in the end.

  Better late than never. He ate two mint pastilles to get rid of the unpleasant taste of old lunch, and started thinking about Erich, his dead son.

  And he noticed that it hardly hurt any more.

  By the time he parked outside Bausen’s house in Kaalbringen it had stopped raining, and he was able to register that it looked exactly as he had remembered it.

  More or less overgrown. More or less impenetrable. Now, as then, it was impossible to make out the house from the street: bushes, trees, creepers and tall grass had interwoven to form a living wall, and it was obvious that Bausen had not rented out his house during his seven-year absence. It had simply been allowed to become even more overgrown – and why not?

  He entered through the gate, identified the rudimentary opening that was supposed to be a path, ducked down and began walking through the jungle.

  Bausen was sitting in a basket chair on the roofed patio, reading a book. Everything here seemed familiar as well: the rattan table with the two chairs, empty crates and all kinds of junk next to the walls. Now as then. A broken bicycle, an oar together with half an oar, and something that Van Veeteren suspected might well be a rolled-up yoga mat. The chessboard and the red-painted box with the pieces was on the top shelf of a wonky bookcase full of tins of paint and various tools.

  Bausen saw him approaching, and his face lit up.

  ‘Good God,’ he said. ‘Younger and more handsome than ever.’

  ‘You took the words out of my mouth,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Are you growing old backwards, or how do you do it?’

  There was good reason for the flattery, no doubt about that. Bausen did not look like a man of seventy-something. More like the picture of good health itself – short and wiry, in possession of quite a lot of greyish-white hair, and a pair of eyes in his handsomely hewn face that seemed to have been stolen from a fourteen-year-old.

  He stood up and shook hands.

  ‘Yoga,’ he said. ‘That’s half the secret. I started while I was in jail, and saw no reason to stop. Forty-five minutes a day – I’m more nimble now than I was when I got confirmed.’

  Van Veeteren nodded.

  ‘What’s the other half?’

  Bausen laughed.

  ‘What the hell do you think? A woman, of course . . . Not a formal relationship, but we meet now and again. It’s the main point of being alive, in fact. For God’s sake, at my age it’s high time to start getting a grip of things. Good to see you. Long time no see.’

  ‘Nine years,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Anyway, here I am again.’

  ‘On the trail of another murderer. Whatever, I can assure you that it’s not the same one as last time. Would you like a beer and a sandwich? I thought maybe we could have a more substantial meal a bit later on.’

  ‘A beer and a sandwich is precisely what I’d hoped for,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I take it we can sit out here?’

  ‘Of course we can,’ said Bausen. ‘Yes, I remember you were partial to that. Sit down and enjoy the surroundings, and I’ll go and fetch the necessary.’

  Van Veeteren sat down on the other basket chair, and sighed with pleasure.

  What a marvellous jungle, he thought. And what a lovely man.

  Bausen studied the two photographs carefully.

  ‘So these are the two gentlemen you are looking for, are they? I can’t say off the top of my head that I recognize either of them – but my knowledge of what’s going on in town isn’t what it once was. For obvious reasons.’

  ‘For obvious reasons,’ agreed Van Veeteren. ‘No, I can well imagine that. And I’m afraid these photos are not all that up to date, as they say. Hennan is now fifteen years older than that, and Verlangen’s daughter didn’t have a better one of him than this. It was taken around Christmas four years ago.’

  ‘He looks a bit worse for wear,’ said Bausen.

  ‘I don’t suppose he’s become any better,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘If he’s still alive.’

  ‘Do you think he might not be?’

  Van Veeteren shrugged.

  ‘It’s just that I can’t see any sensible reason for him hiding away. The last sign of life was that telephone call from here three weeks ago.’

  Bausen frowned.

  ‘I see. And so the hypothesis is that he’s fallen foul of Jaan G. Hennan in some way or other, is that right?’

  ‘Hypothesis and hypothesis,’ said Van Veeteren.

  ‘Hmm. What has Hennan been up to for the last fifteen years? Do you know anything about that?’

  ‘I don’t, and nor does anybody else. He seems to have left the country at some point during the autumn of 1987, and there’s no trace of him after that. Until this little pointer from Verlangen, that is . . . Which would suggest that he’s come back.’

  Bausen examined the photographs again for a while. Van Veeteren took a swig of the dark beer and leaned back in the creaking chair.

  ‘It’s just a passing thought on my part, of course,’ he said. ‘If it had been anywhere else but Kaalbringen, I’d probably have let it pass.’

  ‘You don’t say?’ said Bausen with a trace of mild irony in his voice. ‘But still, you are here now – and why not? If we can combine your passing thought with a few decent wines and a few decent games of chess, it might be worth the trouble, perhaps? No matter what?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I thought,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘How’s the wine cellar? Is it still there?’

  ‘It certainly is. And most of the bottles have benefited from seven years of unintended maturing, I can assure you of that.’

  ‘Excellent. Do you still have good relations with the police force here in town nowadays? It would make things easier if we could get a bit of assistance from them.’

  ‘I don’t have much to do with them,’ admitted Bausen. ‘It was Kropke and Moerk when you were last here – I suppose you remember them?’

  ‘I certainly do,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Are they still around?’

  ‘Inspector Moerk is still here. Kropke went off to Groenstadt a few years ago. We have a new chief of police called deKlerk – he’s said to be good, but I hardly know him . . .’

  ‘For natural reasons?’ wondered Van Veeteren.

  ‘For natural reasons,’ said Bausen with a chuckle. ‘He took over six months after me in any case – there was some sort of delay. Anyway, I don’t think they would put any obstacles in our way if we made an effort to contact them. After all, it’s more or less police business anyway, and I don’t expect them to be snowed under at this time of year. The tourist season hasn’t got under way yet. If Verlangen has been in Kaalbringen, he must have taken a room somewhere, and it shouldn’t be too difficult to find out about that detail at least.’

  ‘I hope not. What about Inspector Moerk . . .?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She was a pretty competent woman, I seem to recall. I assume she hasn’t got worse as the years have passed – if you’ll forgive me for putting it like that.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Bausen, looking thoughtful. ‘No, she’s no doubt still pretty reliable. And we’ve sorted out the little difficulties we used to have . . . But this G character – if I understand you rightly you have a rather special relationship with him, is that right?�
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  Van Veeteren thought for a few seconds before responding.

  ‘A special relationship?’ he said eventually. ‘Yes, you could say that again. To tell you the truth . . . well, to tell you the truth that bastard has been haunting me ever since I was running around in short trousers. If there’s anybody I’d like to see on the scaffold, he’s the one. Then I could grow old in peace and dignity.’

  Bausen smiled briefly.

  ‘You haven’t been working as a police officer for the last few years, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I became a bookseller in my old age, as I said. I’ve responded to requests to help out in a few investigations, but it’s really only the G File that could get me working full on again.’

  ‘Really?’ Bausen leaned back and observed him with interest. ‘So it’s not really true, what you said about letting it pass if it hadn’t been for the Kaalbringen connection?’

  Van Veeteren thought it over again.

  ‘Probably not,’ he said. ‘I suppose I’d have found it difficult not to follow the scent no matter where it came from or led to. It’s one of those stories which prevents you from sleeping at night unless you’ve searched under every single stone.’

  ‘That happens,’ said Bausen. ‘There are some things you just can’t let drop.’

  ‘I know that you are fully aware of that,’ said Van Veeteren.

  They drank a toast, then sat in silence for some time.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Bausen after a while. ‘Let’s pay the police station a visit tomorrow morning. But for now, I suggest a game before our evening meal. As you are a guest, you can start with white.’

  ‘Thank you for that,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Do I remember rightly that your weakness was the Nimzo-Indian defence? I have that impression.’

  ‘I know nothing about that,’ said Bausen. ‘But don’t build up any hopes. I have no weaknesses at all nowadays.’

  31

  After a little more thought – and in the clear light of morning from a more or less cloudless sky – Bausen decided that he had no great desire to visit the Kaalbringen police station in Kleinmarckt. He had not set foot inside it for nine years, and after admitting his doubts to Van Veeteren he restricted his input on this occasion to a telephone call, informing his former colleagues of the Chief Inspector’s wish to pay them a visit and discuss certain circumstances.

  It transpired that Chief of Police deKlerk was otherwise engaged in some other place that Saturday, but Inspector Moerk would be in her office until three o’clock, she maintained, and immediately expressed her great delight at the prospect of meeting Van Veeteren again after all these years.

  At least, that is how Bausen described the situation when he had concluded the call, and explained that the coast was clear.

  ‘It’s ten o’clock now,’ he also said. ‘Shall we say that we can meet at the Blue Ship for a bite of lunch at about one? Do you remember where it is?’

  ‘I remember every alley and every lamp-post in this godforsaken dump,’ Van Veeteren assured him in a friendly tone. ‘Okay, let’s say one o’clock.’

  Beate Moerk looked as if she had aged about nine months over the past nine years, but nevertheless she had passed a certain borderline, he thought. She made no secret of what lay behind this process of elegant refinement.

  ‘I’ve settled down,’ she informed him after serving coffee and a plate of Danish pastries from Sylvie’s Luxury Bakery, which was still next door to the police station. ‘I’m married and have two children now. You only live once so I thought I might as well.’

  ‘Very sensible,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Pass on greetings to your husband, and congratulate him. I have no doubt he feels that the gods have been smiling down on him.’

  ‘Phuh,’ said Moerk, blushing modestly. ‘I gather you have something special to discuss, Chief Inspector ?’

  ‘I’m a bookseller now,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I spend my time in an antiquarian bookshop nowadays. Can’t we just use first names?’

  ‘Have you left the police force?’ she wondered in surprise. ‘Bausen said nothing about that.’

  ‘Five-and-a-half years ago. But I must admit that I have a request that falls under the nasty old heading of a police investigation . . . A case that has been haunting me over the years, you could say.’

  She suddenly looked genuinely worried.

  ‘Yes, Bausen indicated something of the sort. If we can do anything to help, then of course we’ll bend over backwards to do so. And all that . . .’

  Van Veeteren nodded and stroked his hand over his cheeks and chin – and realized that he hadn’t shaved.

  ‘I’d be most grateful if you could,’ he said. ‘Anyway, if I explain the situation in broad outline, perhaps you’ll be able to do a few things for me. It shouldn’t be too difficult to establish whether I’m on the right track or not. In the first place it concerns a certain person by the name of Maarten Verlangen . . .’

  It was the third time in the last few days that he had run through the case concerning G in detail – for Ulrike, Bausen and now Beate Moerk – and it was beginning to dawn on him that he felt more isolated from all that had happened on each occasion that he had to sit down and recount it.

  Maybe that wasn’t so odd. The book of memoirs he intended writing was going to focus on Jaan G. Hennan, so presumably there was – in addition to all the other traumatic detritus – something mysterious and hidden away in this old story. Something which resisted all forms of description and narration. Or at least resisted his own tentative efforts to do so.

  Perhaps it is a sort of therapy that one day will cure me? he thought, somewhat surprised. The effort, that is. But hell’s bells, why can’t I just amputate the whole confounded business and be rid of it, once and for all?

  In any case, Beate Moerk seemed obviously interested. She asked questions, made notes and asked him to explain things in more detail – so the whole procedure lasted three cups of coffee, the same number of Danish pastries and getting on for an hour.

  But it went much more quickly when it came to deciding what the Kaalbringen police could do to help. After all, there was not a lot they could be asked to do. Apart from trying to find Verlangen.

  Or at least to find something that indicated that he had been there. Some three weeks ago. Round about 15 April. Moerk promised to start digging immediately: all being well it should only take a few hours to check every hotel and boarding house in the area, and irrespective of the outcome she should be able to ring Bausen some time that evening.

  As far as Jaan G. Hennan was concerned, there was nothing much more they could do than something similar – but preferably somewhat more discreet. Mind you, if he really was in Kaalbringen and was using his real name, it should not be especially difficult to find him. But on the other hand, if for some reason or another he preferred to use a different identity, that would change the situation of course.

  And they would have to take into account the fact that G – wherever he happened to be – was a free man with the same human rights as everybody else.

  Van Veeteren informed Inspector Moerk that – unless something startling happened – he would be setting off for Maardam at some point during Sunday evening, and wondered if he might invite her to a late lunch or early dinner before he left Kaalbringen. Tomorrow, in other words. Presumably together with Bausen.

  He thought she hesitated for a moment before accepting the invitation in principle – but she would have to discuss the situation with her husband first.

  That was perfectly understandable, of course. She promised to give a definite answer when she telephoned Bausen that evening.

  He had just over an hour to fill before meeting Bausen for lunch, and took a walk down to the harbour and marina. He crossed over Fisktorget, and found he remembered the names of all the buildings and streets in or running into the square: Dooms gränd, Esplanaden, See Warf – the hotel he had stayed at for over a month – Hoistraat and Minders steeg. />
  It felt odd to be wandering around here again – the axe-murderer case was almost a decade ago now: but the years had drained away at an amazing speed, as they usually did when memories had not been kept alive by return visits. The boats bobbing up and down in the marina could well have been exactly the same as the ones all that time ago, he thought, and the same applied to the ice cream kiosk and the girls lounging around in front of it. And when he branched off onto the well-worn pedestrian and cycle path through the trees of Stadsskogen, he found himself expecting to come across the place where one of the victims had fallen foul of the murderer’s razor-sharp axe.

  But he didn’t. He emerged into the Rikken housing estate without having found the exact scene of the crime, and realized that even when you see again and recognize familiar places, there has to be an allotted portion of illusion and imagination. Of course.

  As he tried to find the nearest way up to the Blue Ship restaurant, he thought instead about whether he would recognize G if he happened to bump into him.

  It was far from certain, he had to admit. At least if it was just a brief meeting with other people milling about.

  And if – against all the odds, he reckoned – G really was here in Kaalbringen and wanted to remain incognito, he had every chance of succeeding in his desire.

  In the space of fifteen years you could change every single cell in your body twice over, if Van Veeteren remembered rightly what he had been taught in his biology classes at the beginning of time. You were at the mercy of inherent forces, as it were.

  He arrived at the Blue Ship in somewhat low spirits at a couple of minutes past one. Bausen had already found a window table with a good view.