The G File

by Håkan Nesser

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But this presumably had something to do with my sleeplessness.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Naturally?’

  ‘You’re not so stupid as to be unaware yourself about why you can’t sleep, surely? And not so stupid that you think I don’t understand . . . Not that latter point, at least.’

  Van Veeteren thought for a moment.

  ‘You have a point there.’

  ‘Of course I have. What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘I don’t really know. Have you any good suggestions?’

  ‘There is only one solution. Why imagine anything else?’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘You know full well there is. Don’t be silly,’

  ‘I’m never silly. But all right, a few days – if you insist.’

  ‘I don’t insist.’

  ‘No? Then I suppose I’ll have to make the decision off my own bat, then.’

  Ulrike burst out laughing and put him in a stranglehold.

  ‘But we’d better sleep on it first,’ said Van Veeteren, wriggling free. ‘To be honest, I have some misgivings.’

  Ulrike became serious.

  ‘Me too,’ she said, and all at once – for a fraction of a second – she looked so nakedly serious that his heart missed a beat.

  As if . . . As if death had paid them a brief visit at that late hour, but then decided to leave them in peace for a bit longer.

  Nasty, he thought. Who is it, allowing us to lift the veil slightly in this way?

  36

  Intendent Münster found it difficult to shake off the feeling of déjà vu when he sat down next to Rooth in the pale-yellow conference room in Kaalbringen police station on Tuesday morning.

  At first he failed to see why the past seemed to be so tangibly close: to be sure, the town and the premises and the peaceful square outside were the same as nine years ago, but the people involved were almost all new. Neither Rooth nor Probationer Stiller nor the new chief of police had been present last time. Only himself and Inspector Moerk.

  Beate Moerk. She was the reason, of course. She was a mother-of-two now and must be getting on for forty, he thought; but even so he could see in her face and her eyes the same things that had affected him so much during the axe-murderer case . . . whatever they were. He noticed that she was avoiding looking at him today: that was no doubt a sensible precaution to take at this early stage of proceedings. Rooth had said that she was a hell of a pretty inspector, and even if Rooth was a pathetic case when it came to love and passion, he nevertheless had eyes in his head.

  The sun streamed in through the south-facing window, just as it had done nine years ago. When he thought a little more about it, he realized that of course it was not only Beate Moerk and this familiar room that was making his sense of time somewhat wonky. The G case had been on the agenda even longer – since fifteen years ago, to be precise! – so the feeling of not really being in the present time was perhaps quite natural, in fact.

  And it was Maarten Verlangen who was the catalyst, needless to say. The link with then and now. The remains of the down-and-out private detective had been lying out there in the mushroom woods for several months, rotting away. Then they had been discovered – and it was to find out who had put them there that they were sitting in this room now.

  In the first place, that is. Officially. What it also involved was another matter. Synergy effects, perhaps one could say. Or rings in the water, as one might have said in the old days.

  But irrespective of what one might choose to call it, Münster thought, two CID officers from Maardam would not have been sent out to investigate what had happened to a drifter like Maarten Verlangen if there had not been more ingredients in the soup than those that were floating around on the surface; that was clear.

  And there was no sign of Chief Inspector Van Veeteren or Inspector Kropke in the police station on this warm, late-summer Tuesday, Münster reminded himself. Nor was Chief Inspector Bausen at the helm, but instead a certain Intendent deKlerk. Münster had not yet had time to form an opinion of him, but assumed that he was a competent police officer. There was nothing to suggest otherwise, at least. The chief of police had just hung his jacket over the back of his chair, looked somewhat hesitantly at those present, and clapped his hands.

  ‘Well, nice to see you all again,’ he said. ‘Shall we get going? God willing we’ll be served with coffee an hour from now.’

  ‘In sha’a Allah,’ said Rooth. ‘I’m delighted to hear that we have come to somewhere civilized.’

  Remember that you are responsible for your own stupidities, Rooth, Münster thought, taking off his jacket as well.

  ‘As a matter of routine, let me just map out the situation to start with,’ said deKlerk, opening a file. ‘Our colleagues from Maardam are more familiar with the background of this case than the rest of us, so I trust they will feel free to correct me if I get anything wrong.’

  Rooth nodded and Münster took out his notebook.

  ‘Anyway,’ said deKlerk, ‘at the heart of the matter – or at least, that’s the theory on the basis of which we are working – is an old case from 1987: the murder of Barbara Clarissa Henning in Linden. We are assuming it was murder, although the facts have never been established. The victim’s husband, Jaan G. Hennan, was charged with her murder but found not guilty by the court on the grounds of insufficient evidence. He collected a very large sum from his wife’s insurers, and is assumed to have left the country that same year. In the goings-on surrounding the death of Barbara Hennan we find a private detective by the name of Maarten Verlangen: his exact role is unclear in many respects, but he was employed by fru Hennan to keep an eye on her husband just a few days before she was found dead. Verlangen’s evidence at the trial seemed to confirm Hennan’s alibi. The view of the police and the prosecution team was that Hennan had employed an accomplice to murder his wife, but nothing was ever discovered to support that view, and Hennan was found not guilty. Any comments so far?’

  ‘None at all,’ said Rooth. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Thank you. Fifteen years later – last spring, to be more precise – Verlangen’s daughter informed the police in Maardam that her father had disappeared, and a few pieces of evidence suggest that he was here in Kaalbringen for some days in the middle of April. The reason why he came up here seems to have been that he had come across something to indicate that Jaan G. Hennan was around. Nota bene that Hennan is a free man, but Verlangen claimed – in a telephone call to his daughter and a written note found in his flat – that he had come across evidence linking Hennan to the murder of his wife. What this evidence – or possibly even proof – might be, we have as yet no idea. Chief Inspector Van Veeteren, who was in charge of the investigation in 1987, came up to Kaalbringen at the beginning of May to look for Verlangen – or for traces of him, at least. He made contact with Inspector Moerk, who he knows as a result of the previous investigation, and . . .’

  He exchanged looks with Beate Moerk, but as she didn’t seem keen to take over the account of what had happened, he continued himself.

  ‘. . . and we consulted all the hotels in the area, but received no positive responses. Now we know that this was because we didn’t include the camping site next to Fisherman’s Friend in our original inquiries: Geraldine’s Caravan Club. Anyway, to come right up to date – three days ago, last Saturday, Maarten Verlangen was found dead in woods not far from Wilgersee. There is no doubt that he was murdered . . . shot through the head with a large-calibre pistol . . . And it is just as certain that he had been lying there since round about the middle of April. Anyway, that’s how things stand. Have you anything to say before we take a look at what yesterday’s interviews turned up?’

  ‘Say and say,’ muttered Rooth. ‘That poor devil was on to something – but I’ve no idea what it could have been.’

  ‘It might have been pure imagination on Verlangen’s part, we mustn’t forget that,’ said M�
�nster.

  ‘You don’t get shot on the basis of pure imagination,’ said Rooth.

  ‘You can be if you’re unlucky,’ said Münster. ‘But I agree that the Hennan link seems to be pretty strong.’

  ‘It’s been a long time,’ said Beate Moerk. ‘Since last spring, I mean. If that Hennan character really was here in Kaalbringen then, he’s had plenty of time to make himself scarce.’

  ‘No doubt about that,’ said Münster. ‘He could be in Brazil by now. With a new identity and a new appearance. We shall have to hope that he didn’t think that would be necessary – that it was sufficient to get Verlangen out of the way.’

  ‘Shall we assume that he really was here in Kaalbringen in April, at least?’ asked deKlerk.

  ‘Assume is a bit strong,’ said Rooth. ‘But let’s play with the thought. It does seem a bit far-fetched to think that Verlangen was wrong about him being here, but was killed by him even so . . . Or at least, I think it seems far-fetched.’

  ‘Absolutely right,’ said deKlerk. ‘We can more or less exclude any such thought.’

  ‘But if he’s living here, he must have changed his name at least,’ said Moerk. ‘There’s no Hennan in the telephone directory, and he’s not in the register of taxpayers. Would you recognize him if you saw him?’

  Münster had already discussed this question with Rooth, and admitted that he wouldn’t be a hundred per cent certain. Especially if Hennan consciously tried to change the way he looked in some way or other.

  ‘We’ve all seen the photo we have of Hennan from 1987,’ he said. ‘If he’s simply grown older in the normal way, presumably any of us ought to be able to recognize him?’

  ‘But he might be wandering around in net stockings and wearing a wig nowadays,’ said Rooth. ‘That would make it a bit hard to recognize him.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Probationer Stiller hesitantly, stretching somewhat. ‘We’re assuming that Verlangen found Hennan, aren’t we? So are you suggesting that he’s only started wearing net stockings now this summer?’

  Rooth scratched his neck, but said nothing. The chief of police nodded.

  ‘Good point, Stiller,’ he said. ‘Verlangen must have recognized him. And it’s via Verlangen that we’ll be able to find our way to Hennan. Isn’t that right? The more we can find out about what Verlangen was doing here in Kaalbringen in April, the greater our chances of making progress.’

  ‘Very true,’ said Münster. ‘But there’s one thing we mustn’t forget. In no circumstances must we pass this link with the G File to the media. If Hennan really is here – living in Kaalbringen, that is – he’ll obviously do a runner and make himself scarce the moment he sees a word about it in the newspapers. With a bit of luck he won’t know that Verlangen has left any trails behind. This is absolutely essential if we’re going to have any chance of getting anywhere.’

  ‘Is that clear to everybody?’ said deKlerk, looking round the table. ‘Absolute silence when it comes to Hennan!’

  Stiller and Moerk nodded. Rooth yawned, but when he had closed his mouth again he raised a thumb to indicate that he was in agreement.

  ‘Okay,’ said deKlerk. ‘The big question of course is what the hell it was that Verlangen had discovered. He claimed that he had found clear proof relevant to that old murder case . . . And as Stiller rightly says, if a worn-out private detective can find that, five excessively talented CID officers ought to be able to do the same! Anyway, what happened yesterday? Shall we take Geraldine’s Caravan Club first?’

  With the aid of her notes and Probationer Stiller’s comments, Beate Moerk spent the next twenty minutes reporting on the meeting with Geraldine Szczok. She left out no details – apart from the possibility that Stiller might become an advisory reader of Szczok’s novel – and her description of the burnt-down caravan sent Inspector Rooth through the roof.

  ‘That settles it, then!’ he bellowed. ‘For Christ’s sake! That is the coincidence that makes it crystal clear we no longer need to think in terms of coincidences! That arsehole G is behind all this, and he’s here in Kaalbringen – all we need to do now is to go out and bring him in!’

  ‘Calm down, Inspector Hothead!’ said Münster. ‘But I agree with you in principle. On the one hand all possible leads have been lost in the fire, but on the other hand we don’t need to speculate any more. We are dealing with Jaan G. Hennan again.’

  This conclusion was met with several seconds of silence around the table, after which the chief of police invited Münster to speak again.

  ‘Horst Zilpen,’ he said. ‘Did he have anything to add to what his wife said?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Münster. ‘He had chatted now and again to Verlangen, but they didn’t discuss anything of consequence. When he asked outright where Verlangen had his home, he didn’t receive a clear answer. He said he had the impression that Verlangen was an odd bod.’

  ‘It hadn’t even occurred to him to ask why Verlangen was staying at the camp site,’ added Rooth. ‘He’s not exactly a bright spark, this Zilpen bloke – and he had a broken nose: I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been a boxer.’

  ‘What has that got to do with the case?’ wondered Moerk, looking surprised.

  ‘Nothing, my lovely,’ said Rooth. ‘It’s just that my brain sometimes works overtime, and it can’t help making little observations like that. I can’t do anything about it.’

  ‘I see,’ said Moerk.

  ‘That’s the way he is,’ said Münster with a shrug.

  ‘To change the subject,’ said Rooth, ‘isn’t it about coffee time?’

  DeKlerk looked at the clock and nodded in agreement. Stiller left the room and returned half a minute later with a coffee tray and a dish of Danish pastries.

  ‘Help yourselves,’ said the chief of police. ‘It’s all from Sylvie’s Luxury Bakery just round the corner, as I don’t need to explain to those of you who’ve been here before.’

  While they were eating and drinking, deKlerk passed around once more the photographs of Jaan G. Hennan from 1987.

  ‘The annoying thing,’ said Moerk, ‘is that if we published these pictures we might get a positive response straight away. I don’t recognize him, but of course that doesn’t mean that he isn’t living here. Kaalbringen isn’t just a tiny village after all. Twenty-two thousand souls or thereabouts . . .’

  ‘Quite a large little village,’ said Rooth.

  ‘Three of us who live here don’t recognize him, anyway,’ said deKlerk. ‘But then Stiller has only just moved here . . . I assume you’re right, though. There’s nothing to stop us asking our nearest and dearest – friends and acquaintances . . . Unofficially. We don’t need to say what it’s all about, do we? We can just ask them if they recognize the man in the photo.’

  He looked at Münster and Rooth, hoping for confirmation. Münster nodded.

  ‘That wouldn’t do any harm, as far as I can see. As long as we don’t make a big fuss about it.’

  ‘All right,’ said Moerk.

  The chief of police leafed through his papers again, and nobody seemed to have anything to say.

  ‘I suppose the question is what we ought to be doing with ourselves,’ said Rooth eventually. ‘Personally, I’d like to become more intimately acquainted with Sylvie over the next few weeks – but perhaps you others might like to have something different to do?’

  ‘There is another unpleasant aspect,’ said Münster, ignoring Rooth’s comments. ‘How are we going to be able to link Hennan with the crime, if we manage to find him? We weren’t very successful last time, and it’s unlikely to be any easier now.’

  DeKlerk looked around the room.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘The odds seem to be stacked up against us in many ways. This isn’t going to be easy.’

  ‘G is a bastard who never gets caught – I’ve been aware of that for the past fifteen years,’ said Rooth.

  ‘Perhaps you could explain what you mean by that,’ said Beate Moerk.

  ‘By all
means,’ said Rooth. ‘Laws don’t seem to apply to him. He had already got rid of a wife in the States before that business in Linden. If we don’t nail him for the murder of Verlangen, he’ll have scored a hat trick. At least. Three murders, but he’s as free as a bird. Dammit all!’

  ‘For once you’re probably right,’ said Münster, looking grim.

  Silence ensued while deKlerk leafed through his papers again.

  ‘Is there nothing new from Maardam?’ wondered Moerk in the hope of striking a more optimistic tone. ‘They were going to talk to his daughter and go through his flat, weren’t they?’

  ‘No report as yet,’ said the chief of police, stretching the lobe of his ear to twice its normal length. ‘But I expect we’ll hear from them once they’ve finished. Anything else?’

  He looked around the table.

  ‘One more thing,’ said Stiller tentatively. ‘We still have to talk to those other two people who were staying at the camp site. It might not get us anywhere, but you never know . . .’

  ‘That’s right,’ said deKlerk, looking up his notes. ‘Willumsen and Holt – those names sound familiar. Anyway, Moerk and Stiller can talk to them this afternoon and hear what they have to say. We mustn’t leave anything to chance, of course. We’re still waiting for reports from the Forensic Lab and the Forensic Institute, but I don’t think we should expect them to come up with anything useful. Four months out in the forest leave their mark – or obliterate all the marks, perhaps I should say. We mustn’t throw in the towel, of course, but I have to say that I doubt—’

  He was interrupted by fröken Miller, who opened the door and poked in her head with its curly white hair.

  ‘Excuse me, but there’s a message from the former chief of police,’ she said, trying to remain calm and collected.

  ‘Eh?’ said Rooth.

  ‘Bausen?’ said Moerk.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What does he want?’ wondered deKlerk, looking confused.

  Fröken Miller poked a little more of her body inside the door and coughed demonstratively into her hand.