by Håkan Nesser
A typical layabout husband, she had time to think. He’s no doubt sitting in front of the telly, gaping at football!
That was a seriously wrong assumption, as she would soon become aware.
Fru Nolan went back into the house, lugging the heavy cardboard box in her arms. She had considerable difficulty closing the door behind her.
Rooth looked at Moerk. Moerk looked at Rooth. Rooth yawned and looked at his watch.
‘Six minutes to go before we’re relieved,’ he said. ‘Do you really not want to come with me for a bite to eat when we’ve finished?’
Beate Moerk said no for the fifth time, whereupon the door of the Nolans’ house opened yet again. Elizabeth Nolan came running out.
Straight out onto the lawn with both hands pressed against her temples and her elbows jutting out. After a few steps she stopped dead. Stood and swayed back and forth for a moment, then fell on her right side and rolled over on her stomach.
Moerk and Rooth reached her at the same time. Together they managed to turn her over: she was groaning faintly, both her eyes and her mouth were half-open, and she seemed barely conscious. Rooth took hold of her chin and shook it gently.
‘How are you?’ asked Moerk. ‘What’s happened?’
Nolan became more alert. Stared at them in surprise for a few seconds, then pointed at the house and moved her lips.
‘What are you saying?’ asked Rooth.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Opened her eyes again.
‘The bathroom,’ she whispered, in a barely audible voice. ‘He’s lying in the bath.’
Rooth gaped at her, then he gaped at Beate Moerk.
Then both of them raced into the house.
They found their way immediately. The bathroom in the Nolans’ house was at the end of the L-shaped hall, and she had left the door open.
Christopher Nolan was lying in the tub, which was full to the brim. His head was leaning on the rim, and the water was so red that for a split second Moerk had time to think that it looked rather pretty.
‘Bloody hell!’ said Inspector Rooth. ‘Bloody fucking hell!’
‘What’s going on?’ wondered a voice from outside the front door.
It was Münster. Beate Moerk backed quickly out of the bathroom, turned round and met him in the hall.
‘What’s happened?’ asked Münster. ‘We’ve just arrived to relieve you. Fru Nolan seems to be in shock, and—’
‘There’s no mystery,’ said Moerk. ‘Hennan has taken his own life. He’s lying in there.’
She forced her way past Münster, went out through the door and saw Probationer Stiller squatting down beside fru Nolan, who was still lying stretched out on the lawn.
A faint beam of the setting sun caught her eye, and she felt that she was longing for her children so much that it hurt.
44
During the first three hours that passed after they had heard about the death of Jaan G. Hennan, Van Veeteren uttered at most twenty words: and when it seemed most critical Bausen wondered if he ought to call a doctor.
But he made do with going down to his cellar and fetching a bottle of Château Peripolignac ’79. However, not even this most eminent of medicines was enough to revive Van Veeteren’s spirits to any noticeable degree.
Not until shortly after ten at night, when at long last they were assembled in the pale-yellow room at the police station, did the Chief Inspector seem anywhere near ready to resume contact with the real world. He flopped down at the narrow end of the table, lit a cigarette and glared at the chief of police.
‘Let’s hear it, then!’ he demanded. ‘Every damned detail, if you don’t mind!’
DeKlerk eyed both him and Bausen somewhat shiftily, hung up his jacket and checked that the cups of coffee and sandwiches had been distributed fairly. Then he cleared his throat and began.
‘We couldn’t possibly have foreseen this,’ he started by saying. ‘But that’s the way it is. Christopher Nolan, alias Jaan G. Hennan, committed suicide this afternoon by lying down in the bathtub and cutting his arteries. Both wrists, and a few cuts in his neck also, just to make sure . . .’
‘There was more blood in the bath than in his body,’ Rooth informed them, taking a bite out of a sandwich. ‘The Red Sea in a nutshell.’
‘We’ve just had a call from the pathologist in Oostwerdingen,’ said deKlerk, ignoring Rooth’s comment. ‘He confirms that Hennan took a number of sleeping tablets as well – there was a tin on the edge of the bath.’
‘What did he use to cut himself with?’ asked Bausen.
‘A razor blade. That was also lying on the edge of the bath.’
‘It all sounds pretty neat and efficient.’
‘Very.’
‘Have you spoken to his wife.’
DeKlerk shook his head.
‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘She’s not feeling too good.’
‘Really?’ said Bausen.
‘She’s in shock,’ said Beate Moerk. ‘We tried to talk to her – we were on the spot after all, Rooth and I – but we couldn’t get any sense out of her.’
‘Timing?’ wondered Van Veeteren.
Rooth wiped his mouth and consulted a sheet of paper.
‘She left the house at 16.13,’ he said. ‘Did a bit of shopping. Bought a few things at Merckx among other items, and was back home by 17.50. Went into the house and found him.’
‘Two hours, more or less,’ said deKlerk. ‘He had plenty of time. According to the pathologist it took him a quarter of an hour to die.’
‘Why did he take sleeping tablets?’ wondered Stiller.
‘To make it easier, one can assume,’ said deKlerk. ‘The stuff is called Softal: it’s one of those new drugs that won’t kill you, no matter how much of it you take . . . But if he took five tablets he must have been pretty far gone when he passed the point of no return. Lengthwise cuts as well, just as it says in the rulebook. And hot water makes the blood flow more easily as well . . .’
‘Seneca,’ muttered Van Veeteren. ‘A well tried and tested method. Any messages? Did he leave a note or anything?’
‘Nothing,’ said Rooth.
‘Nothing at all?’
‘Not so much as a word.’
Rooth held out the palms of his hands and tried to look apologetic.
‘Anyway,’ said deKlerk, taking over again. ‘No, this really was a bolt from the blue . . . Fru Nolan is lying asleep in hospital, but we must talk to her tomorrow morning, of course.’
‘Didn’t you get anything at all out of her?’ Bausen wondered, sounding slightly reproachful.
‘Very little,’ admitted Moerk. ‘I was in the car that took her to the hospital, and she really was in another world. No, he didn’t leave a single word behind, as Rooth says . . . and fru Nolan didn’t notice anything amiss when she was at home for that hour between three and four. At least, she shook her head when I asked about that. She didn’t seem to link the suicide with the fact that we had been to the gallery to talk to her . . . Not until shortly after I left her, in any case. Then she looked at me and asked . . .’
‘What?’ said Rooth. ‘What did she ask?’
‘She said: “Was he the one, then?” At least, I think that’s what she said . . . Her voice was very faint.’
‘“Was he the one, then?”’ repeated Münster. ‘Hmm, I take it you could have said yes . . . that it was him.’
Moerk nodded.
‘But I didn’t say anything,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I assume we’ll have a few things to explain to her tomorrow morning.’
‘A few things indeed,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘By God, yes.’
‘You don’t say,’ said Bausen.
Van Veeteren stubbed out his cigarette but didn’t elaborate on his thoughts. If indeed he had any.
‘Anyway, we can draw certain conclusions from this,’ said the chief of police. ‘Don’t you think? Nolan . . . Hennan . . . must have realized that we were on to him. Either his wife must have said something, ev
en if we have no evidence for assuming that, or . . . Well, I don’t really know.’
‘An implication might well have been enough,’ said Moerk. ‘Something she let slip without having realized it.’
‘Very possibly,’ said deKlerk. ‘And he might have noticed you and Rooth in the car outside as well. Anyway, he realized that the game was up, and decided to give up.’
He looked round in the hope of receiving support for this hypothesis, but only Probationer Stiller condescended to give him a vague nod.
‘What you say is right enough,’ said Münster after a few seconds of silence. ‘It’s just . . . just so damned untypical of G, that’s all. Giving up in a situation like this. When we have hardly an ounce of evidence and before we’ve asked him a single question. You can’t help wondering—’
Bausen interrupted him.
‘Maybe there were other things on the table as far as he was concerned,’ he suggested. ‘What if he had been leading a blameless life since that earlier episode, and then he suddenly finds his new identity exposed, the whole of his new existence . . . well, maybe that was simply too much for him? Could that have been possible? Fifteen years are fifteen years, after all.’
‘It wouldn’t be much fun to have to admit to your wife that you are not the person she thought you were,’ said Rooth. ‘That you’ve been in jail and suspected of three murders.’
‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ said Bausen. ‘It’s not a pleasant situation to be in. We’ve never actually had him found guilty of anything, but we’ve kept putting the kibosh on his marriages.’
‘He was frightened of being treated roughly, in other words,’ said Rooth thoughtfully. ‘We can be sure of that. Faint-hearted type.’
The chief of police leafed through his notes.
‘As for the question of how he . . . how he caught on to us,’ he said hesitantly, ‘I suppose we can have different theories about that. He did come eye to eye with Van Veeteren twice, of course . . . Did you get any feeling that he might have realized who you were?’
Van Veeteren clasped his hands behind his neck and closed his eyes for a few seconds before answering.
‘I can’t judge that,’ he said. ‘But there’s one thing I do know, and that is that during all the years I’ve spent as a police officer, I have never come across such a pointless and demeaning exit from this life. Never ever.’
‘What the hell can one expect from such a king-size prat as G?’ asked Rooth. ‘Maybe it was typical of him, when all is said and done?’
Nobody seemed to have anything to add to that, and as it was almost eleven o’clock, Chief of Police deKlerk proposed that all present should reconvene to discuss matters further tomorrow afternoon instead.
‘What about Elizabeth Nolan?’ asked Moerk.
‘I’ll take care of her,’ said deKlerk. ‘We’re expecting some more information from the pathologist tomorrow. And a response from England, with a bit of luck – although maybe that isn’t very important any more. In any case, we must conclude this case in accordance with the rulebook. Tie up all the loose ends. Don’t you think?’
‘Of course,’ said Rooth. ‘But on Monday we’re going home. I’m missing my pets so much.’
‘Have you got pets?’ asked Münster. ‘I thought you had got rid of that aquarium?’
‘Mites and bluebottles,’ Inspector Rooth informed him with a smile.
They emerged into the square under a clear and cloudless sky, and he explained to Bausen that he needed to go for a walk. Bausen looked for a moment as if he were going to object, but then shrugged and clambered into the car.
‘See you at breakfast, then,’ he said before closing the door. ‘Wake me up if you want some good advice.’
‘Thank you,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I’m going home tomorrow in any case.’
‘You can stay for as long as you like.’
‘I know. But this business seems to be over now. Go to bed and sleep well.’
Bausen nodded and drove off. Van Veeteren stood and watched the rear lights fade away in the direction of the dairy in Doomstraat. He hesitated for a moment, then set off in the direction of Leisnerparken and the Blue Ship.
I need a beer, he thought.
Maybe two.
It’s a damned shame that I don’t even have the strength to talk to Bausen.
The Blue Ship was relatively full – he reminded himself that it was Saturday evening after all – but even so he managed to find a table to himself in the small area between the bar and the restaurant itself.
He ordered a dark beer and lit a cigarette, and wondered how many he had smoked since hearing about the death of G that afternoon. It must be more than ten, he thought. That’s ridiculous – I shall give up altogether tomorrow.
He was still finding it hard to control all the emotions and thoughts flying around inside him.
Hard to accept the fact.
G was dead.
He had lain down in the bath, cut his wrists and left the stage. Dead!
It was as if . . . He just didn’t know what it was as if.
An opponent who no suddenly longer existed?
A chess player who no longer came to the table even though the game was still in progress? Simply because he didn’t want to any more.
Bad metaphors, he knew that: but he couldn’t find any others to express the strange, sterile irritation he felt.
Was this the last chapter in the G File? How could it be written like this? He had many diffuse images of alternatives, but one thing was clear: none of them was anything like this.
It would have been better if I’d been able to kill him myself, he thought grimly as he sank a deep swig of beer. Then at least I would have had a hand in it.
It was an appalling thought, of course, and said a lot about his true motives; but as usual it was presumably best to simply accept the fact.
Facing up to your own motives is painful – but if you are going to get anywhere, it’s the only way! So Mahler had once said – or written – and it was no doubt true. Cheating was easier, and you received no reward for not doing so.
Apart from recognizing your true self.
He drank more beer, and inhaled deeply several times. Spent a few seconds contemplating a man sitting alone at a table opposite him, fast asleep with his chin resting on his chest.
A mercy to pray for in silence? Van Veeteren wondered grimly.
And the vacuum! Jaan G. Hennan had left behind a vacuum, which was also remarkable. Of course it is possible to hate somebody who is dead, he decided, but it feels rather pointless.
It was as if G had somehow avoided his punishment, was it not? Yes, that was what it was all about, of course. In the end – despite the fact that he had lost the game – he had decided his own fate. Instead of granting vengeance to whomever it was due in the name of justice.
In other words, to Chief Inspector Van Veeteren.
Damn it all, he thought. If I were religious I could at least try to convince myself that vengeance was the Good Lord’s.
He drank the rest of his beer and ordered another one. I don’t even know how the murder of Barbara Hennan was achieved, it struck him. He wondered about that for a while. Maybe that was the worst thing of all, when all was said and done? The most humiliating and unacceptable. The fact that G had more or less confessed, but not explained how he had done it. Merely laughed scornfully and died.
Laughed scornfully and died? It sounded like the basis of a book title.
As far as one could ascertain, it seemed that only two people knew the answer to that question. Hennan and Verlangen. Both of them were dead. The game was over, and they had taken the knowledge with them to the grave. Nobody would ever know what had happened to that attractive American woman that evening in Linden fifteen years ago. That was the fact of the matter.
Or was it? Was there perhaps somebody left who knew? A perpetrator still alive? The accomplice?
God only knows, thought Van Veeteren, and then began to think
about what on earth they should say to Elizabeth Nolan when she woke up in her hospital bed.
The truth?
No doubt there were good reasons for keeping it from her. Parts of it, at least. It was easier to cheat a bit, as he had realized already: the truth was one thing, humanitarian action not necessarily the same.
Ah well, he thought. It’s not my problem. Every cloud . . .
He drank the second beer and smoked another cigarette. Observed the sleeping man for a while, and felt that he was also beginning to feel so numb that he might well be able to enjoy a few hours’ sleep as well. Despite everything.
And with that pious hope in the back of his mind, he left the Blue Ship.
When he got back to Bausen’s house it was a quarter to one. Bausen had gone to bed, and Van Veeteren crept into bed with a feeling of shame and a bad conscience with regard to his host.
I must try to make it up to him somehow before I go home tomorrow, he thought. It can’t be much fun to be lumbered with somebody like me, day out and day in.
Not much fun at all.
45
Beate Moerk had been looking forward to spending Sunday together with her husband and children, but as early as eight o’clock the chief of police telephoned her and asked her to accompany him to the hospital in order to speak to Elizabeth Nolan.
Moerk realized that what had suddenly become so desirable again was that famous feminine sensitivity, and for a moment she considered telling him to go to hell. But she managed to hold herself in check, and after a spot of arguing agreed on two hours in return for the promise of a whole day off in the coming week.
Franek was standing by the stove, preparing the morning gruel, while the discussions were taking place, and looked slightly worried – not for his own sake, she knew that, but for hers. As she replaced the receiver she wondered if there were other men around like him, or if – as her mother claimed at the time – she had been extremely lucky to find him.
But perhaps it was best to do as he always used to say: don’t worry about analysing good things, just hang on to them. That’s the most important thing.
