The G File

by Håkan Nesser

  The time of death seemed to be between 21.00 and 23.00. Hennan maintained that at this time he was in the restaurant Columbine in Linden; he had seen his wife alive for the last time at eight o’clock in the morning when she left home in order to drive to Aarlach. It was not known when she had arrived back home after that outing, nor how she had ended up in the empty swimming pool. All information received thus far had come from the said Jaan G. Hennan.

  Meusse’s brief statement merely confirmed that all fractures and injuries were consistent with the assumption that the dead woman had fallen (or dived, or been pushed) down into the pool; and that the alcohol level in her blood was 1.74 per mil.

  ‘So she was drunk,’ muttered the Chief Inspector when he had finished reading. ‘A drunk woman falls down into an empty swimming pool. Kindly explain to me why the Maardam CID has to be called out to assist in a situation like this!’

  ‘What about this Hennan character?’ wondered Münster. ‘Didn’t you say you couldn’t believe your eyes, or something of the sort?’

  Van Veeteren folded up the sheets of paper and put them in his briefcase.

  ‘G,’ he said. ‘That’s what we called him.’

  ‘G?’

  ‘Yes. I was at school with him. In the same class for six years.’

  ‘Really? Jaan G. Hennan. Why . . . er . . . why did he only have one letter, as it were?’

  ‘Because there were two,’ said Van Veeteren, adjusting a lever and leaning the back of his seat so far back that he was half-lying in the passenger seat. ‘Two boys with the same name – Jaan Hennan. The teachers had to distinguish between them, of course, and it always said Jaan G. Hennan on class lists or in class registers. If I remember rightly we called him Jaan G. for a week or so, and then after that it was just G. He quite liked it himself. I mean, he had the whole school’s simplest name.’

  ‘G?’ said Münster. ‘Yes, I have to say that it has . . . well, a sort of something to it.’

  The Chief Inspector nodded vaguely. Fished out a toothpick from his breast pocket and examined it carefully before sticking it between the front teeth of his lower jaw.

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘What was he like? What do you mean?’

  ‘What sort of a person was he then? G?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well, you seemed to suggest that there was something odd about him.’

  Van Veeteren turned his head and looked out through the passenger window for a while before answering. Tapped his fingertips against one another.

  ‘Münster,’ he said in the end. ‘Let’s keep this to ourselves for the time being, but I reckon Jaan G. Hennan is the most unpleasant bastard I have ever met in the whole of my life.’

  ‘What?’ said Münster.

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘Of course. It was as if . . . I mean, what does that imply in this context? It can’t be completely irrelevant, surely? If you—’

  ‘How are things with you and the family?’ said Van Veeteren, interrupting him. ‘Still as idyllic as ever?’

  The family? wondered Münster and increased his speed. Typical. If you’ve said A, under no circumstances must you say B.

  ‘As a man sows, so shall he reap,’ he said, and to his great surprise the Chief Inspector produced a noise faintly reminiscent of a laugh.

  Brief and half-swallowed, but still . . .

  ‘Bravo, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you a bit more about G on some later occasion, I promise you that. But I don’t want to rob you of the possibility of your forming an independent impression of him first. Is that okay with you?’

  Münster shrugged.

  ‘That’s okay with me,’ he said. ‘And that business of him being the biggest arsehole the world has ever seen, well, I’ve forgotten all about that already.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘No preconceived ideas – that is our credo in the police force. In any case, we’ll have a word with Chief of Police Sachs first. Whatever you do, don’t recall the fact that he recently had a cerebral haemorrhage when we meet him.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Münster. ‘An interesting call-out, this, no doubt about that.’

  ‘No doubt at all,’ agreed Van Veeteren.

  7

  On Friday Verlangen was woken up by a firework.

  It went off inside his own head, and its scintillations were somewhat monotonous – a non-stop battery of glowing white explosions. Let me die, he thought. Please God, let me die here and now.

  His prayers went unanswered. He carefully opened one eye in an attempt to pin down those two coordinates: here and now.

  Here turned out to be an unfamiliar room. Presumably in a hotel. He was lying in a bed amidst a mass of crumpled sheets and blankets, and didn’t recognize the location. The room looked comparatively neat and tidy, and warm morning sun was pouring in through the windows.

  Now was 09.01. There was an alarm clock on the bedside table, peeping away. He recognized it: it was his own travelling clock, bought at the Merckx supermarket a few months ago. Not that he did a lot of travelling, but you never know . . . Cost: 12.50.

  He thought for a moment. There was presumably a little button cunningly concealed at the back of the clock that could be used to switch the bloody thing off. He lashed out with his right fist and the clock fell on the floor and was silent. The effort increased the intensity of the explosions inside his head.

  Bloody hell, he thought. Here we go again. Where am I? What day is it?

  Three hours later he had accomplished a great deal.

  He had staggered to the bathroom, thrown up, had a pee and drunk a litre of water.

  And somehow swallowed three headache tablets.

  Found his way back to bed and fallen asleep again.

  This time it wasn’t the alarm clock that woke him up. It was a small, dark-skinned chambermaid who stood in the doorway, apologizing profusely.

  She was young and pretty, and he decided to make an effort to tell her so.

  You mustn’t apologize, he wanted to say. You are young and as fresh as a dew-covered lily . . . You are looking at a seventh-rate swine. Learn the lesson.

  But all he could produce was a hoarse whisper. His tongue was as supple as chicken wire; and the air coming from his tobacco-laden lungs, which was intended to create an attractive resonance in his dried-out vocal cords, was not much more than a hot puff from a dying desert fire.

  Shut the door so that you don’t have to look at me, he thought, and tried to do something with his face. To smile, or something of that sort. It hurt.

  Now she apologized again. Wasn’t he supposed to be checking out today? she wondered. Before eleven o’clock – that was the set time. Not just in this hotel, but in each one in the chain, as explained in the information leaflet.

  It was twelve noon now.

  He understood now. Bitch, he thought, and felt the iron band tightening around his head once more. You were just an illusion, you as well.

  ‘Ten minutes,’ he managed to croak. ‘Give me ten minutes.’

  She nodded and left. Verlangen took a deep breath. Uneasy squeaking sounds emerged from his bronchial tubes. He rolled out of bed and staggered into the bathroom.

  He had a simple brunch at a cafe by the name of Henry’s. Two cups of black coffee, a beer and a small bottle of Vichy water. The fog inside his head slowly dispersed, and when he managed to smoke a cigarette as well, he began to realize at last that he was probably going to survive today.

  Whatever good that would do him.

  Thanks to the blessed return of nicotine into his veins, he found himself able to recall what had happened the previous day – certain parts of it, at least – and the role he had to play in this hellish dump of a town.

  Linden, for Christ’s sake, he thought. I’ve never felt so awful as I do here.

  He left Henry’s after half an hour, managed to find his Toyota in the hotel car park, flung his bag onto the back seat and walk
ed past Aldemarckt to Landemaarstraat and Hennan’s office. It was a little cooler today, thank God: clouds had started to build up from the south-west, and if he hadn’t misjudged all the signs it would start raining before this evening.

  He stopped at his usual place and contemplated the characterless windows above the row of shops. Checked his watch: a quarter to two. One could hardly claim that he had fulfilled his guard duties all that efficiently or enthusiastically today.

  He remembered that he had promised to give Barbara Hennan some kind of report, and spent some time wondering how he was going to present it.

  What the hell could he say?

  That he had sat for a few hours fraternizing with his quarry? Drunk whisky after whisky after whisky with him in that confounded restaurant, whatever it was called? Eventually collapsed into bed as drunk as a lord at God only knows what time. Always assuming that God had been awake then to notice.

  It was hardly the sort of thing one expected of a serious private detective – even Maarten Verlangen could see that.

  At least he hadn’t given himself away, he was sure of that. Despite everything he’d had the presence of mind not to tell Hennan that his precious wife had hired him as a private dick in order to find out what her husband was up to when she was unable to keep an eye on him herself. It was crucial that he shouldn’t give himself away on that score, and he hadn’t done so.

  So all was well in that respect. But what would he be able to say about the current situation?

  That he had spent half the day in bed with a third-degree hangover that unfortunately prevented him from working as usual? That he didn’t have the slightest idea where his quarry was at the moment?

  Would Barbara Hennan really be interested in continuing to employ him after such obvious negligence? And pay him for his efforts? Hardly.

  So what should he do?

  The car, he thought! Hennan’s blue Saab.

  Of course. Verlangen lit a cigarette and began walking optimistically around the block. If Hennan was in his office, the car would be parked somewhere close by. As sure as amen in church and the whores in Zwille.

  After quite some time walking around the central parts of Linden, Verlangen was able to state with confidence that Hennan’s car was nowhere to be seen. Nowhere was there a well-polished blue Saab – two other Saabs, but neither of them blue and neither of them noticeably well polished.

  It looked as if Hennan hadn’t come to the office today, in other words. A conclusion that fitted in well with last night’s intake of whisky, Verlangen decided, and, after the purchase of a new bottle of soda water at the kiosk in the square, he sat down on a bench to think things over. He didn’t have the telephone number of Hennan’s company, didn’t even know what it was called, so there was no chance of getting in touch with him in that way.

  He emptied the bottle of soda water in two swigs, and belched loudly. He remained sitting on the bench for a while until he seemed to feel a drop of rain on the back of his hand, and decided to take a chance and make contact with his employer. He might as well take the bull by the horns, he thought.

  Always assuming he wanted to continue coiling in these easily earned payments, and he did.

  Once again he rang from the kiosk outside the butcher’s shop. He let it ring ten times, then concluded that nobody was at home in Villa Zefyr. Or that nobody intended to answer the telephone, at least. He left the kiosk and put his hands in his pockets. It had turned three now, and it seemed pointless to waste any more energy on Hennan than he had already used up today. Especially as at the moment he had extremely limited resources of energy and patience.

  Because of the circumstances.

  And because it was now raining properly. Not all that heavily, but persistently and penetratingly. He decided to have something to eat, then go home. His agreement with Barbara Hennan dictated that he should only keep watch over Jaan G. on weekdays: there were only a couple of hours left until Friday evening, and so if he made another attempt to telephone her from Maardam, he could then pack up for the weekend and start work again on Monday morning. All bushy-tailed and raring to go.

  No sooner said than done. He had a mediocre pizza at the Ristorante Goldoni, drank a large beer, and felt that his spirits were beginning to perk up again. At a quarter to five he clambered into his faithful Toyota, switched on the engine and set off for Maardam.

  An hour later he made another attempt to call Villa Zefyr, but again nobody answered; and since nothing seemed to be working this godforsaken Friday, he went to bed shortly after nine o’clock.

  A working week in the life of Private Detective Maarten Verlangen had come to an end.

  ‘An accident,’ said Chief Inspector Sachs, stroking his fingers carefully over his thin moustache. ‘That is obviously the most likely explanation. But of course, you never know.’

  ‘Very true,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Maybe you could give us a summary in broad outline? We shall be talking to Hennan later, of course, but it’s always good to know the lie of the land before you actually walk on it. As it were.’

  Sachs cleared his throat.

  ‘Yes, of course. Incidents like this when somebody falls and kills him or herself are very tricky.’

  ‘Tricky?’

  ‘Tricky, yes. Let’s assume that A and B are standing on a balcony high up in a skyscraper – or on the edge of a precipice, or anywhere at all. A few seconds later B is lying dead fifty metres lower down. How the hell can you prove that A pushed him?’

  Van Veeteren nodded.

  ‘Or that he didn’t push him.’

  ‘Motive,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘You find out if there is a motive. If there is, you keep on interrogating the suspect until he gives up. There’s no other way – no better one, at least.’

  ‘But in this case,’ said Münster, ‘she was alone in the house, wasn’t she?’

  ‘As far as we know, yes,’ said Sachs. ‘But that’s only because nothing suggests otherwise so far. Fru Hennan seems to have been sitting around drinking, all by herself, and then got it into her head that she should go for a swim . . . Alternatively to take her own life by diving down into the empty swimming pool.’

  Van Veeteren took a drink from his mug of coffee, and produced a toothpick.

  ‘Not all that likely,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ wondered Sachs.

  ‘That she took her own life. How was she dressed?’

  ‘Swimming costume. A red swimming costume. You mean that . . . ?’

  ‘Yes. In the first place it’s a damned unpleasant way of dying. And uncertain.’

  ‘I don’t know if—’

  ‘There’s a distinct risk that you might survive,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘And in all probability that would mean you’d be crippled for the rest of your life. A wheelchair would be the very least you could expect.’

  ‘I’m with you. It’s a point of view, of course.’

  ‘But if we assume she did decide to do that anyway, why the hell would she put on a swimming costume?’

  Nobody spoke for several seconds.

  ‘Because she wanted it to look like an accident,’ suggested Münster.

  ‘Not impossible,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘We’ll see eventually if there’s anything to support such an alternative, but for the moment it would surely make more sense to hear a summary of the situation, as I said before. The Hennans’ circumstances, that sort of thing – assuming that you have had time to gather a few details.’

  Sachs nodded and put on a pair of thin reading glasses. He thumbed back and forth once or twice in the notebook lying on the table in front of him.

  ‘There isn’t a lot,’ he explained apologetically. ‘The Hennans have only been living here since April. Barely two months. They arrived from the USA in the middle of March and stayed at a hotel in Maardam for a week or two while they were looking for a house to rent – obviously this is information I was given by Hennan himself, but I can’t see that there’s any reason to question it.’
/>   ‘Not so far,’ agreed Van Veeteren.

  ‘He was born here in Maardam, but he has spent the last ten years in various places in the States. New York. Cleveland. Austin. Denver. He has a company registered here in Linden under the name G Enterprises. There is an office in Landemaarstraat only a stone’s throw from here. So he’s some sort of businessman. According to what he says, he has always indulged in that kind of activity. He and his wife chose to move to Europe because trading conditions are better here, or so he says. I don’t know, I’m not all that well up in that kind of thing . . .’

  ‘I think we can forgive you for that,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But we know what kind of business he indulged in before he crossed over the Atlantic: mind you, it’s possible that he’s cleaned up his act since then. What do we know about his wife? They met and got married in Denver, is that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sachs confirmed. ‘Barbara Clarissa, née Delgado. Fifteen years younger than her husband. We don’t know anything about her, but I expect we shall be able to dig out some information . . . In any case, they rented that house in Kammerweg. The owner is called Tieleberg, and lives somewhere in Spain. It’s probably one of the most expensive homes in the whole of Linden, to tell you the truth. Eight or ten rooms plus kitchen, a few thousand square metres of garden, and a completely private situation – and with a swimming pool and diving tower. Kammerweg is where the crème de la crème live. He must be rather well off, this Hennan.’

  ‘Hmm,’ muttered Van Veeteren crossly, and broke off the toothpick. ‘And what does he have to say about this so-called accident?’

  ‘That it definitely was an accident. He’s absolutely certain of that. His wife had no reason to take her own life, and as for somebody pushing her down – who could that have possibly been? She knew next to nobody. And why? Hennan says that they had an excellent relationship. He loved her, she loved him . . . They’d been married for just over two years, and were thinking about having children soon. She was only thirty-four, after all.’