The G File

by Håkan Nesser

  Van Veeteren worked away at his lower jaw for a while with a new toothpick before answering.

  ‘That’s among the most unlikely thing I’ve heard since Renate got it into her head that . . . anyway, that’s irrelevant. What the devil do you mean?’

  ‘I did say that it was a bit forced.’

  ‘Do you know how G travelled home that night?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Taxi. He took a taxi. Are you suggesting that he stuffed her into a body bag and put her in the back seat, and then got the driver to help him carry her into the house?’

  ‘Stop,’ said Münster. ‘We haven’t yet had it confirmed that he really did take a taxi, have we? We only know that he said he did.’

  Van Veeteren eyed him critically.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You have a point. We can check with Meusse if the injuries could have been caused by something different from the fall. We need to do that in any case, of course. But if it did happen in the way you describe, I hereby promise to clip your toenails for a whole year.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Münster. ‘I look forward to that. But you’re the one who’s so keen to get G locked up, not me.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘We’re only discussing matters hypothetically, I thought you were capable of doing that. You have to try out any number of theories – if you don’t do that, you’ll never get anywhere.’

  Münster remained seated for a few seconds, thinking things over. Then he stood up.

  ‘I have quite a lot of other things to see to, if you’ll excuse me. Shall I tell you what I really think about Barbara Hennan’s death?’

  ‘If you feel you have to.’

  ‘Thank you. An accident. As clear as crystal. The Chief Inspector can put away all his nail scissors.’

  Van Veeteren snorted.

  ‘Inspector Münster, bear in mind that you are not employed in the CID to investigate accidents. Your job is to uncover and fight crimes. Not to turn a blind eye to them.’

  ‘Understood,’ said Münster. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘And to play badminton with your immediate superior. When do you have time? Tomorrow afternoon?’

  ‘Understood,’ said Münster again, and slunk out through the door.

  He’s getting better and better, thought the Chief Inspector when he was on his own. In fact.

  But then, he has such a good mentor.

  Inspector Münster had been working for the Maardam police for just over ten years, but had only been a detective officer for three. He moved to the CID at around about the same time as Van Veeteren took over from old Chief Inspector Mort, and Van Veeteren had noticed – especially during the last year – that more and more frequently Münster was the one he most wanted to have around. In cases where it was possible to pick and choose among colleagues, he almost always chose Münster.

  There was nothing seriously wrong with Reinhart, deBries, Rooth, Nielsen or Heinemann, of course, but it was only with Münster that he could develop the mutually fruitful teacher–pupil relationship – a game that was all too often misunderstood nowadays, he thought, and which he no doubt linked with Hesse’s Das Glasperlenspiel – a work he assumed would never appear on any reading list for courses on criminology.

  And which didn’t really fit in exactly with the slightly dissonant tone which occasionally seemed to arise between them as if they were two unequal siblings.

  Enough of that, he thought, looking out over the town, which was once again bathed in generous sunshine. Speculations and would-be-wise psychology. And this was not a good time to be thinking about Hesse, in fact. Nor Münster, come to that. It would be better to try to find a way of handling that confounded G.

  He realized that this was also easier said than done, put on his jacket and went down to the canteen for a coffee.

  Verlangen drove slowly past Villa Zefyr and stopped fifty metres further on. Sat at the wheel for five minutes while he smoked a cigarette and wondered what to do. Had the distinct feeling that he ought not to do anything rash. Not to draw any conclusions before he was certain about the basic facts.

  Was it Barbara Hennan who died last Thursday evening, or was the newspaper article about some entirely different woman?

  During the drive from Maardam he had wondered how best to go about finding out the answer to that question, but no simple, straightforward course of action had sprung to mind.

  He could phone one of the editors on the local newspaper, of course, but in all probability they would decline to release the name of the woman involved.

  He could march in on Jaan G. Hennan and ask him straight out, but something about this bold initiative scared him. Instinctively. When he thought more closely about it, he also realized that his fear could well be justified. From a purely objective point of view. If Barbara Hennan really was dead, there was obviously something fishy going on. She had commissioned a private detective to shadow her husband, and even if the newspapers said that the police did not suspect foul play – well, come off it! Maarten Verlangen was not born yesterday. Far from it. Hennan was a slimy customer – had been just that twelve years ago, and his behaviour at the Columbine had hardly indicated any improvement in his character.

  Just trudging into Villa Zefyr like an innocent Jehovah’s Witness seemed an excessively naive thing to do. Not to say stupid.

  What other possibilities were there?

  He could telephone the police and spin them a yarn. That might be a reasonable alternative, provided he could find a satisfactory yarn. But there was another way that seemed significantly easier, and which he decided to try first.

  The neighbours.

  Neighbours always knew everything, that was an old and reliable rule. Verlangen got out of his car and headed for Villa Vigali, which was evidently what the Trottas’ house was called. It was the only plot adjacent to that of the Hennans, and as Barbara Hennan had said that they had made social contact with the Trottas, it would be very odd if they knew nothing at all about what had happened on Thursday night.

  What might well have happened, that is.

  He crossed over the street and passed by Villa Zefyr again, this time on foot. At that very moment a black Peugeot approached from the opposite direction and came to a halt just outside the entrance to the neighbouring house. A man in a dark suit got out – and even if Verlangen had not had the background he did have, he would have had no trouble at all in identifying him as a police officer. Without so much as a glance in any direction the man strode in between the brick pillars that marked the entrance to Villa Vigali, and was soon swallowed up by the luxuriant greenery inside the grounds. Verlangen stopped in mid-stride.

  Oh dear, he thought. Perhaps this isn’t the best time for them to receive another visitor.

  But on the other hand: if a CID officer felt obliged to pay a visit to Barbara Hennan’s neighbours, that surely indicated that he didn’t need to bother to go to the same trouble. The situation was crystal clear.

  He returned to his car. Made a U-turn and set off back to the centre of town. A quarter of an hour later he telephoned the police station from a kiosk outside the railway station. A female secretary answered, and he asked to speak to the chief of police.

  He had to wait for a minute, but then had Chief Inspector Sachs on the line.

  ‘Good morning, my name is Edward Stroop,’ explained Verlangen in a friendly tone. ‘I have some information to give you about the Barbara Hennan case.’

  Silence for three seconds.

  ‘I see,’ said the chief of police eventually. ‘Are you in Linden?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I ask you to come to the police station as quickly as possible?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Verlangen, and hung up.

  So everything was clear. Crystal clear. His employer, Barbara Clarissa Hennan, had met her maker at the bottom of an empty swimming pool. Verlangen left the station building and remained standing for a couple of minutes on the steps while he lit a ciga
rette and wondered what to do next.

  And what the hell was going on.

  10

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Münster. ‘Of course I know about that. I know the Linden police have already been here and spoken to you, but I’m from the Maardam CID. My chief inspector is a very meticulous gentleman, and he insisted that we also ought to have a chat with you. I trust you have nothing against our trying to do our job as well as we can?’

  Amelia Trotta eyed him doubtfully. Her large, smooth face looked worried, despite the fact that there wasn’t the slightest trace of a wrinkle in it anywhere. Her shoulder-length hair, dyed blonde, was immaculate and reminded Münster of a forgotten, clean-living film star from his early teens. He assumed that was roughly the impression fru Trotta was trying to give. Or had tried – now she was about forty-five, large and somewhat irritated.

  ‘What’s the point?’ she asked. ‘I have nothing useful to say.’

  She made a vague sort of gesture that could mean anything at all. Münster made the most of the opportunity and walked past her into the living room.

  ‘He’s very insistent, my boss,’ he said apologetically and sat down in a cretonne armchair. ‘And he’s known for leaving nothing to chance.’

  She nodded doubtfully and sat down on the edge of cretonne armchair number two. Smoothed down a few creases in her dress and sighed.

  ‘Just a few minutes, then,’ she said. ‘I have quite a few things to see to.’

  Münster took a notebook and pen out of his briefcase.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I shall try to be brief. Anyway, Barbara Hennan. How well did you know her?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Trotta.

  ‘Not at all?’

  ‘Well, hardly. As I explained to the inspectors who were here yesterday. We’ve been living here for fifteen years, the Hennans moved in in April. We’ve had dinner in each other’s house, but that’s all. The sort of thing you do as good neighbours.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Münster. ‘And were they?’

  ‘Were they what?’

  ‘Good neighbours.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Suppose?’

  ‘Yes. There was nothing for us to complain about. It’s just that they weren’t really our style.’

  ‘I see,’ said Münster non-committally, taking a quick look round the spacious, very tidy room. Sofa with matching armchairs, and television. Two large, pale oil paintings, their colours matching the upholstery and the curtains. And a set of bookcases in solid oak containing all kinds of things but no books.

  Style? he thought. Hmm.

  ‘What do you think about the accident?’

  Fru Trotta tried once again to frown.

  ‘I don’t think anything at all, of course,’ she said. ‘What is there to think?’

  ‘Do you know if fru Hennan might have been depressed?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Why do you ask that?’

  ‘There’s always a possibility that she might have arranged the accident, as it were.’

  ‘That she took her own life, you mean?’

  ‘We can’t exclude that possibility. It’s a very odd way to die, don’t you think?’

  Amelia Trotta spent a few seconds thinking over how to answer that.

  ‘People do die in odd ways nowadays.’

  Nowadays? Münster thought. Hmm, I suppose she might be right. He recalled having read not long ago about a prostitute in Oosterdam choking herself to death on a condom.

  ‘Did you like her?’ he asked.

  She shrugged once again.

  ‘Not all that much then?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve already said that we didn’t know them. Neither him nor her.’

  ‘But you had no desire to expand your contact with them, beyond being good neighbours?’

  She hesitated for a moment.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I suppose we didn’t.’

  ‘Your husband as well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Münster waited.

  ‘There was something . . . something cheap about them.’

  ‘Cheap? What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I’m sure you understand what I mean.’

  ‘No,’ said Münster frankly. ‘Can you explain in a little more detail?’

  She sighed, and moved further back in the armchair.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘You just noticed it. She was tattooed, for instance.’

  ‘Tattooed?’ said Münster.

  ‘Here,’ said Trotta, pointing at a spot high up on her left arm, under the sleeve of her dress. ‘A bird or something. You can say what you like about tattoos, but it’s not attractive.’

  Münster nodded and made a note.

  ‘When did you see her last?’

  ‘On Saturday.’

  ‘On Saturday?’ said Münster in surprise. ‘She was already dead then.’

  ‘I know that, of course. But I was at the mortuary to identify her. There has to be somebody from outside the family as well.’

  ‘In certain circumstances, yes,’ said Münster. ‘But let’s concentrate on the living. When did you last see her before the accident?’

  ‘The same morning that she died,’ said fru Trotta without hesitation. ‘Shortly after eight o’clock. She drove off towards town. We just said hello – I was out with Ray.’

  ‘Ray?’

  ‘Our dog. A Pomeranian.’

  ‘I see,’ said Münster. ‘And you never saw her again after that?’

  ‘Not until I identified her at the mortuary.’

  ‘And herr Hennan. What about him?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Did you see him at all on Thursday?’

  ‘No. As you might have noticed, we can’t see into each other’s gardens.’

  ‘Yes, I have noted that,’ said Münster. ‘They had two cars, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said fru Trotta, as if fewer vehicles than that was unthinkable in Kammerweg. ‘A Saab and a little Japanese thing. She used to drive the little one.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Münster. ‘Of course. Were you at home on Thursday evening?’

  ‘We were at a little party arranged by some good friends of ours, but we were back home by about ten. The girls need a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘I’m sure they do,’ agreed Münster. ‘Did you notice anything unusual about Villa Zefyr when you came home?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor later on that evening?’

  ‘Nothing at all. We can’t see into their garden, as I’ve said.’

  ‘Did you see if anybody was at home? If there were lights on, anything like that?’

  ‘As I keep saying, we can’t see into their garden. We can’t see from here if there are any lights on or not.’

  She was becoming irritated again. Münster looked down at his notebook and thought for a few seconds.

  ‘Jaan G. Hennan,’ he said eventually. ‘Could you give me your personal opinion of him?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m asking you to.’

  She considered that weighty argument for some time, while examining her fingernails – of which there were ten, varnished beige.

  ‘He’s not our type.’

  ‘I’ve gathered that. Could you be a bit more precise?’

  ‘Not our type at all. Pushy and . . . well, unreliable. He doesn’t create a pleasant impression.’

  ‘Impertinent?’ wondered Münster.

  ‘Maybe not quite that. But our girls don’t like him. They can usually detect that kind of thing. Do you have children of your own?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Münster. ‘A little boy. Do you know anything about Hennan’s background?’

  ‘Only that he’s lived in America for ten years. Some kind of businessman.’

  ‘What was the relationship like between herr and fru Hennan? Did you notice anything at all?’

  She scraped a speck of something from off her
little fingernail before answering.

  ‘She was more or less the same as him,’ she said. ‘They seemed to suit each other. Mind you, he was older, of course.’

  ‘But no dissension, as far as you know?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I don’t think so. But it wouldn’t surprise me. Are you suggesting that . . . that he might have had something to do with her death?’

  She tried to ask that question in the same neutral tone of voice she had been using throughout their conversation, but Münster could hear undertones of fascinated interest.

  ‘We are not excluding the possibility,’ he said. ‘My boss doesn’t like excluding any possibilities at all.’

  ‘I see,’ said Trotta, and forgot for a second to close her mouth.

  ‘But nothing dramatic?’ Münster asked. ‘No quarrels or anything like that you happened to be present at?’

  It was obvious that fru Trotta would have liked nothing better than to have witnessed a quarrel between her neighbours. She sat in silence for a few seconds, scouring her memory – but soon her better self took command.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Nothing like that. Mind you . . . mind you, it’s a long way from here to their house, as I’ve said.’

  Münster nodded.

  ‘Did they drink?’ he asked. ‘To excess, I mean.’

  Amelia Trotta was unable to provide any dramatic information on that point either. Instead she sighed, and looked at the clock.

  ‘I think . . .’ she began, but then lost the thread, overcome once again by that tantalizing possibility. ‘Surely you don’t think . . . ?’ she wondered instead. ‘Surely you can’t seriously think that . . . ?’

  She was unable to put her question into words, but the thought remained suspended over the table in that neat and tidy living room. Like a ketchup stain on a white linen tablecloth, Münster thought as he prepared to take his leave of the idyll.

  ‘We have no definite theories as yet,’ he explained, rising to his feet. ‘But exploring various possibilities is a part of our work in the CID. I might want to have a chat with your husband in due course – do you think he would have any objections to that?’

  ‘I’ll warn him,’ said fru Trotta, showing willing to assist. ‘But he’s away on his travels quite a lot, so you’ll need to arrange a time well in advance. He’s a pilot.’