The G File

by Håkan Nesser

  ‘I appreciate the problems,’ said Münster. ‘What’s your profession?’

  ‘I’m a dermatologist,’ said Trotta, standing up straight. ‘But I’m at home for as long as the girls are at school. They need to have me around.’

  I wonder, thought Münster, trying to recall what on earth a dermatologist did. Something to do with skin, he thought. But it might just as well be freshwater fish, or mites.

  He decided to look it up when he had the chance. Then he thanked fru Trotta for being so helpful, and left Villa Vengali. As he walked through the garden, he had confirmation of what she had said about visibility between the two houses. He couldn’t see so much as a glimpse of the light-blue facade of Villa Zefyr. Only a narrow strip of the white-painted diving tower could be made out through a narrow gap in the thick mass of greenery.

  It’s reminiscent of this case as a whole, he thought as he clambered into his car. The bottom line is we can’t see much at all.

  Van Veeteren stared at a broken toothpick he was holding in his left hand.

  In his right hand he was holding a telephone receiver, and that was what he really wanted to be staring at. But since his physiognomy, in some respects at least, was quite normal, that was an impossibility.

  Assuming, that is, that he didn’t want to prevent himself from hearing Chief Inspector Sachs’s voice: and he didn’t. Not in these circumstances.

  ‘What the hell are you saying?’ he bellowed. ‘A gumshoe?’

  ‘Verlangen,’ said Sachs. ‘His name is Maarten Verlangen. He used to work for you in the past, he claims.’

  ‘I couldn’t care less if he did,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But he says he’s been commissioned to keep an eye on Jaan G. Hennan, is that right?’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ said Sachs. ‘Commissioned by his wife – the woman who’s now dead. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday last week – although he wasn’t exactly overworked on Friday. The devil only knows what this means, but the most remarkable thing is that he was sitting there keeping Hennan under observation all last Thursday evening and into the early hours. At that restaurant. Columbine’s. Well, I have to say I don’t know how we should interpret that . . .’

  ‘Interpret!’ snorted Van Veeteren. ‘We’re not going to interpret anything. Where is he?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The gumshoe, of course. Where is he now?’

  ‘Er. . . .’ said Chief Inspector Sachs.

  ‘What?’ said Chief Inspector Van Veeteren. ‘Speak up!’

  ‘He . . . He’s left. But I—’

  ‘You mean you’ve let him go? What the hell . . . ?’

  ‘I have his name and telephone number, of course. I said we’d be in touch.’

  Van Veeteren crumpled up the remains of the toothpick and stabbed himself in the thumb.

  ‘Ow!’ he groaned. ‘What else did he say? Surely he must have had something to—’

  ‘Not a lot,’ interrupted Sachs. ‘He had no idea why he was supposed to be shadowing Hennan. Apparently he spent most of the time in his car, gaping up at Hennan’s office window. Apart from Thursday evening, that is.’

  ‘And it was Barbara Hennan who employed him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He didn’t know, as I said.’

  ‘I’m not deaf. What did he think?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘No, that’s what he said . . .’

  ‘Stupid berk. Anyway, let’s have his telephone number so that we can sort this mess out.’

  ‘By all means, here we go,’ said Chief Inspector Sachs, and read out Maarten Verlangen’s numbers, to both his home and his office.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘That’ll be all for now, I’ve no more time to waste on you.’

  He started with the home number.

  No reply.

  Then the office number.

  No reply – apart from a recorded message regretting that Verlangen’s Detective Agency was closed at the moment, but that they accepted commissions of all kinds at reasonable prices, and that callers could leave a message after the tone.

  Van Veeteren thought carefully about the wording of his message while he was waiting for the tone.

  ‘Maarten Verlangen,’ he growled when the peep eventually sounded. ‘If you are keen to carry on living, for God’s sake make sure that you contact Chief Inspector Van Veeteren at Maardam CID. Immediately!’

  He remained sitting there for a while, cursing to himself and contemplating his injured thumb – until the reality behind Chief Inspector Sachs’s revelation slowly but surely calmed him down.

  The actual content of the message – the fact that the dead woman, the corpse in a bathing costume lying on the bottom of that confounded swimming pool in Linden, had hired a private detective just a few days before she died.

  A private dick who was supposed to keep an eye on what her husband was getting up to. That accursed Jaan G. Hennan!

  Van Veeteren rummaged around, produced a cigarette, and lit it. What the hell? he thought. What the hell does this mean? Let’s face it, she must . . . she must have suspected something. Isn’t that what it must mean? Come on, ring damn you, you godforsaken gumshoe!

  He glared at the silent telephone. Realized that it was barely a minute since he recorded his hard-hitting message, and that one could scarcely expect Verlangen to turn up at his office with such exemplary timing. He inhaled deeply and checked his watch.

  Half past two. High time he set off for his badminton match with Münster, in other words. He stubbed out his cigarette, stood up and dug out his racket and his sports bag from the cupboard.

  Look out, Inspector, he thought. I’m not to be trifled with today.

  On his way down in the lift, it dawned on him that he knew who Maarten Verlangen was. And why he had left the force.

  11

  When Verlangen left the police station in Linden, he had had three more or less incompatible feelings inside him.

  The first was that it was a relief to have this confounded Hennan business off his back. It was precisely a week since the beautiful American woman had turned up at his office: now she was dead, and what had actually happened was a matter for the police to sort out, not Maarten Baudewijn Verlangen.

  The second was that he felt somehow empty deep down inside. As if he had given up something: it was not clear what, exactly, but he could hardly deny that he had somehow failed in his task. If a private detective had any sort of moral function in a society, it was to be able to step in and put things to rights when the police force had failed to do so. That was how he usually justified his existence, at least, when he needed to boost his ego and stiffen his backbone.

  His theoretical backbone. You have to take life as it comes, and Maarten Verlangen understood the importance of adjusting his motives in order to cope with it. He was no better or worse on that score than any other so-called honest, upright citizen.

  But when it came to Barbara Hennan, he had failed to live up to his principles, that could hardly be denied. She had come to him with a somewhat obscure cry for help: he had done absolutely nothing, now she was dead, and he had shuffled off the responsibility into the hands of the police. Whatever it was, it was not an honourable retreat.

  Damn and blast, he thought. I’m a seventh-rate shit.

  The third feeling was of a more trivial, everyday kind. He was thirsty. He was absolutely desperate for a large beer, and before he drove back to Maardam he dropped in at Henry’s bar and ensured that, if nothing else, that particular problem was solved.

  Every cloud has a silver lining, he thought. One thing at a time.

  Director Kooperdijk at the insurance company F/B Trustor was reminiscent of a little bull.

  He was also reminiscent of – and indeed could almost have been mistaken for – Verlangen’s former father-in-law, and it was always with a feeling of unease that he tried to cope with the strength emanating from those steel-blue eyes. The man a
s a whole radiated energy that was so intense, it could not be suppressed. It occasionally forced its way out in the form of aggression or insults. A sort of safety valve, Verlangen used to think. To prevent him from boiling over. Martha’s time bomb of a father had been just the same: if there was one thing about which he had no regrets after the divorce it was the end of the confrontations – and the far from subtle insinuations about his son-in-law’s shortcomings and negligence – at the obligatory monthly Sunday dinners in their large mansion up in Loewingen.

  Another case of every cloud . . .

  But Kooperdijk’s pistol-like gaze over the desk in the luxurious office in Keymer Plejn always reminded him of it.

  Like now. It was half past two in the afternoon: Verlangen had arrived fifteen minutes late, and blamed parking problems in the centre of town as it would have been a tactical error to admit that what had actually delayed him was the beer at Henry’s bar.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Kooperdijk. ‘We have a problem.’

  Verlangen sat down in the low armchair in front of the desk. The director’s chair was at least fifteen centimetres higher, which was of course no accident.

  ‘A problem?’ said Verlangen, popping two throat tablets into his mouth. ‘What kind of a problem?’

  ‘Two problems, in fact,’ said Kooperdijk.

  ‘You don’t say,’ said Verlangen.

  ‘The first has to do with your work.’

  ‘My work?’

  ‘The so-called work you do for us. We have begun to reassess the situation. It leaves much to be desired.’

  ‘My understanding is that my input has been satisfactory,’ said Verlangen.

  ‘That is debatable.’

  ‘I don’t follow you,’ said Verlangen. Come to the point, you little twerp, he thought.

  ‘I can understand that most of what you have done has been satisfactory from your point of view,’ said Kooperdijk, clasping his hands in front of him on the desk. ‘But not always from ours.’

  ‘For example?’ wondered Verlangen.

  ‘The Westergaade affair,’ said Kooperdijk. ‘Not exactly satisfactorily concluded. That business with the firm of solicitors. Not satisfactory at all.’

  Verlangen thought.

  ‘You can’t expect me to produce rats when there is no smell of any rats,’ he said.

  ‘Oh no?’ said Kooperdijk without moving a muscle. ‘That is no doubt a point of view that can be debated. And then there is the matter of your personal conduct.’

  ‘What?’ said Verlangen, trying to sit up in the chair so that his eyes were at least level with the desk top. ‘My personal . . .’

  Kooperdijk leaned forward, resting on his elbows.

  ‘Fru Donck, one of our investigators, saw you at Oldener Maas two weeks ago. Your behaviour did not show you in a favourable light.’

  Verlangen said nothing.

  ‘In fact, you were as drunk as a lord, she says. Apparently you molested her companion in the bar.’

  Isn’t that why women sit in bars? thought Verlangen, sinking back down into his armchair. In order to be molested?

  ‘There must be some kind of misunderstanding,’ he said.

  ‘No doubt,’ said Kooperdijk. ‘The question is, on whose part?’

  Verlangen closed his eyes for a second and wondered if he ought simply to stand up and leave. He suddenly found himself wishing he were on some Greek island. But not Crete, he’d had enough of minotaurs.

  ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘It won’t be repeated.’

  ‘Presumably not,’ said Kooperdijk. ‘In any case, we are wondering whether we really want to make use of your services in future. Have you any comments to make in that respect?’

  ‘None at all,’ said Verlangen.

  ‘Unless, of course, we begin to detect signs of some sort of improvement. That would naturally put things in an entirely different light.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Verlangen.

  ‘But as I said, we have another little problem.’

  ‘Yes, I recall your saying that.’

  ‘Or rather, a big problem.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘If you could pull something out of the hat in connection with this matter, then of course that would change the situation quite a lot.’

  Verlangen cleared his throat. As it was forbidden to smoke in the presence of Kooperdijk, he popped two more throat tablets into his mouth.

  ‘Let’s hear it, then,’ he said optimistically. ‘A big problem?’

  Kooperdijk opened a red file and produced a sheet of paper. He made heavy weather of putting on a pair of reading glasses, which made his bull-like physiognomy look slightly less aggressive.

  ‘Harrumph!’ he said. ‘A life insurance matter. Rather expensive, if we don’t play our cards right.’

  Verlangen waited.

  ‘One point two million, to be precise.’

  ‘One point . . . ?’

  ‘. . . Two, yes. A lot of money. A hell of a lot too much money. And there’s a strong smell of rat, to quote a dodgy source. A bloody enormous rat, by the look of things.’

  ‘Really?’ said Verlangen. ‘Well, if this is how the land lies, then of course I’m prepared to do whatever I can. What does it look like?’

  Kooperdijk removed his reading glasses.

  ‘It doesn’t look good,’ he said. ‘Not good at all. We signed up to a life insurance policy for a certain person a month ago. The first instalment was duly paid, no problem: but now it seems that the insured person has passed on.’

  ‘Died, you mean?’ said Verlangen.

  ‘Yes, died,’ said Kooperdijk, blowing his nose into a multicoloured handkerchief he took out of his trouser pocket. ‘Expired. Given up the ghost, shuffled off this mortal coil. However the hell you might like to put it.’

  ‘I’m with you,’ said Verlangen.

  ‘Trustor has always maintained high standards,’ said Kooperdijk, looking up in the direction of the array of diplomas hanging on the wall opposite. ‘Signed up to insurance policies that other companies have rejected. High risk factors, and premiums in accordance with that. Our reputation has been at the top of the heap for at least thirty years . . .’

  If he starts going on about insurance policies for Hollywood actresses’ dogs, I shall light a cigarette and walk out, Verlangen thought

  ‘Obviously, I don’t need to spell all that out for you. But there are limits, and there are customers that don’t hesitate to take advantage of our liberal policy. This business is no doubt one of those cases. The name of the insured is Barbara Hennan – perhaps you have read about her in the newspapers?’

  Verlangen’s heart stopped beating.

  ‘Barb . . . ?’ he managed to whimper.

  ‘Barbara Hennan, yes. She died last week. If we can’t stop it, the insurance payment will go to her husband, somebody by the name of Jaan G. Hennan. One point two million.’

  Verlangen swallowed the throat tablets, and his heart started beating again.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ wondered Kooperdijk.

  ‘With me?’ said Verlangen. ‘Nothing. I just felt a bit dizzy.’

  ‘Felt dizzy when you’re sitting down?’ said Kooperdijk. ‘How old are you?’

  Verlangen tried to sit up straight again on his chair.

  ‘I’ve just had a bout of flu,’ he explained. ‘Nothing to speak of. Hen . . . Hennan, did you say?’

  I’m dreaming, he thought: but he didn’t dare to pinch himself in the arm while Kooperdijk’s penetrating bull-like eyes were directed at him.

  ‘Hennan, yes. The whole business stinks of fraud – even a donkey can see that. The police are involved, speaking of donkeys, but they seem to think that it was an accident.’

  ‘Do they?’ said Verlangen. ‘And what are the terms? Of the insurance, I mean.’

  ‘Natural death. Unfortunately accidents are included under that heading. If anybody helped to push her over the precipice, or if she jumped, then we are not liable. M
anslaughter, murder, suicide . . . any of those will do. That’s where we should be syphoning it off to.’

  Syphoning it off to? Verlangen thought. The man’s out of his mind.

  ‘Are you clear about the prerequisites?’ wondered Kooperdijk, glaring at him.

  Verlangen didn’t answer. I’ve had more prerequisites than you could ever imagine, little man, he thought. But I don’t understand them.

  I’ll be damned if I understand them.

  ‘You had better go and talk to Krotowsky, and he will be able to put you in the picture in more detail,’ said Kooperdijk. ‘Damn it all, if you can sort out this little matter for us, we can forget all about what might have happened in the past. I’m sure I don’t need to point out that it can cost whatever it costs . . .’

  Verlangen heaved himself up out of his armchair, and really did feel dizzy for a moment.

  ‘So I should see Krotowsky now, right away – or . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, now, right away,’ said Kooperdijk.

  Inspector Münster won all four sets in the badminton match with Van Veeteren. As usual. There was just a short period early on when things could have gone either way, but from 5–5 he proceeded via 9–6 and 12–8 to a confidence-inspiring 15–11. The other sets were secured in more business-like fashion: 15–6, 15–8 and 15–4.

  ‘It’s that pulled muscle in the small of my back,’ said the Chief Inspector on the way to the shower. ‘It’s hampering me. Next week I’ll wipe the floor with you.’

  ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,’ said Münster.

  ‘That Hennan business is nagging away at me as well,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I can’t make head nor tail of it. If I were an up-and-coming young inspector I would no doubt get my teeth into it and show what I was made of.’

  ‘Message received and understood,’ said Münster.

  He had been informed of the latest development in the case while they were driving to the sports hall. The private dick lark, as the Chief Inspector had chosen to call it. He had also mentioned that he knew who Maarten Verlangen was – one of those police officers, it seemed, who was incapable of distinguishing between right and wrong in the long run – and who had resigned with his tail between his legs and headed off towards an uncertain future. Apparently. Five or six years ago. If the Chief Inspector remembered rightly.