by Håkan Nesser
Bausen gestured with his hand.
‘The municipal forest borders the garden – that’s where Verlangen hid. Just like I did once upon a time . . . Hmm . . . What do we do now?’
Van Veeteren thought for a moment.
‘Phone the police,’ he said. ‘They can find out who lives here. Perhaps they will want to be consulted about the next step as well.’
‘You reckon?’ said Bausen. ‘Ah well, I suppose we have no option but to contact them.’
‘No option?’ said Van Veeteren. ‘What on earth do you mean by that?’
But Bausen did not respond.
‘Over to you, Stiller,’ said deKlerk. ‘You’re the one who has dug up the information, so you might as well take us through it. Please forgive the overcrowding, by the way, but there aren’t usually nearly as many of us as we are now, and this is . . . as you know . . . the biggest room we have access to.’
The chief of police’s comments were justified: despite the fact that it was turned ten o’clock at night all those involved in the investigation had answered the call. The local officers: Moerk and Stiller. The CID officers brought in from Maardam: Münster and Rooth. The two former chief inspectors: Bausen and Van Veeteren.
And deKlerk himself. Seven in all. As somebody had said the other day: one couldn’t complain about the number of staff assigned to this case.
It also occurred to the chief of police that if that down-at-heel private detective was gazing down at them now from his heaven – or peering up from the other place – he really ought to raise an eyebrow as a reaction to the stir his death had brought about. Yes indeed.
He squeezed down onto his chair, and nodded encouragingly at Stiller.
‘Okay,’ said the probationer. ‘What I found out wasn’t all that remarkable, in fact. They’ve been living here for ten years, and all the information I have has come from the tax authorities. Anyway: Christopher and Elizabeth Nolan. Owners of the art gallery and attached shop Winderhuus down in Hamnesplanaden . . . They moved here in 1992, and launched their business the following year. I suppose one could say that they are quite firmly established now. They come from Bristol in England – he’s sixty-three, she’s fifty-one. As far as I can make out it’s fru Nolan who has most to do with Winderhuus: they were quite well off when they came here, and still have a considerable fortune even if the art business has been running at a loss in recent years . . .’
‘That’s what the tax authorities think, at least,’ said Beate Moerk.
‘Yes,’ said Stiller. ‘I’ve been following up mainly the information I received from them. The Nolans have no children; they bought the house in Wackerstraat in 1995 – they lived in a flat in Romners Park for the first three years. There are no indications of financial irregularities of any kind – on the contrary, they have both declared their considerable wealth every year since they came here . . . Anyway, that’s what I’ve managed to dig up.’
‘An art gallery?’ muttered Rooth. ‘That must be a good place to hide money in.’
‘Maybe,’ said Münster. ‘But Christopher Nolan? I don’t know what to think, in fact . . .’
‘Harrumph,’ said Bausen, looking hard at all present in turn. ‘If you’ll forgive me for saying so, there’s not much point in thinking anything at all so far. Either this bloke is identical with Jaan G. Hennan, or he’s identical with Christopher Nolan. Until we’ve established the facts, we can put all theories to one side. We don’t need to start speculating at this stage, do we?’
‘You may well be right,’ said the chief of police with a slightly strained smile. ‘And how should we go about sorting out that little detail? Any suggestions?’
Nobody spoke for several seconds. Then Intendent Münster cleared his throat.
‘One possibility is of course to go there and interrogate him. Or talk to him, at least. But I’m not sure if that’s the right thing to do in this case.’
‘I think it’s a bloody daft thing to do,’ said Rooth. ‘Surely we can’t be so naive as to deal with an arsehole like Hennan with all our cards on the table?’
‘We don’t know that it is Hennan,’ said Stiller.
‘All the more reason for not putting all our cards on the table. Not to start with, at least. My Bible says quite clearly that in a case like this we have to start with a bluff. A premier league, king size bluff.’
‘Yes, I’m inclined to agree,’ said Inspector Moerk. ‘We can’t start talking seriously to him until we know for sure whether or not we are dealing with G. It would be plain daft to let slip that we suspect something.’
‘I agree,’ said Münster. ‘He didn’t give the impression of having been born yesterday last time. We have to be careful.’
‘Does anybody disagree?’ asked deKlerk, looking round the table.
Nobody had any comment to make. Van Veeteren exchanged looks with Münster, and seemed to be about to say something, but he changed his mind and took out his cigarette machine instead.
‘But we still need to decide what to do next,’ said deKlerk. ‘Which one of us would be most likely to be able to identify Jaan G. Hennan?’
The question was so rhetorical that Van Veeteren almost dropped his cigarette machine on the floor. Bausen couldn’t help laughing.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ he said. ‘You seem to have made up your minds to send the happy wanderers out to do the work for you – the amateurs who did their bit long ago. But why not? It obviously makes sense for Van Veeteren to make the first move – you would recognize him, wouldn’t you? That’s what you said an hour ago, in any case.’
Van Veeteren put the cigarette machine back into his jacket pocket, and clasped his hands on the table in front of him.
‘Probably,’ he said. ‘I’d like to think so, at least. But I also think it’s highly likely that Hennan would recognize me. We would need to decide if that was an advantage or a disadvantage.’
‘That assumes that you would have to come face to face, doesn’t it?’ said Beate Moerk.
Van Veeteren frowned.
‘Perhaps that wouldn’t be necessary,’ he conceded. ‘But I’m keen to find myself in that situation sooner or later. If it really is him.’
Beate Moerk smiled.
‘I think I’ve understood that,’ she said. ‘A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Right?’
‘Hmm,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘Something along those lines. But how would you go about setting it up in the first place? I have . . . I don’t have any great desire to sneak around in that bastard’s shadow, hoping that he might turn round and look at me at some point.’
Bausen had been sitting there for a while, scratching the back of his head.
‘It doesn’t need to be quite as melodramatic as that,’ he said. ‘We could try this: I can give you a few old paintings, and you can call in at Winderhuus when Mr Nolan is on duty, and try to sell them to him. You could please yourself about whether or not to wear a false beard.’
‘As easy as that?’ said Van Veeteren.
‘As easy as that, yes,’ said Bausen.
Perhaps it was due to the late hour, or possibly something else, but three quarters of an hour later nobody had come up with a better solution.
Just around half past one, shortly before he managed to fall asleep, a new thought occurred to Van Veeteren. He didn’t like it.
If, it dawned on him, if Christopher Nolan was identical with Jaan G. Hennan, that must mean – according to the information that Probationer Stiller had dug up and presented in exemplary fashion – that he had been living in Kaalbringen at the time of the axe-killer case nine years ago.
That was a most unwelcome insight.
I wonder how I would have reacted if I’d known that at the time, Van Veeteren thought. Would it have influenced the outcome of the investigation?
And when he eventually fell asleep he immediately started dreaming about wandering around a large art gallery – disguised with a gigantic white Father Christmas-type beard and
intent on cutting out of their frames canvases with the world’s most expensive and famous works of art. He recognized Guernica and The Last Supper, and Van Gogh’s Sunflowers.
It was pretty unpleasant, but soon became much worse. Both paintings and false beard had evidently been blown away, and instead he was walking along a vast, deserted beach. Apparently on his way to his own death: this was made clear by a series of yellowish-black, rusted signs sunk down into the sand at regular intervals. The distance still to walk shrank rapidly, and no matter how hard he tried, he failed to catch sight of a single person who might be able to help him turn round . . . Not a single one.
When he woke up the next morning he simply could not believe that he had been asleep for seven hours.
Seven minutes, more likely.
40
The following morning, the plan was modified somewhat.
Thanks to her husband (who worked in the art world and regretted that Winderhuus was an awful dump full of amateurish crap), Inspector Moerk was able to inform her colleagues that there was currently a relatively well-attended exhibition on at the gallery (featuring work by local artists – pretty crappy stuff, according to her source).
After a few telephone calls it was agreed that the obvious next step was for Bausen to play the role of somebody with paintings to sell, while Van Veeteren played the rather more discreet part of a straightforward visitor interested in seeing the pictures. If things proceeded as the Chief Inspector had foreseen with regard to identifying Christopher Nolan, this approach would give him an excellent opportunity to take a closer look at the man in question. And to hear his voice. Münster and Rooth had been on a reconnaissance expedition and concluded that there was no real distinction – not even a door – between the gallery and the more commercially directed activities, such as the sale of frames and reproductions and picture postcards and goodness only knows what else.
Stiller was first on the scene. He was sitting in a strategically positioned car in the extensive car park by the harbour quite close to Winderhuus, and was able to observe the arrival of fru Nolan, who opened the doors at just a couple of minutes past ten. Stiller’s task was to make a phone call and report the exact time of arrival of herr Nolan. According to a theory evolved by Rooth, this was likely to happen around lunchtime – and for once it transpired that the inspector had hit the nail on the head. At exactly half past twelve Christopher Nolan drove up in his Bordeaux-red Rover, parked about ten metres away from Stiller’s significantly more modest Fiat, walked over Esplanaden and entered Winderhuus. Apparently in order to relieve his wife, and give her an opportunity to go off and have lunch.
She duly emerged after a few minutes: a slim woman in her fifties, wearing court shoes, a red dress, and with dark hair. Noticeably more modestly dressed than in the photographs, Stiller noted – but the very same woman, no doubt about it. She lit a cigarette, and headed for Fiskartorget. Stiller phoned the police station, where Bausen and Van Veeteren were messing around with a chessboard and four oil paintings depicting the sea.
The call lasted four seconds. A seagull came soaring down and landed on the Fiat’s bonnet. The sun was shining.
So, Operation G has started, Stiller thought. He noticed that he was sitting like a coiled spring at the wheel of his car.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Bausen. ‘I don’t know if we’ve met, but my name’s Bausen.’
‘Nolan. No, I don’t think so.’
Bausen put down his unwieldy package and started separating the art works from the blanket he had used to protect them.
‘An old aunt of mine died last summer, and I inherited some works of art,’ he explained. ‘I don’t have room for them. I thought you might like to assess them and buy anything you’d like to have.’
‘Let’s have a look,’ said Nolan, assisting with the blanket. ‘You never know.’
Bausen placed the paintings carefully along the wall opposite Nolan’s desk. It suddenly struck him why he had kept them in a dark room in the cellar – but he stood up and looked pleased with himself even so.
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘Hmm . . .’ said Nolan, stroking his well-groomed beard with his hand. He picked up a pair of spectacles from the table and put them on. The door opened and Van Veeteren came in.
‘Where’s the exhibition?’ he asked.
Nolan glanced up at him over the edge of his glasses.
‘Through there. Go on in. There’s a leaflet on the table.’
Van Veeteren nodded.
‘What time do you close?’
‘Six o’clock.’
‘Thank you.’
Bausen cleared his throat to regain Nolan’s attention.
‘They’re not bad, are they? And very attractive frames.’
Van Veeteren paused and took a look at Bausen’s paintings.
‘What a load of crap,’ he said.
‘What the hell did you say?’ demanded Bausen.
Nolan smiled in amusement.
‘I must say I’m inclined to agree with you,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll find the exhibition more to your liking.’
‘I hope so,’ said Van Veeteren, moving on into the rest of the premises.
‘That was the most insulting thing I’ve ever heard,’ said Bausen.
‘If you’d like a professional opinion, you’d better wait until my wife comes back,’ said Nolan. ‘She’s out having lunch at the moment, but she’ll be back in three quarters of an hour or so.’
‘Huh,’ said Bausen. ‘I won’t bother. I’ll burn them in the garden instead.’
He wrapped the paintings up in the blanket again and stormed out of the Winderhuus Art Gallery in a simulated rage.
‘Well?’ said Münster.
Van Veeteren made a vague movement of his head and picked a loose thread off the sleeve of his jacket. Three seconds passed.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s him all right.’
There was a deathly silence in the room for several more seconds, then deKlerk exhaled in a long, whistling stream.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Bloody hell!’
‘You’re quoting,’ said Van Veeteren.
‘Eh?’
‘Bloody hell! . . . that’s what Verlangen wrote before he came here in April.’
‘Oh dear!’ said the chief of police, looking surprised. ‘Maybe that’s a bad omen?’
‘Bollocks to omens,’ said Rooth. ‘So we’re dealing with Jaan G. Hennan, are we?’
‘It looks like it,’ said Van Veeteren.
He lit a cigarette, blew out the match, then realized that the rest of them were waiting for him to say something.
‘It looks like it,’ he said again, slowly. ‘But I think how this case is dealt with from now on needs a great deal of thought. Is there . . . is there anything to prevent Bausen and myself sitting in on future discussions for a while?’
DeKlerk rapidly sought the support of his colleagues, and received it.
‘Of course we would like you to continue working with us,’ he said. ‘Naturally. We have a long way to go yet. Anyway . . . we now know that it really was Hennan that Verlangen was interested in here in Kaalbringen, and we’ve found him. But what else we know . . .’
‘. . . is far from easy to understand,’ said Beate Moerk, completing the sentence for him. ‘He didn’t recognize you, I take it?’
Van Veeteren said nothing for a moment or two. Then shook his head.
‘I don’t think so. I didn’t see the slightest trace of anything to suggest that he did. Glasses and a moustache are pretty effective, in fact, as long as you don’t go on too long. No, I think we can take it that he didn’t recognize me.’
‘But he won’t forget me so easily,’ said Bausen.
‘Nobody ever does,’ said Moerk with a quick smile. ‘Anyway, we can assume that for now at least, Hennan doesn’t suspect anything. Is that right?’
Van Veeteren nodded.
‘Let’s hope not,’ said deKlerk. ‘But if he i
s in fact behind the murder of Verlangen, as we are assuming, he must have raised his awareness levels since we found the body. Or at least since they wrote in the newspapers that we had found the body. And let’s face it, we haven’t come up with much in the way of proof so far. Am I right? Even if we know that he’s the one, we haven’t exactly managed to pin the crime onto him.’
‘No, not exactly,’ said Rooth. ‘In other words, what do we do now? Personally, I have to say that I get goose pimples as a result of pussyfooting around all the time. Don’t you agree that it would be good to have a straightforward, honest house raid, and a hundred-watt lamp shining into the bastard’s face? . . . I know that we couldn’t put the wind up him last time, but maybe he’s grown softer as the years have passed?’
‘Do you think so?’ said Münster.
‘Not really,’ said Rooth. ‘I’m just sitting here daydreaming, as you doubtless realize.’
‘Anyway,’ said deKlerk, turning to Bausen and Van Veeteren at the narrow end of the table. ‘Perhaps our somewhat more experienced colleagues have a few points of view?’
‘Of course,’ said Bausen. ‘Rooth is right, naturally, and sooner or later we have to put our cards on the table . . . Tell him we know who he is, in other words, and that he’s under suspicion. But perhaps it would make sense to lie low and make a few investigations before we go that far – what do you reckon?’
‘That seems to me a correct summary of the situation,’ said Moerk.
‘What investigations?’ wondered Stiller.
‘That is precisely the question that needs answering,’ said Bausen, starting to scratch the back of his neck. ‘Perhaps we could approach him via his wife, but that’s just a thought that occurred to me and . . . well, I don’t know . . .’
He paused, but Münster took up the thought.
‘I’ve also thought about her,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t we try to extract a bit of information from England as well? If they’ve been living here for ten years, Hennan must have found her pretty soon after he disappeared from Maardam . . . Within three or four years, in any case. It could be interesting to tell her a bit about his background and see how she reacts. In view of what happened to his previous wives we could congratulate her on still being alive.’