The G File

by Håkan Nesser

  ‘That sounds fair enough,’ said deKlerk. ‘The suggestion about extracting information from England, at least. Approaching the wife would be a bit more dodgy, of course.’

  ‘If it’s not possible to frighten him, maybe we could frighten her?’ suggested Rooth.

  ‘Excuse me,’ put in Stiller. ‘Are we assuming that fru Nolan doesn’t know anything about this Verlangen business?’

  Rooth waved his hand, but he had just stuffed two biscuits into his mouth and it was Münster who responded.

  ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘But if that isn’t the case, there’s all the more reason to have a chat with her . . . Quite simply to find out just how much she knows. Yes, I agree with Bausen. Our next move ought to be to talk to her, on her own. But God only knows how we can set that up.’

  ‘There’s one more thing I’m wondering about,’ said Stiller. ‘Wasn’t there going to be a search of Verlangen’s flat in Maardam? Have we had any information about that?’

  DeKlerk nodded and produced a sheet of paper.

  ‘Apologies,’ he said. ‘I forgot about this in all the rush. We had a fax this morning. Negative, unfortunately. Signed by an Inspector Moreno – I assume he is familiar to you?’

  ‘She,’ said Rooth. ‘The inspector is a she. But she is familiar to us.’

  ‘Really? Anyway, they haven’t found anything. And they were very thorough, she writes.’

  ‘That was only to be expected,’ said Münster. ‘He didn’t keep a diary, that’s all there is to it. Which is hardly surprising.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Stiller. ‘I just wondered.’

  ‘No problem,’ said the chief of police, checking his watch. ‘Might I suggest that we make a pause now. There are seven of us involved in this business, but I don’t think it would do any harm if each one of us spent an hour or two thinking our own thoughts. Stiller and I will get in touch with England, and we’ll see if we can get anything of interest from there. I suggest we meet again at four o’clock, is that okay?’

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Rooth.

  ‘As far as Bausen and Van Veeteren are concerned –’

  ‘– they’ll do whatever they want, of course,’ said Bausen, rising to his feet.

  ‘You didn’t have much to say,’ he said when they were seated in the car again.

  ‘I just sat there thinking,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘And I’m a bit tired. And I didn’t sleep very well last night, I’m afraid . . . And there were so many bright sparks involved.’

  ‘That isn’t always an advantage.’

  ‘No,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Not always.’

  ‘You’re sitting there brooding about something.’

  ‘In a way.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘That suggestion about a hundred-watt lamp. Would he really cope with another session?’

  ‘Hennan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you reckon we ought to get tough with him?’

  Van Veeteren produced a toothpick from his breast pocket and stared at it in disbelief.

  ‘Where the hell has this come from? I gave them up five years ago.’

  ‘It seems that a lot of things from the past are turning up just now,’ said Bausen. ‘Should we get tough?’ he repeated.

  Van Veeteren snapped the toothpick in two and threw the bits out through the window.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I simply can’t pass judgement on that.’

  ‘Really? said Bausen. ‘As far as I’m concerned there’s something else I just can’t understand.’

  ‘Hmm?’ muttered Van Veeteren. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Why the hell did I need to take those damned paintings to the gallery? You could have identified Nolan–Hennan anyhow.’

  Van Veeteren eyed him from the side for a few seconds.

  ‘It was your idea to start with,’ he said. ‘I thought you played your part brilliantly, incidentally. Have you had ambitions to become an actor? I don’t think you’ve mentioned—’

  ‘Shut your gob!’ said Bausen, then burst out laughing.

  41

  It was Münster, deKlerk and Rooth who laid down the guidelines for the conversation with Elizabeth Nolan – and afterwards, of course, one could wonder if it might have been possible to come up with something better. They worked at it on Friday morning, and quite early on Münster had the feeling that something was going wrong. But it would be some time before he realized just how wrong.

  It would take far too long.

  Intendent Münster was also one of the two police officers who entered the Galleri Winderhuus at half past five on Friday evening and introduced themselves to fru Nolan.

  The other was Inspector Moerk – it had been considered appropriate for one of them to be a woman, for some unstated reason. As far as Münster was concerned, he regarded Beate Moerk as suitable because she was a good police officer, not because she was a woman. But that view was also unstated.

  ‘Fru Nolan,’ said Münster. ‘We are from the police and would like to discuss with you a very delicate matter. My name is Intendent Münster, and this is Inspector Moerk.’

  Elizabeth Nolan looked up from the thick art book she had been reading.

  ‘I beg your pardon? I don’t think I quite gathered . . . ?’

  She looked at them in turn, slightly unsteadily. Stroked to one side a strand of her dark hair.

  ‘The police,’ said Moerk. ‘We’d like to talk to you.’

  ‘I don’t understand . . . Why?’

  She had a slight, almost unnoticeable Anglo-Saxon accent. Moerk recalled Bausen and Van Veeteren saying that they hadn’t noticed any such thing as far as her husband was concerned.

  ‘Inspector Moerk,’ she said, holding out her hand. Nolan shook it hesitantly. Put a bookmark in her book and closed it.

  ‘Is there somewhere we can talk without being disturbed?’ Moerk looked around. As far as she could see there were no visitors in the exhibition area; moreover they had been sitting in the car park for ten minutes without seeing anybody enter or leave the building. It seemed that the appeal of the tenth-rate local artists had waned considerably since the exhibition opened a week ago.

  Fru Nolan stood up from her chair.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t really understand. What exactly do you want?’

  She seemed genuinely surprised, and Münster gestured towards the entrance door.

  ‘Could you perhaps close for the day, so that we won’t be disturbed?’

  She hesitated. Then she took a couple of steps towards the door before pausing.

  ‘Have you . . . Could I see your ID?’

  They handed over their ID cards and she studied them for a few seconds.

  ‘I . . . we’re open until six.’

  ‘We know that,’ said Münster. ‘But perhaps it wouldn’t matter much if you were to close half an hour early today. You don’t seem to have any customers anyway.’

  Nolan shrugged and made some sort of half-hearted gesture with her hands.

  ‘No, the number of visitors to the exhibition has tailed off. But I don’t understand why you want to talk to me. Has something happened?’

  ‘If you close the door, we can explain everything in peace and quiet,’ said Moerk, resting her hand briefly on Nolan’s upper arm. ‘You don’t need to worry.’

  She hesitated briefly again, then nodded and went to lock the door. Münster and Moerk sat down on the two mustard-yellow plastic visitor chairs in front of the desk.

  ‘Fru Nolan,’ said Moerk when she had returned and sat down opposite them, ‘we’re sorry to have to come and disturb you like this, but the way things look we simply don’t have any choice.’

  ‘Please tell me what on earth has happened.’

  Münster could see that she was expecting to hear about a death, or something equally significant, and perhaps that was understandable.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘The reason we want to talk to you is a bit special, no doubt, but if you answer ou
r questions honestly and frankly, you have nothing to fear.’

  ‘Fear?’ exclaimed Nolan. ‘Why should I have anything to fear? What do you mean?’

  ‘Let me explain,’ said Moerk. ‘The fact is, we need some information about your husband. I’m afraid we can’t say exactly what lies behind it all, but let me just explain that we are looking for somebody who committed a few serious crimes quite a long time ago . . . Very serious crimes. Your husband is one of a group of eight men, and we know with a hundred per cent certainty that one of the eight is guilty. The one we are looking for. The other seven are totally innocent and have nothing at all to do with it . . .’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t tell you what happened – as I’m sure you understand. And it all took place quite a long time ago, as I said. What we have to do is to find out as much as we can about each one of the group of eight – as discreetly as possible, so that they don’t suspect anything. So we shall clear seven candidates – obviously we hope your husband will be one of them, fru Nolan – but this is unfortunately the only method at our disposal. If you knew all the details you would understand our position, but I’m afraid we can’t say any more than I’ve just said. We sometimes need to work with great care and discretion . . . Do you understand the outline of the situation now?’

  Elizabeth Nolan stared at them sceptically for a few seconds, then shook her head and dug out a cigarette packet from her handbag, which was lying on the table.

  ‘I need a cigarette.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Münster.

  ‘My husband? So it’s about my husband, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You want to . . . to clear him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s absurd. He would never . . . no. If I answer your questions, will you be able to exclude him? Is that all?’

  ‘That’s all,’ said Moerk. ‘It might well feel like an intrusion into your privacy, of course, but we promise that nothing you say will be repeated outside this room – assuming that your husband isn’t the man we’re looking for, of course.’

  ‘We also recommend that you don’t mention this conversation to him,’ said Münster. ‘But we’ll come back to that.’

  Nolan lit her cigarette, inhaled and stretched a little.

  ‘You’ve taken me very much by surprise,’ she said, her voice a little steadier now. You must understand that. It feels . . . well, I don’t really know how it feels. But I have to trust you, I suppose.’

  ‘You can do that without any problem,’ said Münster.

  ‘How long will it take? I have to meet my husband at a restaurant at half past six.’

  Moerk looked at her watch.

  ‘We should have plenty of time,’ she said. ‘It’s only twenty to six.’

  ‘Fire away,’ said Nolan. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

  Münster nodded and opened his notebook. Moerk took a deep breath and clasped her hands tightly under cover of the desk.

  ‘Christopher Nolan,’ said Münster. ‘How long have you been married to him?’

  ‘Thirteen years,’ said Elizabeth Nolan. ‘Since 1989.’

  ‘You were born in England, is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘Thorpe. A little village in Cornwall.’

  ‘But you met your husband in Bristol?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have any children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you been married before?’

  ‘Yes . . . Why are you asking about that? I thought you were interested in Christopher, not me.’

  ‘Please don’t keep questioning things,’ said Moerk. ‘That will make things easier. As we’re not allowed to reveal the background to you, it may be difficult for you to understand the relevance of all the questions.’

  ‘I don’t understand the relevance of any questions at all,’ said Nolan, taking a deep drag at her cigarette. ‘But all right . . . Yes, I was married earlier. It lasted for barely three years. I was young, very young.’

  ‘Where does your husband come from?’ asked Moerk.

  ‘He was born in London. Luton, to be exact.’

  ‘What’s his job?’

  ‘We run this art business together, as I’m sure you know.’

  ‘Have you been doing that ever since you came to Kaalbringen?’

  ‘More or less, yes.’

  ‘What did you do in Bristol?’

  ‘I was an art teacher at a college. My husband was a curator at a museum.’

  ‘What was your maiden name?’ asked Münster after a short pause.

  ‘Prentice. But I kept my first husband’s surname after our divorce. Bowden.’

  ‘So you were called Elizabeth Bowden when you and your current husband got married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘How did what happen?’

  ‘When you met.’

  Elizabeth Nolan sighed and looked first at one of them, then the other for a while before making up her mind to answer. Moerk noticed that she was beginning to feel sorry for her.

  ‘It was at a party . . . nothing special. We started seeing each other, and then . . . well . . .’

  Moerk nodded encouragingly.

  ‘And this was . . . when exactly?’

  She thought for a moment.

  ‘December 1988.’

  ‘And you were both living in Bristol at that time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Had you lived there long?’

  ‘Which of us are you referring to?’

  ‘Your husband in the first place.’

  ‘I gather he’d been living there for four or five years at least . . . Yes, since the beginning of the eighties. I don’t remember exactly. He was head of one of the departments at the museum.’

  ‘Did you know him before you met at that party?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No. That was the first time I saw him . . . It was a Christmas party at the home of some mutual friends.’

  ‘Had your husband been married before?’ asked Münster.

  She stubbed out her cigarette and brushed a few flakes of ash from her dress.

  ‘Yes. That’s the way it goes nowadays, isn’t it? We need to make two attempts in order to learn the ropes . . .’ She tried to smile, but it was reluctant to stick. ‘He’d been divorced for just over a year when we met.’

  ‘Only a year?’

  ‘Maybe a year and a half.’

  ‘Did he have any children from his previous marriage?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you bumped into his former wife at all?’

  ‘Have I bumped into . . . ? What difference does it make if I’ve met his ex-wife or not? What are you getting at?’

  ‘Please answer the question,’ said Moerk.

  Elizabeth Nolan seemed to have something shiny in her eye, and gritted her teeth.

  ‘No, I’ve never met her . . . I saw her briefly once from a distance. She moved up to Scotland after the divorce. With a new man. I don’t understand why you are asking these questions.’

  Münster leaned back and exchanged looks with Beate Moerk. She nodded and encouraged him to continue.

  ‘What we are trying to clarify,’ said Münster, ‘is whether your husband is somebody different from the person he claims to be.’

  Elizabeth Nolan’s lower jaw dropped.

  ‘Somebody different . . . ?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Moerk. ‘It might seem quite a shocking thought, but I’m afraid we have to insist on this question. Are you absolutely certain that your husband really is Christopher Nolan, that he was born in London, and that he was working at that museum since the beginning of the eighties?’

  Elizabeth Nolan stared at her as if she couldn’t believe her ears. Or Inspector Moerk’s sanity. She opened and closed her mouth several times without saying anything. In the end she sighed deeply and shook her head v
ehemently.

  ‘What on earth are you suggesting?’ she said. ‘Are you saying that Christopher isn’t Christopher? I’ve had about enough of this absurd conversation.’

  ‘Come on now,’ said Münster. ‘Don’t forget the bottom line, fru Nolan! We are trying to eliminate your husband from our list, that’s all.’

  She blinked in surprise a few times, then gathered herself together. Took another cigarette from the pack and lit it with shaky fingers.

  ‘Forgive me – but it’s so absurd . . . So totally absurd.’

  ‘How well acquainted are you with your husband’s background?’ asked Moerk. ‘What he was doing before you met in 1988, and so on?’

  ‘I’m extremely well acquainted with it,’ said Elizabeth Nolan. ‘We’ve discussed our previous lives, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Münster. ‘And no doubt you have met people who could confirm what he has told you – relatives of his, for example?’

  Nolan held herself in check and thought for a moment.

  ‘I’ve met his mother,’ she said. ‘His father died some time in the mid-seventies, but we visited his mother a few times. At a care home in Islington . . . It was the spring after we’d met, and she died in June. He doesn’t have any brothers or sisters.’

  Oh yes he has, thought Münster aggressively. He has a sister whom he raped regularly for five years.

  ‘And have you met friends of his who knew him before you got to know him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Any who you still socialize with?’

  ‘Very occasionally, yes. As you may have noticed, we no longer live in Bristol.’

  ‘Why did you leave England?’ asked Moerk.

  Nolan drew on her cigarette, and suddenly seemed much calmer.

  ‘Why do you do anything in this life?’ she said. ‘We were tired of the jobs we were doing, both of us. I had just received a modest inheritance. We decided to make a change, that’s all there was to it. Neither of us enjoyed living in Bristol – nor in England, come to that. So yes, we took the plunge. We were both very interested in art – that was what we wanted to devote ourselves to. So we hopped over the Channel, and it became Kaalbringen.’

  ‘Why Kaalbringen, of all places?’