The G File

by Håkan Nesser

  DeKlerk nodded. Stiller nodded.

  Van Veeteren turned on his heel and left the police station.

  Time for a little nap, he thought as he walked across the square. High time.

  If I’m wrong, he thought, it’ll be best if I never set foot again in this godforsaken dump.

  But when he was sitting behind the wheel again, heading back to Bausen’s nest, that was not what worried him most. There was something else.

  That final eye contact with Christopher Nolan.

  That second when they had looked at each other.

  It had lasted longer than it should have done.

  43

  When the telephone call came from Intendent Mulder at the forensic laboratory in Maardam, all five of them were gathered in the conference room.

  DeKlerk and Stiller had been at their desks since the day dawned, Münster and Rooth since about eleven o’clock, and Inspector Moerk had turned up at a few minutes to twelve. Now it was ten past. Rooth answered the call and handed the receiver over to the chief of police, who said in noticeably rapid succession ‘yes’ five times, ‘I see’ twice, and ‘many thanks’ once.

  Then he hung up and dampened his lips with the tip of his tongue.

  ‘Agreement on eleven points,’ he said. ‘There is no doubt about it. Christopher Nolan is identical with Jaan G. Hennan.’

  ‘Damn and blast!’ said Inspector Rooth. ‘That means we can’t go home today either.’

  There followed a few seconds of silence. Münster tried to exchange glances with Beate Moerk, but could make no eye contact. Stiller bit the tip of his ballpoint pen so hard that it creaked, and the chief of police seemed to be miles away. He started rubbing his right earlobe, but changed over to his left.

  ‘Well, what do we do?’ he said when he had finished.

  ‘As he said,’ suggested Moerk.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Van Veeteren, of course. We keep an eye on Nolan. That’s the least one can expect.’

  Münster stood up.

  ‘I’ll go and talk to the chief inspectors,’ he said. ‘It somehow feels as if we’re not going to be able to sort this out without them. Is that how you see it?’

  ‘Fine,’ said deKlerk. ‘You’re probably right. Maybe a bit of an apology wouldn’t be out of place as well?’

  ‘I’ll decide on how exactly to go about things when I get there,’ said Münster. ‘But I have to say I find it hard to judge the risk of him running away.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Rooth.

  ‘All I mean is that as far as we are aware, Hennan still doesn’t know that we know who he is – but as soon as he does realize that, there is of course a risk that he’ll do a runner. On the other hand, as it were.’

  ‘But why?’ wondered Moerk. ‘Why would he run away? We have nothing to charge him with – apart from using a false name, that is.’

  ‘Not a thing,’ agreed Rooth. ‘We have nothing on him at all. Apart from imagining that he murdered three people. But if we sit in a car outside his house, something should happen sooner or later. There’s such a period of stagnation that I’m coming out in spots.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that we ought to provoke him into making a move?’ asked deKlerk.

  ‘Provoke and provoke,’ muttered Rooth angrily. ‘I’m damned if I know. But if Van Veeteren has just served us up with a triple murderer on a plate, it would be a bit of a pain if we allowed him to slip away. That’s my own view in any case – and I volunteer to do the first stint.’

  He looked around.

  ‘Okay,’ said Beate Moerk. ‘I’ll come with you. How do you judge the risk of him turning violent, by the way? . . . If he notices us sitting there keeping watch on him?’

  ‘He’s quite a peaceful type,’ said Rooth. ‘Apart from the inclination he has to murder people now and then. My advice is that you should take with you your police firearm. You can always sit in the car and polish it to avoid getting bored . . . Personally I intend solving crossword puzzles and filing my nails.’

  He made to leave, but deKlerk asked him to wait a moment.

  ‘Just one more question,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose any of you have discovered anything concerning that crux?’

  ‘What crux?’ asked Beate Moerk.

  ‘What it was that Verlangen discovered . . . The proof relevant to that old case. Have any of you got any ideas?’

  Nobody had. Not today either.

  Bausen and Van Veeteren were sitting on the patio eating onion soup with croutons when Münster arrived.

  ‘Welcome to the jungle, Intendent,’ said Bausen. ‘Would you like a spot of lunch?’

  Münster said he would, and Bausen went into the kitchen to fetch an extra bowl, glass and spoon. He ladled out a serving from the pot standing in the middle of the table, and nodded towards Münster.

  ‘We’re drinking a dry white wine with it,’ he said. ‘Can I pour you a glass?’

  He poured one out without waiting for an answer.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Münster. ‘I have some news – we’ve heard from Mulder.’

  ‘And?’ said Bausen.

  ‘It’s true, Nolan is Hennan.’

  Until that point Van Veeteren had been deeply involved with the soup, but now he put down his spoon and dried himself thoroughly around his mouth with his table napkin.

  ‘We know that,’ he said. ‘I thought you said you were coming with news?’

  Bausen smiled and looked from one to the other.

  ‘My apologies,’ said Münster. ‘In any case, we’re now a hundred per cent certain. Rooth and Inspector Moerk are in place outside his house. The question is: what the hell should we do next?’

  ‘Haven’t you made your minds up about that yet?’ wondered Van Veeteren, taking a sip of wine.

  ‘No,’ said Münster. ‘But I think we should bring him in. Waiting for him to give himself away somehow or other . . . or the idea that we might gain something by hovering in the background . . . No, I don’t go along with that.’

  Bausen cleared his throat.

  ‘But if you put him under surveillance, he’ll soon realize that you are on his tail, surely?’ he said. ‘Or are Moerk and Rooth intending to be discreet?’

  Münster hesitated.

  ‘I don’t know, to be honest,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit unclear, and we didn’t discuss that aspect properly. But I don’t think Inspector Rooth has any desire to be discreet for very long . . . under any circumstances – it’s not really his style.’

  Van Veeteren swirled his glass round and thought.

  ‘Ah, well,’ he said in the end. ‘It’s not an easy position to be in. Would you like a bit of advice?’

  Münster nodded submissively.

  ‘Keep an eye on him so that he notices what you’re doing,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Let him get worried. Then bring him in late this evening or tomorrow. And if you would still like my services, I’m prepared to interrogate him forty-eight hours on end.’

  Bausen raised an eyebrow.

  Münster raised two.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ll pass that on to deKlerk.’

  He tried to stand up, but Bausen pushed him back down onto his chair.

  ‘Eat up your food first,’ he said. ‘And that’s a fine old chardonnay you’re holding in your hand. It’s not something you drink standing up.’

  ‘My apologies,’ said Intendent Münster again.

  It was the first time Beate Moerk had been alone together with Inspector Rooth, and even if what happened at the end of their four-hour stint had never taken place, she would no doubt have remembered him even so.

  At least, that is what she thought while it was happening.

  ‘You’re married, is that right?’ said Rooth even before they had sat down in the car. ‘I think that’s what Münster said.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ said Moerk. ‘How about you?’

  ‘I’m single,’ said Rooth. ‘Like a crab apple in the taiga. I expect you have children as
well?’

  ‘Two,’ said Moerk.

  ‘And no plans to get divorced?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Rooth. ‘It’s not easy for people to be alone.’

  Moerk pondered for a moment.

  ‘I thought you said you were going to solve crossword puzzles and clean your fingernails. When do you intend starting on that?’

  ‘Filing,’ said Rooth. ‘Not cleaning. No, I think we ought to have a philosophical discussion and make plans instead. To start with, at least. What do you say to that?’

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ said Moerk. ‘But start the car now so that we set off before Hennan has had time to do a runner.’

  Rooth eyed her ruefully and did as he had been told.

  ‘Can’t we talk a bit about the case?’ she suggested when they parked directly opposite the Nolans’ house in Wackerstraat. ‘You reckon this is where we should park, do you?’

  Rooth shrugged.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘If we want to make sure he notices us, this is the perfect place,’ said Moerk, looking at the house. ‘If two people spend a whole afternoon in a car on a housing estate like this, then –’

  ‘– they’re either the filth or a loving couple,’ said Rooth. ‘Perhaps we ought to play the roles of a loving couple, so that we don’t give ourselves away.’

  ‘You’d better kiss me, then,’ said Moerk.

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ said Rooth.

  She glared at him and was tempted to give him a slap, but she held herself in check.

  ‘Cut out that sexist crap,’ she said instead. ‘You’re just making a fool of yourself.’

  Rooth looked at her in surprise. Then he scratched himself under his chin.

  ‘Humble apologies,’ he said. ‘It’s just my life as a flirt playing tricks with me. It’s always the same when I find myself in the company of a beautiful woman . . . Perhaps we should park just a little bit offside, in fact?’

  He started the engine again and backed about ten metres. They still had a good view of the house, but as long as Nolan didn’t come out into the garden it was unlikely that he would spot them. Rooth switched off the engine. Moerk checked her watch. It was twenty minutes past two.

  ‘The crux,’ said Rooth. ‘That bloody crux is incomprehensible. But if we put our clever little heads together, maybe we can solve it?’

  Moerk wondered briefly if there was some hidden sexual implication in the putting together of their heads, but when she looked into his honest blue eyes, she decided that was not the case.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Fire away!’

  ‘Verlangen was an alcoholic,’ said Rooth.

  ‘True.’

  ‘Not all that observant, presumably.’

  ‘Presumably not.’

  ‘But nevertheless he claimed that he had found out something crucial in connection with that old murder in Linden.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How the hell could that be possible? What did he mean?’

  Moerk thought for a few seconds.

  ‘He must have caught sight of G and recognized him,’ she said. ‘That’s how it must have begun, at least.’

  ‘One would have thought so,’ said Rooth.

  ‘Where? Where did he catch sight of him?’

  ‘A good question. Most probably Maardam. G must have been visiting there for some reason or other.’

  ‘In April this year?’

  ‘Or shortly before then.’

  ‘Hmm. And Verlangen happens to see him . . . But that’s not enough.’

  ‘In what way isn’t it enough?’ asked Rooth, adjusting the rear-view mirror so that the pair could have eye contact without putting their necks out of joint.

  ‘There must have been something more. There’s no reason why Verlangen should start following Hennan just because he’s seen him for the first time in fifteen years. Unless he was away with the fairies . . . Verlangen, that is.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ said Rooth. ‘Although he didn’t discover whatever it was he thought was crucial until he came up here to Kaalbringen. Don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. Do you think he spoke to him?’

  ‘Where? In Maardam?’

  ‘In both places . . . But he must surely have done so here in Kaalbringen in any case.’

  ‘I’d have thought he spoke to him in Maardam as well,’ said Rooth. ‘And Hennan could have said something that . . . well, that gave something away. Or made Verlangen wonder, at least.’

  Moerk thought for a moment or two.

  ‘But what could he have given away in that case?’ she asked. ‘The name of his accomplice, perhaps? Because there was an accomplice in that murder, wasn’t there?’

  ‘As far as I understand it,’ sighed Rooth. ‘But we keep coming back to the same question. Why the hell should Hennan be so daft as to give himself away to somebody like Verlangen? No, I think there’s something wrong with this line of argument – I’ve thought so all along.’

  ‘Come up with something that holds water, then,’ said Moerk.

  ‘I can’t,’ admitted Rooth. ‘But I’ve just thought of something else. How do we know that he’s at home?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Nolan–Hennan. Perhaps we’re keeping watch on an empty house.’

  Moerk thought again.

  ‘Stupid,’ she said. ‘That would be stupid. So what do we do?’

  ‘This,’ said Rooth, taking out his mobile phone. ‘We telephone him and see if he answers – as easy as that.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Moerk.

  ‘Brilliance has always been my guiding star,’ said Rooth, tapping in the number.

  After three rings Christopher Nolan answered, and Rooth hung up.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘He’s in there. At least we know that.’

  ‘He could slip out of the back door,’ said Moerk. ‘And into the woods.’

  Rooth thought for a moment.

  ‘He won’t do that,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t even know we’re after him. But if you want to sneak around the plot and hide yourself away in the bushes, you’re welcome to do so. But if you do, you won’t have the pleasure of my company.’

  Beate Moerk never had the chance to weigh up the advantages and disadvantages of such a manoeuvre, as at that very moment a silver-coloured Hyundai passed by them and turned into the drive. Fru Nolan got out of the car, took a black briefcase from the back seat and disappeared into the house. Rooth looked at his watch.

  ‘Eleven minutes past three,’ he said. ‘Elizabeth Nolan comes home after a day at the gallery. You have to agree that it’s exciting, being a police officer.’

  ‘Unbearably so,’ said Beate Moerk.

  It was exactly one hour and two minutes before anything else happened in connection with the Nolans’ house in Wackerstraat – but at least, it was just as exciting as the previous incident.

  Fru Nolan opened front door, turned to wave goodbye to her husband in the direction of the hall, walked over to her car, sat down in it and drove off in the direction of central Kaalbringen.

  ‘Aha,’ said Rooth, who had been dozing off during the last half-hour due to lack of nourishment.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Moerk.

  She felt incapable of searching in her mind for words any more.

  ‘Off she goes again,’ said Rooth, with a yawn. ‘Do you know what I’m sitting here and remembering?’

  ‘No,’ said Moerk. ‘What are you sitting there remembering?’

  ‘Am I not right in thinking that on the way here we drove past a corner shop? Just by the railway . . . I think I’ll take a stroll and buy a newspaper and some refreshments. While I’m away maybe you could ring HQ and ask them for instructions as to what we should do next?’

  Moerk sat up straight and nodded.

  ‘And ask them if they’ve got anything to give us to prevent bed sores.’

  He got out of the
car and started walking back along Wackerstraat. Moerk waited until he was out of sight, then dialled the police station.

  It was Probationer Stiller who answered.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he wondered.

  ‘Going?’ said Moerk. ‘Nothing at all is happening. Apart from the fact that fru Nolan has left the house. We have an as yet unconfirmed hypothesis that she’s gone shopping.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Stiller. ‘Are you bored?’

  ‘A funeral would cheer us up,’ said Moerk. ‘Have you discussed when we’re going to be relieved?’

  ‘Just a moment,’ said Stiller, putting his hand over the receiver.

  She tried to listen between his fingers, but didn’t manage to pick up what was being said.

  ‘Hello,’ said Stiller after about fifteen seconds. ‘You’ll have to stay there for almost another two hours. Münster and I will relieve you at six o’clock.’

  ‘Are you in contact with Van Veeteren and Bausen?’ asked Moerk.

  ‘Yes. They also think we should wait until this evening.’

  Beate Moerk sighed.

  ‘Okay, let’s leave it at that.’

  She finished the call and looked again at the house.

  Nothing had changed.

  Later – much later – when Beate Moerk thought back to what happened between ten to six and five to six, it was always – for whatever reason – the incident with the bag of shopping that first came to mind.

  Elizabeth Nolan had just parked at the usual place on the drive. Rooth remarked that Kaalbringen was evidently also blessed by the presence of a Merckx supermarket – as he recognized the logo on the plastic carrier bags that had just been taken off the back seat and placed on the edge of the well-tended lawn – and Moerk had glanced at her watch and established that it was exactly ten minutes to six.

  Elizabeth Nolan closed the back door of the car, took hold of the two bulging carrier bags, one in each hand, but when she picked them up, one of the handles broke.

  A mountain of shopping spilled out over the grass: Moerk and Rooth could see – rather than hear – the curses she gave vent to. She paused for a second, then carried the unbroken bag into the house and came back out again half a minute later, carrying a brown cardboard box.

  As she transferred the goods into the box, Moerk wondered in annoyance why on earth her husband hadn’t come out to help her.