by Håkan Nesser
‘I’ll be back before noon,’ she promised. ‘Then we can go off somewhere.’
‘You can tell her that provided she pays well, I’m prepared to exhibit twelve canvases in December,’ he said. ‘But maybe now isn’t the right time for that?’
‘Probably not,’ said Moerk, giving him a quick kiss.
She hugged the children, then set off on her humanitarian task.
‘What’s this?’ asked Bausen with a frown.
‘A small token of my gratitude,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘An invitation to celebrate Christmas in Maardam – for both you and Mathilde. You said that you generally just sit around on your own and drink Bourgogne . . . The bottle is cognac for you to sip now and then as autumn progresses. Bache-Gabrielsen, a Norwegian product in fact, but every drop is pure gold – I don’t know if you’re familiar with it?’
‘Never heard of it,’ he admitted. ‘But it’s completely unnecessary to—’
‘Rubbish. Now I’ll just have a sandwich and then leave you and this blasted Hennan business behind.’
Bausen allowed himself a wry grin.
‘Ah well, thank you very much,’ he said. ‘We shall have to see if we live until Christmas, but I promise to drink the Gabrielsen before the call comes in any case . . . I have various other things to empty, come to that.’
‘Yes, I’ve gathered that,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘How many bottles have you left?’
‘Somewhere between eleven and twelve hundred,’ said Bausen with a sigh. ‘I fell behind somewhat while I was stuck in jail, as I’ve said before. But as long as I stay healthy, no doubt I’ll get through them.’
Van Veeteren looked at his watch. It was five past twelve.
‘May I borrow your phone and give Ulrike a ring? My mobile seems to have caught some kind of virus.’
‘As long as you don’t go on for too long,’ said Bausen.
Ulrike was out, but he left a message on the answering machine saying he would be home by about five, and he hoped she could cope with the thought of seeing him again.
When he had hung up he hesitated for a few seconds, then dialled the number of the police station.
No reply, so he rang Münster’s mobile instead.
‘Yes?’ said Münster.
‘Van Veeteren. I’m about to set off for home. Have you heard anything about Elizabeth Nolan?’
‘A little bit,’ said Münster. ‘She seems to have calmed down somewhat, at least. DeKlerk and Moerk were there and spoke to her for a while, but they decided to interrogate her a bit more thoroughly tomorrow.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Apparently it was she who asked most of the questions . . . That’s not all that surprising, I suppose. I gather they gave her quite vague answers but she was informed that her husband’s past was rather different from what she had thought. Even though they didn’t go into details.’
‘Is she still in hospital?’
‘No, I think she went home this morning. Just to be clear, you won’t be present at the run-through, am I right?’
‘No,’ said Van Veeteren, ‘I won’t be there. I’ve had enough. But by all means give me a ring when you’ve tied up all the loose ends.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Münster. ‘It’s so damned frustrating that we didn’t . . . well, that we didn’t manage to sort everything out satisfactorily. I mean, both the murder of Barbara Hennan and that of Verlangen will have to be put on the shelf now. But it’s far from clear how—’
‘I know,’ said Van Veeteren, interrupting him. ‘As you rightly say, it’s damned frustrating. But give me a ring.’
Münster repeated his promise to do so, and hung up.
Ah well, thought Van Veeteren. That’s that, then.
Then he went out into the kitchen and ate a farewell sandwich with Bausen.
He stopped to fill up with petrol on the slip-road leading on to the motorway, and it was while he was standing there staring at the figures flicking past electronically on the pump that he made up his mind to indulge in a little digression.
How had Münster put it? ‘She seems to have calmed down somewhat’? That should surely mean that she was strong enough to have a little chat?
If not, he could always leave her in peace, he thought. But despite everything, there were one or two questions it could be interesting to have answered.
A few things that had struck him after he had spoken to Münster on the phone. It wouldn’t delay him for more than half an hour, three-quarters at the most; and he was in no hurry.
He had all the time in the world, in fact.
He paid at the kiosk, got back into his car and headed into town.
Those present at the Sunday afternoon run-through of the Hennan–Verlangen case at the police station in Kaalbringen were reduced to a mere quartet. The two former chief inspectors had withdrawn, and Inspector Moerk had been excused by the chief of police, in view of her input at the hospital earlier in the day.
But he was in place. As was Probationer Stiller – who had had his hair cut (how the hell had he managed that? wondered Inspector Rooth, and drew the preliminary conclusion that he must be engaged to a young and shapely hairdresser) – and the two so-called reinforcements from the Maardam CID.
Before deKlerk had a chance to say anything, Rooth set the ball rolling.
‘This is our last session, just so that you know that. Tomorrow Münster and I are returning to civilization.’
It was obvious from the chief of police’s face that he had some difficulty in linking the two concepts of Rooth and civilization, but he made no reference to that.
‘Let’s see if we can now sum up the case,’ he said instead. ‘As far as it’s possible to do so, in any case. There are still a lot of things that are not clear, and more work needs doing, but with luck we should be able to sort that out next week. I think we should begin with the information from England. Stiller?’
The probationer looked up from his papers.
‘It only arrived half an hour ago,’ he said. ‘In other words, it took a bit longer than they had promised, and it is very terse . . . They evidently don’t have any overlapping systems over there. Maybe we can ask for more information in due course – if we consider it to be necessary in some circumstances.’
‘We’ll do that as a routine operation,’ said deKlerk. ‘But what does it say in the information we have got?’
‘Hmm,’ said Stiller. ‘It’s a bit surprising, I think. But there really is a married couple in Bristol who correspond very closely to what fru Nolan said. Christopher and Elizabeth, they got married in June 1989. No children. He worked at the Museum of Modern Art, she at some sort of college . . . the School of Advanced Creative Processing, whatever that means. In any case, they left Bristol in 1992, just as she claimed they did . . . That’s about all: I don’t really know what to say about it.’
Münster spoke up.
‘Naturally, Hennan didn’t just pluck details out of the air,’ he said. ‘And of course it’s the time before 1989 that really interests us . . . Needless to say a real Christopher Nolan exists. If you want to acquire a new identity, it’s always safer to adopt one that already exists – we’ve known that for ages. The real Nolan might be dead, or have emigrated to Australia, or God only knows what . . .’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Stiller. ‘I appreciate that. Perhaps this isn’t of much use to us, but surely we need to prove – although maybe we’ve done that already? – to somehow establish for certain that the man who died in the bath wasn’t in fact called Nolan.’
He looked around, hoping for agreement, and eventually deKlerk nodded vaguely.
‘We’ll have to check the matter, of course, to be on the safe side. But a fingerprint is a fingerprint after all. Anyway, we’ll take that further next week. Any comments?’
Rooth and Münster shook their heads. DeKlerk took out a new sheet of paper.
‘The pathologist has sent us a preliminary report,’ he said. ‘Nothing sensational
there either, it seems to me. Just confirmation of what we knew yesterday – or thought we knew. Nolan died of an excessive loss of blood at some time between a quarter past four and five o’clock. Cuts in both wrists and in his neck. Sedated by five 20-milligram Softal tablets that he had received on prescription two years ago. For insomnia . . . Stomach contents: beer, a little whisky, broccoli pie and various other odds and ends – no, I don’t think there is anything here of much interest to us.’
‘I don’t think so either,’ said Rooth. ‘And I assume we can nail him for the murder of Verlangen without more ado? Without technical proof, I mean. Or are you thinking of driving out there and looking for the weapon?’
‘We’ll see how things develop,’ said deKlerk. ‘No doubt the prosecutor will want to have a say, but I don’t foresee any problems.’
‘I think it’s odd that he didn’t write anything,’ said Stiller. ‘To his wife, for instance.’
Münster nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is a bit odd – but what the devil could he write?’
‘Anything at all apart from the truth,’ suggested Rooth. ‘No, I think that aspect is in the bag. But how did it go at the hospital? Was she told that she’d been married to a triple murderer?’
DeKlerk hesitated for a moment before answering.
‘No,’ he said. ‘We decided to be a bit vague on that point, Inspector Moerk and I. But she knows that there were irregularities.’
‘Irregularities!’ exclaimed Rooth. ‘How about that for a circumlocution? And what does she think, then? That her bloke took his own life without the slightest trace of an explanation? That’s hardly something you do because of an irregularity!’
‘Perhaps not,’ admitted deKlerk. ‘But I don’t think she’s had much of a chance to think about it yet, in fact. We’ll decide how to proceed tomorrow . . . I assume we shall have to give her the facts no matter what. Sooner or later. Poor woman.’
‘There’s something here that doesn’t fit,’ muttered Rooth. ‘But never mind, the main thing is that Jaan G. Hennan has passed on into another world . . . even if it is annoying that he slipped out through the back door like this.’
‘I agree,’ said deKlerk. ‘But that’s the way it turned out.’
Intendent Münster had been sitting for a while lost in thought, twirling a pencil with his fingers.
‘I don’t understand why he panicked like that,’ he said. ‘And how did he discover that we were on to him? As far as we know his wife didn’t tell him anything, and Rooth and Moerk could have been on some entirely different mission when they were sitting in the car outside the Nolans’ house . . . Yes, I agree with Rooth, I find it difficult to make this add up.’
‘Maybe he recognized Van Veeteren,’ suggested Rooth. ‘That would be one explanation.’
‘Very possible,’ said Münster.
‘And maybe the Chief Inspector realized that as well,’ said Rooth. ‘Think about it, they must have sat staring at each other for hours on end, fifteen years ago . . . And Van Veeteren only needed one look at him to be certain, didn’t he? The same could well have applied from Hennan’s point of view, surely . . . although I don’t suppose it matters much any longer. Is there anything else?’
Chief of Police deKlerk leafed through his papers one more time, then declared that there was nothing else.
Rooth and Münster went back to Hotel See Warf – where they had been staying all the time they had been in Kaalbringen – at twenty minutes past seven on Sunday evening, and just as they were standing in the foyer wondering whether to take the lift up to their rooms or to have a beer in the bar, Münster’s mobile rang.
Rooth slipped into the toilet, and when he came out Münster had already finished talking.
‘Who was that?’ wondered Rooth.
Münster remained standing with his mobile in his hand, looking puzzled.
‘Ulrike,’ he said. ‘It was Ulrike Fremdli, the woman Van Veeteren lives with. She wondered if I knew why he hadn’t come home.’
‘Eh?’ said Rooth. ‘Why . . . ?’
‘He had said he would be back in Maardam by about five o’clock . . . It’s nearly half past seven now, and he’s evidently not answering his mobile.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Rooth. ‘Have you met her, this Ulrike Fremdli? I’ve only heard about her.’
‘Yes, I’ve met her.’
‘Is she a good woman?’
‘Very good,’ said Münster. ‘I wonder . . . Ah well, no doubt there’s a natural explanation.’
‘No doubt,’ said Rooth. ‘Shall we have a beer, then?’
46
When Van Veeteren pulled up in Wackerstraat and switched off the engine, he suddenly felt doubtful.
He remained in the car for a while, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and trying to work out what the problem was. Some kind of mysterious intuition, or just another example of his general ambivalence?
He plumped for the latter, and clambered out of the car. Noted that fru Nolan’s silver Japanese car was standing on the drive, and that everything looked peaceful. The sun had started to break through the greyish white morning cloud, and a corpulent man in his sixties was busy cutting the grass in the next-door garden. The insistent sound of the lawnmower hung over the whole area like a stubborn virus.
Fru Nolan answered the door after half a minute. She was wearing black jeans, an equally black tunic, and looked at him in a way that suggested she wasn’t quite with it.
‘Yes?’
‘Forgive me for disturbing you. My name is Van Veeteren. I come from Maardam, and I’ve known your husband for a very long time. Could you perhaps let me have a little bit of your time for a chat?’
She looked him up and down. Ran a hand through her dark hair, which was surprisingly thick in view of the fact that she must be turned fifty, he thought.
‘You know what’s happened, do you?’
‘Yes. You have my sympathy.’
She nodded and allowed him in. He guessed that she had been given some kind of tranquillizer by the hospital: the way she moved and spoke – in a sort of numb, mechanical way – suggested as much.
‘After you.’
She ushered him into the living room, and he sat down in a wine-red armchair with yellow antimacassars on the arms.
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Van Veeteren.’
She flopped down opposite him on a sofa. Carefully crossed her legs and gritted her teeth so that her mouth became a narrow streak.
‘What is it you want? I don’t have . . .’
She didn’t finish the sentence. Van Veeteren felt another surge of doubt, but resisted it and allowed it to drift away.
‘Your husband . . . I understand the police have told you who he really was.’
She made a vague movement of the head, and he was unsure if it was an acknowledgement or a denial.
‘The fact that his real name was Jaan G. Hennan, and that he had a past you didn’t know about.’
‘What exactly do you want?’ she asked. ‘Are you a police officer as well? I don’t think I—’
‘I used to be,’ interrupted Van Veeteren. ‘I had quite a bit to do with your husband in that capacity.’
She frowned.
‘I don’t really understand.’
‘You were interviewed by the police the other day, weren’t you? At the gallery.’
‘Yes, I was. But what . . . ?’
‘What conclusions did you draw from that?’
‘Conclusions? Why should I draw any conclusions?’
‘But it must have made you think.’
‘I suppose it did, yes . . .’
He waited, but she didn’t elaborate. Instead she leaned back on the sofa and lit a cigarette.
Just how sedated is she? he wondered. He decided to try a somewhat heavier-handed approach.
‘You weren’t surprised, were you?’
‘By what?’
‘The fact that your hus
band committed suicide.’
‘What do you mean . . . ?’
‘Or that he had a criminal past?’
She drew on her cigarette, and the way she did so surprised him.
Or rather, the way she sat there, leaning back and observing him. As if his words had simply passed over her head. He repeated the question.
‘You knew that your man had another identity besides Christopher Nolan, didn’t you? Even before the police told you about it.’
She took a deep breath.
‘Of course not. Who are you? I must ask you to leave me in peace now.’
All three sentences in the same breath. Van Veeteren said nothing for a few seconds. She inhaled again, but made no move to stand up or show him out.
‘Didn’t your husband tell you that I’d been to see him?’
‘That you . . . ? Why should you go to see him?’
‘Because we had a few things to talk about.’ New pause. He let the seconds pass by.
‘I’m sorry, but what did you say your name was?’
‘Van Veeteren. Are you sure your husband never mentioned my name these past few days?’
She seemed to be thinking that over.
‘Certainly not. He didn’t talk about any new acquaintances at all.’
‘On the contrary, fru Nolan. I’m a very old acquaintance, I thought I had made that clear.’
She said nothing, but her mouth twitched several times.
‘And no doubt they told you at the hospital this morning it is perfectly clear that your husband was called something different fifteen years ago?’
No reaction.
‘That he took on the identity of Christopher Nolan in order to shake off his past. The fact that you still seem to doubt that doesn’t make a very good impression, fru Hennan.’
He said the name as carefully as . . . as when one moves a harmless knight from a square on the chessboard where it has been standing for fifteen years, and she reacted too late.
Two seconds, that couldn’t be blamed on any medicine known to man.
But also a move whose consequences he hadn’t foreseen either. Dammit all, he thought.
‘Hennan? What did you say . . . ?’