The G File

9

When Maarten Verlangen opened up his office in the morning of Tuesday, 9 June, it was the first time he had set foot in there since Wednesday the previous week.

As a result, if nothing else, he had the last five editions of Neuwe Blatt to read. In accordance with an unwritten gentleman’s agreement, a neighbour — the widow fru Meredith — always posted her copy through his letter box after she had read it and cut out the evening’s television programmes. The gesture was a thank-you for what Verlangen had done eighteen months earlier to track down some pervert who had spent some time posting his own excrement through her letter box — a young and at times promising banking lawyer, it transpired, who had undergone a personality change after cycling headfirst into a tramcar on Keymer Plejn. After nailing him, Verlangen had felt a certain degree of sympathy with the poor, confused young man, and had visited him regularly during the six months he had spent in the Majorna mental hospital.

Despite everything, it seemed there were some people worse off than he was. .

He arranged the newspapers chronologically in a pile on his desk, lit a cigarette and listened to his telephone answering machine. Nothing from Barbara Hennan. Only three messages, in fact: one from the insurance company, one from somebody called Wallander who would ring him back, and a wrong number.

He dialled the number of Villa Zefyr.

No answer.

He read the Wednesday edition of Neuwe Blatt and tried again.

No answer.

Lit another cigarette and worked his way through the Thursday and Friday editions of the newspaper.

Third time lucky, he thought.

The hell it was. The ringing sounded as desolate as his own thoughts. He replaced the receiver, and wondered what to do next. Was there any point in continuing to keep an eye on Hennan?

Was he under any obligation to do so?

Hardly. He had been working on the case for three days (or at least been on hand in Linden for three days), his daily rate had been three hundred guilders and he had been given a thousand by fru Hennan. Bearing in mind his hotel bill and other odds and ends, one could say that the pay more or less covered his input.

Perhaps it would be as well to leave it at that. Forget about the elegant American woman and her shady husband, and devote his attentions to something else.

But on the other hand: another thousand for a few days of less than strenuous effort was not to be sniffed at. Especially as he had no other commitments at the moment. Apart from a so-called ‘pay by results’ job he had been toying with for several months: a gang of graffiti-producing vandals had been making a nuisance of themselves in Linden, and local shop-owners had clubbed together to offer a reward of 5,000 guilders to anybody who could apprehend them. But although Verlangen had one or two possible names and a few possible faces in mind, there was a long way to go before he could collect the reward.

He sighed. Opened the day’s first beer and decided on one final compromise in the Hennan question: first he would glance through the Saturday and Sunday editions of Neuwe Blatt, and then make another call to Villa Zefyr.

The article was on page five of the Saturday edition.

Woman found dead was the headline, and he read the short text with roughly the same feelings he used to have at the Gerckwinckel pub when he realized that the sweaty, red and swollen face in the mirror over the toilet was his own.

Was it possible? he wondered.

Who else could it be, for Christ’s sake?

A woman aged about 35, it said.

Of American origin.

Found dead at the bottom of an empty swimming pool.

On the outskirts of Linden. Unclear circumstances, but as far as one could tell she had thought the pool was full and dived in from a considerable height.

No witnesses of the accident. No suspicions of foul play.

Verlangen read the article — no more than sixteen lines in a single column — three times while drinking the beer and smoking another cigarette.

American woman?

How many American women could there be in Linden? Not many, he thought.

And he remembered that diving tower. What an incredibly pointless way to die.

Hell’s bells, he thought. What the devil is the significance of this?

Thursday night? Dammit all, that was the night he had sat and. .

For a few seconds Maarten Verlangen could feel his mind changing into that famous tablet of soap in the bathroom that it was impossible to grasp hold of, and that not even a louse could cling to. After another deep draught of beer, however, he managed to restore a modicum of order into his thoughts, and two possible courses of action crystallized out.

Or at least, two first moves in two possible courses of action.

Either he could phone the police — that would of course be the most sensible thing to do.

Or he could drive out to Linden one more time and see what he could find out there.

After five seconds of simulated thinking, he chose the second alternative. He could ring the police at a later stage, and it would be stupid to get involved before he had established that it really was the right woman. That it was in fact Barbara Clarissa Hennan who had been found lying dead in the swimming pool.

No sooner said than done. He left his office and half-ran to his car.

‘Really?’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Is it that bad?’

He listened intently to what was emerging from the telephone receiver with the expression on his face becoming ever more gloomy. Like a trough of low pressure, thought Inspector Münster, who was sitting opposite his superior and running the tip of his tongue over a back tooth from which he had lost part of a filling the previous evening. An English toffee — it wasn’t the first time.

‘I see,’ muttered Van Veeteren. ‘Ah well, I suppose it was only to be expected. . Good God no, we’re not going to drop the matter as quickly as that. I’ll be in touch again shortly.’

He listened for a short while longer, then said goodbye and hung up. Leaned back on his chair and glared at Münster.

‘Sachs,’ he said. ‘They’ve spoken to people at that restaurant now.’

‘And?’ said Münster.

‘Unfortunately it seems he was in fact hanging around there all the time, our friend G.’

‘Oh dear. But maybe he-’

‘The whole evening.’

‘Are they certain of that?’

The temperature in the area of low pressure fell by several more degrees.

‘Apparently. Damn and blast!’

Münster shrugged.

‘So that’s that, then. I suppose we can-’

‘But who knows? He arrived at about half past seven — he’d rung in advance and booked a table. As if he were determined to set himself up with an alibi, the swine.’

Van Veeteren stared hard at Münster.

‘And then what?’ wondered Münster, as was presumably the intention.

‘Then? Well, he had dinner, drank a fair bit with it, then moved over to the bar, they reckon. He evidently took a taxi at about a quarter to one: they’re trying to track down the driver. Damn and blast, as I said.’

Münster nodded.

‘So he’s clean, it seems? It’s not possible that he slipped out for an hour or so, I take it?’

‘How should I know? Nobody was keeping an eye on him all the time, but given how long it would take to get to Kammerweg and back. . Well, I suppose it’s not totally out of the question. It would have had to be after he’d paid his bill in that case, and he presumably did that at about half past nine. . Hmm. .’

‘Was there anybody with him?’

‘Not while he was at his table. Apparently he spoke to somebody or other later in the bar. . Maybe even several, but our colleagues in Linden haven’t bothered to look any closer into that. No, we shall have to try to find some other way of solving this, Münster.’

‘What, for example?’

The Chief Inspector snapped a toothpick and looked out through the window.

‘Theoretically. . Theoretically he could have nipped out at around half past nine, driven like a madman to Kammerweg, pushed his wife into the empty swimming pool and been back in the bar at Columbine’s thirty or forty minutes later. But as I said, if you can think of a better solution, that’s fine by me.’

Münster said nothing for a while.

‘That business ten years ago. .’

‘Twelve,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Nineteen seventy-five.’

‘Twelve years ago. Were you involved in it in any way?’

Van Veeteren shook his head.

‘Not at all. The drugs squad dealt with all aspects of it, I only heard about it. It’s a pity they didn’t manage to get him locked away for longer — I suspect he should have got much more than two-and-a-half years. . If they don’t appeal, that’s usually an indication that they were lucky.’

Münster squirmed in his chair.

‘Forgive me for asking,’ he said, ‘but how come you are so sure he is guilty this time as well? Despite everything, it does seem-’

‘I’ve never said I’m sure,’ interrupted Van Veeteren, annoyed. ‘But I’m damned if I’m going to exclude that possibility at this early stage.’

‘There is a variant,’ said Münster after a short pause.

‘A variant?’ said Van Veeteren. ‘What do you mean by that, Inspector?’

Münster cleared his throat and hesitated for a moment.

‘Well, how about this?’ he said. ‘It’s purely hypothetical, of course. Hennan leaves the restaurant, let’s say at a quarter to ten. He goes out and meets his wife somewhere in central Linden. He hits her and kills her and puts her body in the boot of his car. It takes about ten minutes. Then he goes back into the restaurant. When he gets home — at about one o’clock — he takes her out of the boot and throws her into the swimming pool. Then he phones the police.’

Van Veeteren worked away at his lower jaw for a while with a new toothpick before answering.

‘That’s among the most unlikely thing I’ve heard since Renate got it into her head that. . anyway, that’s irrelevant. What the devil do you mean?’

‘I did say that it was a bit forced.’

‘Do you know how G travelled home that night?’

‘No, I-’

‘Taxi. He took a taxi. Are you suggesting that he stuffed her into a body bag and put her in the back seat, and then got the driver to help him carry her into the house?’

‘Stop,’ said Münster. ‘We haven’t yet had it confirmed that he really did take a taxi, have we? We only know that he said he did.’

Van Veeteren eyed him critically.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘You have a point. We can check with Meusse if the injuries could have been caused by something different from the fall. We need to do that in any case, of course. But if it did happen in the way you describe, I hereby promise to clip your toenails for a whole year.’

‘Excellent,’ said Münster. ‘I look forward to that. But you’re the one who’s so keen to get G locked up, not me.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘We’re only discussing matters hypothetically, I thought you were capable of doing that. You have to try out any number of theories — if you don’t do that, you’ll never get anywhere.’

Münster remained seated for a few seconds, thinking things over. Then he stood up.

‘I have quite a lot of other things to see to, if you’ll excuse me. Shall I tell you what I really think about Barbara Hennan’s death?’

‘If you feel you have to.’

‘Thank you. An accident. As clear as crystal. The Chief Inspector can put away all his nail scissors.’

Van Veeteren snorted.

‘Inspector Münster, bear in mind that you are not employed in the CID to investigate accidents. Your job is to uncover and fight crimes. Not to turn a blind eye to them.’

‘Understood,’ said Münster. ‘Anything else?’

‘And to play badminton with your immediate superior. When do you have time? Tomorrow afternoon?’

‘Understood,’ said Münster again, and slunk out through the door.

He’s getting better and better, thought the Chief Inspector when he was on his own. In fact.

But then, he has such a good mentor.

Inspector Münster had been working for the Maardam police for just over ten years, but had only been a detective officer for three. He moved to the CID at around about the same time as Van Veeteren took over from old Chief Inspector Mort, and Van Veeteren had noticed — especially during the last year — that more and more frequently Münster was the one he most wanted to have around. In cases where it was possible to pick and choose among colleagues, he almost always chose Münster.

There was nothing seriously wrong with Reinhart, deBries, Rooth, Nielsen or Heinemann, of course, but it was only with Münster that he could develop the mutually fruitful teacher-pupil relationship — a game that was all too often misunderstood nowadays, he thought, and which he no doubt linked with Hesse’s Das Glasperlenspiel — a work he assumed would never appear on any reading list for courses on criminology.

And which didn’t really fit in exactly with the slightly dissonant tone which occasionally seemed to arise between them as if they were two unequal siblings.

Enough of that, he thought, looking out over the town, which was once again bathed in generous sunshine. Speculations and would-be-wise psychology. And this was not a good time to be thinking about Hesse, in fact. Nor Münster, come to that. It would be better to try to find a way of handling that confounded G.

He realized that this was also easier said than done, put on his jacket and went down to the canteen for a coffee.

Verlangen drove slowly past Villa Zefyr and stopped fifty metres further on. Sat at the wheel for five minutes while he smoked a cigarette and wondered what to do. Had the distinct feeling that he ought not to do anything rash. Not to draw any conclusions before he was certain about the basic facts.

Was it Barbara Hennan who died last Thursday evening, or was the newspaper article about some entirely different woman?

During the drive from Maardam he had wondered how best to go about finding out the answer to that question, but no simple, straightforward course of action had sprung to mind.

He could phone one of the editors on the local newspaper, of course, but in all probability they would decline to release the name of the woman involved.

He could march in on Jaan G. Hennan and ask him straight out, but something about this bold initiative scared him. Instinctively. When he thought more closely about it, he also realized that his fear could well be justified. From a purely objective point of view. If Barbara Hennan really was dead, there was obviously something fishy going on. She had commissioned a private detective to shadow her husband, and even if the newspapers said that the police did not suspect foul play — well, come off it! Maarten Verlangen was not born yesterday. Far from it. Hennan was a slimy customer — had been just that twelve years ago, and his behaviour at the Columbine had hardly indicated any improvement in his character.

Just trudging into Villa Zefyr like an innocent Jehovah’s Witness seemed an excessively naive thing to do. Not to say stupid.

What other possibilities were there?

He could telephone the police and spin them a yarn. That might be a reasonable alternative, provided he could find a satisfactory yarn. But there was another way that seemed significantly easier, and which he decided to try first.

The neighbours.

Neighbours always knew everything, that was an old and reliable rule. Verlangen got out of his car and headed for Villa Vigali, which was evidently what the Trottas’ house was called. It was the only plot adjacent to that of the Hennans, and as Barbara Hennan had said that they had made social contact with the Trottas, it would be very odd if they knew nothing at all about what had happened on Thursday night.

What might well have happened, that is.

He crossed over the street and passed by Villa Zefyr again, this time on foot. At that very moment a black Peugeot approached from the opposite direction and came to a halt just outside the entrance to the neighbouring house. A man in a dark suit got out — and even if Verlangen had not had the background he did have, he would have had no trouble at all in identifying him as a police officer. Without so much as a glance in any direction the man strode in between the brick pillars that marked the entrance to Villa Vigali, and was soon swallowed up by the luxuriant greenery inside the grounds. Verlangen stopped in mid-stride.

Oh dear, he thought. Perhaps this isn’t the best time for them to receive another visitor.

But on the other hand: if a CID officer felt obliged to pay a visit to Barbara Hennan’s neighbours, that surely indicated that he didn’t need to bother to go to the same trouble. The situation was crystal clear.

He returned to his car. Made a U-turn and set off back to the centre of town. A quarter of an hour later he telephoned the police station from a kiosk outside the railway station. A female secretary answered, and he asked to speak to the chief of police.

He had to wait for a minute, but then had Chief Inspector Sachs on the line.

‘Good morning, my name is Edward Stroop,’ explained Verlangen in a friendly tone. ‘I have some information to give you about the Barbara Hennan case.’

Silence for three seconds.

‘I see,’ said the chief of police eventually. ‘Are you in Linden?’

‘Yes.’

‘May I ask you to come to the police station as quickly as possible?’

‘Of course,’ said Verlangen, and hung up.

So everything was clear. Crystal clear. His employer, Barbara Clarissa Hennan, had met her maker at the bottom of an empty swimming pool. Verlangen left the station building and remained standing for a couple of minutes on the steps while he lit a cigarette and wondered what to do next.

And what the hell was going on.