The G File

10

‘All right, all right,’ said Münster. ‘Of course I know about that. I know the Linden police have already been here and spoken to you, but I’m from the Maardam CID. My chief inspector is a very meticulous gentleman, and he insisted that we also ought to have a chat with you. I trust you have nothing against our trying to do our job as well as we can?’

Amelia Trotta eyed him doubtfully. Her large, smooth face looked worried, despite the fact that there wasn’t the slightest trace of a wrinkle in it anywhere. Her shoulder-length hair, dyed blonde, was immaculate and reminded Münster of a forgotten, clean-living film star from his early teens. He assumed that was roughly the impression fru Trotta was trying to give. Or had tried — now she was about forty-five, large and somewhat irritated.

‘What’s the point?’ she asked. ‘I have nothing useful to say.’

She made a vague sort of gesture that could mean anything at all. Münster made the most of the opportunity and walked past her into the living room.

‘He’s very insistent, my boss,’ he said apologetically and sat down in a cretonne armchair. ‘And he’s known for leaving nothing to chance.’

She nodded doubtfully and sat down on the edge of cretonne armchair number two. Smoothed down a few creases in her dress and sighed.

‘Just a few minutes, then,’ she said. ‘I have quite a few things to see to.’

Münster took a notebook and pen out of his briefcase.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I shall try to be brief. Anyway, Barbara Hennan. How well did you know her?’

‘Not at all,’ said Trotta.

‘Not at all?’

‘Well, hardly. As I explained to the inspectors who were here yesterday. We’ve been living here for fifteen years, the Hennans moved in in April. We’ve had dinner in each other’s house, but that’s all. The sort of thing you do as good neighbours.’

‘Of course,’ said Münster. ‘And were they?’

‘Were they what?’

‘Good neighbours.’

She shrugged.

‘I suppose so.’

‘Suppose?’

‘Yes. There was nothing for us to complain about. It’s just that they weren’t really our style.’

‘I see,’ said Münster non-committally, taking a quick look round the spacious, very tidy room. Sofa with matching armchairs, and television. Two large, pale oil paintings, their colours matching the upholstery and the curtains. And a set of bookcases in solid oak containing all kinds of things but no books.

Style? he thought. Hmm.

‘What do you think about the accident?’

Fru Trotta tried once again to frown.

‘I don’t think anything at all, of course,’ she said. ‘What is there to think?’

‘Do you know if fru Hennan might have been depressed?’

‘I’ve no idea. Why do you ask that?’

‘There’s always a possibility that she might have arranged the accident, as it were.’

‘That she took her own life, you mean?’

‘We can’t exclude that possibility. It’s a very odd way to die, don’t you think?’

Amelia Trotta spent a few seconds thinking over how to answer that.

‘People do die in odd ways nowadays.’

Nowadays? Münster thought. Hmm, I suppose she might be right. He recalled having read not long ago about a prostitute in Oosterdam choking herself to death on a condom.

‘Did you like her?’ he asked.

She shrugged once again.

‘Not all that much then?’ he said.

‘I’ve already said that we didn’t know them. Neither him nor her.’

‘But you had no desire to expand your contact with them, beyond being good neighbours?’

She hesitated for a moment.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I suppose we didn’t.’

‘Your husband as well?’

‘Yes.’

Münster waited.

‘There was something. . something cheap about them.’

‘Cheap? What do you mean by that?’

‘I’m sure you understand what I mean.’

‘No,’ said Münster frankly. ‘Can you explain in a little more detail?’

She sighed, and moved further back in the armchair.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘You just noticed it. She was tattooed, for instance.’

‘Tattooed?’ said Münster.

‘Here,’ said Trotta, pointing at a spot high up on her left arm, under the sleeve of her dress. ‘A bird or something. You can say what you like about tattoos, but it’s not attractive.’

Münster nodded and made a note.

‘When did you see her last?’

‘On Saturday.’

‘On Saturday?’ said Münster in surprise. ‘She was already dead then.’

‘I know that, of course. But I was at the mortuary to identify her. There has to be somebody from outside the family as well.’

‘In certain circumstances, yes,’ said Münster. ‘But let’s concentrate on the living. When did you last see her before the accident?’

‘The same morning that she died,’ said fru Trotta without hesitation. ‘Shortly after eight o’clock. She drove off towards town. We just said hello — I was out with Ray.’

‘Ray?’

‘Our dog. A Pomeranian.’

‘I see,’ said Münster. ‘And you never saw her again after that?’

‘Not until I identified her at the mortuary.’

‘And herr Hennan. What about him?’

‘What about him?’

‘Did you see him at all on Thursday?’

‘No. As you might have noticed, we can’t see into each other’s gardens.’

‘Yes, I have noted that,’ said Münster. ‘They had two cars, is that right?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said fru Trotta, as if fewer vehicles than that was unthinkable in Kammerweg. ‘A Saab and a little Japanese thing. She used to drive the little one.’

‘Yes,’ said Münster. ‘Of course. Were you at home on Thursday evening?’

‘We were at a little party arranged by some good friends of ours, but we were back home by about ten. The girls need a good night’s sleep.’

‘I’m sure they do,’ agreed Münster. ‘Did you notice anything unusual about Villa Zefyr when you came home?’

‘No.’

‘Nor later on that evening?’

‘Nothing at all. We can’t see into their garden, as I’ve said.’

‘Did you see if anybody was at home? If there were lights on, anything like that?’

‘As I keep saying, we can’t see into their garden. We can’t see from here if there are any lights on or not.’

She was becoming irritated again. Münster looked down at his notebook and thought for a few seconds.

‘Jaan G. Hennan,’ he said eventually. ‘Could you give me your personal opinion of him?’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m asking you to.’

She considered that weighty argument for some time, while examining her fingernails — of which there were ten, varnished beige.

‘He’s not our type.’

‘I’ve gathered that. Could you be a bit more precise?’

‘Not our type at all. Pushy and. . well, unreliable. He doesn’t create a pleasant impression.’

‘Impertinent?’ wondered Münster.

‘Maybe not quite that. But our girls don’t like him. They can usually detect that kind of thing. Do you have children of your own?’

‘Yes,’ said Münster. ‘A little boy. Do you know anything about Hennan’s background?’

‘Only that he’s lived in America for ten years. Some kind of businessman.’

‘What was the relationship like between herr and fru Hennan? Did you notice anything at all?’

She scraped a speck of something from off her little fingernail before answering.

‘She was more or less the same as him,’ she said. ‘They seemed to suit each other. Mind you, he was older, of course.’

‘But no dissension, as far as you know?’

She shook her head.

‘I don’t think so. But it wouldn’t surprise me. Are you suggesting that. . that he might have had something to do with her death?’

She tried to ask that question in the same neutral tone of voice she had been using throughout their conversation, but Münster could hear undertones of fascinated interest.

‘We are not excluding the possibility,’ he said. ‘My boss doesn’t like excluding any possibilities at all.’

‘I see,’ said Trotta, and forgot for a second to close her mouth.

‘But nothing dramatic?’ Münster asked. ‘No quarrels or anything like that you happened to be present at?’

It was obvious that fru Trotta would have liked nothing better than to have witnessed a quarrel between her neighbours. She sat in silence for a few seconds, scouring her memory — but soon her better self took command.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Nothing like that. Mind you. . mind you, it’s a long way from here to their house, as I’ve said.’

Münster nodded.

‘Did they drink?’ he asked. ‘To excess, I mean.’

Amelia Trotta was unable to provide any dramatic information on that point either. Instead she sighed, and looked at the clock.

‘I think. .’ she began, but then lost the thread, overcome once again by that tantalizing possibility. ‘Surely you don’t think. .?’ she wondered instead. ‘Surely you can’t seriously think that. .?’

She was unable to put her question into words, but the thought remained suspended over the table in that neat and tidy living room. Like a ketchup stain on a white linen tablecloth, Münster thought as he prepared to take his leave of the idyll.

‘We have no definite theories as yet,’ he explained, rising to his feet. ‘But exploring various possibilities is a part of our work in the CID. I might want to have a chat with your husband in due course — do you think he would have any objections to that?’

‘I’ll warn him,’ said fru Trotta, showing willing to assist. ‘But he’s away on his travels quite a lot, so you’ll need to arrange a time well in advance. He’s a pilot.’

‘I appreciate the problems,’ said Münster. ‘What’s your profession?’

‘I’m a dermatologist,’ said Trotta, standing up straight. ‘But I’m at home for as long as the girls are at school. They need to have me around.’

I wonder, thought Münster, trying to recall what on earth a dermatologist did. Something to do with skin, he thought. But it might just as well be freshwater fish, or mites.

He decided to look it up when he had the chance. Then he thanked fru Trotta for being so helpful, and left Villa Vengali. As he walked through the garden, he had confirmation of what she had said about visibility between the two houses. He couldn’t see so much as a glimpse of the light-blue facade of Villa Zefyr. Only a narrow strip of the white-painted diving tower could be made out through a narrow gap in the thick mass of greenery.

It’s reminiscent of this case as a whole, he thought as he clambered into his car. The bottom line is we can’t see much at all.

Van Veeteren stared at a broken toothpick he was holding in his left hand.

In his right hand he was holding a telephone receiver, and that was what he really wanted to be staring at. But since his physiognomy, in some respects at least, was quite normal, that was an impossibility.

Assuming, that is, that he didn’t want to prevent himself from hearing Chief Inspector Sachs’s voice: and he didn’t. Not in these circumstances.

‘What the hell are you saying?’ he bellowed. ‘A gumshoe?’

‘Verlangen,’ said Sachs. ‘His name is Maarten Verlangen. He used to work for you in the past, he claims.’

‘I couldn’t care less if he did,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But he says he’s been commissioned to keep an eye on Jaan G. Hennan, is that right?’

‘Yes indeed,’ said Sachs. ‘Commissioned by his wife — the woman who’s now dead. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday last week — although he wasn’t exactly overworked on Friday. The devil only knows what this means, but the most remarkable thing is that he was sitting there keeping Hennan under observation all last Thursday evening and into the early hours. At that restaurant. Columbine’s. Well, I have to say I don’t know how we should interpret that. .’

‘Interpret!’ snorted Van Veeteren. ‘We’re not going to interpret anything. Where is he?’

‘Who?’

‘The gumshoe, of course. Where is he now?’

‘Er. . ’ said Chief Inspector Sachs.

‘What?’ said Chief Inspector Van Veeteren. ‘Speak up!’

‘He. . He’s left. But I-’

‘You mean you’ve let him go? What the hell. .?’

‘I have his name and telephone number, of course. I said we’d be in touch.’

Van Veeteren crumpled up the remains of the toothpick and stabbed himself in the thumb.

‘Ow!’ he groaned. ‘What else did he say? Surely he must have had something to-’

‘Not a lot,’ interrupted Sachs. ‘He had no idea why he was supposed to be shadowing Hennan. Apparently he spent most of the time in his car, gaping up at Hennan’s office window. Apart from Thursday evening, that is.’

‘And it was Barbara Hennan who employed him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘He didn’t know, as I said.’

‘I’m not deaf. What did he think?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘No, that’s what he said. .’

‘Stupid berk. Anyway, let’s have his telephone number so that we can sort this mess out.’

‘By all means, here we go,’ said Chief Inspector Sachs, and read out Maarten Verlangen’s numbers, to both his home and his office.

‘Thank you,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘That’ll be all for now, I’ve no more time to waste on you.’

He started with the home number.

No reply.

Then the office number.

No reply — apart from a recorded message regretting that Verlangen’s Detective Agency was closed at the moment, but that they accepted commissions of all kinds at reasonable prices, and that callers could leave a message after the tone.

Van Veeteren thought carefully about the wording of his message while he was waiting for the tone.

‘Maarten Verlangen,’ he growled when the peep eventually sounded. ‘If you are keen to carry on living, for God’s sake make sure that you contact Chief Inspector Van Veeteren at Maardam CID. Immediately!’

He remained sitting there for a while, cursing to himself and contemplating his injured thumb — until the reality behind Chief Inspector Sachs’s revelation slowly but surely calmed him down.

The actual content of the message — the fact that the dead woman, the corpse in a bathing costume lying on the bottom of that confounded swimming pool in Linden, had hired a private detective just a few days before she died.

A private dick who was supposed to keep an eye on what her husband was getting up to. That accursed Jaan G. Hennan!

Van Veeteren rummaged around, produced a cigarette, and lit it. What the hell? he thought. What the hell does this mean? Let’s face it, she must. . she must have suspected something. Isn’t that what it must mean? Come on, ring damn you, you godforsaken gumshoe!

He glared at the silent telephone. Realized that it was barely a minute since he recorded his hard-hitting message, and that one could scarcely expect Verlangen to turn up at his office with such exemplary timing. He inhaled deeply and checked his watch.

Half past two. High time he set off for his badminton match with Münster, in other words. He stubbed out his cigarette, stood up and dug out his racket and his sports bag from the cupboard.

Look out, Inspector, he thought. I’m not to be trifled with today.

On his way down in the lift, it dawned on him that he knew who Maarten Verlangen was. And why he had left the force.