The G File

11

When Verlangen left the police station in Linden, he had had three more or less incompatible feelings inside him.

The first was that it was a relief to have this confounded Hennan business off his back. It was precisely a week since the beautiful American woman had turned up at his office: now she was dead, and what had actually happened was a matter for the police to sort out, not Maarten Baudewijn Verlangen.

The second was that he felt somehow empty deep down inside. As if he had given up something: it was not clear what, exactly, but he could hardly deny that he had somehow failed in his task. If a private detective had any sort of moral function in a society, it was to be able to step in and put things to rights when the police force had failed to do so. That was how he usually justified his existence, at least, when he needed to boost his ego and stiffen his backbone.

His theoretical backbone. You have to take life as it comes, and Maarten Verlangen understood the importance of adjusting his motives in order to cope with it. He was no better or worse on that score than any other so-called honest, upright citizen.

But when it came to Barbara Hennan, he had failed to live up to his principles, that could hardly be denied. She had come to him with a somewhat obscure cry for help: he had done absolutely nothing, now she was dead, and he had shuffled off the responsibility into the hands of the police. Whatever it was, it was not an honourable retreat.

Damn and blast, he thought. I’m a seventh-rate shit.

The third feeling was of a more trivial, everyday kind. He was thirsty. He was absolutely desperate for a large beer, and before he drove back to Maardam he dropped in at Henry’s bar and ensured that, if nothing else, that particular problem was solved.

Every cloud has a silver lining, he thought. One thing at a time.

Director Kooperdijk at the insurance company F/B Trustor was reminiscent of a little bull.

He was also reminiscent of — and indeed could almost have been mistaken for — Verlangen’s former father-in-law, and it was always with a feeling of unease that he tried to cope with the strength emanating from those steel-blue eyes. The man as a whole radiated energy that was so intense, it could not be suppressed. It occasionally forced its way out in the form of aggression or insults. A sort of safety valve, Verlangen used to think. To prevent him from boiling over. Martha’s time bomb of a father had been just the same: if there was one thing about which he had no regrets after the divorce it was the end of the confrontations — and the far from subtle insinuations about his son-in-law’s shortcomings and negligence — at the obligatory monthly Sunday dinners in their large mansion up in Loewingen.

Another case of every cloud. .

But Kooperdijk’s pistol-like gaze over the desk in the luxurious office in Keymer Plejn always reminded him of it.

Like now. It was half past two in the afternoon: Verlangen had arrived fifteen minutes late, and blamed parking problems in the centre of town as it would have been a tactical error to admit that what had actually delayed him was the beer at Henry’s bar.

‘Sit down,’ said Kooperdijk. ‘We have a problem.’

Verlangen sat down in the low armchair in front of the desk. The director’s chair was at least fifteen centimetres higher, which was of course no accident.

‘A problem?’ said Verlangen, popping two throat tablets into his mouth. ‘What kind of a problem?’

‘Two problems, in fact,’ said Kooperdijk.

‘You don’t say,’ said Verlangen.

‘The first has to do with your work.’

‘My work?’

‘The so-called work you do for us. We have begun to reassess the situation. It leaves much to be desired.’

‘My understanding is that my input has been satisfactory,’ said Verlangen.

‘That is debatable.’

‘I don’t follow you,’ said Verlangen. Come to the point, you little twerp, he thought.

‘I can understand that most of what you have done has been satisfactory from your point of view,’ said Kooperdijk, clasping his hands in front of him on the desk. ‘But not always from ours.’

‘For example?’ wondered Verlangen.

‘The Westergaade affair,’ said Kooperdijk. ‘Not exactly satisfactorily concluded. That business with the firm of solicitors. Not satisfactory at all.’

Verlangen thought.

‘You can’t expect me to produce rats when there is no smell of any rats,’ he said.

‘Oh no?’ said Kooperdijk without moving a muscle. ‘That is no doubt a point of view that can be debated. And then there is the matter of your personal conduct.’

‘What?’ said Verlangen, trying to sit up in the chair so that his eyes were at least level with the desk top. ‘My personal. .’

Kooperdijk leaned forward, resting on his elbows.

‘Fru Donck, one of our investigators, saw you at Oldener Maas two weeks ago. Your behaviour did not show you in a favourable light.’

Verlangen said nothing.

‘In fact, you were as drunk as a lord, she says. Apparently you molested her companion in the bar.’

Isn’t that why women sit in bars? thought Verlangen, sinking back down into his armchair. In order to be molested?

‘There must be some kind of misunderstanding,’ he said.

‘No doubt,’ said Kooperdijk. ‘The question is, on whose part?’

Verlangen closed his eyes for a second and wondered if he ought simply to stand up and leave. He suddenly found himself wishing he were on some Greek island. But not Crete, he’d had enough of minotaurs.

‘I understand,’ he said. ‘It won’t be repeated.’

‘Presumably not,’ said Kooperdijk. ‘In any case, we are wondering whether we really want to make use of your services in future. Have you any comments to make in that respect?’

‘None at all,’ said Verlangen.

‘Unless, of course, we begin to detect signs of some sort of improvement. That would naturally put things in an entirely different light.’

‘I hope so,’ said Verlangen.

‘But as I said, we have another little problem.’

‘Yes, I recall your saying that.’

‘Or rather, a big problem.’

‘Really?’

‘If you could pull something out of the hat in connection with this matter, then of course that would change the situation quite a lot.’

Verlangen cleared his throat. As it was forbidden to smoke in the presence of Kooperdijk, he popped two more throat tablets into his mouth.

‘Let’s hear it, then,’ he said optimistically. ‘A big problem?’

Kooperdijk opened a red file and produced a sheet of paper. He made heavy weather of putting on a pair of reading glasses, which made his bull-like physiognomy look slightly less aggressive.

‘Harrumph!’ he said. ‘A life insurance matter. Rather expensive, if we don’t play our cards right.’

Verlangen waited.

‘One point two million, to be precise.’

‘One point. .?’

‘. . Two, yes. A lot of money. A hell of a lot too much money. And there’s a strong smell of rat, to quote a dodgy source. A bloody enormous rat, by the look of things.’

‘Really?’ said Verlangen. ‘Well, if this is how the land lies, then of course I’m prepared to do whatever I can. What does it look like?’

Kooperdijk removed his reading glasses.

‘It doesn’t look good,’ he said. ‘Not good at all. We signed up to a life insurance policy for a certain person a month ago. The first instalment was duly paid, no problem: but now it seems that the insured person has passed on.’

‘Died, you mean?’ said Verlangen.

‘Yes, died,’ said Kooperdijk, blowing his nose into a multicoloured handkerchief he took out of his trouser pocket. ‘Expired. Given up the ghost, shuffled off this mortal coil. However the hell you might like to put it.’

‘I’m with you,’ said Verlangen.

‘Trustor has always maintained high standards,’ said Kooperdijk, looking up in the direction of the array of diplomas hanging on the wall opposite. ‘Signed up to insurance policies that other companies have rejected. High risk factors, and premiums in accordance with that. Our reputation has been at the top of the heap for at least thirty years. .’

If he starts going on about insurance policies for Hollywood actresses’ dogs, I shall light a cigarette and walk out, Verlangen thought

‘Obviously, I don’t need to spell all that out for you. But there are limits, and there are customers that don’t hesitate to take advantage of our liberal policy. This business is no doubt one of those cases. The name of the insured is Barbara Hennan — perhaps you have read about her in the newspapers?’

Verlangen’s heart stopped beating.

‘Barb. .?’ he managed to whimper.

‘Barbara Hennan, yes. She died last week. If we can’t stop it, the insurance payment will go to her husband, somebody by the name of Jaan G. Hennan. One point two million.’

Verlangen swallowed the throat tablets, and his heart started beating again.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ wondered Kooperdijk.

‘With me?’ said Verlangen. ‘Nothing. I just felt a bit dizzy.’

‘Felt dizzy when you’re sitting down?’ said Kooperdijk. ‘How old are you?’

Verlangen tried to sit up straight again on his chair.

‘I’ve just had a bout of flu,’ he explained. ‘Nothing to speak of. Hen. . Hennan, did you say?’

I’m dreaming, he thought: but he didn’t dare to pinch himself in the arm while Kooperdijk’s penetrating bull-like eyes were directed at him.

‘Hennan, yes. The whole business stinks of fraud — even a donkey can see that. The police are involved, speaking of donkeys, but they seem to think that it was an accident.’

‘Do they?’ said Verlangen. ‘And what are the terms? Of the insurance, I mean.’

‘Natural death. Unfortunately accidents are included under that heading. If anybody helped to push her over the precipice, or if she jumped, then we are not liable. Manslaughter, murder, suicide. . any of those will do. That’s where we should be syphoning it off to.’

Syphoning it off to? Verlangen thought. The man’s out of his mind.

‘Are you clear about the prerequisites?’ wondered Kooperdijk, glaring at him.

Verlangen didn’t answer. I’ve had more prerequisites than you could ever imagine, little man, he thought. But I don’t understand them.

I’ll be damned if I understand them.

‘You had better go and talk to Krotowsky, and he will be able to put you in the picture in more detail,’ said Kooperdijk. ‘Damn it all, if you can sort out this little matter for us, we can forget all about what might have happened in the past. I’m sure I don’t need to point out that it can cost whatever it costs. .’

Verlangen heaved himself up out of his armchair, and really did feel dizzy for a moment.

‘So I should see Krotowsky now, right away — or. .?’

‘Yes, now, right away,’ said Kooperdijk.

Inspector Münster won all four sets in the badminton match with Van Veeteren. As usual. There was just a short period early on when things could have gone either way, but from 5–5 he proceeded via 9–6 and 12-8 to a confidence-inspiring 15–11. The other sets were secured in more business-like fashion: 15-6, 15-8 and 15-4.

‘It’s that pulled muscle in the small of my back,’ said the Chief Inspector on the way to the shower. ‘It’s hampering me. Next week I’ll wipe the floor with you.’

‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,’ said Münster.

‘That Hennan business is nagging away at me as well,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I can’t make head nor tail of it. If I were an up-and-coming young inspector I would no doubt get my teeth into it and show what I was made of.’

‘Message received and understood,’ said Münster.

He had been informed of the latest development in the case while they were driving to the sports hall. The private dick lark, as the Chief Inspector had chosen to call it. He had also mentioned that he knew who Maarten Verlangen was — one of those police officers, it seemed, who was incapable of distinguishing between right and wrong in the long run — and who had resigned with his tail between his legs and headed off towards an uncertain future. Apparently. Five or six years ago. If the Chief Inspector remembered rightly.

Münster could only agree: it was a peculiar situation. He thought more about it after dropping Van Veeteren off at Randers Park, and was stuck in the traffic jams on the way to the suburb where he lived.

If Barbara Hennan really had employed a private detective to keep an eye on her husband, there must surely be some reason for doing so. But what? Münster thought. What? Perhaps she had suspected that she was somehow in danger. Surely that had to be the case. Maybe she had suspected that her husband was going to attack her in some way. In any case, this Verlangen must have relevant information to pass on.

And the Chief Inspector was brooding over it. Münster had begun to realize that Van Veeteren’s suspicions and intuitive whims were not to be scorned. Three years ago, when he had first been transferred to the CID, Münster had found it hard not to be irritated by the Chief Inspector’s odd behaviour and bizarre ideas, but as time passed his doubts had grown into respect.

Respect and a degree of reluctant admiration.

Because of the fact that he was hardly ever wrong. In case after case it seemed that Van Veeteren always managed, unerringly, to pull the right strings. To pick out precisely the person who needed to be interrogated again, or to demand a more detailed account of what herr X or fru Y or fröken Z had been doing on Wednesday evening the previous week.

Among this mish-mash of information and misinformation that accumulated quicker than the blinking of an eye in every new case.

Intuition, as it was called. It had to be acknowledged that Van Veeteren possessed this controversial but gold-plated quality. In spades.

And it had also to be acknowledged, Münster thought as he turned off the motorway and became stuck between a bus and a van transporting fish, that his boss had a point in the current case as well.

If Van Veeteren thought that this remarkable character G was behind the death of his wife, then no doubt that was true. In one way or another.

But how? How had he managed to do it? A good question. Had he slipped out of that restaurant for as long as was necessary? Was that possible, given the time scale? Or had he had a henchman?

The latter possibility seemed more credible. A contract killer? That would be unusual, very unusual — unless they were in the sphere of so-called organized crime, and surely the Hennans were not part of that world? Or?

And how should they go about nailing him?

There were a lot of question marks, Inspector Münster acknowledged as he parked in the street outside his terraced house.

A lot of questions that were probably impossible to answer just yet, he decided. Certainly not before he knew rather more about what the private eye and former copper Verlangen had to say for himself. And what the information about Hennan that the Chief Inspector had ordered from the USA might reveal.

It would be stupid to start speculating too soon — that was a well-established fact. It would be better to devote his attention to his wife and child instead.

That was a much better rule to follow — especially if one had a wife called Synn who was the most attractive woman on the planet. And a son called Bart who about thirty seconds from now would come running up to him, laughing away, and jump into his arms to be lifted up to the heavens, squealing in delight.

Good Lord, Inspector Münster thought. I’m the happiest bloody copper in Maardam — how come I sometimes almost forget that?

Not long after midnight, when they had finished making love, he told Synn the Hennan story and asked what she thought. She lay for a while with her head on his arm, breathing directly into his ear, before answering.

‘I would never jump out into the darkness from a diving tower,’ she whispered in the end. ‘Never ever.’

‘Exactly what I thought as well,’ said Münster. ‘Let’s go to sleep now.’