The G File

25

‘Can you tell us, fröken Sellneck, about your relationship with the accused, Jaan G. Hennan?’

Doris Sellneck performed a series of rather strange head movements before answering. As far as Van Veeteren could judge, she seemed to be about fifty years old — a tall, slim woman with an air of introversion about her. As if she were not really present. He remembered who she was the moment he heard her name.

He also remembered why he hadn’t bothered to interrogate her.

‘I really don’t understand why you have called me here,’ she began. ‘Jaan G. Hennan is a closed chapter in my life. It’s over twenty years ago.’

‘Precisely,’ interrupted the defence counsel. ‘I submit that fröken Sellneck should be allowed to leave the dock immediately.’

‘Yes, please,’ said Doris Sellneck.

‘Overruled,’ said Hart.

‘My dear fröken Sellneck,’ said Silwerstein. ‘We have talked about this. It’s true that it’s a long time since you were married to the accused, but we are trying to fill in a little of the background, so to speak. His character, and things like that. If you-’

‘He has no character,’ exclaimed Doris Sellneck with sudden enthusiasm. ‘He is a person without a spine.’

‘Objection!’ intervened the defence counsel.

‘Might I request the witness to be careful with her choice of words,’ said Hart.

‘Eh?’ said Sellneck.

Van Veeteren closed his eyes. The prosecutor cleared his throat.

‘So you were married to Hennan very briefly. In 1964, is that right?’

‘Yes, 1964,’ said Sellneck. ‘We got married in May, and separated in October.’

‘Can you tell us a little more about your marriage,’ asked Silwerstein. ‘And about Hennan.’

‘He didn’t treat me well,’ said Doris Sellneck, tossing her head. ‘I was the one who filed for divorce. He had somebody else on the side.’

‘Another woman?’

‘Yes. Her name was Friedel.’

‘Really? How did he treat you badly?’

‘He deceived me and swindled me.’

‘I really must object!’ insisted Van Molde yet again. ‘It’s absolutely preposterous to dig up a witness who hasn’t met my client for nearly a quarter of a century. You haven’t been associating with your former husband since your divorce, is that right, fröken Sellneck?’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Sellneck.

Hart banged his hammer on the table and glared crossly at the defence counsel.

‘It will be your turn to put questions to the witness when the prosecutor has finished,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we can agree on that little detail, at least?’

‘By all means,’ said fru Van Molde, and sat down.

Silwerstein wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

‘So your husband swindled you, did he?’

Sellneck nodded.

‘A large sum of money, yes. I was obliged to buy him out of the flat which we had paid for with my money. Thirteen thousand guilders.’

‘I understand. How long had you known him before you married him?’

‘Six months. He proposed, and I said yes. I was naive — all he wanted was my money. He had no intention of it ever being more than a bogus marriage.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He had that other woman all the time. . Friedel. He never wanted to go to bed with me. I wasn’t good enough. For God’s sake, he’s an absolute swine!’

There was some muttering and mumbling in the public gallery once again, but Hart only needed to raise his hammer to restore order.

‘You have said that he beat you, is that true?’ said Silwerstein.

‘Objection!’ shouted the defence counsel, rising to her feet. ‘This witness is as incompetent as it’s possible to be. A frustrated woman intent on revenge after a quarter of a century. It’s outrageous! Even murder becomes statute-barred after twenty-five years: fröken Sellneck belongs to a different age!’

‘Thank you for your views,’ said Hart. ‘Please sit down, fru Van Molde — but I have no doubt that members of the jury can make psychological judgements on their own account. Would you please kindly answer the prosecutor’s question, fröken Sellneck.’

‘What question?’ wondered Doris Sellneck.

‘If Jaan G. Hennan beat you,’ said the prosecutor.

‘Yes, he did,’ said Sellneck eagerly. ‘He gave me a punch on one occasion. In my face. It was just after I had filed for divorce. You shouldn’t treat your wife like that.’

The defence counsel waved her hand.

‘Could my client make a brief comment at this point? For clarification.’

Van Veeteren noted that Judge Hart was beginning to look almost amused. He nodded his approval to Van Molde, and Hennan stood up.

‘It’s true that I hit my then wife on one occasion,’ he said. ‘She was clinging onto my arm and wouldn’t let go — I had to give her a slap with my other hand in order to get free.’

He sat down again. Doris Sellneck waved her clenched fist at him from the witness box, and many of those in the public gallery shouted out in anger. But not Chief Inspector Van Veeteren.

Reinhart is right, he thought. Silwerstein is an ass. Thank God he didn’t drag Hennan’s sister into the box as well.

Judge Hart allowed the noise to ebb away before signalling to the prosecutor that he should continue. But Silwerstein decided that it was best not to take any more risks, and turned to the jury instead.

‘I think we have received quite a good insight into the character of the accused,’ he said. ‘Even more than twenty years ago, he exploited women for financial gain — and he has continued to do so ever since. Doris Sellneck managed to emerge with her life intact: but Philomena McNaught and Barbara Delgado didn’t. Thank you, fröken Sellneck, I have no more questions for you.’

But defence counsel Van Molde did. Albeit only a few.

‘What’s your occupation, fröken Sellneck?’

‘I’m on sick leave.’

‘Sick leave?’

‘Well, I’m on a disability pension.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘I live at Liljehemmet.’

‘I see. That’s a home for people with various psychological handicaps, isn’t it?’

‘It’s a nursing home, yes. I’m a disability pensioner.’

‘How long have you been living at Liljehemmet?’

Doris Sellneck tossed her head for the last time.

‘For eighteen years,’ she said. ‘It’ll be eighteen years this August.’

‘Do you like it there?’

‘Yes, I do,’ said fröken Sellneck. ‘It’s a lovely little place right next to Seegergracht. We have a film show every Thursday and Sunday.’

After that piece of information, she was allowed to leave the witness box.

Verlangen was clean-shaven, and was wearing a white shirt.

In response to the prosecutor’s preliminary questions he informed the court that he worked as a private detective on his own account, that he was forty-seven years old, and that he had previously been employed as a police officer.

Silwerstein asked if he had had any contact with the accused before this case, and Verlangen recounted in considerable detail his contribution twelve years ago when Hennan was found guilty of drugs crimes. Van Veeteren noticed that during his account, on several occasions fru Van Molde seemed to be on the point of objecting, but she remained seated — perhaps because Hennan placed a hand on her arm.

‘And then, a month ago, he suddenly turned up in your life once again, did he?’ asked the prosecutor.

Verlangen proceeded to give a detailed account of how Barbara Hennan had contacted him, and of the surveillance work he had undertaken in Linden.

‘Do you regard yourself as an experienced detective?’ asked Silwerstein when Verlangen had finished.

‘I’ve been working for five years as a private detective,’ said Verlangen, ‘and before that I spent many years in the police force working along similar lines. . So yes, I think I can say that I am quite an experienced detective.’

‘Have you had similar surveillance commissions previously?’

‘Yes, several times.’

‘What is the usual reason?’

‘When it’s a question of wives wanting their husbands to be kept under observation, it’s usually a matter of the husband being unfaithful. They want to know if their husband has been seeing some other woman.’

‘That’s the most usual motive, is it?’

‘Without a doubt.’

‘And how was it in the case of Barbara Hennan?’’

‘She didn’t give a motive.’

‘Is that usual?’

‘It happens. But they usually say what the reason is.’

‘Did you have the impression that fru Hennan suspected something along those lines when she asked you to keep an eye on the accused?’

‘Objection!’ exclaimed the defence counsel. ‘The witness is being invited to speculate.’

‘Overruled,’ said Hart. ‘But members of the jury should bear in mind that the witness has been invited to make his own judgements.’

‘I didn’t have any specific impression,’ said Verlangen after a short pause for thought. ‘But I suppose I assumed that there was some ulterior motive.’

‘And what might that have been?’

‘I don’t know. She wanted to be informed about what he had been up to. And I was supposed to report every day.’

‘And did you do that?’

‘Yes.’

‘But your work came to a rather abrupt end after quite a short time, isn’t that so?’

‘Yes. My client was found dead after two days.’

‘Two days after Barbara Hennan had hired you to keep an eye on her husband, she was found dead at the bottom of the empty swimming pool in their garden — is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

Silwerstein nodded thoughtfully, and turned to face the jury.

‘I’m not going to ask the witness to draw any conclusions, since my dear colleague is so obsessively keen to object. But I feel obliged to ask an open question — about what it would be reasonable to conclude from what we have heard from herr Verlangen, the private detective. Ladies and gentlemen, I submit that there is only one plausible conclusion: Barbara Hennan realized that her husband, the accused, was planning something. She was scared, and worried about her safety, and so she employed a private detective in order to obtain help. Unfortunately he was unable to assist her in the way she had hoped, and two days later it was too late. Is there anybody in this courtroom who has the slightest doubt about who was guilty of her death? I certainly don’t. Jaan G. Hennan!’

‘Objection!’ said the defence counsel in a weary-sounding voice

‘Sustained,’ said Hart. ‘Herr prosecutor, the closing arguments will take place tomorrow, not today. Do you have any more questions to put to herr Verlangen?’

‘No,’ said Silwerstein, sitting down on his chair. ‘No more questions.’

Fru Van Molde approached Verlangen like a cat approaching an injured bird.

‘Why did you leave the police force, herr Verlangen?’ she began by saying.

‘I wanted to do a different sort of work,’ said Verlangen.

‘A different sort of work?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you left your job as a police officer and became a private detective. Do you call that a different sort of work?’

‘You’re more independent,’ said Verlangen, squirming on his chair.

Remarkable, thought Van Veeteren. She can’t really know anything about this — was it just inspired intuition that enabled her to find that sensitive point?

‘Objection,’ said Silwerstein. ‘What is my learned friend trying to imply?’

‘Nothing,’ said Van Molde before Hart had time to say anything. ‘I’ll proceed. During the time — the short time — you carried out your so-called surveillance of my client, did he do anything of an illegal nature?’

‘No.’

‘Did he do anything you thought seemed suspicious?’

‘No, he did-’

‘It will be sufficient if you simply say yes or no, we’ll save time that way. Did he meet anybody you felt you ought to report to your employer?’

‘No.’

‘Did he do anything at all — in any way at all — that suggested he had criminal intentions?

‘No.’

‘Was there ever a time while you were keeping a watch on my client when you thought he might be in danger?’

‘No, I could-’

‘Yes or no?’

‘No.’

‘Did you notice that at any time Hennan made contact with or spoke to anybody apart from the restaurant staff or similar persons?’

‘No.’

‘And you were keeping watch on him at the Columbine restaurant at the time when his wife died?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you.’

She turned to look at the jury and the public gallery with an expression of mild astonishment on her face.

‘On the basis of what private detective Verlangen has had to say, how on earth could the prosecutor possibly conclude that Jaan G. Hennan had anything to do with the death of his wife? It is incomprehensible, ladies and gentlemen, totally incomprehensible. In actual fact the witness has given my client an alibi, a crystal clear alibi for the time when the lady died. I have to say that I simply don’t understand what the prosecution is trying to prove.’

Judge Hart leaned forward over the podium and the defence counsel changed track.

‘Is it true that you are acquainted with herr Kooperdijk, a director of the Trustor insurance company?’

Verlangen hesitated for a second, then gave up.

‘Yes.’

‘In what way?’

‘I do various jobs for them.’

‘Really? So you also work for F/B Trustor, the company with which my client has his insurance policies?’

‘Occasionally, yes.’

‘As a sort of insurance detective?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Thank you. Is it your job, among other things, to try to reveal so-called insurance fraud?’

‘Among other things.’

The defence counsel made a rhetorical pause that Van Veeteren reckoned lasted for at least five seconds, to ensure that this information sank into the minds of the jury members.

‘So you could say,’ she went on, ‘that you have a professional interest in my client being implicated in the death of his wife? Because if he is, then the insurance money will not be paid out. .’

‘Of course I haven’t-’

‘Yes or no, herr Verlangen.’

‘No, I have nothing to do with that.’

The defence counsel made another pause, gazing at Verlangen with her eyebrows raised.

‘Herr Verlangen,’ she said eventually, ‘I have spoken to herr Kooperdijk and he has described the situation to me. Is it not the case that the company has not been entirely satisfied with your work as an insurance detective, and that it would be of considerable advantage to you if the company didn’t need to pay the sum insured to herr Hennan? Is it not the case that in addition to your professional interests, you also have a personal interest in my client being found guilty?’

‘I really cannot-’

‘Would you like me to summon herr Kooperdijk to the witness stand in order to verify what I have just said?’

Verlangen made no reply. He simply rubbed the knuckles of his right hand over his chin and cheeks, and looked somewhat confused — as if he were surprised to find his face closely shaved for once. He looked nervously at the defence counsel, the jury and the public gallery. Five more seconds passed.

‘I note that the witness chooses not to answer my question,’ said Van Molde. ‘In that case I think there is no point in continuing. I have nothing to add.’

She sat down. Judge Hart instructed Verlangen to leave the witness stand, then put all his pairs of spectacles into separate pockets, peered at his wristwatch, and declared proceedings closed for the day.

As Van Veeteren drove out of Linden, it started raining. A heavy, thundery rain that had evidently been lying in wait and gathering strength throughout the oppressive afternoon. He drove onto the hard shoulder and stopped, spent some time searching through his collection of cassettes and finally settled on Fauré’s Requiem. He put it on. Thought for a moment, and decided to take a longer route home — a twenty-minute drive was not enough, he needed at least an hour. He restarted the engine, took the slip-road off to the right and headed south towards Linzhuisen and Weill instead of straight ahead.

We can’t go on like this, he thought. No way. G will be set free, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Irrespective of how the closing arguments go tomorrow, the jury will find him not guilty. I’ve known that all the time, and now we are there.

In a way he was surprised to find that he was not surprised. Nor upset. After all, it was the first time he had ever let a murderer go free.

But that had to happen one day, he had been aware of that. Chief Inspector Mort had told him what it felt like when you lost your first case; Borkmann as well. It had been twenty years before Van Veeteren found himself in that situation — that must surely have been some kind of record, but just now he couldn’t care less about that aspect of the problem. He had had time to make preparations, plenty of time; but the whole investigation had been unmanageable from the very start, and nothing had gone their way as time passed.

No new evidence had come to light, no interrogations had opened up cracks or changed the circumstances at all: the accursed G had been able to sit back and relax, and wait for the inevitable outcome — a not-guilty verdict, and one point two million guilders.

There was nothing that could be done about it, and it made no difference at all if the jury and the judge and everybody else involved were just as convinced of G’s guilt as the Chief Inspector was.

No difference whatsoever. The mills of justice ground slowly in accordance with the letter of the law and accepted practice.

This case was clinical, to use Reinhart’s word. All the ingredients had been there from the start: the insurance policy, the alibi, the private detective, Hennan’s past — no new facts had been discovered, despite assiduous and single-minded work by the police, which had also been conducted in accordance with the letter of the law and accepted practice. No, it would have made no difference if a hundred thousand people had been convinced that G had hired a killer to murder his wife, the Chief Inspector thought with a sigh. He would have got away with it even so.

Because they had not succeeded in finding the actual killer.

And because they had not succeeded in proving that Barbara Hennan had not died as a result of an accident. Not even that.

It had been a waste of time, in other words. At least, it was easy to come to that conclusion. He wondered if the case would ever have come to court even, had it not been for that confounded Verlangen letting the cat out of the bag and opening the door for the media.

Maybe, maybe not. But as Reinhart had said: at least it felt better not having had to set G free without making a fight of it. Despite everything, it was better that the mills of justice had ground away.

The rain began to ease off when he came level with Linzhuisen and turned off towards Korrim and Weill: a narrow and rarely used road over the flat landscape — he couldn’t remember when he had last been on it. He began thinking about how the trial in Linden’s courthouse had proceeded, and wondering if he had really expected anything different from the depressing — and also somewhat bizarre — judicial performance he had taken part in and been present at for two whole days.

Presumably not, he decided when he had finished ransacking his unexpressed hopes. It had proceeded as it had to proceed. If, tomorrow or the day after, the jury were to reach the unlikely conclusion that G was guilty, he would not feel any genuine sense of satisfaction, he knew that. A guilty verdict would never survive an appeal: it would only drag things out unnecessarily.

No, it was not the mechanisms and abstruseness of the judicial process that nagged away inside him: it was something different. Nor was it his own failure after twenty years of putative success, or his personal relationship with G — there was a third reason.

A third, he thought. The third factor of the equation? He ought to have become a mathematician instead. . And he suddenly had the feeling that his woolly thoughts, and the words he was trying to hook and fish them up with, were beginning to become rather abstract — or abstruse. What the hell was he searching for?

What was it that he was trying to glimpse, but had not yet succeeded?

He switched off Fauré and turned into the car park outside the cemetery in the village of Korrim. Got out of the car and lit a cigarette. It had stopped raining altogether now, and the sun was beginning to find its way through the clouds once again.

The accomplice? he thought? The murderer?

The two known factors of the equation: Jaan G. Hennan and Barbara Hennan. And then the third, the unknown one.

Was there a third factor, in fact?

He gazed out over the country churchyard with all its trees and bushes. An elderly man in a blue overall was working away under the dripping braches of the elm and lime trees, raking between the graves. Everything looked so calm and peaceful — and just for a moment he felt envious of the unknown workman. He took three or four puffs of his cigarette as he watched the man raking away, and gave his thoughts free rein.

I don’t understand, he thought. I don’t even understand the questions I ask myself any longer.

Then he clambered back into his car, and began the drive back to Maardam.