The G File

2

The moment he opened the door of his cramped little flat in Heerbanerstraat he realized that the vacuum-cleaner bags were still in the drawer of his desk in the office.

On the other hand, not a single one of the beer cans was left in the refrigerator. You win some and you lose some. .

So his cleaning intentions would have to be put on ice: but one lost day was neither here nor there, of course. The smell of old, stuffy dirt and the stench of something stale which was presumably the mould underneath the bathtub, struck him as a sort of ‘welcome home’ greeting. One shouldn’t simply shrug off old habits and sell off the things that make you feel safe and secure just for the sake of it. Dust and dirt should not be held in contempt. .

There was a pile of advertising leaflets and two bills on the floor underneath the letter slot. He picked it all up and threw it onto the basket chair, which was full of similar stuff. My home is my castle, he thought as he opened the balcony door, then turned back to observe the devastation. He contemplated the unmade bed, the unwashed dirty crockery and the rest of the chaotic mess. Switched off the stereo equipment, which must have been on for at least twenty-four hours. Noted that the right-hand loudspeaker was broken, and that he ought to do something about it.

Then he went into the bathroom, glanced at the filthy mirror and confirmed that he looked about ten years older than he had looked that morning.

Why do I bother to go on living? he wondered as he stepped into the shower and switched on the water.

And why do I keep on asking myself these optimistic questions, day in and day out?

An hour later it was eight o’clock and he had washed up three days’ worth of dirty dishes. He flopped down in front of the television and watched the first ten minutes of the news. The murder of a policeman in Groenstadt and a ministerial meeting in Berlin in connection with unrest in the financial markets. A mad swan that had caused a pile-up on the motorway outside Saaren. He switched off and telephoned his daughter.

She was not at home, and so he was obliged to exchange a few pleasantries with his ex-wife’s new boyfriend instead. It took half a minute, and afterwards he was able to congratulate himself on not having sworn a single time. Two cheers.

There were four beers in the fridge and a bottle of mineral water. He made a sandwich with salami, cheese and cucumber — but with no butter as he had forgotten to buy any — and after a brief inner struggle he selected the water. Sat down on the sofa again, took out his notepad and read what he had written.

Barbara Hennan. The beautiful American woman.

Maiden name Delgado, but now Hennan — thanks to having married that bastard Jaan G. Hennan. For some damned reason.

G, he thought. Why on earth pick G when there was a whole world of men to choose from?

And why the hell should he, Maarten Baudewijn Verlangen, have to spend what little time he had on something so bloody stupid as shadowing Jaan G. Hennan? The man he — more or less on his own — had made sure was placed under lock and key some. . yes, it was almost exactly twelve years ago, he decided after some rapid mental calculations. The end of May 1975. While he was still working as a respectable police officer.

While he still had a proper job, a family, and a right to look at himself in the mirror without averting his gaze.

While he still had a future.

It was at the beginning of the 1980s that it all went to pot. 1981-2. Buying that house out at Dikken. All the arguments with Martha. Their love life simply shrivelling up like. . like a worn-out condom.

The bribes. The sudden opportunity of earning a bit extra on the side by turning a blind eye to things. Not just a bit extra, in fact. Without the extra income they would never have been able to afford the interest and mortgage payments on the house. He had tried to explain that to Martha afterwards, after he had been caught out and his world had collapsed. But she had just shaken her head and snorted.

What about that lady? she had wondered. In what way had it been necessary for the preservation of their marriage for him to spend so many nights with her? Could he kindly explain that to her?

No, he couldn’t.

Five years, he thought. It’s five years since the world collapsed, and I’m still alive.

Just occasionally there were now moments when that didn’t surprise him any more.

He gulped down the rest of the water and went to fetch a beer. Moved over to the armchair with the reading lamp, and leaned back.

Barbara Hennan, he thought, and closed his eyes.

How the hell could such a beautiful woman become involved with an arsehole like G?

It was a riddle, to be sure, but not a new one. Women’s judgement when it came to men had backfired before in the history of the world. Gone astray when confronted by rampant stags in rut amidst the superficial values of everyday life. He dug out the photographs and studied them for a while with a degree of distaste.

Why? he wondered. Why does she want me to keep an eye on him?

Was there more than one answer? More than one possibility?

He didn’t think so. It was the same old story, of course. The unfaithful husband and the jealous wife. Who wanted proof. Evidence of his betrayal in black and white.

Maarten Verlangen had spent four years playing this game by now, and he reckoned that about two-thirds of his work was of this nature.

If he excluded the work he did for the insurance company, that is: but that aspect of his work was not really a part of his sleuthing activities. It was rather different. The insurance company Trustor had wanted a sort of detective who could investigate irregularities using somewhat unorthodox methods — and what could possibly be more appropriate in the circumstances than a police officer who had been sacked — or rather, had chosen to leave the force rather than be hanged in a public place. A gentleman’s agreement. There had been no question of a formal appointment; but as time went by there had been a commission here and another commission there — usually resolved to the advantage of the company — and so their cooperation had continued. When Verlangen occasionally checked his somewhat less than prodigious income, he concluded that it was about fifty-fifty: roughly half came from the insurance company, and half from his sleuthing activities.

He lit a cigarette — the day’s fortieth or thereabouts — and tried once again to conjure up the American woman in his mind’s eye. Fru Barbara Hennan. Thirty-seven or thirty-eight? She could hardly be any older than that. At least ten years younger than her husband, in other words.

And ten times more desirable. No, not ten times. Ten thousand times. Why on earth would anybody want to be unfaithful if they had a woman like Barbara? Incomprehensible.

He inhaled a few times, and thought the matter over. Was it really all that likely that it was the same old story, the same old motive? Had Barbara Hennan née Delgado come to him because she suspected her husband was having an affair with another woman? After only a few months in the new country?

Or was there some other reason? — In which case, what?

He would have liked to ask her straight out — he had been on the point of doing so several times during their conversation, and he didn’t usually beat about the bush in such circumstances. But something had held him back.

Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to embarrass her. But perhaps there were other reasons as well.

Just what they might be was something he couldn’t be sure about. Not then, when she had been sitting on the other side of the table; and not now, as he sat there in his cramped and stuffy lair, trying to think things over and work out a strategy.

A strategy? he thought. Rubbish. I don’t need a strategy. I’ll drive there tomorrow morning. Sit in my car outside his office all day, staring at him. Smoking myself to death. Given the extent to which I’ve grown older, there’s no chance of him recognizing me.

This is an easy job. A classic. If it was a film, the building would no doubt blow up at about half past four.

He drank the rest of the beer, and wondered if he should allow himself another one before going to bed. During the course of the day he had drunk eight. That was close to the maximum — which was ten — but why not allow himself the luxury of a clear conscience for once?

Two still to go? Somewhere deep down inside him, of course, a voice was whispering somewhat pitifully that ten beers a day wasn’t a deal that was beyond discussion. But what the hell, he thought. Everything is relative apart from death and the anger of a fat woman. So what?

He had read that last thought somewhere. Quite a long time ago, in the days when he could remember what he had read in books.

He belched, and stubbed out the last cigarette of the day. Did what was necessary in the bathroom in just over a minute, then wriggled his way into his unmade bed. His pillow smelt vaguely of something unpleasant — unwashed hair perhaps, or sadness, or something of that sort. Turning it over didn’t help matters.

He set the alarm clock for half past six, and switched off the light.

Linden? he thought. If I book a room in a hotel, at least I won’t have to sleep in dirty sheets for a few nights.

Five minutes later Maarten Baudewijn Verlangen was snoring, with his mouth open wide.