Hakan Nesser - The G File

Just as he came to where Van Veeteren was lying, Münster appeared from another direction.

‘Good God,’ he groaned, staring at Bausen, who was now kneeling by the Chief Inspector ’s side. ‘What on earth. .?’

Bausen raised a finger, signalling that Münster should remain silent. He leaned even more closely over the motionless body, feeling cautiously with his hands over neck and head.

Münster closed his eyes and waited. He thought for a moment that the ground was shaking under his feet, but didn’t find that in the least surprising.

Not at all.

Good God, he thought. Please make sure that. .

‘He’s alive!’ Bausen exclaimed. ‘Praise be to God, he’s alive!’

Münster knelt down beside him. Didn’t notice that Beate Moerk and Rooth had just appeared behind him, but did notice that Van Veeteren opened his eyes and that his lips were moving.

‘He’s trying to say something.’

Bausen took off his jacket and placed it almost tenderly over the Chief Inspector . Then he leaned as closely as possible to his face and listened. After a few seconds he straightened his back and looked at Münster.

‘What’s he saying?’

Bausen frowned.

‘If I heard him rightly, he says he met fifteen people on the way back.’

‘That he what. .?

‘Don’t ask me. He was walking on a beach and met those people, he says. Fifteen of them. But never mind that now, ring for an ambulance — I think he’s been shot in the chest. And he’s been lying here quite a while. Let’s hope. . But there’s not much life left in him.’

Münster stood up, but before he even had time to take out his mobile Inspector Moerk was already in touch with the emergency services.

He looked up and thought that the almost white sky felt unusually close.

He rang on her twentieth birthday, and they met a week later. A rainy October evening with smog in the air and yellow leaves on the pavements. They spoke for an hour in a restaurant in the Ku’damm, and when he left she had difficulty in believing that the past hour had been real.

That he was not just a character from some pessimistic saga or a contorted dream, a sort of shadowy figure she wouldn’t place any belief in on a bright, sunny day.

Your mother, he had said: I want to talk to you about your mother.

My mother? Mami?

Did you call her Mami?

Mami, yes. Mami went missing. She has always been missing, ever since. .

Yes, I know, he said. But you don’t know what happened when she went missing, do you?

They were drinking red wine. An expensive Italian vintage. They ordered food as well, but she couldn’t force it down. Only a few mouthfuls. It was the same with him: she didn’t know if he put down his knife and fork in order to demonstrate his solidarity with her; but that didn’t matter of course.

Who are you? she asked. Why. .?

But he merely shook his head, putting her off.

Then he began to tell the tale. Slowly and elaborately, with long pauses and thoughtful nods. As if he needed to sit there reliving it all while he spoke. As if it had been forgotten for ever and a day.

And then came that evening when she died, he said eventually. You did know she was dead, I assume?

She nodded somewhat vaguely. He clasped his hands and rested his chin on his knuckles.

She died while that film was being shot. Your Mami.

That’s what happened.

Film? she thought. So Mami had been a film star, had she?

Fifteen years ago, he said. She was a great actress, but an accident happened. A series of remarkable circumstances resulted in the accident being hushed up.

Hushed up? Why?

What circumstances?

Circumstances, he repeated, taking a sort of ancient cigarette-making machine out of his pocket. He filled it with tobacco and paper and rolled two cigarettes without saying a word. He offered her one. She didn’t normally smoke, but she accepted it.

It was a difficult role she had to play, he said. She was a gifted actress, and was just about to break through when the accident happened.

There was something about his eyes when he said that. She didn’t realize it at the time, but it dawned on her later. Or perhaps she didn’t want to register it when it was happening.

I’m not telling you the whole truth, said those eyes, but I’m giving you a truth that you can live with. You realize that, don’t you? It’s not always necessary to question everything. Life is a story.

She didn’t respond.

Fables and stories are our way of achieving an understanding of the world, he explained. An understanding we can cope with. And if we don’t make stories out of our lives, we can sometimes break down on our journey through life. Are you with me?

He made a strange gesture with his right arm and shoulder. As if he were in pain, or needed to stretch a muscle.

She said she understood, and he observed her seriously and at length. Then he wanted to know about her life now, and what she did. She told him that she was a student. That she had been adopted by new parents when she was six years old, and that she had received a good start in life. That she had been lucky. Despite everything.

She could see that he was encouraged by that — and suddenly a faint voice inside her whispered that. .

. . that maybe she wouldn’t have been so lucky if Mami hadn’t died. And if she hadn’t ended up in that home so that Vera and Helmut could come and select just her. It was a remarkable and unpleasant thought, and she pushed it to one side.

Who are you? she asked again. How come you know all this?

I’m a good friend, he said. I was a good friend of your mother’s.

Where is her grave?

There isn’t a grave. Her ashes were scattered in the sea, in accordance with her wishes.

There was that look in his eyes again. She asked no more questions.

She remained sitting at the table after he had left. Through the rain-drenched window she watched him getting into a car parked outside in the street.

A red car. Brand new, as far as she could judge. A woman was sitting in the driver’s seat. She kissed him on the cheek, and he placed his hand briefly on the back of her head.

When they had driven away, she pinched her arm twice.