Hakan Nesser - The G File

His prayers went unanswered. He carefully opened one eye in an attempt to pin down those two coordinates: here and now.

Here turned out to be an unfamiliar room. Presumably in a hotel. He was lying in a bed amidst a mass of crumpled sheets and blankets, and didn’t recognize the location. The room looked comparatively neat and tidy, and warm morning sun was pouring in through the windows.

Now was 09.01. There was an alarm clock on the bedside table, peeping away. He recognized it: it was his own travelling clock, bought at the Merckx supermarket a few months ago. Not that he did a lot of travelling, but you never know. . Cost: 12.50.

He thought for a moment. There was presumably a little button cunningly concealed at the back of the clock that could be used to switch the bloody thing off. He lashed out with his right fist and the clock fell on the floor and was silent. The effort increased the intensity of the explosions inside his head.

Bloody hell, he thought. Here we go again. Where am I? What day is it?

Three hours later he had accomplished a great deal.

He had staggered to the bathroom, thrown up, had a pee and drunk a litre of water.

And somehow swallowed three headache tablets.

Found his way back to bed and fallen asleep again.

This time it wasn’t the alarm clock that woke him up. It was a small, dark-skinned chambermaid who stood in the doorway, apologizing profusely.

She was young and pretty, and he decided to make an effort to tell her so.

You mustn’t apologize, he wanted to say. You are young and as fresh as a dew-covered lily. . You are looking at a seventh-rate swine. Learn the lesson.

But all he could produce was a hoarse whisper. His tongue was as supple as chicken wire; and the air coming from his tobacco-laden lungs, which was intended to create an attractive resonance in his dried-out vocal cords, was not much more than a hot puff from a dying desert fire.

Shut the door so that you don’t have to look at me, he thought, and tried to do something with his face. To smile, or something of that sort. It hurt.

Now she apologized again. Wasn’t he supposed to be checking out today? she wondered. Before eleven o’clock — that was the set time. Not just in this hotel, but in each one in the chain, as explained in the information leaflet.

It was twelve noon now.

He understood now. Bitch, he thought, and felt the iron band tightening around his head once more. You were just an illusion, you as well.

‘Ten minutes,’ he managed to croak. ‘Give me ten minutes.’

She nodded and left. Verlangen took a deep breath. Uneasy squeaking sounds emerged from his bronchial tubes. He rolled out of bed and staggered into the bathroom.

He had a simple brunch at a cafe by the name of Henry’s. Two cups of black coffee, a beer and a small bottle of Vichy water. The fog inside his head slowly dispersed, and when he managed to smoke a cigarette as well, he began to realize at last that he was probably going to survive today.

Whatever good that would do him.

Thanks to the blessed return of nicotine into his veins, he found himself able to recall what had happened the previous day — certain parts of it, at least — and the role he had to play in this hellish dump of a town.

Linden, for Christ’s sake, he thought. I’ve never felt so awful as I do here.

He left Henry’s after half an hour, managed to find his Toyota in the hotel car park, flung his bag onto the back seat and walked past Aldemarckt to Landemaarstraat and Hennan’s office. It was a little cooler today, thank God: clouds had started to build up from the south-west, and if he hadn’t misjudged all the signs it would start raining before this evening.

He stopped at his usual place and contemplated the characterless windows above the row of shops. Checked his watch: a quarter to two. One could hardly claim that he had fulfilled his guard duties all that efficiently or enthusiastically today.

He remembered that he had promised to give Barbara Hennan some kind of report, and spent some time wondering how he was going to present it.

What the hell could he say?

That he had sat for a few hours fraternizing with his quarry? Drunk whisky after whisky after whisky with him in that confounded restaurant, whatever it was called? Eventually collapsed into bed as drunk as a lord at God only knows what time. Always assuming that God had been awake then to notice.

It was hardly the sort of thing one expected of a serious private detective — even Maarten Verlangen could see that.

At least he hadn’t given himself away, he was sure of that. Despite everything he’d had the presence of mind not to tell Hennan that his precious wife had hired him as a private dick in order to find out what her husband was up to when she was unable to keep an eye on him herself. It was crucial that he shouldn’t give himself away on that score, and he hadn’t done so.

So all was well in that respect. But what would he be able to say about the current situation?

That he had spent half the day in bed with a third-degree hangover that unfortunately prevented him from working as usual? That he didn’t have the slightest idea where his quarry was at the moment?

Would Barbara Hennan really be interested in continuing to employ him after such obvious negligence? And pay him for his efforts? Hardly.

So what should he do?

The car, he thought! Hennan’s blue Saab.

Of course. Verlangen lit a cigarette and began walking optimistically around the block. If Hennan was in his office, the car would be parked somewhere close by. As sure as amen in church and the whores in Zwille.

After quite some time walking around the central parts of Linden, Verlangen was able to state with confidence that Hennan’s car was nowhere to be seen. Nowhere was there a well-polished blue Saab — two other Saabs, but neither of them blue and neither of them noticeably well polished.

It looked as if Hennan hadn’t come to the office today, in other words. A conclusion that fitted in well with last night’s intake of whisky, Verlangen decided, and, after the purchase of a new bottle of soda water at the kiosk in the square, he sat down on a bench to think things over. He didn’t have the telephone number of Hennan’s company, didn’t even know what it was called, so there was no chance of getting in touch with him in that way.

He emptied the bottle of soda water in two swigs, and belched loudly. He remained sitting on the bench for a while until he seemed to feel a drop of rain on the back of his hand, and decided to take a chance and make contact with his employer. He might as well take the bull by the horns, he thought.

Always assuming he wanted to continue coiling in these easily earned payments, and he did.

Once again he rang from the kiosk outside the butcher’s shop. He let it ring ten times, then concluded that nobody was at home in Villa Zefyr. Or that nobody intended to answer the telephone, at least. He left the kiosk and put his hands in his pockets. It had turned three now, and it seemed pointless to waste any more energy on Hennan than he had already used up today. Especially as at the moment he had extremely limited resources of energy and patience.

Because of the circumstances.

And because it was now raining properly. Not all that heavily, but persistently and penetratingly. He decided to have something to eat, then go home. His agreement with Barbara Hennan dictated that he should only keep watch over Jaan G. on weekdays: there were only a couple of hours left until Friday evening, and so if he made another attempt to telephone her from Maardam, he could then pack up for the weekend and start work again on Monday morning. All bushy-tailed and raring to go.