Hakan Nesser - The G File

He looked inquiringly at Van Veeteren.

‘That’s correct,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I phoned Meusse, and he guesses around ten o’clock. He’s rarely more than half an hour out. What was your overall impression of Hennan? Is he concealing something?’

Sachs closed his notebook and placed his hands in his armpits. Leaned back in his chair and thought for a while.

‘God only knows,’ he said eventually. ‘He was drunk when I spoke to him, but nevertheless. . well, incredibly calm and collected, somehow. If he was in shock or something of the sort — and let’s face it, he ought to have been — he didn’t show it at all. But. . Well, I have to say that I’m not at all sure about my impression of him. I’m grateful for the fact that you are here and will draw your own conclusions as well. As I said, I’m inclined to think that it was an accident, of course — but you never know.’

‘And there were no indications in the house suggesting that she’d had a visitor? Somebody else, that is.’

‘Nothing that we found, at least. There was just one used glass, and it had her prints on it. But of course we haven’t been through the house with a fine-tooth comb. There wasn’t. . There didn’t seem to be any need.’

Van Veeteren nodded, and took hold of the arms of his chair.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what Inspector Münster and I come up with. If there is anything of immediate importance maybe we can call in here on our way home. Otherwise we’ll be in touch by phone.’

‘You’re always most welcome,’ said Chief Inspector Sachs, thrusting out his arms. ‘Good hunting, as they say.’

A few seconds before coming face to face with Jaan G. Hennan, an old Borkmann rule came into Van Veeteren’s head.

It was not the first time. Chief Inspector Borkmann had been his mentor during the early years up in Frigge, but at that time he had not realized how many of the old bloodhound’s understated comments would accompany him throughout his career.

But they did. Irrespective of the type of investigation, there was more or less always a relevant piece of advice from Borkmann to fish up from the well of memory. It was just a case of devoting sufficient time to thinking about it. Sometimes — as on this occasion — he didn’t even need to go fishing: he could hear his mentor’s calm voice as clear as day inside the back of his head, echoing down through two decades of messy and clamorous police work.

This time — just as he and Inspector Münster were slowly approaching the somewhat portly figure up on the terrace of Villa Zefyr — it concerned the ability to keep quiet.

‘Learn how to stay silent!’ Borkmann had urged. There was nothing as uncomfortable for anybody with anything on their conscience as silence.

And Borkmann had elaborated: ‘If you can just keep your trap shut, a mere look or the raising of an eyebrow can induce any killer or bank robber to lose his composure and let the cat out of the bag. From sheer nervousness. Make silence your ally, and you will come off best in every single interrogation!’

Just before they were within hearing distance, Van Veeteren poked Münster with his elbow.

‘Don’t say too much,’ he said. ‘Let me run this conversation.’

‘Okay,’ said Münster. ‘Message understood.’

Hennan was wearing wide white trousers and some kind of blue sailing jumper. Or possibly a golf jumper, Münster found it difficult to decide which. He looked grim and easily irritated. Close-cropped, dark hair. A suggestion of grey at the temples. A powerful-looking face. When he shook hands, his grip was firm — as if it involved some kind of marking of territory.

‘VV,’ he said. ‘Long time no see.’

‘G,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Yes, it’s been a few years.’

‘Münster,’ said Münster. ‘Detective Inspector.’

They sat down at a table made of high-grade hardwood. Probably teak. Standing in the middle of it was an ice bucket with several bottles of beer pressed down inside it.

‘A glass of beer?’ Hennan suggested. ‘It’s on the warm side today.’

‘It’ll probably rain,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But yes please.’

Hennan poured out three glasses. They each took a swig, then sat in silence for ten seconds.

‘Well?’ said Hennan.

Van Veeteren produced a packet of West, took one out and lit it with a theatrical flourish. Münster folded his arms and waited. It struck him that it was much easier to conduct an effective interrogation if you were a smoker.

‘A sad story,’ said Van Veeteren, blowing out a cloud of smoke.

‘You can say that again,’ said Hennan.

Five more seconds passed.

‘I wonder how the hell it happened,’ said Van Veeteren.

‘What do you mean by that?’

Van Veeteren shrugged, and contemplated Hennan for a while. Hennan didn’t move a muscle.

‘Don’t you?’

‘Don’t I what?’

‘Wonder how it happened.’

Hennan drank a sip of beer, and took a slim black cigar out of a wooden case lying on the table. Also teak, Münster decided. Or possibly walnut — the grains were not quite the same.

Hennan lit it, and removed a flake of tobacco that had stuck fast to the tip of his tongue.

‘I don’t understand why you have come here,’ he said. ‘My wife has died as a result of a terrible accident. I’ve spent half the night talking to stupid police officers, and now it seems the same nonsense is going to continue.’

Van Veeteren took a puff of his cigarette, and nodded very slowly and very thoughtfully.

‘How long were you in jail?’ he asked.

Jaan G. Hennan’s facial expression stiffened significantly, Münster noted. As if somebody had pulled his ears backwards and stretched the skin on his face and somehow or other made it thinner. A sort of facelift, but sideways. The image of a wolf flashed through Münster’s consciousness.

Van Veeteren yawned and blew his nose. He took a little yellow notebook out of his inside pocket and wrote something down. Hennan observed his actions with increasing annoyance.

‘What the hell do you want?’ he exclaimed in the end. ‘If you have something to say, for Christ’s sake come out with it! But if you simply intend to sit here and play at hard-nosed idiotic coppers, I shall leave you to it. I have quite a lot of things to see to.’

‘Really?’ said Van Veeteren. ‘What, for example?’

‘Eh?’

‘What do you have to see to?’

‘That. .’ Hennan hesitated for a second. . ‘That has nothing to do with you.’

He pulled up the sleeves of his sailing-golf jumper and revealed two powerful, tanned lower arms. Van Veeteren leaned a bit further forward over the table.

‘Why are you so nervous?’ he asked in a friendly tone of voice. ‘Is there something you forgot to mention to the police last night?’

Hennan turned his head and spat out another flake of tobacco onto the grass. Crossed his legs and began drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. A few more seconds passed.

‘Your lickspittle here,’ he said, pointing at Münster. ‘Is he dumb, or what?’

‘I have a sore throat,’ said Münster. ‘Carry on, you two. I’ll say something if there’s anything that needs saying.’

Van Veeteren nodded sympathetically in Münster’s direction before once again concentrating on Hennan.

‘G,’ he said. ‘I’ve never liked that letter.’

Hennan did not react.

‘Do you really think your wife died in the way you tried to convince the police it happened last night?’

Hennan didn’t move a muscle of his face. But he kept on drumming his fingers. Van Veeteren waited. Münster waited.

‘Would you kindly explain what the hell you mean by that?’