Hakan Nesser - The G File

Münster nodded.

‘So he’s clean, it seems? It’s not possible that he slipped out for an hour or so, I take it?’

‘How should I know? Nobody was keeping an eye on him all the time, but given how long it would take to get to Kammerweg and back. . Well, I suppose it’s not totally out of the question. It would have had to be after he’d paid his bill in that case, and he presumably did that at about half past nine. . Hmm. .’

‘Was there anybody with him?’

‘Not while he was at his table. Apparently he spoke to somebody or other later in the bar. . Maybe even several, but our colleagues in Linden haven’t bothered to look any closer into that. No, we shall have to try to find some other way of solving this, Münster.’

‘What, for example?’

The Chief Inspector snapped a toothpick and looked out through the window.

‘Theoretically. . Theoretically he could have nipped out at around half past nine, driven like a madman to Kammerweg, pushed his wife into the empty swimming pool and been back in the bar at Columbine’s thirty or forty minutes later. But as I said, if you can think of a better solution, that’s fine by me.’

Münster said nothing for a while.

‘That business ten years ago. .’

‘Twelve,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Nineteen seventy-five.’

‘Twelve years ago. Were you involved in it in any way?’

Van Veeteren shook his head.

‘Not at all. The drugs squad dealt with all aspects of it, I only heard about it. It’s a pity they didn’t manage to get him locked away for longer — I suspect he should have got much more than two-and-a-half years. . If they don’t appeal, that’s usually an indication that they were lucky.’

Münster squirmed in his chair.

‘Forgive me for asking,’ he said, ‘but how come you are so sure he is guilty this time as well? Despite everything, it does seem-’

‘I’ve never said I’m sure,’ interrupted Van Veeteren, annoyed. ‘But I’m damned if I’m going to exclude that possibility at this early stage.’

‘There is a variant,’ said Münster after a short pause.

‘A variant?’ said Van Veeteren. ‘What do you mean by that, Inspector?’

Münster cleared his throat and hesitated for a moment.

‘Well, how about this?’ he said. ‘It’s purely hypothetical, of course. Hennan leaves the restaurant, let’s say at a quarter to ten. He goes out and meets his wife somewhere in central Linden. He hits her and kills her and puts her body in the boot of his car. It takes about ten minutes. Then he goes back into the restaurant. When he gets home — at about one o’clock — he takes her out of the boot and throws her into the swimming pool. Then he phones the police.’

Van Veeteren worked away at his lower jaw for a while with a new toothpick before answering.

‘That’s among the most unlikely thing I’ve heard since Renate got it into her head that. . anyway, that’s irrelevant. What the devil do you mean?’

‘I did say that it was a bit forced.’

‘Do you know how G travelled home that night?’

‘No, I-’

‘Taxi. He took a taxi. Are you suggesting that he stuffed her into a body bag and put her in the back seat, and then got the driver to help him carry her into the house?’

‘Stop,’ said Münster. ‘We haven’t yet had it confirmed that he really did take a taxi, have we? We only know that he said he did.’

Van Veeteren eyed him critically.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘You have a point. We can check with Meusse if the injuries could have been caused by something different from the fall. We need to do that in any case, of course. But if it did happen in the way you describe, I hereby promise to clip your toenails for a whole year.’

‘Excellent,’ said Münster. ‘I look forward to that. But you’re the one who’s so keen to get G locked up, not me.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘We’re only discussing matters hypothetically, I thought you were capable of doing that. You have to try out any number of theories — if you don’t do that, you’ll never get anywhere.’

Münster remained seated for a few seconds, thinking things over. Then he stood up.

‘I have quite a lot of other things to see to, if you’ll excuse me. Shall I tell you what I really think about Barbara Hennan’s death?’

‘If you feel you have to.’

‘Thank you. An accident. As clear as crystal. The Chief Inspector can put away all his nail scissors.’

Van Veeteren snorted.

‘Inspector Münster, bear in mind that you are not employed in the CID to investigate accidents. Your job is to uncover and fight crimes. Not to turn a blind eye to them.’

‘Understood,’ said Münster. ‘Anything else?’

‘And to play badminton with your immediate superior. When do you have time? Tomorrow afternoon?’

‘Understood,’ said Münster again, and slunk out through the door.

He’s getting better and better, thought the Chief Inspector when he was on his own. In fact.

But then, he has such a good mentor.

Inspector Münster had been working for the Maardam police for just over ten years, but had only been a detective officer for three. He moved to the CID at around about the same time as Van Veeteren took over from old Chief Inspector Mort, and Van Veeteren had noticed — especially during the last year — that more and more frequently Münster was the one he most wanted to have around. In cases where it was possible to pick and choose among colleagues, he almost always chose Münster.

There was nothing seriously wrong with Reinhart, deBries, Rooth, Nielsen or Heinemann, of course, but it was only with Münster that he could develop the mutually fruitful teacher-pupil relationship — a game that was all too often misunderstood nowadays, he thought, and which he no doubt linked with Hesse’s Das Glasperlenspiel — a work he assumed would never appear on any reading list for courses on criminology.

And which didn’t really fit in exactly with the slightly dissonant tone which occasionally seemed to arise between them as if they were two unequal siblings.

Enough of that, he thought, looking out over the town, which was once again bathed in generous sunshine. Speculations and would-be-wise psychology. And this was not a good time to be thinking about Hesse, in fact. Nor Münster, come to that. It would be better to try to find a way of handling that confounded G.

He realized that this was also easier said than done, put on his jacket and went down to the canteen for a coffee.

Verlangen drove slowly past Villa Zefyr and stopped fifty metres further on. Sat at the wheel for five minutes while he smoked a cigarette and wondered what to do. Had the distinct feeling that he ought not to do anything rash. Not to draw any conclusions before he was certain about the basic facts.

Was it Barbara Hennan who died last Thursday evening, or was the newspaper article about some entirely different woman?

During the drive from Maardam he had wondered how best to go about finding out the answer to that question, but no simple, straightforward course of action had sprung to mind.

He could phone one of the editors on the local newspaper, of course, but in all probability they would decline to release the name of the woman involved.

He could march in on Jaan G. Hennan and ask him straight out, but something about this bold initiative scared him. Instinctively. When he thought more closely about it, he also realized that his fear could well be justified. From a purely objective point of view. If Barbara Hennan really was dead, there was obviously something fishy going on. She had commissioned a private detective to shadow her husband, and even if the newspapers said that the police did not suspect foul play — well, come off it! Maarten Verlangen was not born yesterday. Far from it. Hennan was a slimy customer — had been just that twelve years ago, and his behaviour at the Columbine had hardly indicated any improvement in his character.