Hakan Nesser - The G File

Just trudging into Villa Zefyr like an innocent Jehovah’s Witness seemed an excessively naive thing to do. Not to say stupid.

What other possibilities were there?

He could telephone the police and spin them a yarn. That might be a reasonable alternative, provided he could find a satisfactory yarn. But there was another way that seemed significantly easier, and which he decided to try first.

The neighbours.

Neighbours always knew everything, that was an old and reliable rule. Verlangen got out of his car and headed for Villa Vigali, which was evidently what the Trottas’ house was called. It was the only plot adjacent to that of the Hennans, and as Barbara Hennan had said that they had made social contact with the Trottas, it would be very odd if they knew nothing at all about what had happened on Thursday night.

What might well have happened, that is.

He crossed over the street and passed by Villa Zefyr again, this time on foot. At that very moment a black Peugeot approached from the opposite direction and came to a halt just outside the entrance to the neighbouring house. A man in a dark suit got out — and even if Verlangen had not had the background he did have, he would have had no trouble at all in identifying him as a police officer. Without so much as a glance in any direction the man strode in between the brick pillars that marked the entrance to Villa Vigali, and was soon swallowed up by the luxuriant greenery inside the grounds. Verlangen stopped in mid-stride.

Oh dear, he thought. Perhaps this isn’t the best time for them to receive another visitor.

But on the other hand: if a CID officer felt obliged to pay a visit to Barbara Hennan’s neighbours, that surely indicated that he didn’t need to bother to go to the same trouble. The situation was crystal clear.

He returned to his car. Made a U-turn and set off back to the centre of town. A quarter of an hour later he telephoned the police station from a kiosk outside the railway station. A female secretary answered, and he asked to speak to the chief of police.

He had to wait for a minute, but then had Chief Inspector Sachs on the line.

‘Good morning, my name is Edward Stroop,’ explained Verlangen in a friendly tone. ‘I have some information to give you about the Barbara Hennan case.’

Silence for three seconds.

‘I see,’ said the chief of police eventually. ‘Are you in Linden?’

‘Yes.’

‘May I ask you to come to the police station as quickly as possible?’

‘Of course,’ said Verlangen, and hung up.

So everything was clear. Crystal clear. His employer, Barbara Clarissa Hennan, had met her maker at the bottom of an empty swimming pool. Verlangen left the station building and remained standing for a couple of minutes on the steps while he lit a cigarette and wondered what to do next.

And what the hell was going on.

‘All right, all right,’ said Münster. ‘Of course I know about that. I know the Linden police have already been here and spoken to you, but I’m from the Maardam CID. My chief inspector is a very meticulous gentleman, and he insisted that we also ought to have a chat with you. I trust you have nothing against our trying to do our job as well as we can?’

Amelia Trotta eyed him doubtfully. Her large, smooth face looked worried, despite the fact that there wasn’t the slightest trace of a wrinkle in it anywhere. Her shoulder-length hair, dyed blonde, was immaculate and reminded Münster of a forgotten, clean-living film star from his early teens. He assumed that was roughly the impression fru Trotta was trying to give. Or had tried — now she was about forty-five, large and somewhat irritated.

‘What’s the point?’ she asked. ‘I have nothing useful to say.’

She made a vague sort of gesture that could mean anything at all. Münster made the most of the opportunity and walked past her into the living room.

‘He’s very insistent, my boss,’ he said apologetically and sat down in a cretonne armchair. ‘And he’s known for leaving nothing to chance.’

She nodded doubtfully and sat down on the edge of cretonne armchair number two. Smoothed down a few creases in her dress and sighed.

‘Just a few minutes, then,’ she said. ‘I have quite a few things to see to.’

Münster took a notebook and pen out of his briefcase.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I shall try to be brief. Anyway, Barbara Hennan. How well did you know her?’

‘Not at all,’ said Trotta.

‘Not at all?’

‘Well, hardly. As I explained to the inspectors who were here yesterday. We’ve been living here for fifteen years, the Hennans moved in in April. We’ve had dinner in each other’s house, but that’s all. The sort of thing you do as good neighbours.’

‘Of course,’ said Münster. ‘And were they?’

‘Were they what?’

‘Good neighbours.’

She shrugged.

‘I suppose so.’

‘Suppose?’

‘Yes. There was nothing for us to complain about. It’s just that they weren’t really our style.’

‘I see,’ said Münster non-committally, taking a quick look round the spacious, very tidy room. Sofa with matching armchairs, and television. Two large, pale oil paintings, their colours matching the upholstery and the curtains. And a set of bookcases in solid oak containing all kinds of things but no books.

Style? he thought. Hmm.

‘What do you think about the accident?’

Fru Trotta tried once again to frown.

‘I don’t think anything at all, of course,’ she said. ‘What is there to think?’

‘Do you know if fru Hennan might have been depressed?’

‘I’ve no idea. Why do you ask that?’

‘There’s always a possibility that she might have arranged the accident, as it were.’

‘That she took her own life, you mean?’

‘We can’t exclude that possibility. It’s a very odd way to die, don’t you think?’

Amelia Trotta spent a few seconds thinking over how to answer that.

‘People do die in odd ways nowadays.’

Nowadays? Münster thought. Hmm, I suppose she might be right. He recalled having read not long ago about a prostitute in Oosterdam choking herself to death on a condom.

‘Did you like her?’ he asked.

She shrugged once again.

‘Not all that much then?’ he said.

‘I’ve already said that we didn’t know them. Neither him nor her.’

‘But you had no desire to expand your contact with them, beyond being good neighbours?’

She hesitated for a moment.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I suppose we didn’t.’

‘Your husband as well?’

‘Yes.’

Münster waited.

‘There was something. . something cheap about them.’

‘Cheap? What do you mean by that?’

‘I’m sure you understand what I mean.’

‘No,’ said Münster frankly. ‘Can you explain in a little more detail?’

She sighed, and moved further back in the armchair.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘You just noticed it. She was tattooed, for instance.’

‘Tattooed?’ said Münster.

‘Here,’ said Trotta, pointing at a spot high up on her left arm, under the sleeve of her dress. ‘A bird or something. You can say what you like about tattoos, but it’s not attractive.’

Münster nodded and made a note.

‘When did you see her last?’

‘On Saturday.’

‘On Saturday?’ said Münster in surprise. ‘She was already dead then.’

‘I know that, of course. But I was at the mortuary to identify her. There has to be somebody from outside the family as well.’

‘In certain circumstances, yes,’ said Münster. ‘But let’s concentrate on the living. When did you last see her before the accident?’