Hakan Nesser - The G File

She dug out another cigarette.

‘None at all, really. Obviously my husband meets various people in connection with his work, but I only ever come into contact with the Trottas, if you can call it that. . They are our nearest neighbours — a pair of utter bores, to be honest, but we have at least had dinner together in both our houses. He’s a pilot, she’s a housewife. They have a couple of insufferable children as well.’

‘Trotta?’

‘Yes.’

Verlangen made a note of the name.

‘Photo?’ he asked. ‘I must have a photograph of your husband.’

She produced a white envelope from her handbag and handed it over. He took out two photographs, both of them 10x15 centimetres.

Jaan G. Hennan stared him in the eye.

Ten years later, but still the same Jaan G., no doubt about that. The photographs seemed to have been taken very recently, probably on the same reel, and both of them in profile — one from the right, the other from the left. The same deep-set eyes. The same austere lips and firm jaw. The same close-cropped dark hair. He put the photographs back into the envelope.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll do it. Assuming that we can agree on details, of course.’

‘What details?’

‘Time. Method. Payment.’

She nodded.

‘Just for a few days, as I said. No more than a couple of weeks in any case. If you could start tomorrow, I’d be grateful. . What do you mean by “method”?’

‘Twenty-four hours a day or just twelve? The degree of discretion or intrusion — the kind of thing I mentioned earlier.’

She inhaled and blew out a thin stream of smoke as she pondered. Just for a moment he had the feeling that she didn’t normally smoke at all, and had just bought a packet of Gauloises to make an impression on him. Some sort of impression.

‘Whenever he’s not at home,’ she decided. ‘That will be sufficient. From the moment he sets off in the morning until he comes back home — either early or late in the evening.’

‘And you don’t want him to notice me.’

There was another brief pause, and he registered that she still hadn’t quite made up her mind on that point.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Don’t let him see you. If I change my mind about that I’ll let you know. How much do I have to pay?’

He pretended to think about that, and wrote down a few figures in his notebook.

‘Three hundred guilders per day, plus any expenses.’

That did not seem to worry her.

‘Payment for three days in advance. I might have to rent a room in Linden as well. . When do you want me to report to you?’

‘Once a day,’ she said without hesitation. ‘I’d like you to ring me every day at some time during the morning. I’m always at home in the mornings. If I think it seems necessary, we can meet — but I hope it won’t come to that.’

Verlangen had another ‘why?’ on the tip of his tongue, but he managed to swallow it.

‘Okay,’ he said instead, leaning back on his chair. ‘I take it that we are in agreement. If you can give me your address and telephone number, I can start tomorrow morning. . And I need the advance, of course.’

She took out a dark-red purse and produced two five-hundred-guilder notes. And a business card.

‘A thousand,’ she said. ‘Let’s round it up to a thousand for the time being.’

He took the money and the card. She stood up and reached out her hand over his desk.

‘Thank you, herr Verlangen. I’m very grateful that you could take on this job. It will. . It will make my life easier.’

Will it really? he thought as he shook her hand. How? She was looking him straight in the eye for a long fraction of a second, and he wondered once again what it would feel like to touch some other part of her body than the firm and pleasantly cool palm of her hand.

‘I shall do my best,’ he promised.

She smiled, turned on her heel and left his office.

He remained standing, listening to her footsteps as she walked up the stairs. It almost felt as if he were waiting for some sort of curtain to fall.

Then he opened the refrigerator and took out a beer.

The moment he opened the door of his cramped little flat in Heerbanerstraat he realized that the vacuum-cleaner bags were still in the drawer of his desk in the office.

On the other hand, not a single one of the beer cans was left in the refrigerator. You win some and you lose some. .

So his cleaning intentions would have to be put on ice: but one lost day was neither here nor there, of course. The smell of old, stuffy dirt and the stench of something stale which was presumably the mould underneath the bathtub, struck him as a sort of ‘welcome home’ greeting. One shouldn’t simply shrug off old habits and sell off the things that make you feel safe and secure just for the sake of it. Dust and dirt should not be held in contempt. .

There was a pile of advertising leaflets and two bills on the floor underneath the letter slot. He picked it all up and threw it onto the basket chair, which was full of similar stuff. My home is my castle, he thought as he opened the balcony door, then turned back to observe the devastation. He contemplated the unmade bed, the unwashed dirty crockery and the rest of the chaotic mess. Switched off the stereo equipment, which must have been on for at least twenty-four hours. Noted that the right-hand loudspeaker was broken, and that he ought to do something about it.

Then he went into the bathroom, glanced at the filthy mirror and confirmed that he looked about ten years older than he had looked that morning.

Why do I bother to go on living? he wondered as he stepped into the shower and switched on the water.

And why do I keep on asking myself these optimistic questions, day in and day out?

An hour later it was eight o’clock and he had washed up three days’ worth of dirty dishes. He flopped down in front of the television and watched the first ten minutes of the news. The murder of a policeman in Groenstadt and a ministerial meeting in Berlin in connection with unrest in the financial markets. A mad swan that had caused a pile-up on the motorway outside Saaren. He switched off and telephoned his daughter.

She was not at home, and so he was obliged to exchange a few pleasantries with his ex-wife’s new boyfriend instead. It took half a minute, and afterwards he was able to congratulate himself on not having sworn a single time. Two cheers.

There were four beers in the fridge and a bottle of mineral water. He made a sandwich with salami, cheese and cucumber — but with no butter as he had forgotten to buy any — and after a brief inner struggle he selected the water. Sat down on the sofa again, took out his notepad and read what he had written.

Barbara Hennan. The beautiful American woman.

Maiden name Delgado, but now Hennan — thanks to having married that bastard Jaan G. Hennan. For some damned reason.

G, he thought. Why on earth pick G when there was a whole world of men to choose from?

And why the hell should he, Maarten Baudewijn Verlangen, have to spend what little time he had on something so bloody stupid as shadowing Jaan G. Hennan? The man he — more or less on his own — had made sure was placed under lock and key some. . yes, it was almost exactly twelve years ago, he decided after some rapid mental calculations. The end of May 1975. While he was still working as a respectable police officer.

While he still had a proper job, a family, and a right to look at himself in the mirror without averting his gaze.

While he still had a future.

It was at the beginning of the 1980s that it all went to pot. 1981-2. Buying that house out at Dikken. All the arguments with Martha. Their love life simply shrivelling up like. . like a worn-out condom.