Hakan Nesser - The G File

The bribes. The sudden opportunity of earning a bit extra on the side by turning a blind eye to things. Not just a bit extra, in fact. Without the extra income they would never have been able to afford the interest and mortgage payments on the house. He had tried to explain that to Martha afterwards, after he had been caught out and his world had collapsed. But she had just shaken her head and snorted.

What about that lady? she had wondered. In what way had it been necessary for the preservation of their marriage for him to spend so many nights with her? Could he kindly explain that to her?

No, he couldn’t.

Five years, he thought. It’s five years since the world collapsed, and I’m still alive.

Just occasionally there were now moments when that didn’t surprise him any more.

He gulped down the rest of the water and went to fetch a beer. Moved over to the armchair with the reading lamp, and leaned back.

Barbara Hennan, he thought, and closed his eyes.

How the hell could such a beautiful woman become involved with an arsehole like G?

It was a riddle, to be sure, but not a new one. Women’s judgement when it came to men had backfired before in the history of the world. Gone astray when confronted by rampant stags in rut amidst the superficial values of everyday life. He dug out the photographs and studied them for a while with a degree of distaste.

Why? he wondered. Why does she want me to keep an eye on him?

Was there more than one answer? More than one possibility?

He didn’t think so. It was the same old story, of course. The unfaithful husband and the jealous wife. Who wanted proof. Evidence of his betrayal in black and white.

Maarten Verlangen had spent four years playing this game by now, and he reckoned that about two-thirds of his work was of this nature.

If he excluded the work he did for the insurance company, that is: but that aspect of his work was not really a part of his sleuthing activities. It was rather different. The insurance company Trustor had wanted a sort of detective who could investigate irregularities using somewhat unorthodox methods — and what could possibly be more appropriate in the circumstances than a police officer who had been sacked — or rather, had chosen to leave the force rather than be hanged in a public place . A gentleman’s agreement. There had been no question of a formal appointment; but as time went by there had been a commission here and another commission there — usually resolved to the advantage of the company — and so their cooperation had continued. When Verlangen occasionally checked his somewhat less than prodigious income, he concluded that it was about fifty-fifty: roughly half came from the insurance company, and half from his sleuthing activities.

He lit a cigarette — the day’s fortieth or thereabouts — and tried once again to conjure up the American woman in his mind’s eye. Fru Barbara Hennan. Thirty-seven or thirty-eight? She could hardly be any older than that. At least ten years younger than her husband, in other words.

And ten times more desirable. No, not ten times. Ten thousand times. Why on earth would anybody want to be unfaithful if they had a woman like Barbara? Incomprehensible.

He inhaled a few times, and thought the matter over. Was it really all that likely that it was the same old story, the same old motive? Had Barbara Hennan née Delgado come to him because she suspected her husband was having an affair with another woman? After only a few months in the new country?

Or was there some other reason? — In which case, what?

He would have liked to ask her straight out — he had been on the point of doing so several times during their conversation, and he didn’t usually beat about the bush in such circumstances. But something had held him back.

Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to embarrass her. But perhaps there were other reasons as well.

Just what they might be was something he couldn’t be sure about. Not then, when she had been sitting on the other side of the table; and not now, as he sat there in his cramped and stuffy lair, trying to think things over and work out a strategy.

A strategy? he thought. Rubbish. I don’t need a strategy. I’ll drive there tomorrow morning. Sit in my car outside his office all day, staring at him. Smoking myself to death. Given the extent to which I’ve grown older, there’s no chance of him recognizing me.

This is an easy job. A classic. If it was a film, the building would no doubt blow up at about half past four.

He drank the rest of the beer, and wondered if he should allow himself another one before going to bed. During the course of the day he had drunk eight. That was close to the maximum — which was ten — but why not allow himself the luxury of a clear conscience for once?

Two still to go? Somewhere deep down inside him, of course, a voice was whispering somewhat pitifully that ten beers a day wasn’t a deal that was beyond discussion. But what the hell, he thought. Everything is relative apart from death and the anger of a fat woman. So what?

He had read that last thought somewhere. Quite a long time ago, in the days when he could remember what he had read in books.

He belched, and stubbed out the last cigarette of the day. Did what was necessary in the bathroom in just over a minute, then wriggled his way into his unmade bed. His pillow smelt vaguely of something unpleasant — unwashed hair perhaps, or sadness, or something of that sort. Turning it over didn’t help matters.

He set the alarm clock for half past six, and switched off the light.

Linden? he thought. If I book a room in a hotel, at least I won’t have to sleep in dirty sheets for a few nights.

Five minutes later Maarten Baudewijn Verlangen was snoring, with his mouth open wide.

Belle rang next morning just as he was coming out of the shower. As usual, the very sound of her voice set something alight in his chest. A spark of paternal pride.

Apart from that, the call did not give him much cause to be cheerful. They had more or less agreed to meet at the weekend. To spend a day together. Possibly two. He had been looking forward to it — in the grimly reserved way he ever dared to look forward to things nowadays: but she had now been invited along on a boat trip out to the islands instead. So if he didn’t mind. .?

He didn’t mind. Who was he to begrudge a seventeen-year-old daughter he loved more than anything else in the world the opportunity of going on a boat trip with like-minded friends — instead of having to trudge around with an overweight, prematurely grey-haired and frequently drunk old fart of a father? God forbid.

‘Are you sure?’ she wondered. ‘You’re sure you won’t be upset? Maybe we can meet up next weekend?’

‘Quite sure,’ he assured her. And he claimed that strictly speaking, next weekend would be better for him as well. He had rather a lot of work to get through at present.

Maybe she believed him. She wasn’t all that old yet.

She sent him a kiss down the line, then hung up. He swallowed to remove a small lump from his throat, and blinked away a trace of dampness from his eyes. Went down to the corner shop to buy the Allgemejne . Have your breakfast and read the paper, you big softie! he told himself.

And that is exactly what he did.

He was at Aldemarckt in Linden by a few minutes past nine, and a quarter of an hour later he had found his way to Kammerweg. He parked diagonally opposite Villa Zefyr, wound down the side window and settled down to wait.

Linden was not much more than a small provincial town — round about twenty or thirty thousand people. A few small industries. Quite a well-known brewery, a church from the early thirteenth century, and housing estates that mainly sprang up after the war — little family houses and occasional blocks of flats, within easy commuting distance of Maardam. He recalled having met a girl from Linden when he was a teenager: she was cool and pretty, but he had never dared kiss her. She was called Margarita. He wondered what had become of her.