Hakan Nesser - The G File

‘I must order a taxi,’ said Hennan.

The bartender, a gigantic young man with red curly hair, intervened and informed them that there were always taxis queuing up just round the corner. A mere fifty metres away — that was easier than phoning and ordering.

They went out together into the warm early-summer night. Verlangen had some difficulty in keeping his balance, but Hennan put an arm round his shoulders and kept him more or less upright. When they came to the row of yellow-and-black cars, Hennan said goodnight without further ado, clambered into a back seat, waved, and grinned broadly through the window.

Verlangen raised a hand as he watched the taxi drive off. He suddenly felt a painful stab of repugnance, which he had difficulty in pinning down. On the whole Hennan had behaved reasonably, and the reason why his wife wanted him to be kept under observation was more enveloped in mystery than ever.

But he had fraternized with his quarry. In no uncertain terms. He had babbled on and hummed and hawed and drunk way too much whisky. . On top of all the beer and cognac — and God only knew what he might have said and not said.

On his way back to the hotel he took wrong turnings several times, and ended up in the cemetery where he made the most of the opportunity of emptying his bladder between what seemed to be a mortuary and a collection of dustbins.

But he eventually managed to find his way back to the Belveder hotel, and by the time he staggered up to his room it was a quarter past one. That was a point in time that had not registered on Verlangen’s consciousness, but with the aid of a few independent witnesses and observations, it could be established later with a high degree of certainty.

Police probationer Wagner yawned and looked at his watch: twenty-five to two.

Then he looked at his crossword puzzle. It was unsolved.

Almost totally, at least. He had filled in eight squares. Two words. But he wasn’t sure if either of them was correct.

In order to pass the time he counted up the number of empty squares.

Ninety-four. He could hardly claim that he had made all that much progress. . He wondered for a moment if he ought to go and kip down for a while. You didn’t need to be awake just because you were on call. It was sufficient to be in the right place, and able to answer the phone if anything happened. The instructions in that respect were just as clear and unambiguous as everything else in the police station.

Linzhuisen’s police station, that is. Wagner had been working there for almost a year now, and liked it. He was twenty-five years old, and could well imagine himself being a police officer for the rest of his life. Especially in a little place like this one. Everything was well organized, the pension terms were advantageous, and there was no crime to speak of.

And pleasant colleagues, to boot: Gaardner, his boss, and Willumsen, with whom he often played tennis.

Linzhuisen was not an independent police district, but was a part of Linden, which was run by the chief of police, Chief Inspector Sachs. Linden had slightly more staff: two inspectors and three or four constables and probationers.

But they shared emergency coverage. It was obviously unnecessary to have a probationer or an inspector sitting half asleep throughout the night in both Linden and Linzhuisen — it was only twelve kilometres between the two places, and if a call-out became necessary whoever was on duty would need to summon assistance in any case. Wake up colleagues on stand-by at home, or telephone to Maardam.

As far as Wagner was concerned, this meant he was on emergency duty at the police station four nights per month, and he had no complaints about that.

On the contrary. There was something rather special about these lonely nights that quite appealed to him. Sitting here in the blacked-out police station keeping an eye on law and order while the rest of the world enjoyed its well-deserved sleep. Ready to arrange a call-out as soon as any stricken citizen in need asked for assistance. Indeed, was it not that role that was the most important reason — albeit not the one he talked about most — why he joined the police force four years ago?

Watching over people’s lives and possessions, and being the ultimate guarantee of their safety.

Sometimes when he found himself thinking such thoughts, Probationer Wagner told himself that maybe he ought to write them down. Perhaps they would come in useful for teaching and recruitment purposes. Why not?

And that was probably also why — when all is said and done — he didn’t like to lie down and fall asleep. Mind you, if nothing happened — and there were hardly ever any alarm calls — he would probably give way and have a lie down in the early hours, he knew that. It was almost impossible to keep awake after half past two or so, even with the assistance of all the crossword puzzles in the world.

He chewed his pencil, took a drink of coffee and tried to concentrate.

Four down, seven letters, the second one might be ‘a’: ‘Literary bloodhound in Paris’.

I suppose one ought to read a book now and then, Wagner thought with a sigh.

Checked the time again: a quarter to two.

Then the telephone rang.

Chief Inspector Sachs dreamt that he was a dolphin.

A young, fit and handsome male dolphin swimming around in cool emerald-green seawater surrounded by a whole school of female dolphins. They all rolled and romped around, swam close to one another, made impressive leaps towards the sun over the glittering surface of the water then dived down to the bottom of the seabed. Rubbed breasts and backs and stomachs against one another in an ever more joyful dance.

This is where I always want to be, he thought. I always want to be an elegant male dolphin surrounded by randy females.

The sound of the telephone cut through the marrow of his spine and his cerebral cortex like the blade of a saw. He picked up the receiver without even opening his eyes.

‘Sachs.’

‘Chief Inspector Sachs?’

‘Hmm.’

‘Wagner here.’

‘Who?’

‘Probationer Wagner in Linzhuisen. I’m on emergency duty and have just received a-’

‘What time is it?’

‘Seven minutes to two. I’ve just had a phone call — at 01.45 to be exact — about a dead woman.’

Sachs opened his eyes. Then closed them again.

‘And?’

‘It was a man. Who rang, that is. And his wife is dead. . Hennan, that’s his name. . Jaan G. Hennan. They live in Linden, and so I thought-’

‘Hang on a minute. I’ll go to the other phone.’

Sachs stood up and tiptoed out to his study. Picked up the receiver of the telephone on his desk.

‘Go on.’

‘Well, I’ll ring the medics and the rest of them, but I thought I ought to inform the chief inspector first.’

‘Good. But what exactly has happened? Try to calm down a little bit, if you can.’

Wagner cleared his throat and took a deep breath.

‘Her name’s Barbara Hennan. They live in Kammerweg — that’s some way away from the centre of town. .’

‘Linden, you said?’

‘Yes.’

‘I know where that is.’

‘Of course. Anyway, this man, Jaan G. Hennan, had evidently come home pretty late — at about half past one — and found his wife in the pool.’

‘The swimming pool?’

‘Yes.’

‘Drowned?’

‘No, on the contrary.’

‘On the contrary? What the hell do you mean by that?’

‘She was lying. . She was lying on the bottom, he said. .’

‘Without having drowned?’

‘Yes. There is no water in the pool, it seems.’

Sachs was staring straight ahead, and found himself looking at the framed photograph of his children, which was hanging on the wall over the desk. They were twins, but apart from the fact that their skin was the same colour and they had the same parents, they were as different as two people can possibly be.