Hakan Nesser - The G File

As she transferred the goods into the box, Moerk wondered in annoyance why on earth her husband hadn’t come out to help her.

A typical layabout husband, she had time to think. He’s no doubt sitting in front of the telly, gaping at football!

That was a seriously wrong assumption, as she would soon become aware.

Fru Nolan went back into the house, lugging the heavy cardboard box in her arms. She had considerable difficulty closing the door behind her.

Rooth looked at Moerk. Moerk looked at Rooth. Rooth yawned and looked at his watch.

‘Six minutes to go before we’re relieved,’ he said. ‘Do you really not want to come with me for a bite to eat when we’ve finished?’

Beate Moerk said no for the fifth time, whereupon the door of the Nolans’ house opened yet again. Elizabeth Nolan came running out.

Straight out onto the lawn with both hands pressed against her temples and her elbows jutting out. After a few steps she stopped dead. Stood and swayed back and forth for a moment, then fell on her right side and rolled over on her stomach.

Moerk and Rooth reached her at the same time. Together they managed to turn her over: she was groaning faintly, both her eyes and her mouth were half-open, and she seemed barely conscious. Rooth took hold of her chin and shook it gently.

‘How are you?’ asked Moerk. ‘What’s happened?’

Nolan became more alert. Stared at them in surprise for a few seconds, then pointed at the house and moved her lips.

‘What are you saying?’ asked Rooth.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Opened her eyes again.

‘The bathroom,’ she whispered, in a barely audible voice. ‘He’s lying in the bath.’

Rooth gaped at her, then he gaped at Beate Moerk.

Then both of them raced into the house.

They found their way immediately. The bathroom in the Nolans’ house was at the end of the L-shaped hall, and she had left the door open.

Christopher Nolan was lying in the tub, which was full to the brim. His head was leaning on the rim, and the water was so red that for a split second Moerk had time to think that it looked rather pretty.

‘Bloody hell!’ said Inspector Rooth. ‘Bloody fucking hell!’

‘What’s going on?’ wondered a voice from outside the front door.

It was Münster. Beate Moerk backed quickly out of the bathroom, turned round and met him in the hall.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Münster. ‘We’ve just arrived to relieve you. Fru Nolan seems to be in shock, and-’

‘There’s no mystery,’ said Moerk. ‘Hennan has taken his own life. He’s lying in there.’

She forced her way past Münster, went out through the door and saw Probationer Stiller squatting down beside fru Nolan, who was still lying stretched out on the lawn.

A faint beam of the setting sun caught her eye, and she felt that she was longing for her children so much that it hurt.

During the first three hours that passed after they had heard about the death of Jaan G. Hennan, Van Veeteren uttered at most twenty words: and when it seemed most critical Bausen wondered if he ought to call a doctor.

But he made do with going down to his cellar and fetching a bottle of Château Peripolignac ’79. However, not even this most eminent of medicines was enough to revive Van Veeteren’s spirits to any noticeable degree.

Not until shortly after ten at night, when at long last they were assembled in the pale-yellow room at the police station, did the Chief Inspector seem anywhere near ready to resume contact with the real world. He flopped down at the narrow end of the table, lit a cigarette and glared at the chief of police.

‘Let’s hear it, then!’ he demanded. ‘Every damned detail, if you don’t mind!’

DeKlerk eyed both him and Bausen somewhat shiftily, hung up his jacket and checked that the cups of coffee and sandwiches had been distributed fairly. Then he cleared his throat and began.

‘We couldn’t possibly have foreseen this,’ he started by saying. ‘But that’s the way it is. Christopher Nolan, alias Jaan G. Hennan, committed suicide this afternoon by lying down in the bathtub and cutting his arteries. Both wrists, and a few cuts in his neck also, just to make sure. .’

‘There was more blood in the bath than in his body,’ Rooth informed them, taking a bite out of a sandwich. ‘The Red Sea in a nutshell.’

‘We’ve just had a call from the pathologist in Oostwerdingen,’ said deKlerk, ignoring Rooth’s comment. ‘He confirms that Hennan took a number of sleeping tablets as well — there was a tin on the edge of the bath.’

‘What did he use to cut himself with?’ asked Bausen.

‘A razor blade. That was also lying on the edge of the bath.’

‘It all sounds pretty neat and efficient.’

‘Very.’

‘Have you spoken to his wife.’

DeKlerk shook his head.

‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘She’s not feeling too good.’

‘Really?’ said Bausen.

‘She’s in shock,’ said Beate Moerk. ‘We tried to talk to her — we were on the spot after all, Rooth and I — but we couldn’t get any sense out of her.’

‘Timing?’ wondered Van Veeteren.

Rooth wiped his mouth and consulted a sheet of paper.

‘She left the house at 16.13,’ he said. ‘Did a bit of shopping. Bought a few things at Merckx among other items, and was back home by 17.50. Went into the house and found him.’

‘Two hours, more or less,’ said deKlerk. ‘He had plenty of time. According to the pathologist it took him a quarter of an hour to die.’

‘Why did he take sleeping tablets?’ wondered Stiller.

‘To make it easier, one can assume,’ said deKlerk. ‘The stuff is called Softal: it’s one of those new drugs that won’t kill you, no matter how much of it you take. . But if he took five tablets he must have been pretty far gone when he passed the point of no return. Lengthwise cuts as well, just as it says in the rulebook. And hot water makes the blood flow more easily as well. .’

‘Seneca,’ muttered Van Veeteren. ‘A well tried and tested method. Any messages? Did he leave a note or anything?’

‘Nothing,’ said Rooth.

‘Nothing at all?’

‘Not so much as a word.’

Rooth held out the palms of his hands and tried to look apologetic.

‘Anyway,’ said deKlerk, taking over again. ‘No, this really was a bolt from the blue. . Fru Nolan is lying asleep in hospital, but we must talk to her tomorrow morning, of course.’

‘Didn’t you get anything at all out of her?’ Bausen wondered, sounding slightly reproachful.

‘Very little,’ admitted Moerk. ‘I was in the car that took her to the hospital, and she really was in another world. No, he didn’t leave a single word behind, as Rooth says. . and fru Nolan didn’t notice anything amiss when she was at home for that hour between three and four. At least, she shook her head when I asked about that. She didn’t seem to link the suicide with the fact that we had been to the gallery to talk to her. . Not until shortly after I left her, in any case. Then she looked at me and asked. .’

‘What?’ said Rooth. ‘What did she ask?’

‘She said: “Was he the one, then?” At least, I think that’s what she said. . Her voice was very faint.’

‘“Was he the one, then?”’ repeated Münster. ‘Hmm, I take it you could have said yes. . that it was him.’

Moerk nodded.

‘But I didn’t say anything,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I assume we’ll have a few things to explain to her tomorrow morning.’

‘A few things indeed,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘By God, yes.’

‘You don’t say,’ said Bausen.

Van Veeteren stubbed out his cigarette but didn’t elaborate on his thoughts. If indeed he had any.