Hakan Nesser - The G File

‘Let’s see if we can now sum up the case,’ he said instead. ‘As far as it’s possible to do so, in any case. There are still a lot of things that are not clear, and more work needs doing, but with luck we should be able to sort that out next week. I think we should begin with the information from England. Stiller?’

The probationer looked up from his papers.

‘It only arrived half an hour ago,’ he said. ‘In other words, it took a bit longer than they had promised, and it is very terse. . They evidently don’t have any overlapping systems over there. Maybe we can ask for more information in due course — if we consider it to be necessary in some circumstances.’

‘We’ll do that as a routine operation,’ said deKlerk. ‘But what does it say in the information we have got?’

‘Hmm,’ said Stiller. ‘It’s a bit surprising, I think. But there really is a married couple in Bristol who correspond very closely to what fru Nolan said. Christopher and Elizabeth, they got married in June 1989. No children. He worked at the Museum of Modern Art, she at some sort of college. . the School of Advanced Creative Processing, whatever that means. In any case, they left Bristol in 1992, just as she claimed they did. . That’s about all: I don’t really know what to say about it.’

Münster spoke up.

‘Naturally, Hennan didn’t just pluck details out of the air,’ he said. ‘And of course it’s the time before 1989 that really interests us. . Needless to say a real Christopher Nolan exists. If you want to acquire a new identity, it’s always safer to adopt one that already exists — we’ve known that for ages. The real Nolan might be dead, or have emigrated to Australia, or God only knows what. .’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Stiller. ‘I appreciate that. Perhaps this isn’t of much use to us, but surely we need to prove — although maybe we’ve done that already? — to somehow establish for certain that the man who died in the bath wasn’t in fact called Nolan.’

He looked around, hoping for agreement, and eventually deKlerk nodded vaguely.

‘We’ll have to check the matter, of course, to be on the safe side. But a fingerprint is a fingerprint after all. Anyway, we’ll take that further next week. Any comments?’

Rooth and Münster shook their heads. DeKlerk took out a new sheet of paper.

‘The pathologist has sent us a preliminary report,’ he said. ‘Nothing sensational there either, it seems to me. Just confirmation of what we knew yesterday — or thought we knew. Nolan died of an excessive loss of blood at some time between a quarter past four and five o’clock. Cuts in both wrists and in his neck. Sedated by five 20-milligram Softal tablets that he had received on prescription two years ago. For insomnia. . Stomach contents: beer, a little whisky, broccoli pie and various other odds and ends — no, I don’t think there is anything here of much interest to us.’

‘I don’t think so either,’ said Rooth. ‘And I assume we can nail him for the murder of Verlangen without more ado? Without technical proof, I mean. Or are you thinking of driving out there and looking for the weapon?’

‘We’ll see how things develop,’ said deKlerk. ‘No doubt the prosecutor will want to have a say, but I don’t foresee any problems.’

‘I think it’s odd that he didn’t write anything,’ said Stiller. ‘To his wife, for instance.’

Münster nodded.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is a bit odd — but what the devil could he write?’

‘Anything at all apart from the truth,’ suggested Rooth. ‘No, I think that aspect is in the bag. But how did it go at the hospital? Was she told that she’d been married to a triple murderer?’

DeKlerk hesitated for a moment before answering.

‘No,’ he said. ‘We decided to be a bit vague on that point, Inspector Moerk and I. But she knows that there were irregularities.’

‘Irregularities!’ exclaimed Rooth. ‘How about that for a circumlocution? And what does she think, then? That her bloke took his own life without the slightest trace of an explanation? That’s hardly something you do because of an irregularity !’

‘Perhaps not,’ admitted deKlerk. ‘But I don’t think she’s had much of a chance to think about it yet, in fact. We’ll decide how to proceed tomorrow. . I assume we shall have to give her the facts no matter what. Sooner or later. Poor woman.’

‘There’s something here that doesn’t fit,’ muttered Rooth. ‘But never mind, the main thing is that Jaan G. Hennan has passed on into another world. . even if it is annoying that he slipped out through the back door like this.’

‘I agree,’ said deKlerk. ‘But that’s the way it turned out.’

Intendent Münster had been sitting for a while lost in thought, twirling a pencil with his fingers.

‘I don’t understand why he panicked like that,’ he said. ‘And how did he discover that we were on to him? As far as we know his wife didn’t tell him anything, and Rooth and Moerk could have been on some entirely different mission when they were sitting in the car outside the Nolans’ house. . Yes, I agree with Rooth, I find it difficult to make this add up.’

‘Maybe he recognized Van Veeteren,’ suggested Rooth. ‘That would be one explanation.’

‘Very possible,’ said Münster.

‘And maybe the Chief Inspector realized that as well,’ said Rooth. ‘Think about it, they must have sat staring at each other for hours on end, fifteen years ago. . And Van Veeteren only needed one look at him to be certain, didn’t he? The same could well have applied from Hennan’s point of view, surely. . although I don’t suppose it matters much any longer. Is there anything else?’

Chief of Police deKlerk leafed through his papers one more time, then declared that there was nothing else.

Rooth and Münster went back to Hotel See Warf — where they had been staying all the time they had been in Kaalbringen — at twenty minutes past seven on Sunday evening, and just as they were standing in the foyer wondering whether to take the lift up to their rooms or to have a beer in the bar, Münster’s mobile rang.

Rooth slipped into the toilet, and when he came out Münster had already finished talking.

‘Who was that?’ wondered Rooth.

Münster remained standing with his mobile in his hand, looking puzzled.

‘Ulrike,’ he said. ‘It was Ulrike Fremdli, the woman Van Veeteren lives with. She wondered if I knew why he hadn’t come home.’

‘Eh?’ said Rooth. ‘Why. .?’

‘He had said he would be back in Maardam by about five o’clock. . It’s nearly half past seven now, and he’s evidently not answering his mobile.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Rooth. ‘Have you met her, this Ulrike Fremdli? I’ve only heard about her.’

‘Yes, I’ve met her.’

‘Is she a good woman?’

‘Very good,’ said Münster. ‘I wonder. . Ah well, no doubt there’s a natural explanation.’

‘No doubt,’ said Rooth. ‘Shall we have a beer, then?’

When Van Veeteren pulled up in Wackerstraat and switched off the engine, he suddenly felt doubtful.

He remained in the car for a while, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and trying to work out what the problem was. Some kind of mysterious intuition, or just another example of his general ambivalence?

He plumped for the latter, and clambered out of the car. Noted that fru Nolan’s silver Japanese car was standing on the drive, and that everything looked peaceful. The sun had started to break through the greyish white morning cloud, and a corpulent man in his sixties was busy cutting the grass in the next-door garden. The insistent sound of the lawnmower hung over the whole area like a stubborn virus.