The G File (21 page)

Van Veeteren handed over a copy of the paper, and as the prosecutor read the article his eyebrows were raised and his jaw dropped.

‘I see,’ he said when he had finished. ‘The man in the street’s sense of justice demands, and so on . . . Why have you released this information to the press?’

‘Somebody boobed,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘The information didn’t come from us.’

The prosecutor took off his spectacles.

‘So where did it come from, then?’

Van Veeteren snapped a toothpick and gazed out of the window. Silwerstein sighed and gave up.

‘I see. And what about proof? Can you make it stick?’

‘It’s hard to say,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Not as things stand at the moment, but we have only interrogated him properly once so far.’

‘He denies it?’

‘Yes. And he’ll continue to deny it.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’d bet a golf course on it.’

Silwerstein said nothing.

‘I don’t think we can count on any kind of arrangement or compromise. It’s not that sort of case.’

‘It seems pretty obvious that he did it. Doesn’t it?’

‘There’s hardly any doubt,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I would have preferred to carry on working away from the glare of publicity for a while longer, but after this newspaper article, well . . .’

‘I understand,’ said Silwerstein. ‘And you have him in custody now?’

‘Since yesterday evening.’

‘What do you want, then? A warrant of arrest on the spot?’

‘What do you think?’ asked the Chief Inspector, folding up the newspaper.

Silwerstein thought for a moment and looked at his watch.

‘I don’t like to rush things,’ he said. ‘But I take it you’d like to keep him in custody?’

‘His name has been in the press,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘There’d be an outcry if he were allowed back on the streets.’

‘Hmm, yes,’ said the prosecutor, scratching the bridge of his nose. ‘I must do my homework. If you get another forty-eight hours, we can reassess the situation on Tuesday evening . . . By then you ought to have put some flesh on the bare bones of the case, I take it?’

‘We’ll do what we can,’ promised the Chief Inspector.

On second thoughts Intendent Reinhart decided it would be best for him to take charge of the discussions with Maarten Verlangen. Quite apart from the inquisition aspect, there were a few things he would like to discuss with him in more detail. And Heinemann would doubtless have things to do on a free Saturday.

Verlangen slunk into Reinhart’s office like a repentant sinner. He looked worn out and dishevelled, and seemed to be suffering from a lingering hangover.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to . . .’

‘Sorry?’ said Reinhart. ‘You have undermined our efforts in a way that it’s impossible to assess. If Jaan G. Hennan goes free, he’ll come and thank you on his bare knees.’

‘What?’ said Verlangen.

‘If Hennan goes free, he will—’

‘Yes, I heard you,’ said Verlangen. ‘But it’s not possible – all I did was summarize the situation as it was, and—’

‘Sit down,’ said Reinhart. ‘You stink of booze.’

Verlangen sat down.

‘It got a bit late last night. I—’

‘Last night as well? And no doubt you took the opportunity of telling the tale to another hack?’

Verlangen shook his head and stared down at the floor.

Poor bastard, Reinhart thought. He’s a complete wreck.

‘Get a grip,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you about a few other things quite apart from that newspaper blunder. Are you hung over? Do you need a cup of coffee?’

‘I’ve already had some,’ said Verlangen. ‘I’m really sorry, as I said. What do you want to talk about? It would be good if it didn’t take too long – I’m supposed to meet my daughter shortly.’

‘Let’s see how it goes,’ said Reinhart.

‘Thank you,’ said Verlangen.

‘Barbara Hennan. I want to talk to you about her.’

‘I see. Why?’

‘Because we need to be clear about why she came to see you in the first place. She must have had a reason, and the only reason I can think of is that she suspected something was going on . . . That she suspected her husband was trying to get at her in some way or other. What do you say to that?’

Verlangen frowned.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ve naturally been thinking along those lines as well, but she never spoke about what lay behind her request . . . Why I should keep an eye on him, that is.’

‘We know that,’ said Reinhart. ‘But if we accept the theory that she was frightened of something, and you think about that, knowing what actually happened – well, can it be true? Did she give any indication that it could be?’

Verlangen dug a crumpled packet of cigarettes from out of his pocket.

‘That she might be afraid? No, I can’t say she did. She adopted an extremely business-like approach all the time. Controlled, you could say she was. I thought . . . well, I suppose I thought she was incomprehensible.’

‘Incomprehensible?’

‘Yes.’

‘But what did you decide? You must have come to some conclusion about what was going on, surely?’

Verlangen lit a cigarette.

‘No, not really,’ he said. ‘Although I suppose I probably thought it was the same old story. That he was being unfaithful, that is.’

‘That you should check on whether Hennan was seeing some other woman?’

‘Yes. Although . . .’

‘Well?’

‘Although there was nothing about her behaviour which indicated that. It was just a guess on my part, because that’s nearly always what it’s about.’

‘I understand,’ said Reinhart. ‘And Hennan didn’t meet any other women while you were shadowing him?’

‘No, he didn’t.’

‘How long were you keeping a watch on him?’

Verlangen shrugged.

‘Only two days. Wednesday and Thursday. It was extremely monotonous – apart from Thursday evening, of course.’

‘What did he do?’

‘Do? He went to his office in Landemaarstraat . . . Sat there, had lunch, sat there again and drove home.’

‘Was that all?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he meet anybody?’

‘Not that I noticed. Somebody might have visited his office, but I don’t think so.’

‘What about his lunches?’

‘There was only one. Wednesday. He ate all on his own.’

‘Marvellous,’ said Reinhart, annoyed. ‘And it was the same again at that restaurant on Thursday evening, was it?’

‘The same again.’ said Verlangen. ‘As far as I know, I was the only person he spoke to.’

‘As far as you know?’

‘Yes, I was the only person he spoke to,’ confirmed Verlangen.

Reinhart sighed.

‘For Christ’s sake . . .’ he said. ‘Have you any ideas? Anything that’s occurred to you since we last spoke?’

Verlangen took a drag of his cigarette and thought for a few seconds.

‘He did it,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it was Hennan who set her up, but I don’t know how. I suppose the only possibility is that he had an accomplice. I can’t see any other alternative.’

Reinhart swung round forty-five degrees on his desk chair and stared up at the ceiling. Pondered for a while, then swung back again.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Neither can we. If you can tell us where we can find his accomplice, we’ll forgive you for that newspaper cock-up.’

Verlangen squirmed and looked at the clock.

‘Was there anything else?’ he asked tentatively.

‘Not for the moment,’ said Reinhart. ‘Did you say you were going to meet your daughter?’

‘Yes.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘May I give you a piece of advice?’ said Reinhart.

‘Eh? Yes, of course.’

‘Go home and freshen yourself up a bit before you meet her. No seventeen-year-old wants to be seen together with somebody who looks as if he’s slept on a park bench.’

Verlangen promised to take that advice to heart and slunk out of the door. Reinhart shook his head and opened the window.

Ten seconds later the Chief Inspector rang.

‘Have you finished?’ he asked. ‘I thought we could have another go at Hennan now.’

‘Yes, I’ve finished,’ said Reinhart. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’

It was five o’clock on Saturday afternoon when he got home, and the only one there to greet him was Bismarck.

At least she was pleased to see him. On the kitchen table was a note from Renate to say that she had gone to Chadów to congratulate her mother on her birthday. She might stay on until Sunday – if he was interested in knowing, he could always ring.

As for Eric, he had gone to the coast with some mates. She had made him promise to be home before midnight, but whether or not he would keep that promise, she had no idea. It would have helped if his father had been around to assist her.

Van Veeteren tore the note into four and threw it into the waste-paper basket. He felt a sudden irritation flaring up inside him, and an urge simply to get into the car and drive away from it all. From work, home, wife, son – all the oppressive, stifling aspects of his life which could only be compared to a chronic, nagging pain. Deep down under his skin and into the depths of his soul. It was a primitive and childish feeling: he knew that, but it only made matters worse.

It was as if this was the basic condition of life, he thought. The primeval swamp out of which you constantly had to crawl, and fight against with all means at your disposal. Every morning, every day until the end of time. The moment you lowered your guard you lay there again, kicking and squirming. Back to square one.

He drank a beer, had a shower and put on some clean clothes. That helped slightly. He went for a walk through Randers Park with Bismarck. The weather was tolerably pleasant: cloudy but no wind, and the temperature was certainly above twenty degrees. He decided to eat out.

And in no circumstances to ring his wife.

But it was silly to keep on trying to fool himself, he also thought. Naive to pretend that she was the villain in the plot.

That was not Renate. He was the real villain.

He got back home at about nine o’clock, and once again there was only the dog there to welcome him. They went for another walk through the park, now in persistent light rain; but when they returned home, he requested Bismarck to go and lie down, so that he had an opportunity to think a few human thoughts in peace and quiet. Bismarck nodded, yawned and lay down on her favourite armchair in Jess’s old room.

Van Veeteren read the
Allgemejne
and listened to Sibelius for half an hour, but switched off after
Valse triste
. Checked that there wasn’t a late film on the box that might be of interest, then went to fetch his briefcase and a beer.

He took out the tape, put it in the tape deck and made himself comfortable in his chair. Switched off the light. Poured out a glass and pressed the start button.

Might as well, he thought. If you are a self-tormentor, you do what you have to do – I’ll have to do it sooner or later anyway . . .

After the usual introductory statements about the time, place, subject matter and those involved, they got down to business. It was no more than six hours since they had completed the actual interrogation at the police station, but he noticed immediately that the changed environment – the stage-managed setting versus the dark living room, the well-worn armchair, the late hour and being on his own – somehow changed the circumstances. Transformed what had been presumed and somehow shifted the perspective in ways he couldn’t put his finger on.

Or perhaps it was just confirmation of the simple fact that you can sometimes hear better if you can’t see.

He closed his eyes and listened to his own voice.