The G File (23 page)

‘No,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘The problem in this particular case is that the one with the knowledge happens also to be the murderer. Which could possibly mean that he might prefer to keep silent.’

‘That’s hardly the first time either,’ said Münster.

Reinhart nodded and looked impotent.

‘It’s so damned simple that it could drive you mad,’ he growled. ‘That bastard hires a gorilla who does the job for him, receives a substantial sum of money, and we don’t arrest him. Neither of them. Could there be some charge other than murder, by the way? If he wasn’t the one who literally did the deed?’

‘Of course,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Incitement, for instance; but there are several options to choose from. They could result in eighty years at least. But you are forgetting a few small details.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ said Reinhart.

‘In the first place,’ said the Chief Inspector, ‘we have to be able to demonstrate that Barbara Hennan didn’t die as a result of an accident, as G maintains. In the second place we have to prove that Hennan really did hire a contract killer. And to be honest, we haven’t really got very far on either of those obligations – don’t you agree?’

‘I know, I know,’ said Reinhart. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday. Damn and blast! . . . But in a way I’m beginning to think that it was a good thing that our private eye let the cat out of the bag after he’d taken a drop too much.’

‘Why?’ wondered Münster.

‘Because it would have felt even worse to have been forced to let Hennan go free at this early stage. All the fuss means that there will at least be a trial.’

‘Yes,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I’m inclined to agree with you. But of course there’s a risk that the judge will intervene and dismiss the case if he thinks the evidence is insufficient. Even if the prosecutor seems to be willing to give the circus a green light. We don’t know who the judge will be yet, but there are a few who care as much about public opinion as a killer bear worries about a flea.’

‘Poetic,’ said Reinhart. ‘Are you thinking about Hart?’

‘I suppose I am,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Anyway, at least we have a few weeks in which to dig deeper. And of course we have stumbled upon bits of information before. All initiatives are welcome . . . And anybody who feels up to sitting eye to eye with G is welcome to do so – just let me know in advance.’

‘I don’t think I would like that,’ said Reinhart.

‘What you would like is not very relevant in this case,’ said the Chief Inspector.

The press conference came and went.

The decision to arrest Hennan was of course a goody that the reporters were only too pleased to gulp down, and Van Veeteren was reminded yet again of the rather-nail-him-than-bail-him mentality that always seemed to prevail in the media at this early stage of a case. The first priority was to find the murder, the spectacular crime, and they had done that. Then there was a race to point out the murderer: that was the detail the next day’s billboards and headlines would feature. In Act Three, they liked to do a complete about turn (if that was possible, and the Chief Inspector had no doubt that there were circumstances in this case that would make it possible) – and try to stand up for the accused. Was he really guilty? Had the police in fact arrested the wrong man? Should an innocent man be found guilty? Could one have faith in the rule of law?

And then, if the accused was in fact found guilty: was it possible to write stories about him? His childhood and teenage years and a mass of extenuating circumstances?

That is how things would proceed, and over the years Van Veeteren had learned how to accept the inevitable. If he had been a journalist rather than a detective chief inspector, he would presumably have played the game according to those rules, just as now – as far as possible – he tried to act in accordance with the terminology that formed the framework of a CID officer’s work. There was a temptation to skirt round them from time to time, from case to case, but so far – after almost a quarter of a century in the trade – he had never overstepped the mark. Not flagrantly, at least.

After the tussle with the press, which lasted less than half an hour, he withdrew to his office and spent some time chewing over these circumstances. Wondering about if, one day, he might reach a point when he felt the urge to take the law into his own hands. When the circumstances were such that doing so might be justified. Morally and existentially.

Even in the private sphere of his own ruminations, he tried to keep his thoughts on a theoretical level. Tried to avoid dragging G onto the stage – so that the question remained at the level of what one
ought
to do, rather than what one
would like
to do. To echo Reinhart’s words.

That was easier said than done, and when he realized that he was wishing he could roll Jaan G. Hennan up in that old gymnastics mat that had squeezed the life out of Adam Bronstein’s fragile soul, he gave up.

Reminded himself of the previous day’s decision to have a serious talk with his wife, and left the police station.

That also came and went.

When they had more or less concluded that the split between them was a sort of inevitable fact, they were suddenly able to talk to each other again – but he wondered deep down if this somewhat melancholy mutual respect was in fact the clearest indication that the fate of their marriage was sealed, once and for all. When they were no longer able to allow their emotions to spill over into an out-and-out quarrel, he found it hard to believe that there was any foundation left on which to build. Whatever it was that he had envisaged and desired half a lifetime ago, it was certainly not this lukewarm and cheerless stand-off.

Perhaps in fact Renate felt the same: but they didn’t discuss this aspect of their putative coexistence. Instead they came to a sort of half-hearted agreement: this was – if he understood it rightly – that they should continue for another six months, and see how things developed.

And that they should accept a shared responsibility for Erich, who – and it was at this point he saw that Renate was on the point of bursting into tears linked with her bad conscience – was very much in need of all the parental support he could be offered. They were touchingly in agreement on this, and if only their vulnerable son had been at home that rainy Monday evening, they would no doubt have had a serious conversation between the three of them.

But he wasn’t. And when at about half past eleven Van Veeteren heard him sneaking in through the front door and into his room, Renate was already asleep. He let sleeping dogs lie.

I know so damned little about his life, he thought.

What does he think about? What are his dreams and plans and fantasies?

Why don’t I know more about my own son?

And with the bitter taste of neglect in his mouth he fell asleep.

Early summer became high summer.

If it had to do with private or professional reasons he was never quite sure, but for the next three weeks he took part in no further interrogations of G.

Reinhart and Münster played the Nasty Cop-Nice Cop game on a few occasions, with Reinhart playing the role of the unpleasant officer and Münster the rather more humane one. It was an old ruse and easy to see through, but it sometimes paid off even so. To some extent, at least. When a person is treated with friendliness and understanding after aggression and animosity, he finds it hard not to give way and unburden his mind. Irrespective of whether or not he realizes that it was all an act.

But not in this case. After a few long and fruitless sessions, Reinhart and Münster agreed that Jaan G. Hennan regarded their visits mostly as a sort of welcome – and almost entertaining – relief in the tedium of waiting for the trial to begin that had become his everyday routine, and they agreed to put a stop to it. If it was not possible to extract any information by interrogating him, then perhaps the loneliness and isolation might make him wobble slightly.

The Chief Inspector took upon himself the task of speaking to people recommended by Rooth and Jung for a follow-up interview. He had asked them for the names of at least a handful of people who might just possibly have information about what Hennan had been getting up to after his return from the USA, and they had obeyed the order. They had given him a list of five names. Not six or seven: he realized that if he had asked for at least three, he would have received precisely that number.

The whole operation had cost several working days, and afterwards Van Veeteren was able to confirm that the time had been wasted just as Inspector Rooth had claimed it would be. None of the five – nor any of the other twenty-two interviewees – had had any contact with Hennan whatsoever in recent times. At least, none of them admitted to being in touch with him; and on the day before the trial was due to begin in the Linden courthouse, when the Chief Inspector attempted to sum up the result of a month’s work aimed at throwing light on the circumstances surrounding Barbara Hennan’s death, he came up with the round but deeply unsatisfactory number of zero.

Absolutely nothing. They knew no more now than they had known at the beginning of June. Nothing had been refined from a suspicion to a certainty, nothing had turned up from an unexpected quarter – as sometimes happened as a sort of reward for valiant drudgery.

Things had not gone their way, to put it in a nutshell, and it was probably this grim truth that was nagging away in the back of his mind when he decided to confront the leading character one last time. One early Monday morning, when he sat down opposite him yet again in the bleak interrogation room, it felt as if he were in the closing stages of a hopeless game of chess, with so few pieces left and the situation so deadlocked that the only possible moves remaining were repetitive and leading nowhere apart from an inevitable draw.

And it was presumably because of this that he decided to change the routine a little.

‘Your lawyer?’

Hennan shook his head.

‘Not necessary. I don’t want to expose her to this nonsense.’

‘All right. Then I suggest we have a conversation off the record.’

‘Off the record?’ said Hennan. ‘Why?’

‘Because it could be interesting,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘No tape recorder and no witnesses.’

‘I don’t understand the point.’

‘That’s neither here nor there. Let’s go to another room.’

‘By all means. But just for a change. As far as I know you even have bugs in the loos.’

‘You have my word,’ said Van Veeteren.

‘Your word?’ Hennan burst out laughing, and stood up. ‘Okay! Off the record, if you think it will make any difference.’

The Chief Inspector chose one of the so-called discussion rooms on the first floor. He asked if Hennan fancied a beer, and rang down to the canteen and asked them to come up with two.

‘Shouldn’t we have a lie-detector test?’ asked Hennan after taking his first swig. ‘That might be interesting, don’t you think?’

‘I don’t see the point,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I know you are lying even so.’

‘Yes, I’ve gathered that you think that. But next week at this time, when I’m a free man, don’t pretend that you didn’t understand the fact of the matter.’

‘Your conception of time is a little out of joint,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘In my judgement you’ll have to wait for fifteen years. Not a week.’

Hennan smiled.

‘We’ll see about that,’ he said. ‘My lawyer says that she has seldom if ever seen a prosecutor as naked as this one.’

‘Does she, indeed?’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Anyway, I suggest we abandon these clichés and get down to some serious talking instead.’

‘Serious?’ said Hennan. ‘Off the record?’

The Chief Inspector nodded and lit a cigarette.

‘Exactly. I think you need to get things off your chest, and you have my word that whatever you say will not be used against you.’

Hennan looked at him for a brief moment with something that seemed like interest.

‘Why should I need to do that?’ he asked.

‘Basic psychology,’ said Van Veeteren, pausing briefly while he rolled up his shirtsleeves.

‘Psychology?’ said Hennan. ‘It stinks of desperation, if you’ll excuse—’

‘Rubbish. Let me explain. You are regarding this as a sort of trial of strength . . . between you and us. You are obsessed by the thought of winning. But if you really were innocent, being exonerated would hardly be a feather in your cap, would it?’

Hennan said nothing. Took a drink of beer.

‘One point two million goes quite a long way, of course: but your triumph would be getting away with it despite the fact that you are guilty. And so it would be a plus-point – a big plus-point – if one of us . . . me for example . . . knew exactly what the facts are. Are you with me? It has to do with aesthetics.’

Hennan leaned back and smiled briefly again.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Of course I’m with you. But if what you say is correct, you seem to be convinced already that I am behind the death of my wife. Isn’t that enough? If I’m satisfied with the money, can’t you be satisfied with the fact that you know?’

‘Not really,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I am a scrupulous person, and there are certain question marks. I don’t quite have the whole picture clear before me.’

‘Really?’ said Hennan. ‘So the Chief Inspector wants some details. How I actually did it. How I could sit in that restaurant and even so kill my wife. Have you considered hypnotism?’

The Chief Inspector nodded.

‘Of course. But you are no more hypnotic than a donkey.’

‘Thank you,’ said Hennan. ‘No, I admit that it didn’t happen that way.’

‘Good. So that’s one thing we agree about at least. How did it happen, then?’

‘You want me to reveal that?’

‘Yes.’

Hennan turned his head and contemplated the wall for a while, and for a second – or a tiny fraction of a second – the Chief Inspector had the impression that he was about to reveal all.

To explain how he had in fact taken the life of his wife, Barbara Clarissa Hennan, née Delgado – in a way that was so clever and ingenious that no detective chief inspector in the whole wide world could possibly imagine it.