The G File (29 page)

Never ever.

He dreamt that he was sitting asleep in an antiquarian bookshop.

In the winged armchair in the inside room cum kitchenette, of course, with an open book on his knee, a mug of coffee in the holder on the chair arm, and with the rain drumming away on the metallic sill of the window overlooking the alley.

April, presumably: the cruellest month. It was late afternoon, and if there was a shortage of customers he was seldom able to keep awake for a whole hour between five and six – there was nothing he could do about it, and of course there was no reason why he shouldn’t allow himself a little snooze for a quarter of an hour or even half an hour: no reason at all, at his stage of life . . .

The doorbell rang, and he woke up.

He was sitting in the inside room of the antiquarian bookshop with Nooteboom’s book on Spain open on his knee. An empty coffee mug was standing in the holder on the chair arm, and rain was drumming away on the window led—

What the hell? he thought. Am I dreaming or am I awake?

Have I just woken up or just fallen asleep?

He shook his head and shivered. What did it mean when reality and dream were identical? Was it the ultimate indication of inadequacy, or was it something else? Something radically different?

He heard somebody closing the door behind them in the main room of the shop. The rustling sound of a raincoat being taken off. A slight clearing of the throat. He decided that he was in fact awake.

‘Hello? Is there anybody there?’

He heaved himself up out of his armchair and admitted that he existed.

The woman was blonde, and seemed to be in her thirties. He only needed a quick glance to ascertain that she was not intending to buy a book, but was on some quite different business. It was not clear what. And not clear how he realized that. He waited while she wiped the water from her spectacles with the aid of a blue-grey jumper sleeve.

‘Van Veeteren? I’m looking for somebody called Van Veeteren.’

‘On what business?’

‘Is it you who . . .?’

She smiled uncertainly.

‘It’s not impossible. Why don’t you tell me what you want, then we can see. Would you like to sit down?’

Later – three or four or five months later – he would like to think that even then he had some sort of a premonition. That as she stood there, trying to find somewhere to put her wet raincoat, he had an inkling of what was to come. Of what – for the last time? – he would become involved in.

Yes, it really would have to be the last time.

But this was later, looking at everything in the rear-view mirror – we understand life backwards, but we have to live it forwards, he had read in Kierkegaard – and now, as he took her red jacket and hung it over the chair behind the substantial Hoegermaas desk with the catalogues and the newly arrived but as yet unsorted piles of books, with the receipt book and cash box, the ashtray and the old, faded bust of Rilke . . . well, to be honest, there was no significant gap in the veil that protected the future. A narrow beam of curiosity, perhaps. A sort of hope, but nothing more.

But you only see certain things afterwards. No doubt that is just as well. He showed her into the cramped kitchenette, she took a seat on one of the wicker chairs, and he sat down opposite her.

‘It was Intendent Münster who sent me here.’

‘Intendent Münster?’

‘Yes.’

‘And . . .?’

‘At the CID section of the police station. I spoke to him yesterday on the phone, and he suggested that I should get in touch with you – assuming you are in fact Chief Inspector Van Veeteren?’

He waved a deprecating index finger.

‘Both and, fröken.’

‘Both and?’

‘Yes and no, but mainly no. Once upon a time I really was a chief inspector; nowadays I am merely herr Van Veeteren, a saviour in times of distress but normally just a seller of second-hand books. That Intendent Münster can’t get the facts of the situation into his head . . . But I think it’s high time you came out with what it is that you want, fröken – or is it fru?’

‘Fru, in fact.’

‘Of course. Why should a woman as beautiful as you are be running around on the loose?’

She smiled, and he realized that his words were closer to reality than he had originally intended. She was not a striking beauty, but she was good-looking and there was a warmth and a glint of steel in her eyes.

‘My name is Belle Vargas.’

He had the impression that he ought to note that down, but he had neither pen nor paper within reach.

‘I’m coming to see you because I’m worried about my father. He has . . . well, I don’t really know for certain, but I think one has to say that he has disappeared.’

‘Disappeared?’

‘Yes. That’s why I went to the police yesterday . . . To report him missing. And when I got back home, that intendent rang . . .’

‘Münster?’

‘Intendent Münster, yes. He suggested that I should look you up and tell you about it, because he thought you would be interested.’

Van Veeteren cleared his throat.

‘I’m afraid I don’t really understand what all this is—’

‘Forgive me. I was called Verlangen before I got married. My father’s name is Maarten Verlangen.’

It was a couple of seconds, perhaps three, before the penny dropped. But when it did, it was all the more nerve-shattering. Like – like a knife scraping against the bottom of a saucepan, or a fingernail breaking on contact with a slate. He looked at the clock. There was half an hour still to go before closing time. Belle Vargas was fiddling nervously with something in her shoulder bag: he realized that she was waiting to hear if he was going to listen to what she had to say or not.

‘I think . . .’ he said. ‘I think we need a cup of coffee. What do you say to that?’

I suppose I really am awake? he thought.

‘It’s fifteen years ago, I hope you are clear about that.’

‘I know. Intendent Münster stressed that as well, but I don’t need to be reminded. My father has been going downhill for some years now, and it’s as well that you are aware of that from the start. I’m not suggesting that it began with that business, but nevertheless it was somehow crucial . . . It floored him.’

She paused, and stirred her cup of coffee.

‘Belle?’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Your name is Belle, is it? I remember him talking about his daughter. How old were you then?’

You should never ask a woman about her age, he thought: but if you wondered how old she was quite a few years ago, that was another matter of course.

‘Sixteen or seventeen,’ she said. ‘That was when he had his private detective agency, my dad; but after that G business it never got going again. He kept his office, of course, until just a few years ago, but he hardly ever had any work . . .’

‘I understand,’ said Van Veeteren, taking out his cigarette machine. ‘I think it would be a good idea if you could tell me what’s happened. Now, as it were.’

‘Forgive me,’ said Belle Vargas, blushing. ‘But, in fact, I don’t know what’s happened . . . Apart from the fact that he’s disappeared. I’m usually in touch with him once a week . . . or every other week at least . . . but now it’s been a month.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘In Heerbanerstraat. He’s lived in that scruffy little flat ever since they divorced . . . and that was over twenty years ago. No, I’m afraid my father hasn’t had much of a life.’

‘Perhaps he has realized that, and started all over again somewhere else?’

She laughed.

‘My father? No, I can hear that you don’t know him. And he would never go away without letting me know. He is . . .’ She struggled to find the right words. ‘He’s pretty lonely. I think I’m the only person of importance in his life. Me and my children – I have a boy and a girl.’

‘I understand,’ said Van Veeteren again. ‘Yes, I had the impression that he was a sort of lone wolf . . . even at that time. Fifteen years ago. But now you think he’s gone missing, do you?’

She nodded and swallowed.

‘Yes. As far as I know, he hasn’t been home since the third or the fourth. I was at his place in Heerbanerstraat the day before yesterday, and there was an enormous pile of post and junk mail – mainly junk mail, of course. It . . . Something must have happened to him.’

Her voice trembled, and Van Veeteren gathered that she was much more worried than she had appeared to be.

‘What was he working at nowadays?’

I ought to have said ‘is he working at’, he thought, but it was too late.

‘He’s been out of work for some years now . . . Apart from the occasional little job now and again. I suppose I ought to admit that he’s been drinking more than is good for him. I suspect that applied even when you met him. But . . . Well, things haven’t got any better.’

Van Veeteren nodded.

‘That’s the way it can go,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry for your sake, and I understand that it must be difficult. But I don’t really understand why you’ve come to see me. Or why Intendent Münster thought you ought to come to me. I assume a Wanted notice has been issued?’

‘Yes. And they’ve checked up at all the hospitals and such places . . . I’m quite reconciled to the thought that he might have died in some sort of accident when he’d had a drop too much – but it seems that there are no unidentified bodies that could be him . . . And then, there are a few other circumstances.’

‘Circumstances?’ wondered Van Veeteren. ‘What circumstances?’

She rummaged in the shoulder bag she had put on the floor in front of her, and dug out an envelope. Opened it, and produced a sheet of paper.

‘This was lying on the kitchen table.’

Van Veeteren took it and examined it. A normal A4 sheet, lined, from a spiral-bound writing pad, by the look of it. There were two things written on it:

14.42

and

G. Bloody hell

That was all. Rough handwriting. A blue ballpoint pen that had left a few tiny blots. The G was written bigger and more powerfully than any of the other letters – aggressively, no doubt about it. The numbers higher up were underlined. Down at the bottom of the paper, on the right, was a pale yellow stain in the form of a three-quarter circle: his diagnosis was a beer glass.

He returned the sheet of paper, and looked at her.

‘Well?’

She hesitated.

‘I suppose . . . I suppose it’s not all that much, but you must be aware that he was obsessed by that Hennan business. At times, at least. As if that – and only that – was the reason for his personal failure. You can’t imagine how many hours I’ve spent listening to him going on about it . . . He lost his job with that insurance company as a result of it, I don’t know if you are aware of that . . . And, well, if it’s true what they say and some people need something specific to complain about, then there’s no doubt that Jaan G. Hennan is the bugbear in my father’s life . . . I take it you know what I’m talking about?’

‘I think so,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Life doesn’t always turn out to be what we’d like it to be. But you said there were several things. Not just this sheet of paper.’

She nodded.

‘Yes. These scribbles don’t say all that much – but there was a phone call as well.’

‘A phone call?’

‘Yes. My father rang and spoke to my son, Torben. We’ve tried to work out precisely when that was, but you know what children are like . . . Torben is ten years old. It was presumably at the beginning of last week, ten or eleven days ago, but he can’t remember exactly. He only remembered about it the other day when we were sitting and talking about Grandad, and whether to issue an S.O.S. message . . .’

‘What kind of call was it?’

‘My father rang, and Torben answered. He was alone in the house, and that’s why we think it must have been a weekday when he’d come home from school, but my husband and I hadn’t yet got home from work . . . Monday or Tuesday, most likely. Anyway, I’ve checked everything it’s possible to check, and I can vouch for what my son says.’

‘So what did your father want?’

She paused briefly before answering. She held his gaze for an extra half-second, and he realized that she was trying to make sure that he was genuinely interested. That he believed what she was telling him.

‘He asked Torben to give us a message,’ she said. ‘Unfortunately, Torben forgot about it for a few days. But my father said: “It’s about Jaan G. Hennan. Now I understand how he did it. This evening I’m going to prove it.” He repeated it twice, and asked Torben to tell us exactly what he had said.’

Van Veeteren frowned.

‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘And your son forgot about it?’

‘Unfortunately. Other things got in the way. But he remembered about it in detail once he did get round to it – you know what ten-year-olds can be like.’

Van Veeteren nodded vaguely.

‘“Now I understand how he did it. This evening I’m going to prove it.” That’s what he said, is it?’

‘And that it had to do with Hennan, yes.’

‘It sounds a bit . . . well, what could one call it? Melodramatic?’

‘I know. He can be like that.’

‘Ten to twelve days ago?’

‘No more than two weeks, in any case.’

‘But you think that he hasn’t been at home for . . . How long was it you said?’

‘Four weeks, as far as I can judge.’

‘And you don’t know where he rang from?’

‘No.’

‘Does he have a mobile phone?’

‘No.’

‘Did he say anything about contacting the police, or anything like that?’

‘No, evidently not. And I’m quite certain that Torben would have remembered if he had done.’

Van Veeteren prised a cigarette out of the machine and said nothing for a while.

‘What did he sound like when he rang? Did your son get any impression of that? I mean, in view of—’

‘I understand what you’re getting at. I obviously asked Torben about that as well, and he maintains that Grandad was sober. He’s spoken to him a few times when he wasn’t, so he knows what it’s all about. He says that Grandad sounded quite . . . well, keen . . . eager . . . as if he were in a hurry. It was a very short call, it seems.’