The G File (4 page)

And that is exactly what happened in fact. He woke up at about half past two when the sun finally forced its way through the clouds and found its way in through his dirty windscreen. It was like an oven inside the car, and he noticed that his intake of alcohol had begun to hammer nails into his skull. He checked that Hennan’s dark blue Saab was still parked where it had been before, then walked down to the kiosk in front of the town hall and bought a beer and a bottle of mineral water.

When he had finished drinking them it was ten minutes past three. The sun had continued to dominate the afternoon, and his clothes were clinging stickily to his body. Hennan had appeared in the window again for a few seconds with a telephone receiver apparently glued to his ear, and a traffic warden had been snooping around in the hope of being able to allocate a ticket. But that was all.

Verlangen took off his socks and put them in the glove compartment. Living felt slightly easier, but not a lot. He lit his twenty-fifth cigarette of the day, and wondered if he could think of something to do.

After number twenty-six, the building had still not exploded and it had not become any cooler. Verlangen walked as far as the telephone kiosk outside the butcher’s and phoned his employer. She answered after one-and-a-half rings.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘It’s good that you’ve rung. How’s it going?’

‘Excellent,’ said Verlangen. ‘Like a dance. I didn’t think there was much point in ringing the first morning. He’s in his office, and he’s been there all day, in fact.’

‘I know,’ said Barbara Hennan. ‘I’ve just spoken to him on the telephone. He’s coming home in an hour.’

‘You don’t say?’ said Verlangen.

‘Yes I do. That’s what he said, at least.’

I see, thought Verlangen. So why the hell should I hang around here, waiting for death to knock on my door?

‘I think you can pack it in for today,’ said fru Hennan. ‘We’ll be together all evening, so it will be okay if you start keeping an eye on him again tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Tomorrow afternoon?’

‘Yes. If you are in place after lunch tomorrow, and keep an eye on what he gets up to during the afternoon and the evening . . . especially in the evening . . . Well, it’s especially important for me that you don’t let him out of your sight then.’

Verlangen thought that over for two seconds.

‘I’m with you,’ he said. ‘Your wish is my command. I’ll give you another report the day after tomorrow, will that be okay?’

‘That will be fine,’ said Barbara Hennan, and hung up.

He stayed for a moment or two in the stuffy telephone kiosk, then noticed that the female traffic warden’s funereal grey uniform was approaching, and he hurried off to his car.

Life, where is thy sting? he thought, switched on the engine and drove off.

Although he had more time than was available in the forecourt of Hell, Verlangen chose not to drive back to Maardam. The alternative of clean sheets was too tempting, and at a quarter to five he checked in at the Belveder, a simple but clean hotel in Lofterstraat, behind the town hall.

Between seven and eight he had dinner in the sepia-brown dining room together with a swimming club from Warsaw. Some sort of ragout that reminded him vaguely of his former mother-in-law. Perhaps not so much of her as of the Sunday dinners she used to prepare, and it was a memory he could have done without. He bought two dark beers to take up to his room, managed to overcome an increasing desire to telephone his daughter, then fell asleep in the middle of an American police series some time between eleven and half past.

The sheets were cool and newly ironed, and even if the day ended up being somewhat less alcohol-free than originally envisaged, at least he was not quite up to the limit of ten beers a day.

Quite some way short of that, in fact.

The restaurant was called Columbine, and after two swigs of beer it looked like any other restaurant in any country of the world.

It was evening at last. The old Maasleitner clock hanging over the bottles of whisky at the bar showed twenty-five to eight. On this completely cloud-free Thursday Hennan had stayed on at the office until seven o’clock, for some damned reason or other. Verlangen had been feeling worn out since about four.

But he was used to exhaustion. It had been his constant companion for the last four years, and sometimes it felt as if it was time – nothing else – that got on top of him. A sort of old, smelly item of clothing that he couldn’t wait to cast off. To sleep off the hangover, wake up to something different and at long last put on a new era. In which the seconds and minutes actually tasted of something.

But there was never a new era the following morning. Just the same old unwashed garment that clung stickily to his skin, day after day, year after year. There was nothing he could do about it, and the few evenings he dared to go to bed in a sober state it was always impossible to get a wink of sleep.

He drained his glass and looked over towards Hennan. There were only two tables between them, but sitting at one of them was an unusually loud and exuberant group: four chubby young men aged around twenty-eight, each with a moustache, who repeatedly broke out into roars of laughter, leaning back on their chairs and slamming their fists down on the table. Judging by their broad accents Verlangen concluded that they came from somewhere down among the southern provinces. Groenstadt, most probably. Or Balderslacht, somewhere of that sort.

There were quite a lot of other customers, so a certain degree of concentration was needed in order to keep a close eye on the object of his surveillance. Despite everything. But on the other hand, it seemed fairly obvious that Hennan intended to have a meal and stay put for quite some time. He had hung his jacket over the back of his chair, and was working his way through the menu while sipping away at a colourless drink – presumably a gin and tonic – and seemed to be in no hurry at all. Perhaps he was waiting for somebody: the seat opposite him at his table for two was empty. Maybe a woman, Verlangen thought. That would be the most likely possibility, after all. And that was the outcome he had predicted from the start.

Anyway, all he could do was remain where he was, and see what happened. Verlangen decided to have a meal as well. He attracted a waiter’s attention, ordered another beer and asked for a menu. The way things looked, he might well be sitting there for quite some time.

Two hours later Jaan G. Hennan was still alone at his table. Verlangen had passed close by him twice on the way to the gents, and established that his quarry seemed to have indulged in a substantial meal. At least three courses and two different wines, and just now he was puffing away at a thin, black cigar, gazing out through the window and somewhat absent-mindedly twirling around a brandy glass. As far as Verlangen had seen he hadn’t exchanged words with a single person all evening, apart from the waiter. He had been to the toilet once, but what the hell was buzzing around inside his head – or why he was hanging around here instead of spending the time at home with his lovely wife – well, goodness only knew.

At least it didn’t look as if he was waiting – or had been waiting – for somebody. He had checked his watch now and then, true enough, but apart from that there had been no indication that a companion had failed to turn up: no calls from the telephone in the lobby, no delays before placing an order, no apologetic explanations to the waiter. Nothing at all.

Nor had he spent time reading a book or a newspaper. Neither had Verlangen, come to that, but then he was there on business, as it were. For a few minutes he toyed with the idea of walking past Hennan and spilling beer over the back of his neck. Or trying to bribe somebody else to do that. There was no shortage of slightly drunk young people sitting around, and no doubt it would have been possible to persuade one of them.

Simply in order to make something happen. Verlangen’s feeling of being worn out had caught up with him again. He had eaten something that was alleged to have been veal – but in that case it must have been from the world’s oldest calf.

He had washed it down with four or five beers, and in the end given way to temptation and followed Jaan G. Hennan’s example. Coffee and cognac.

He lit another cigarette, despite the fact that his previous one was still glowing away in the ashtray.

Looked at the clock: ten minutes to ten.

Bugger this for a lark, he thought as he turned away yet another customer who wondered if the seat opposite him was taken. Drink up your damned cognac and pay your bill! And get the hell out of here!

It was just as he looked up after thinking these pious thoughts that he saw Hennan was on his way to his table.

Eh, what’s all this? he had time to think.

‘May I join you?’

‘Please do.’

‘Hennan. Jaan G. Hennan.’

‘Verlangen.’

Hennan pulled out the chair and sat down.

‘Verlangen?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not Maarten Verlangen, surely?’

‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘I thought so.’

‘What do you mean? I’m not at all sure . . .’

‘Sure about what?’

‘That I know who you are.’

Hennan put his cigar down on the ashtray, and leaned forward with both elbows on the table.

‘Come off it, Maarten Verlangen. I know all too bloody well who you are, and you know just as well who I am. Why are you sitting here?’

Verlangen took a sip of cognac and thought for a moment.

‘That’s a very good question.’

‘You think so? But you’re welcome to answer it, in any case.’

‘Why I’m sitting here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Because I’ve had dinner, of course.’

‘Really? And is that the only reason?’

Verlangen suddenly felt anger boiling up inside him.

‘How about you telling me what the hell you’re after? I haven’t the faintest idea who you are, nor what you’re getting at. If you don’t have a satisfactory explanation, might I suggest that you clear off before I ask the staff to throw you out!’

Hennan sat there without saying a word, just screwing up his eyes slightly. No trace of a smile. Something told Verlangen that there ought to have been one. He noticed that he had instinctively clenched his fists and pushed his chair back a couple of centimetres.

So that he could stand up quickly and defend himself if necessary.

Don’t be stupid, he thought when he realized what his imagination was pushing him into. He can’t start fighting inside here, for God’s sake. That would be pure . . .

‘Fuzz. You are still the fuzz, I take it?’

Verlangen hesitated for a tenth of a second, then shook his head.

‘What about you?’

‘Eh?’

‘What about you? What do you do? What did you say your name was, by the way?’

Hennan made no reply, simply twisted his lips into a contemptuous grimace. Verlangen looked away. Leaned back and stared up at the ceiling instead. There followed a few moments of silence.

‘Why are you no longer a copper? Did you get the sack?’

Verlangen shrugged.

‘I packed it in.’

‘Voluntarily?’

‘Of course. Explain what the hell it is you want, or go back to your own table. I’ve no desire to sit here any longer and be . . .’

He hesitated as he searched for the right word.

‘Be what?’

‘Bullied.’

He clenched his fists and prepared to defend himself again.

‘You were a real touchy bastard, always keen to claim you were being harassed by me,’ said Hennan, and suddenly his face broke out into a beaming smile. ‘But in fact I’m the one who should be feeling pissed off with you. Not the other way round.’

Verlangen lit a cigarette.

‘Pissed off? Why?’

‘Jaan G. Hennan. Do you still claim that you don’t remember?’

Verlangen shook his head. A little too fiercely – he could feel the room shaking. Damn and blast, he thought. I’m too drunk.

‘I’ve no bloody idea.’

Hennan rested his chin on his hand and seemed to be thinking things over.

‘Shall we go and sit in the bar instead? Then we can sort this out. Let me buy you a whisky.’

Verlangen hesitated briefly, then nodded cautiously and stood up.

‘You can have ten minutes,’ he said. ‘Not a damned second more.’

While they were drinking their first whisky Hennan explained why he had recognized Verlangen and remembered his name.

As they sank the second one, Verlangen recalled the twelve-year-old investigation and said it had completely vanished from his memory – but now that Hennan had raised the matter, well . . .

While they were drinking the third one Hennan took the initiative once again and went on at length about what it was like, spending two-and-a-half years in prison despite being innocent.

Innocent? thought Verlangen, beginning to feel annoyed again. You were more guilty than Crippen, you arsehole!

But he didn’t start arguing. Merely said that he could no longer remember any details of the case – he’d had so many to deal with over the years. He noticed that he was beginning to have difficulty in articulating, and immediately laid down a rule that he swore he would stick to, come what may, for the rest of the evening: Don’t let Hennan have the slightest idea why you are here! No matter what. Be faithful to your employer!

Hennan went on about all kinds of things, but the fourth whisky evidently had a detrimental effect on Verlangen’s hearing. He was simply incapable of understanding a meaningful series of sounds any longer – but nevertheless made a point of muttering and humming and hawing inventively during the pauses. When he next looked at the clock, it was twenty-five minutes past midnight. Hennan also seemed to have had enough.

‘Home,’ he said. ‘Time to go home.’

Verlangen agreed and slid down from the bar stool.

‘I’m staying just down the road,’ he said.

‘I must order a taxi,’ said Hennan.

The bartender, a gigantic young man with red curly hair, intervened and informed them that there were always taxis queuing up just round the corner. A mere fifty metres away – that was easier than phoning and ordering.