The G File (8 page)

It was hardly the sort of thing one expected of a serious private detective – even Maarten Verlangen could see that.

At least he hadn’t given himself away, he was sure of that. Despite everything he’d had the presence of mind not to tell Hennan that his precious wife had hired him as a private dick in order to find out what her husband was up to when she was unable to keep an eye on him herself. It was crucial that he shouldn’t give himself away on that score, and he hadn’t done so.

So all was well in that respect. But what would he be able to say about the current situation?

That he had spent half the day in bed with a third-degree hangover that unfortunately prevented him from working as usual? That he didn’t have the slightest idea where his quarry was at the moment?

Would Barbara Hennan really be interested in continuing to employ him after such obvious negligence? And pay him for his efforts? Hardly.

So what should he do?

The car, he thought! Hennan’s blue Saab.

Of course. Verlangen lit a cigarette and began walking optimistically around the block. If Hennan was in his office, the car would be parked somewhere close by. As sure as amen in church and the whores in Zwille.

After quite some time walking around the central parts of Linden, Verlangen was able to state with confidence that Hennan’s car was nowhere to be seen. Nowhere was there a well-polished blue Saab – two other Saabs, but neither of them blue and neither of them noticeably well polished.

It looked as if Hennan hadn’t come to the office today, in other words. A conclusion that fitted in well with last night’s intake of whisky, Verlangen decided, and, after the purchase of a new bottle of soda water at the kiosk in the square, he sat down on a bench to think things over. He didn’t have the telephone number of Hennan’s company, didn’t even know what it was called, so there was no chance of getting in touch with him in that way.

He emptied the bottle of soda water in two swigs, and belched loudly. He remained sitting on the bench for a while until he seemed to feel a drop of rain on the back of his hand, and decided to take a chance and make contact with his employer. He might as well take the bull by the horns, he thought.

Always assuming he wanted to continue coiling in these easily earned payments, and he did.

Once again he rang from the kiosk outside the butcher’s shop. He let it ring ten times, then concluded that nobody was at home in Villa Zefyr. Or that nobody intended to answer the telephone, at least. He left the kiosk and put his hands in his pockets. It had turned three now, and it seemed pointless to waste any more energy on Hennan than he had already used up today. Especially as at the moment he had extremely limited resources of energy and patience.

Because of the circumstances.

And because it was now raining properly. Not all that heavily, but persistently and penetratingly. He decided to have something to eat, then go home. His agreement with Barbara Hennan dictated that he should only keep watch over Jaan G. on weekdays: there were only a couple of hours left until Friday evening, and so if he made another attempt to telephone her from Maardam, he could then pack up for the weekend and start work again on Monday morning. All bushy-tailed and raring to go.

No sooner said than done. He had a mediocre pizza at the Ristorante Goldoni, drank a large beer, and felt that his spirits were beginning to perk up again. At a quarter to five he clambered into his faithful Toyota, switched on the engine and set off for Maardam.

An hour later he made another attempt to call Villa Zefyr, but again nobody answered; and since nothing seemed to be working this godforsaken Friday, he went to bed shortly after nine o’clock.

A working week in the life of Private Detective Maarten Verlangen had come to an end.

‘An accident,’ said Chief Inspector Sachs, stroking his fingers carefully over his thin moustache. ‘That is obviously the most likely explanation. But of course, you never know.’

‘Very true,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Maybe you could give us a summary in broad outline? We shall be talking to Hennan later, of course, but it’s always good to know the lie of the land before you actually walk on it. As it were.’

Sachs cleared his throat.

‘Yes, of course. Incidents like this when somebody falls and kills him or herself are very tricky.’

‘Tricky?’

‘Tricky, yes. Let’s assume that A and B are standing on a balcony high up in a skyscraper – or on the edge of a precipice, or anywhere at all. A few seconds later B is lying dead fifty metres lower down. How the hell can you prove that A pushed him?’

Van Veeteren nodded.

‘Or that he didn’t push him.’

‘Motive,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘You find out if there is a motive. If there is, you keep on interrogating the suspect until he gives up. There’s no other way – no better one, at least.’

‘But in this case,’ said Münster, ‘she was alone in the house, wasn’t she?’

‘As far as we know, yes,’ said Sachs. ‘But that’s only because nothing suggests otherwise so far. Fru Hennan seems to have been sitting around drinking, all by herself, and then got it into her head that she should go for a swim . . . Alternatively to take her own life by diving down into the empty swimming pool.’

Van Veeteren took a drink from his mug of coffee, and produced a toothpick.

‘Not all that likely,’ he said.

‘What?’ wondered Sachs.

‘That she took her own life. How was she dressed?’

‘Swimming costume. A red swimming costume. You mean that . . . ?’

‘Yes. In the first place it’s a damned unpleasant way of dying. And uncertain.’

‘I don’t know if—’

‘There’s a distinct risk that you might survive,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘And in all probability that would mean you’d be crippled for the rest of your life. A wheelchair would be the very least you could expect.’

‘I’m with you. It’s a point of view, of course.’

‘But if we assume she did decide to do that anyway, why the hell would she put on a swimming costume?’

Nobody spoke for several seconds.

‘Because she wanted it to look like an accident,’ suggested Münster.

‘Not impossible,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘We’ll see eventually if there’s anything to support such an alternative, but for the moment it would surely make more sense to hear a summary of the situation, as I said before. The Hennans’ circumstances, that sort of thing – assuming that you have had time to gather a few details.’

Sachs nodded and put on a pair of thin reading glasses. He thumbed back and forth once or twice in the notebook lying on the table in front of him.

‘There isn’t a lot,’ he explained apologetically. ‘The Hennans have only been living here since April. Barely two months. They arrived from the USA in the middle of March and stayed at a hotel in Maardam for a week or two while they were looking for a house to rent – obviously this is information I was given by Hennan himself, but I can’t see that there’s any reason to question it.’

‘Not so far,’ agreed Van Veeteren.

‘He was born here in Maardam, but he has spent the last ten years in various places in the States. New York. Cleveland. Austin. Denver. He has a company registered here in Linden under the name G Enterprises. There is an office in Landemaarstraat only a stone’s throw from here. So he’s some sort of businessman. According to what he says, he has always indulged in that kind of activity. He and his wife chose to move to Europe because trading conditions are better here, or so he says. I don’t know, I’m not all that well up in that kind of thing . . .’

‘I think we can forgive you for that,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But we know what kind of business he indulged in before he crossed over the Atlantic: mind you, it’s possible that he’s cleaned up his act since then. What do we know about his wife? They met and got married in Denver, is that right?’

‘Yes,’ Sachs confirmed. ‘Barbara Clarissa, née Delgado. Fifteen years younger than her husband. We don’t know anything about her, but I expect we shall be able to dig out some information . . . In any case, they rented that house in Kammerweg. The owner is called Tieleberg, and lives somewhere in Spain. It’s probably one of the most expensive homes in the whole of Linden, to tell you the truth. Eight or ten rooms plus kitchen, a few thousand square metres of garden, and a completely private situation – and with a swimming pool and diving tower. Kammerweg is where the crème de la crème live. He must be rather well off, this Hennan.’

‘Hmm,’ muttered Van Veeteren crossly, and broke off the toothpick. ‘And what does he have to say about this so-called accident?’

‘That it definitely was an accident. He’s absolutely certain of that. His wife had no reason to take her own life, and as for somebody pushing her down – who could that have possibly been? She knew next to nobody. And why? Hennan says that they had an excellent relationship. He loved her, she loved him . . . They’d been married for just over two years, and were thinking about having children soon. She was only thirty-four, after all.’

‘What about the alcohol?’ wondered Münster. ‘Why does she sit and drink herself silly if everything in her garden is lovely?’

Sachs took off his glasses and rubbed his thumb and index finger over the bridge of his nose.

‘He’s a bit vague on that question,’ he said. ‘I thought so, at least. Presumably she had drunk several gin and tonics plus quite a lot of sherry; but Hennan maintains that she didn’t normally drink anything like as much as that. He admits that she did sink a few glasses now and then– even when she was on her own – but not that kind of quantity.’

‘1.74 per mil is a pretty high percentage,’ said Münster.

‘It certainly is,’ said Sachs. ‘And Hennan let slip that she tended to lose control when she’d had too much to drink – which suggests that it must have happened before. He said she had more body than head when she was drunk. That seemed to mean that she was capable of standing up straight and walking, but not so good at thinking straight.’

‘Hmm,’ said Münster. ‘That would fit in with her being able to climb up to the top of the tower and dive down, without checking to see if there was enough water in the pool.’

‘Yes indeed,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘It fits in exactly. But I don’t think we should forget the source of all this information.’

Münster nodded, and Sachs turned over a few more pages in his notebook.

‘As far as Hennan himself is concerned,’ he continued, ‘he was in that restaurant. The Columbine. It’s just behind the town hall. From about half past seven until half past midnight, he maintains. We haven’t got round to speaking to the staff there yet, but that is being organized. I’m expecting a report from Inspector Behring later this afternoon. He may well have an alibi. It would take at least half an hour to drive from there to Kammerweg and back – maybe forty minutes. Anyway we’ll see what they have to say. Barbara Hennan died at some time between half past nine and half past ten, if I understand it rightly.’

He looked inquiringly at Van Veeteren.

‘That’s correct,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I phoned Meusse, and he guesses around ten o’clock. He’s rarely more than half an hour out. What was your overall impression of Hennan? Is he concealing something?’

Sachs closed his notebook and placed his hands in his armpits. Leaned back in his chair and thought for a while.

‘God only knows,’ he said eventually. ‘He was drunk when I spoke to him, but nevertheless . . . well, incredibly calm and collected, somehow. If he was in shock or something of the sort – and let’s face it, he ought to have been – he didn’t show it at all. But . . . Well, I have to say that I’m not at all sure about my impression of him. I’m grateful for the fact that you are here and will draw your own conclusions as well. As I said, I’m inclined to think that it was an accident, of course – but you never know.’

‘And there were no indications in the house suggesting that she’d had a visitor? Somebody else, that is.’

‘Nothing that we found, at least. There was just one used glass, and it had her prints on it. But of course we haven’t been through the house with a fine-tooth comb. There wasn’t . . . There didn’t seem to be any need.’

Van Veeteren nodded, and took hold of the arms of his chair.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what Inspector Münster and I come up with. If there is anything of immediate importance maybe we can call in here on our way home. Otherwise we’ll be in touch by phone.’

‘You’re always most welcome,’ said Chief Inspector Sachs, thrusting out his arms. ‘Good hunting, as they say.’

A few seconds before coming face to face with Jaan G. Hennan, an old Borkmann rule came into Van Veeteren’s head.

It was not the first time. Chief Inspector Borkmann had been his mentor during the early years up in Frigge, but at that time he had not realized how many of the old bloodhound’s understated comments would accompany him throughout his career.

But they did. Irrespective of the type of investigation, there was more or less always a relevant piece of advice from Borkmann to fish up from the well of memory. It was just a case of devoting sufficient time to thinking about it. Sometimes – as on this occasion – he didn’t even need to go fishing: he could hear his mentor’s calm voice as clear as day inside the back of his head, echoing down through two decades of messy and clamorous police work.

This time – just as he and Inspector Münster were slowly approaching the somewhat portly figure up on the terrace of Villa Zefyr – it concerned the ability to keep quiet.

‘Learn how to stay silent!’ Borkmann had urged. There was nothing as uncomfortable for anybody with anything on their conscience as silence.

And Borkmann had elaborated: ‘If you can just keep your trap shut, a mere look or the raising of an eyebrow can induce any killer or bank robber to lose his composure and let the cat out of the bag. From sheer nervousness. Make silence your ally, and you will come off best in every single interrogation!’

Just before they were within hearing distance, Van Veeteren poked Münster with his elbow.

‘Don’t say too much,’ he said. ‘Let me run this conversation.’