The G File (20 page)

‘Correct,’ said Hennan.

‘Did your then wife know that you had insured her life for such a large sum?’

‘Of course.’

‘In 1984 you married Barbara Delgado?’

‘Yes.’

‘This year you moved back to Europe and you immediately signed up for a large insurance policy on her life. One point two million. Is that true?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did she know that you had taken out that policy?’

‘Naturally.’

‘But she wasn’t present when you signed it?’

‘She was busy doing something else at the time.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘I’ll note that down. A month after you paid the first premium, your wife was found dead in the swimming pool of the house you rent in Kammerweg in Linden?’

‘Yes. What do you mean—’

‘No questions, if you don’t mind. As I have already said we shall be able to prove that your wife did not die a natural death. The insurance will not be paid. You must now choose one of two possible lines to take.’

‘Really?’ said Hennan. ‘What the hell do you mean?’

‘You will have to make exactly the same choice at your trial, so you might as well start practising now.’

Hennan didn’t respond, but his left eyebrow twitched.

‘Either you elect to cooperate in order to help us catch the killer,’ explained the Chief Inspector, ‘which is what ninety-nine out of a hundred men would do. Or you elect to be obstructive. That can only be interpreted in one way: that you yourself are responsible for your wife’s death. One in a hundred, as I said. Is that clear?’

‘Huh,’ said Hennan drily.

‘Which line are you going to take?’

‘Obviously I would never dream of taking a line which would obstruct a police investigation,’ said Hennan with treacle in his voice. ‘I don’t understand how you could possibly imagine my doing such a thing, Chief Inspector.’

‘Excellent,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Give me the names of your closest friends.’

‘We don’t have any friends.’

‘Who has been to visit you at Villa Zefyr since you moved in?’

‘The Trottas,’ said Hennan. ‘Nobody else.’

‘Nobody else?’

‘Not as far as I recall.’

‘You’re lying,’ said Van Veeteren.

‘Well, maybe the odd delivery person,’ admitted Hennan. ‘The removal men, of course – I could probably extract some names from the firm . . . Our cleaner . . .’

‘Which of your former so-called friends have you been in contact with since you came back?’

‘None at all.’

‘Think carefully now.’

Hennan smiled but said nothing.

‘Listen here, young man,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘I don’t think the jury will understand which line you chose – but there is one thing they will comprehend, you can be quite sure of that.’

‘What?’

‘That it was you who helped your wife over the edge of the pool that evening.’

‘I think there is a snag,’ said Hennan.

‘Really? What might that be?’

‘As I understand it, I have an alibi.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Van Veeteren. ‘You think you have an alibi? Who has tricked you into believing that?’

Hennan hesitated for a second.

‘I have an alibi because I happened to be at the Columbine rest—’

‘Stop!’ interrupted the Chief Inspector. ‘That no longer has any significance. You seem to have forgotten that we know how the murder actually took place.’

‘What?’ said Hennan. ‘What kind of idiotic . . . No, I’ve had enough of this crap now.’

‘Are you going to explain or shall I?’ asked the Chief Inspector.

‘Explain what?’

‘How it happened?’

Hennan glared at him for a few seconds, then once again folded his arms over his chest and closed his eyes.

‘Switch off the lights when you leave, if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I have nothing more to add.’

Van Veeteren remained seated for a minute. Then he switched off the tape recorder, took out the cassette and stood up. Paused for a few moments and contemplated Hennan, then left the room without switching off the light.

‘Forty-eight hours,’ he said to the others when he had closed the door behind him. ‘We have forty-eight hours. Make sure he’s put under lock and key. I’ll sleep in my office and cross swords with him again tomorrow morning.’

‘He’ll soon give up,’ said Reinhart. ‘That last ploy was a pretty effective booby trap.’

The Chief Inspector stared at him, his eyes slightly screwed up.

‘I’m glad to hear that you are an optimist,’ he said. ‘Good night, gentlemen.’

He was woken up by the telephone. At first he wasn’t at all clear about where he was, but then he felt a pain at the base of his spine and realized that he must have been asleep on the sofa in his office.

He looked at the clock: a quarter to eight. With considerable difficulty he staggered over to his desk and answered. It was Reinhart.

‘Do you read the
Neuwe Blatt
?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Do you?’

‘Very rarely,’ said Reinhart. ‘But I have done today. I happened to run past a placard.’

‘Run?’ said Van Veeteren.

‘I was out jogging – I usually do that on Saturday mornings. Anyway, I think you should.’

‘Go out running?’ said Van Veeteren.

‘Well, yes,’ said Reinhart. ‘But what I meant is that you should read today’s
Neuwe Blatt
. There’s an article about Hennan.’

‘What? Why is there an article about . . . ?’

‘A whole page. Somebody called Grouwer has written it. Devilishly well informed – we have a leak.’

‘A leak?’ said the Chief Inspector, trying to straighten his back. ‘What the hell are you on about? Have you started working for the security services?’

‘Buy the rag and read it for yourself,’ urged Reinhart. ‘Are you going to stay at the station?’

‘I think so.’

‘I’ll be there in an hour. I’ll just have a shower first. Then we can discuss it.’

He hung up. The Chief Inspector stood there with the receiver in his hand, staring into space for a while. Then he dialled the duty officer and asked for a copy of
Neuwe Blatt
to be sent up to his office.

Then he did the same as Reinhart: went for a shower.

Reinhart had certainly not provided him with false information, that was immediately obvious. At the top of the front page was a headline in bold print:
Cold-blooded murder in Linden?

At least they’ve used a question mark, thought the Chief Inspector. Every cloud . . . Both Barbara Hennan and Jaan G. Hennan were named in the introductory paragraph. As directed, Van Veeteren turned to page five which was devoted entirely to the case:
The accident reported on from Kammerweg in Linden last week could well turn out to be an extremely cunningly planned murder
, it said underneath a large picture of Villa Zefyr with the magical diving tower just visible behind the greenery. A photographer had simply snapped the mansion from the other side of the road, Van Veeteren established. He steeled himself in order to be able to cope with the pathetic language used, and continued reading.

It was as Reinhart had said. Devilishly well informed.

The macabre scene in the empty swimming pool was described in accurate detail, and then followed by a discussion about the insurance policy. Jaan G. Hennan, it said, without any second thoughts, had signed up to a sky-high life insurance policy for his young American wife, only a few weeks before she was found dead in her home. Herr Kooperdijk, the director of F/B Trustor, had expressed severe doubts regarding the honesty of Hennan, and hoped that the police would bring him to court as soon as possible. The author of the article implied that there was no doubt the situation involved fraud and even more serious criminal activity.

Towards the end of the article it was stated that Hennan had a criminal past, and that he had spent almost a decade in the USA, but it was not at all clear what he was doing during that time. In conclusion Grouwer stressed how important it was that the Maardam CID, which was now responsible for the case, should not mince matters but had an obligation to make public vital information.

Had the police something to hide? came the rhetorical question. Why had there been no arrest? When would the first press conference finally take place? There was a murderer on the loose.

It did not state explicitly that this Jaan G. Hennan was the suspected murderer, but any seven-year-old able to read could work that out between the lines.

Van Veeteren drank two cups of coffee while reading the article. Also tried to eat a cheese sandwich with paprika rings and a rather sad lettuce leaf, but was unable to force it down.

Ah well, he thought. Now the hacks are snapping at our heels as well. Let the circus begin.

As an immediate confirmation of this assumption, the telephone rang at that precise moment. A mildly irritated editor by the name of Aronsen from the
Telegraaf
wondered what the devil and what the hell? . . . Van Veeteren explained that he was just about to conduct an important interrogation and referred the editor to a press release that would be issued before noon.

‘Have you got him?’ asked Aronsen.

‘Of course,’ said the Chief Inspector in a neutral tone of voice. ‘He’s down in the basement.’

He concluded the call then rang the switchboard and gave instructions that nothing from the mass media should be passed on for the next few hours, then went to brush his teeth.

By the time he got back, Reinhart had appeared.

‘A great story, don’t you think?’ he said, pulling a face.

‘Terrific,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘I’ve promised a press release before noon. Do you feel fit enough to cobble one together?’

‘Nothing would please me more,’ said Reinhart. ‘Give me seven minutes and a cup of black coffee. Where the hell has he got the information from?’

The Chief Inspector shook his head.

‘No idea. How many of us know about it?’

Reinhart counted them up.

‘Six, I think. Plus the odd half-informed constable and probationer, of course. But I find it hard to believe that one of us—’

‘Damn and blast!’ interrupted Van Veeteren. ‘Verlangen, of course! That private dick’s the one who’s let the cat out of the bag. When you’ve finished with the press release, can you phone him and check?’

‘I’ll do it the moment it’s finished,’ said Reinhart. ‘You’re probably right. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s the culprit. I think . . . I think this changes the situation quite a bit, in any case.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If there’s a murderer on the loose and people know his name, that will increase the pressure on us to do something.’

‘You don’t say,’ said Van Veeteren with a sigh. ‘Yes, you’re probably right. I suppose we’d better ring the prosecutor pronto . . . before they ring us . . . That usually makes a good impression.’

‘Do you think they read the
Neuwe Blatt
?’ asked Reinhart.

‘Maybe they are out jogging,’ said the Chief Inspector.

Reinhart smiled wryly.

‘Okay. Ring them. When are you thinking of having another go at Mr Murderer himself?’

Van Veeteren did three or four half-hearted back stretches.

‘In pain?’

‘That sofa.’

‘Serves you right. Well, when?’

‘I don’t really know,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I had thought of continuing this morning, but I think I’ll postpone it for an hour or two. Would you like to be present?’

‘Do you mean at the table or outside the window?’

‘At the table,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘It could be interesting to expose him to a bit of crossfire.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Reinhart. ‘You can count on me.’

Then he left the room, and Van Veeteren dialled the number of the public prosecutor.

When Reinhart had composed and dispatched the press release – a not exactly detailed document comprising fifty-five words which revealed no more than a third of what had already appeared in the newspaper, plus the fact that a press conference would be held on the Monday – he telephoned the
Neuwe Blatt
and was given the home number of Bertram Grouwer.

It sounded as if Grouwer hadn’t yet opened his eyes properly, but he had enough presence of mind to protect his source. As they say. Reinhart asked if it might possibly have been Maarten Verlangen, whereupon Grouwer hung up.

Bloody muckraker, thought Reinhart, whose relationship with the fourth estate was somewhat strained. You’re not much of an actor.

Verlangen sounded not much more wide awake than Grouwer – until he grasped what the call was about.

No, he hadn’t yet read a newspaper today. But yes, he did recall sitting talking to his good friend Grouwer on Thursday evening. They had been out celebrating their joint birthday, as it were, and had no doubt sunk a glass or two.

‘How soon can you get here?’ Reinhart wondered. ‘Ten minutes? We need to talk to you.’

He didn’t know if that really was necessary, but he certainly had no intention of allowing a loose-tongued berk to lounge around in the sun for hours on end on such a pleasant early summer day as this. Certainly not, dammit.

Verlangen sounded apologetic and promised to start moving immediately, and to be at the police station within an hour.

Get going, then, thought Reinhart. Hung up and lit his pipe. If I can get hold of Heinemann, he can spend the whole day interrogating you!

The prosecutor’s name was Silwerstein. Van Veeteren had dealt with him several times before, and knew that he did not like to be telephoned on matters to do with work on his Saturday off. He preferred to play golf. He reiterated this preference the moment he came in through the door. Van Veeteren explained that for his part, he never indulged in that activity; but that as far as possible he too tried to avoid working weekends.

But what could one do? He promised to keep things as brief as possible. Then he poured Silwerstein a cup of coffee and explained the situation in ten minutes. He concluded by asking the prosecutor if he happened to be a loyal reader of the newspaper
Neuwe Blatt
.

He most certainly was not, Silwerstein assured him, and wondered why on earth the Chief Inspector wanted to know that.