The G File (40 page)

Rooth scratched his neck, but said nothing. The chief of police nodded.

‘Good point, Stiller,’ he said. ‘Verlangen must have recognized him. And it’s via Verlangen that we’ll be able to find our way to Hennan. Isn’t that right? The more we can find out about what Verlangen was doing here in Kaalbringen in April, the greater our chances of making progress.’

‘Very true,’ said Münster. ‘But there’s one thing we mustn’t forget. In no circumstances must we pass this link with the G File to the media. If Hennan really is here – living in Kaalbringen, that is – he’ll obviously do a runner and make himself scarce the moment he sees a word about it in the newspapers. With a bit of luck he won’t know that Verlangen has left any trails behind. This is absolutely essential if we’re going to have any chance of getting anywhere.’

‘Is that clear to everybody?’ said deKlerk, looking round the table. ‘Absolute silence when it comes to Hennan!’

Stiller and Moerk nodded. Rooth yawned, but when he had closed his mouth again he raised a thumb to indicate that he was in agreement.

‘Okay,’ said deKlerk. ‘The big question of course is what the hell it was that Verlangen had discovered. He claimed that he had found clear proof relevant to that old murder case . . . And as Stiller rightly says, if a worn-out private detective can find that, five excessively talented CID officers ought to be able to do the same! Anyway, what happened yesterday? Shall we take Geraldine’s Caravan Club first?’

With the aid of her notes and Probationer Stiller’s comments, Beate Moerk spent the next twenty minutes reporting on the meeting with Geraldine Szczok. She left out no details – apart from the possibility that Stiller might become an advisory reader of Szczok’s novel – and her description of the burnt-down caravan sent Inspector Rooth through the roof.

‘That settles it, then!’ he bellowed. ‘For Christ’s sake! That is the coincidence that makes it crystal clear we no longer need to think in terms of coincidences! That arsehole G is behind all this, and he’s here in Kaalbringen – all we need to do now is to go out and bring him in!’

‘Calm down, Inspector Hothead!’ said Münster. ‘But I agree with you in principle. On the one hand all possible leads have been lost in the fire, but on the other hand we don’t need to speculate any more. We are dealing with Jaan G. Hennan again.’

This conclusion was met with several seconds of silence around the table, after which the chief of police invited Münster to speak again.

‘Horst Zilpen,’ he said. ‘Did he have anything to add to what his wife said?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Münster. ‘He had chatted now and again to Verlangen, but they didn’t discuss anything of consequence. When he asked outright where Verlangen had his home, he didn’t receive a clear answer. He said he had the impression that Verlangen was an odd bod.’

‘It hadn’t even occurred to him to ask why Verlangen was staying at the camp site,’ added Rooth. ‘He’s not exactly a bright spark, this Zilpen bloke – and he had a broken nose: I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been a boxer.’

‘What has that got to do with the case?’ wondered Moerk, looking surprised.

‘Nothing, my lovely,’ said Rooth. ‘It’s just that my brain sometimes works overtime, and it can’t help making little observations like that. I can’t do anything about it.’

‘I see,’ said Moerk.

‘That’s the way he is,’ said Münster with a shrug.

‘To change the subject,’ said Rooth, ‘isn’t it about coffee time?’

DeKlerk looked at the clock and nodded in agreement. Stiller left the room and returned half a minute later with a coffee tray and a dish of Danish pastries.

‘Help yourselves,’ said the chief of police. ‘It’s all from Sylvie’s Luxury Bakery just round the corner, as I don’t need to explain to those of you who’ve been here before.’

While they were eating and drinking, deKlerk passed around once more the photographs of Jaan G. Hennan from 1987.

‘The annoying thing,’ said Moerk, ‘is that if we published these pictures we might get a positive response straight away.
I
don’t recognize him, but of course that doesn’t mean that he isn’t living here. Kaalbringen isn’t just a tiny village after all. Twenty-two thousand souls or thereabouts . . .’

‘Quite a large little village,’ said Rooth.

‘Three of us who live here don’t recognize him, anyway,’ said deKlerk. ‘But then Stiller has only just moved here . . . I assume you’re right, though. There’s nothing to stop us asking our nearest and dearest – friends and acquaintances . . . Unofficially. We don’t need to say what it’s all about, do we? We can just ask them if they recognize the man in the photo.’

He looked at Münster and Rooth, hoping for confirmation. Münster nodded.

‘That wouldn’t do any harm, as far as I can see. As long as we don’t make a big fuss about it.’

‘All right,’ said Moerk.

The chief of police leafed through his papers again, and nobody seemed to have anything to say.

‘I suppose the question is what we ought to be doing with ourselves,’ said Rooth eventually. ‘Personally, I’d like to become more intimately acquainted with Sylvie over the next few weeks – but perhaps you others might like to have something different to do?’

‘There is another unpleasant aspect,’ said Münster, ignoring Rooth’s comments. ‘How are we going to be able to link Hennan with the crime, if we manage to find him? We weren’t very successful last time, and it’s unlikely to be any easier now.’

DeKlerk looked around the room.

‘No,’ he said. ‘The odds seem to be stacked up against us in many ways. This isn’t going to be easy.’

‘G is a bastard who never gets caught – I’ve been aware of that for the past fifteen years,’ said Rooth.

‘Perhaps you could explain what you mean by that,’ said Beate Moerk.

‘By all means,’ said Rooth. ‘Laws don’t seem to apply to him. He had already got rid of a wife in the States before that business in Linden. If we don’t nail him for the murder of Verlangen, he’ll have scored a hat trick. At least. Three murders, but he’s as free as a bird. Dammit all!’

‘For once you’re probably right,’ said Münster, looking grim.

Silence ensued while deKlerk leafed through his papers again.

‘Is there nothing new from Maardam?’ wondered Moerk in the hope of striking a more optimistic tone. ‘They were going to talk to his daughter and go through his flat, weren’t they?’

‘No report as yet,’ said the chief of police, stretching the lobe of his ear to twice its normal length. ‘But I expect we’ll hear from them once they’ve finished. Anything else?’

He looked around the table.

‘One more thing,’ said Stiller tentatively. ‘We still have to talk to those other two people who were staying at the camp site. It might not get us anywhere, but you never know . . .’

‘That’s right,’ said deKlerk, looking up his notes. ‘Willumsen and Holt – those names sound familiar. Anyway, Moerk and Stiller can talk to them this afternoon and hear what they have to say. We mustn’t leave anything to chance, of course. We’re still waiting for reports from the Forensic Lab and the Forensic Institute, but I don’t think we should expect them to come up with anything useful. Four months out in the forest leave their mark – or obliterate all the marks, perhaps I should say. We mustn’t throw in the towel, of course, but I have to say that I doubt—’

He was interrupted by fröken Miller, who opened the door and poked in her head with its curly white hair.

‘Excuse me, but there’s a message from the former chief of police,’ she said, trying to remain calm and collected.

‘Eh?’ said Rooth.

‘Bausen?’ said Moerk.

‘Yes.’

‘What does he want?’ wondered deKlerk, looking confused.

Fröken Miller poked a little more of her body inside the door and coughed demonstratively into her hand.

‘He asked me to tell you that he was expecting a lodger again tonight. And that you were welcome to phone him if you wanted to know more.’

‘A lodger?’ said Moerk.

‘What the hell . . .’ said deKlerk. ‘Is that what he said?’

‘Yes, that’s exactly what he said. A lodger. I wrote it down to be on the safe side.’

‘Good God,’ said Rooth, taking the last remaining Danish pastry. ‘
In sha’a Allah
, as I’ve already said – has a government minister been shot, or something of that sort?’

‘Thank you, fröken Miller,’ said deKlerk. ‘We can’t complain about being understaffed on this occasion.’

‘No,’ said Intendent Münster, glancing automatically at Beate Moerk. ‘Evidently not. But what the hell are we supposed to be doing?’

‘A good question,’ said Rooth. ‘But I expect we’ll find something.’

Van Veeteren went for a walk along the beach.

Shadows, he thought. I’m chasing shadows from the past.

Or one, at least. Why does it have to be so essential to come to terms with this sort of thing? he wondered. Why did these question marks insist on being removed, and these stains in the soul on being polished and rubbed out.

Polished
or
rubbed out. There was a difference, of course.

The devil only knows, he thought, lighting a cigarette. Sometimes things persist for no obvious reason. We have that sort of brain.

The sun was still low in the sky – he had woken up early and not wanted to disturb Bausen: just made himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen, then made his way towards the sea. He had come to the beach a couple of minutes before half past seven, bought a bottle of mineral water at the kiosk by the marina, and set off in an easterly direction. An hour out, an hour back, he decided. Movement is the key to clear thinking.

The beach looked just like he had remembered it. Or like he remembered so many other beaches he had walked along during his life. Sea, sky, earth . . . A greyish-white band thirty metres wide running towards the headland just short of Orfmann’s Point. That was what it was called, wasn’t it? The restaurant on top of it, Fisherman’s Friend, projecting out dramatically over the edge; but the whole cliff and the high coastline beyond was enveloped by morning mist . . . It was more like a dream than reality, as was the next bay on the other side towards Wilgersee. Birds were flying around over the sands and in towards land, a thin white cloud formed a veil around the sun, but the light was strong: he took his sunglasses out of his breast pocket and put them on. There was no doubt that it was going to be a hot day. Another one.

This is my last case, he suddenly thought. Definitely my final case.

In the activity that has dominated my life: chasing murderers.

He knew that this was true. Irrespective of the outcome. Irrespective of whether or not they managed to find G as a result of the faint trail left by Verlangen.

Irrespective of whether or not they achieved anything at all. Facts were facts. This was his last case.

At last, one might say. It felt almost like a sort of relief on a morning like this. He gazed out over the water. Lazy, choppy waves and hardly any wind at all. He recalled having depressing thoughts about this sea on his previous visit. He had gone for a walk along exactly the same stretch of beach, and interpreted the signs: winds blowing in the wrong direction, and lifeless waves. Natural forces reflecting a murder investigation that was getting nowhere, and similar shady goings-on. And doubts. His eternal doubts.

There was uncertainty in his mind now as well. Had he really done the right thing in coming up here again? It had been easy to make the decision to do so, but it had more to do with emotions than with reason. If such a split was possible in the real world.

Easy to make that decision down in Maardam, that is. Now that he was actually here he was aware of a sort of presumptuousness under his skin, itching away: both Münster and Rooth were already here to investigate the murder of Verlangen, and he knew from the past how capable Beate Moerk was.

So what was he doing here? Should he not have waited until they found traces of G at least? There was in fact nothing he could do that the investigative team couldn’t do just as well. Or better, if truth be told.

He had refrained from contacting them yesterday – simply allowed Bausen to inform them of his presence – and he knew that he wouldn’t be setting foot inside the police station today either. Unless somebody specifically invited him, that is.

A private detective again, he thought grimly. An old former detective chief inspector who turns up in the backwater after that private dick. Huh. In order to solve the only unresolved case of his career. Was that pathetic, or what?

Perhaps it was. There was definitely an element of that, he could feel it clearly on a morning like this: but what the hell! He couldn’t sleep, thanks to that damned Hennan!

And if they really do find him? he suddenly thought. If I actually come face to face with Jaan G. Hennan again? What would happen then? What is there to say that I would actually be victorious this time?

Not a lot, he decided. Apparently not a lot.

He paused and took off his shoes and socks. It’s like it was fifteen years ago, he thought. Exactly the same . . . If we find G in Kaalbringen, that means he is guilty of Verlangen’s death. I know that. I shall sit there staring into the eyes of a murderer, knowing that I shall have to let him go free again. For the second time. It’s a damned awful thought, but there’s a lot to support that scenario, isn’t there?

He kicked a piece of discarded orange peel into the water. Hell’s bells, he thought, I ought to take matters into my own hands.

The thought came to him unbidden. He rejected it. Not this time, he decided. Not again. The moral escape door which involved stepping outside the law in order to ensure that justice is done – he had already opened it once, one single time, and afterwards he realized that it was an exit door one should only allow oneself to use once in a lifetime. If at all.

On that occasion the innocent man under pressure had been called Verhaven.

Now one of the victims was called Verlangen. Almost the same name, but that was a coincidence, of course. Nothing to interpret as a signpost, or an index finger.