The G File (51 page)

‘But surely you can’t have recognized him? It was—’

‘Of course not,’ she said, interrupting him and sounding slightly annoyed. ‘But he told us about it later. Do you happen to have a mobile phone in your jacket pocket?’

Van Veeteren took it out and put it on the table.

‘It’s not working.’

She picked it up and studied it for a few seconds, then found the right button and switched it off.

‘Just in case,’ she said. ‘Anyway, you and Verlangen seem to be birds of a feather. He couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie.’

‘Several of us suffer from that weakness,’ admitted Van Veeteren. ‘Do you mind if I smoke as well?’

‘Not at all. Here, have one of mine so that you don’t need to use that nasty little machine.’

He did as he was bidden, and noticed as he lit the cigarette that his hands were less than steady. No wonder, he thought.

‘He came up here after you, I take it. Verlangen.’

She nodded.

‘Yes. The idiot. He was no doubt egged on by that old detective streak of his, and of course it wasn’t especially difficult to track us down once he had got wind of us. Not even for him. He turned up one evening in April, claiming he was some sort of market researcher . . . It only took a few minutes for us to realize who he really was.’

‘And you shot him?’

She inhaled and paused before answering.

‘My husband took care of that. It’s a pity he made a mess of hiding the body.’

Van Veeteren pricked up his ears on hearing that last sentence. The way she said it made it quite clear who had been the driving force in their marriage.

Absolutely clear.

It also made it clear, unfortunately, what kind of an opponent she was. He knew that she wouldn’t make any mistakes when it came to hiding his body.

Everything, he thought. I’ve misjudged everything. For fifteen years.

And now I’m going to get my punishment.

She stubbed out her cigarette and stood up.

‘Stand up now, please.’

He raised himself out of the armchair.

Take off all your clothes apart from your underpants.’

‘I haven’t carried a gun for five years.’

‘Do as I say.’

As he carried out her instructions, she stood two metres away, watching him. Without moving a muscle. He threw his garments over the back of the chair, one after another, but even when he ended up by standing there in nothing but his underpants and his misery she just stood there without so much as a smile.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘You can get dressed again.’

He performed the same procedure in reverse, somewhat long-windedly, then sat down in the armchair again. Without releasing him from her gaze or from the aim of her pistol, she took a small bottle from her handbag, which was lying beside her on the sofa. She also produced a carafe and a glass from a low table at the side of the sofa. She poured out a couple of centimetres – he assumed that it was whisky – and dropped in four or five tablets from the bottle. They started to dissolve immediately in the brown liquid. She stirred the brew with a propelling pencil that she also took from her handbag. It all seemed quite routine, he thought, as if she were performing some mechanical exercise that she had carried out thousands of times before.

My Last Supper, he thought.

‘Here you are, drink this,’ she said, sliding the glass over to his side of the table.

He stared at the barrel of the pistol. Actually recalled having seen the exit hole of a bullet in the back of the head of a man who had been shot with a Pinchmann. It was rather large, if he remembered rightly.

If I’d been thirty I would no doubt have made a lunge at her now, he thought.

And become no older . . .

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and emptied the glass. And noted that his guess as to the spirit involved was correct.

Rather a good whisky, in fact. As far as he could judge, the tablets tasted of nothing.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Possibly a bit on the smoky side.’

She shrugged. They remained sitting there for several minutes without speaking, and the last thing he registered was that the neighbour had started mowing the lawn again.

‘I have the feeling we’ve missed something,’ said Rooth.

‘You have drunk three beers and a large cognac,’ said Münster, signalling to the waiter that they would like the bill. ‘That’s why you are imagining things.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Rooth. ‘It’s been at the back of my mind since yesterday, there’s something I ought to have thought of . . . I’ve had that feeling before, and it’s hardly ever been wrong.’

‘Do you think you could express yourself a little more clearly?’ wondered Münster.

‘More clearly? As I said, I don’t really know exactly what it’s about . . . You sometimes get a little nudge like that which just falls down through your brain and ends up in your subconscious. Does it never happen to you?’

‘All the time,’ said Münster. ‘And it usually stays there as well.’

‘Exactly,’ said Rooth. ‘That’s the danger. But in this case I’m determined that it won’t do that. I know that I thought: “That was odd”, or something along those lines . . . But I haven’t had time to think it over properly.’

‘No time?’ said Münster. ‘Surely time’s the only thing we’ve had loads of in this confounded case.’

Rooth nodded, and tried to lick the inside of his cognac glass clean.

‘I know,’ he said, abandoning his cleansing attempts. ‘But it would be a plus if I could pin down this particular detail. There are lots of question marks hovering around, after all.’

Münster said nothing for a while. Looked somewhat listlessly around the soberly furnished hotel dining room, and realized that they were the last customers. It was almost half past eleven, and he began to feel it was time to take the lift up four floors, and go to bed.

The final night in a hotel bed. Great. Over the last few days he had really missed Synn and the children: being away from them for a whole week was simply too long.

Far too long, for Christ’s sake. Just a few hours at a time was all he could bear.

But there was something that couldn’t be denied in what Rooth was sitting there and going on about. They
had
missed something. Or been deprived of something? he thought. Perhaps that was a better way of putting it. G had been buried in some kind of hidden agenda for fifteen years – not so much his own, but the
Chief Inspector
’s, of course – and now when they had got wind of him again, then been confronted with his suicide, well, it felt as if . . . Hmm, as if what?

As if they had been cheated out of the goodies? Münster wondered. Yes,
deprived
of something.

Namely the satisfaction of arresting him and making him answerable to his crimes. Of ensuring that Jaan G. Hennan was given the punishment he deserved.

A both reasonable and justified reaction, surely? Feeling bad about it all.

But the fact was that they hadn’t solved that old murder mystery. Just what had happened when Barbara Hennan ended up at the bottom of the empty pool in Linden – that was a secret G had taken with him to his grave. It could be assumed that he had shot poor Maarten Verlangen; but no matter how you looked at it, the Linden murder was still unsolved. And would presumably remain unsolved. For ever.

All things considered, it was hardly a mystery, Münster tried to convince himself while Rooth sat there looking introverted with his eyes half closed. Hennan had hired an accomplice, they had never found him, and with his employer out of this world the actual killer could feel pretty sure that he would never be found.

No doubt it goes with the territory, Münster decided. Some criminals were never nailed, and some questions were never answered. It was annoying, but something you had to learn to live with.

‘I suppose it’s just this berk G who’s annoying me so damned much,’ said Rooth, chiming in with Münster’s thoughts. ‘Do you know what I’d like to do?’

‘No,’ said Münster.

‘As with Jesus.’

‘Eh? Jesus?’

‘Yes. Let him be resurrected for a few days. Interrogate him non-stop and then kill him again. Just to torture the bastard. That’s what he deserves.’

An interesting Bible interpretation, Münster thought, and couldn’t help smiling.

‘A good idea,’ he said. ‘You accept your rock-bottom motives at least – that’s good.’

‘I’m a pretty rock-bottom type,’ sighed Rooth. ‘In fact. I know that my chivalrous behaviour can sometimes dazzle people, but to be honest, the fact is . . .’

The waiter arrived with the bill, and Rooth abandoned his confessions. They paid, and left the dining room. In the lift up to their rooms, however, the inspector probed his subconscious once again.

‘That thing that I don’t remember,’ he said. ‘It must be in connection with when we found him . . . When we went dashing into the Nolans’ house.’

‘Why?’ wondered Münster. ‘Why must it have been then?’

‘As you said, it’s the only time all week that we were in a bit of a hurry.’

Münster thought, but could think of no comment to make.

Instead he yawned, unlocked his door and wished Inspector Rooth sweet dreams.

He regained consciousness.

Didn’t wake up: the outside world merely shone a thin beam into his brain, no more.

Or perhaps it was not the outside world. Perhaps it was merely reflexes from his own body: fragile, undeveloped signals in the darkness and inertia. His head ached. His tongue was sticking to his gums. The tiredness in his arms and legs was devastating.

He was lying on some kind of hard sofa in a position that was extremely uncomfortable.

On his left side. His hands were tightly bound behind his back. His feet were also tied together. His ankles were rubbing against each other. The rough cover of the sofa smelled of dust, and he felt sick.

Dark. He opened his eyes one millimetre for a fraction of a second, and saw that it was just as black round about him as it was inside him.

He sank back into unconsciousness.

Some time later he woke up properly. His tiredness was still like a lead weight on top of him, but she was standing in a light doorway, talking to him.

Saying something to him, giving instructions.

She came up to him and placed something on a table next to his face.

‘Coffee.’

That was the first word he was able to understand.

‘Sit up now. Drink some coffee.’

He kept opening and closing his eyes. It hurt. He could detect the smell of coffee in his nostrils.

‘Sit up.’

It seemed laughably impossible, but the pain in his backside when he tried to obey the order actually woke him up.

‘I can’t . . .’

His voice broke down, and he tried again.

‘I can’t drink when my hands are tied behind my back.’

‘There’s a straw in the cup.’

He leaned forward and drank.

I’m still alive, he thought.

Whatever good that will do me.

He forced his arms to the left and managed to look at his watch.

A quarter past five. In the morning, presumably. A long time must have passed. The room in which he had spent the last sixteen hours seemed to be some sort of lumber-room. A haven for worn-out furniture, but also a link between the house itself and the garage.

When he had finished drinking, she ordered him to move into the garage. He had to jump with both feet lashed together – awkward to do and difficult to keep his balance. He was forced to lean against furniture and walls. Pains all over his body. I hope she allows me to die with some kind of dignity at least, he thought. All the time a dark curtain was threatening to fall down in front of his eyes. The urge to be sick was keeping him upright.

He caught sight of his own blue Opel. She must have moved them around, he thought. The cars. She must have backed Hennan’s Rover and her Japanese car out into the street, and driven his Opel into the garage.

She must have taken the key out of his pocket while he was asleep.

He tried to check if that was the case, but was unable to reach round with his hands tied together. It was obvious in any case that she was leaving nothing to chance.

She never did. He was quite clear about that now.

When it was too late, of course.

Thinking made his headache worse. He took a deep breath with his mouth wide open and looked at his car. Noted that the boot was open.

‘In you get.’

He stared at her. Stared at the pistol.

‘In there?’

She nodded.

‘We shan’t be going far.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘I’ll kill you straight away.’

He thought for a few seconds.

Then he ducked down under the boot lid and crawled inside.

The sofa had been much more comfortable.

All is relative, he thought.

Could death also be relative? Perhaps.

For a few moments he thought about the possibility of escaping. But then he realized how impossible that was. It felt as if he were already buried, lying cooped up in this cramped car boot. The smell of dirt. Of oil and anti-freeze – he recalled having spilled half a litre at some point last winter, and the smell still persisted.

Pitch black and difficult to breathe, pressure on his chest . . . difficulties in moving as well, with his hands tied behind his back. There was no possibility of working them free. And even if there had been, surely it was impossible to open the lid from the inside?

She backed out into the road and stopped. Left the engine running. He heard her open the driver’s door and get out. He thought about shouting, but decided against that as well. There would be nobody around at this time in the morning: the chances of anybody passing close enough to hear his feeble voice were as good as zero. He had no desire for his last action in this world to be lying in a car boot crying in vain for help.

He heard another car starting. Realized that she was restoring order. The Rover in the garage, the Japanese sports car on the drive. The intruding Opel removed from the scene.

No, she was leaving nothing to chance.

He tried to change his position, to find a posture that would be a little bit more bearable: but it was a waste of time. Instead he scraped his cheek against something sharp that was jutting out, gave up and began thinking about Erich.