The G File (46 page)

‘They doubt whether I’m right, is that it?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘They’re questioning my judgement?’

Bausen tried to smile.

‘You don’t need to—’

He broke off.

‘Hell and damnation,’ said Van Veeteren, emptying his glass.

This is not the way to consume the final drops of a St-Emilion ’82, he thought. It’s sacrilege.

‘He asked me to put that question to you, in any case,’ said Bausen. ‘And it’s obvious that they want to be quite sure about that point. Absolutely certain . . . Don’t take it personally – haha.’

‘Haha,’ agreed Van Veeteren.

Bausen also emptied his glass.

‘Apparently she came out with quite a lot of information, fru Nolan. About her own and her husband’s past in England. You might well think that she wouldn’t have done that unless—’

‘I can see what one might well think, you don’t need to fill me in. When do they expect a response from England?’

‘In twenty-four hours at the earliest. It’ll take a bit of time. It would have been quicker if it had been London, I assume, but it’s Bristol.’

‘Bristol?’

‘Yes.’

‘They’re supposed to have lived there, are they?’

Bausen nodded.

‘Twenty-four hours at least, did you say?’

‘Yes, tomorrow evening, with a bit of luck.’

Van Veeteren lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply twice.

‘So they think I was mistaken?’ he said. ‘They don’t think I recognize him any more?’

‘I don’t know what they think,’ said Bausen, looking grim.

Van Veeteren picked up a black knight from the chessboard and stared at it. Quite a while passed.

‘What does Münster say? He ought to remember what G looks like, for Christ’s sake. Why doesn’t Münster go and take a good look at him? If they can’t make up their minds.’

Bausen said nothing. Just sat there, looking worried.

‘One thing has struck me,’ he said in the end. ‘How the hell would this business hang together if Nolan
isn’t
Hennan? I don’t understand that.’

Van Veeteren replaced the knight on C6.

‘It wouldn’t hang together,’ he said. ‘Although they might think that is what I had in mind when I identified him. That I’d already decided.’

‘Could be,’ said Bausen. ‘Anyway, we’ll have to be patient again, I suppose. It’s a good job we’re not so young and hot-tempered any more.’

Van Veeteren sighed.

‘Whose move is it?’ he asked. ‘I seem to recall it was yours.’

‘That’s right,’ said Bausen, moving a pawn.

He woke up at a quarter to six. Spent half an hour trying to go back to sleep, but gave up.

He got up and tiptoed out into the kitchen. Grey dawn was hanging down outside the window: the pane was wet, but it had stopped raining. He didn’t doubt for a moment that it would return.

He found the ground coffee and switched on the kettle. Drank a glass of juice while he was waiting. Considered going out to fetch the morning paper, but he wasn’t sure that it would have arrived yet, so didn’t bother.

Four hours, he thought as he poured water over the powder. Four hours of sleep in his body. That’s not nearly enough, for Christ’s sake: at my age being awake for four hours a day would be about right.

When he came out into the street he noticed that the weather was clearing up, despite everything, and he ignored his car. The sleepy little seaside town didn’t seem to have got out of bed yet, this Saturday morning. So what? he thought: it’s only twenty past seven.

He walked along Hoistraat then took the steps down to Fisktorget and the harbour without really being aware of where he was heading: but when he saw the breakwater and the marina, he knew. Of course.

Down on the Esplanade he checked the opening times of Winderhuus: Saturday–Sunday 10–15, it said on a notice attached to the door. He nodded, and continued into the municipal forest.

The meandering path to Rikken for cyclists and pedestrians was just as he remembered it. It dawned on him that quite a lot was as he had remembered it. He cupped his hands and lit the day’s first cigarette. Had it something to do with his age, perhaps? That the past could sometimes seem clearer and more tangible than the present and what was happening now?

Rubbish, he decided. I’m completely clear about what is going on in the here and now. But a little historical illumination doesn’t do any harm.

He reached Wackerstraat after twenty minutes. Passed by the Nolans’ house and noted that there was a small, silver-coloured car standing on the drive. Of East Asian origin, by the look of it . . . Hyundai, or whatever the damned things were called.

He assumed that was the wife’s car – they had two, naturally, and Christopher Nolan was the one who drove the considerably more masculine Rover, naturally.

Van Veeteren slowed down until he was barely moving. There was no sign of life from inside the house, and he assumed they were still in bed, the doting pair of art lovers. It wasn’t yet eight o’clock, the gallery didn’t open until ten, and there was of course no need to get up yet.

Why am I calling him Nolan when I know that his name’s Hennan? he thought in annoyance, and stopped at the next crossroads.

And why don’t they trust my judgement?

He suddenly felt the anger boiling up inside him.

A reply from England tonight at the earliest!

But probably not until tomorrow morning.

And what sort of a reply would it be? It wasn’t especially difficult to predict that. If Hennan had acquired a new name, he would of course have been careful how he went about it. Even an old bookseller going for a morning walk could understand that perfectly well. At a guess there would be somebody called Nolan in Bristol – or would have been – who fitted all the information Münster and Moerk had been served up with. The man was no fool. Far from it.

And what was the investigating team going to do today? Lie in bed and speculate away a whole Saturday?

He remained standing at the crossroads and rolled two new cigarettes. The outline of a plan of action was suddenly beginning to appear in his mind’s eye, and just as two joggers dressed in red ran past him in the direction of the woods, he knew what he was going to do.

It wasn’t all that complicated, after all. He checked his watch and began walking back quite quickly to Bausen’s nest.

His host had got up and begun the morning’s yoga exercises. Van Veeteren explained that he had something he needed to do during the morning, but he would be back in time for lunch. Then he ignored Bausen’s questions, unpacked all the things he needed, drank another cup of coffee, went to his car and drove off.

At twenty past nine he was back in Rikken. He parked on the other side of Wackerstraat, diagonally opposite number 14. The silver-coloured Japanese car was still there, a light had been switched on in the kitchen, but otherwise everything was as it had been before. Van Veeteren put on his cap and sun glasses. Took out
de Journaal
, adjusted the back of his seat so that he could lie back in comfort, and prepared to wait.

It took just over half an hour. During that time a few people passed by his somewhat battered old Opel, but nobody seemed to pay him any attention. Or to wonder why it was parked precisely there. Van Veeteren had just finished listening to the second movement of Mahler’s second symphony when Elizabeth Nolan emerged through the front door and hurried over to her car. Started the engine, backed out and was gone in less than a minute.

Hardly surprising, Van Veeteren thought. The gallery was due to open in five minutes – and even if there were not going to be masses of people tramping restlessly up and down outside, there might just be the odd citizen of Kaalbringen with an interest in culture and nothing better to do on a Saturday morning to look after.

He waited for a while. Then he adjusted his cap and sun glasses and got out of the car.

Christopher Nolan answered the third ring on the bell. He was wrapped up in a yellow bath towel and wearing slippers. Water was dripping off him.

‘I was in the shower,’ he said. ‘What do you want?’

‘My apologies,’ said Van Veeteren holding out the card. ‘I’m looking for this address, but I seem to have got lost. Could you possibly . . . ?’

Nolan dried his hands on the towel, took hold of the card and tried to read it. Found a pair of glasses on a hall table and tried again.

‘Singerstraat? Is that supposed to be here in Rikken?’

‘That’s what I was told.’

Nolan took off his glasses and frowned.

‘Never heard of it. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you’ll have to ask somebody else. But I doubt if it’s anywhere around here.’

Van Veeteren nodded, looked concerned and took back the card.

‘I’m sorry to have dragged you out of the shower.’

‘No problem,’ Nolan assured him. ‘I’m going straight back in.’

He looked at Van Veeteren for a second, then closed the door.

DeKlerk and Stiller were at their desks in the police station when he entered from Kleinmarkt.

‘I heard about your doubts,’ he began.

‘Doubts?’ said deKlerk. ‘Hmm, I don’t know if one could call them—’

‘Call them whatever you like. You seem to doubt my mental faculties in any case. I don’t.’

‘I don’t think . . .’ began Stiller.

‘We’re waiting for a reply from England,’ said deKlerk. ‘Obviously, we need to be absolutely certain about matters before we go any further.’

He made a half-hearted gesture that presumably meant Van Veeteren was welcome to sit down if he wanted to.

But he didn’t.

‘I know about that,’ he said instead. ‘But I think the question ought to be resolved a little more quickly. Here you are, these are his fingerprints.’

He took the little plastic bag with the card from his inside pocket.

‘Fingerprints . . . Really?’ said deKlerk.

‘Hennan’s prints are in the register in Maardam,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I thought I could let you look after this – it shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours, given modern-day technology. I assume you have a computer?’

He could have sworn that deKlerk blushed.

Serves him right, he thought.

‘Of course,’ said Stiller. ‘Obviously, we can fix this straight away. How did you—’

‘Never mind that,’ said Van Veeteren, interrupting him. ‘But don’t lose the card – I didn’t take a copy. I suggest you contact us at Bausen’s place when you get confirmation.’

‘Yes . . . Of course,’ stammered deKlerk. ‘Would you like a—’

‘No, thank you.’

He remembered one more thing when he got as far as the doorway. He turned round and stared hard at the chief of police.

‘If we get confirmation,’ he said. ‘If Hennan’s and Nolan’s fingerprints are the same, I recommend that you arrange to keep watch on them. It would be most annoying if the bird flew the nest just when we have quite a lot of officers on the case.’

DeKlerk nodded. Stiller nodded.

Van Veeteren turned on his heel and left the police station.

Time for a little nap, he thought as he walked across the square. High time.

If I’m wrong, he thought, it’ll be best if I never set foot again in this godforsaken dump.

But when he was sitting behind the wheel again, heading back to Bausen’s nest, that was not what worried him most. There was something else.

That final eye contact with Christopher Nolan.

That second when they had looked at each other.

It had lasted longer than it should have done.

When the telephone call came from Intendent Mulder at the forensic laboratory in Maardam, all five of them were gathered in the conference room.

DeKlerk and Stiller had been at their desks since the day dawned, Münster and Rooth since about eleven o’clock, and Inspector Moerk had turned up at a few minutes to twelve. Now it was ten past. Rooth answered the call and handed the receiver over to the chief of police, who said in noticeably rapid succession ‘yes’ five times, ‘I see’ twice, and ‘many thanks’ once.

Then he hung up and dampened his lips with the tip of his tongue.

‘Agreement on eleven points,’ he said. ‘There is no doubt about it. Christopher Nolan is identical with Jaan G. Hennan.’

‘Damn and blast!’ said Inspector Rooth. ‘That means we can’t go home today either.’

There followed a few seconds of silence. Münster tried to exchange glances with Beate Moerk, but could make no eye contact. Stiller bit the tip of his ballpoint pen so hard that it creaked, and the chief of police seemed to be miles away. He started rubbing his right earlobe, but changed over to his left.

‘Well, what do we do?’ he said when he had finished.

‘As he said,’ suggested Moerk.

‘Who?’

‘Van Veeteren, of course. We keep an eye on Nolan. That’s the least one can expect.’

Münster stood up.

‘I’ll go and talk to the chief inspectors,’ he said. ‘It somehow feels as if we’re not going to be able to sort this out without them. Is that how you see it?’

‘Fine,’ said deKlerk. ‘You’re probably right. Maybe a bit of an apology wouldn’t be out of place as well?’

‘I’ll decide on how exactly to go about things when I get there,’ said Münster. ‘But I have to say I find it hard to judge the risk of him running away.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Rooth.

‘All I mean is that as far as we are aware, Hennan still doesn’t know that we know who he is – but as soon as he does realize that, there is of course a risk that he’ll do a runner. On the other hand, as it were.’

‘But why?’ wondered Moerk. ‘Why would he run away? We have nothing to charge him with – apart from using a false name, that is.’

‘Not a thing,’ agreed Rooth. ‘We have nothing on him at all. Apart from imagining that he murdered three people. But if we sit in a car outside his house, something should happen sooner or later. There’s such a period of stagnation that I’m coming out in spots.’

‘Are you suggesting that we ought to provoke him into making a move?’ asked deKlerk.

‘Provoke and provoke,’ muttered Rooth angrily. ‘I’m damned if I know. But if Van Veeteren has just served us up with a triple murderer on a plate, it would be a bit of a pain if we allowed him to slip away. That’s my own view in any case – and I volunteer to do the first stint.’