The G File (42 page)

‘Try Verlangen,’ she said.

Maagerbaas waited a bit longer, then keyed in the name.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

‘Sommers,’ said Stiller. ‘Try Henry Sommers.’

Maagerbaas looked at him in surprise for a few seconds, then did as requested.

One chance in a thousand, thought Moerk glumly as he tapped away at the keys. At best.

‘Eureka!’ said Maagerbaas, coughing up some phlegm. ‘Yes, there is a Sommers here. The fifteenth of April, could that fit in?’

Moerk hurried round the desk and took a look at the screen.

‘That fits in perfectly,’ she said. ‘What does this mean? That he’s been here and handed in a roll of film?’

‘Yes,’ said Maagerbaas, studying the information in more detail. ‘Handed in, but evidently not . . .’

‘Not what?’

‘Hmm. He hasn’t been to collect the pictures.’

‘Not been to collect . . . ?’

It took three seconds before she realized what that implied. Or
could
imply. Stiller was evidently a few tenths of a second quicker on the uptake, for he was the one who exclaimed:

‘What the hell are you saying? Hasn’t he collected the pictures? Does that mean that . . .’

‘. . . that they’re still here?’ said Moerk, finishing his question for him.

Maagerbaas made quite a show of blowing his nose.

‘Presumably, yes. I usually keep them for about a year. Customers sometimes forget them . . . I ring and remind them first, of course . . . Me or my assistant. But that has evidently not helped in this case. And he didn’t supply a telephone number.’

‘Where?’ said Stiller. ‘Where do you keep the pictures?’

‘Where?’ said Maagerbaas. ‘Well I assume they’ll be in the office somewhere. I have a cupboard where I keep uncollected photographs. Would you like—’

‘You bet we would,’ said Moerk. ‘God almighty . . .’

‘God almighty,’ echoed Chief of Police deKlerk just over an hour later. ‘Twenty-four pictures taken by the murder victim himself – that surely has to be a breakthrough. But what on earth can we say about them?’

The photographs were spread out on the table in the conference room, and those present had been staring at them for quite a while. Every one of them. Intendent Münster and Inspector Rooth. The chief of police himself. And Moerk and Stiller, who had arrived with the pictures half an hour ago. Every single photograph had been passed round to all present. From hand to hand. Twenty-four of them. Everybody had examined them carefully. Nobody had shouted ‘Aha!’, and nobody had used the word ‘breakthrough’ until the chief of police used the word now.

The problem was the motif of the photographs.

They all depicted a house.

The same house.

‘In every bloody photo,’ to quote Inspector Rooth.

Quite a large single-storey villa, photographed from various angles. Four angles, to be precise. Two from the front, two from the back – most of them from the back. Nineteen of the pictures depicted the rear of the house: a stretch of lawn, two knotty fruit trees (probably apple trees), several small shrubs (probably berberis), and a large terrace with a table and four green chairs. The facade was clad in reddish-brown brick, and the roof was dark-coloured slate. Münster guessed it dated from the 1950s, and nobody objected to that. There were people in some of the pictures: a man and a woman. The man appeared eleven times, the woman eight, and in six of the pictures they were both present. Both of them were wearing the same clothes on each occasion, and it seemed highly likely that all the pictures had been taken on the same day. Within quite a short time as well – an hour, perhaps, judging by the light and the shadows.

As far as the camera was concerned, deKlerk had suggested that it was quite a primitive model. The distance from the two positions at the rear of the house was always the same, about twenty-five metres. The zoom function had not been used, the facial expressions of the man and the woman were difficult to make out, and their facial features in general were not very clear.

As far as one could judge the man seemed to be somewhat older than the woman. He had greyish-white hair and a short beard of the same colour, and seemed to be between sixty and seventy. He was wearing dark trousers and a light-blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The woman was wearing jeans and a black, long-sleeved jumper in all the pictures, and she had dark hair tied up in a simple ponytail. In most of the pictures they were on the terrace, standing up or sitting down. The sun was shining, and on the table were coffee cups, a thermos flask, several newspapers and some books. In three of the photos the woman had a cigarette in her hand. The man was wearing glasses in two.

That was all.

‘That bloody idiot has taken pictures of a house,’ said Rooth. ‘Twenty-four times! Brilliant detective work, at least I can give him that eulogy. If he were not dead we ought to reinstate him in the police force immediately.’

‘Hmm, I don’t know about that,’ said deKlerk.

‘And we’re sure that no one here recognizes it?’ asked Münster. ‘The house, that is.’

DeKlerk shook his head.

Moerk and Stiller shook their heads.

‘Sorry,’ said Moerk. ‘I don’t think so. It seems quite a posh place – but it’s not certain that it’s in Kaalbringen, is it?’

‘Of course the bloody place is in Kaalbringen,’ said Rooth. ‘Why would Verlangen go to Kaalbringen in order to take pictures of a house in Hamburg? Or in Sebastopol?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said the chief of police, tugging at his nose. ‘Inspector Rooth no doubt has a valid point. But what about the man in the photographs? Could it possibly be Hennan?’

Münster glanced at Rooth before answering.

‘Very possibly,’ he said. ‘Why not? It could be anybody at all, of course, but if there was any point in taking those photographs . . . and this whole business, come to that . . . I’d be prepared to vote for it being Jaan G. Hennan. I’ve no idea who the woman is, but why not look into the likelihood of it being his new wife?’

‘Oh dear,’ said Moerk. ‘Very bold conclusions, I must say. But okay, if we forget about the possibility of them being wrong, where do they get us? If Hennan really is living in a house in Kaalbringen, surely he has every right to do so?’

‘Not if he’s shot Verlangen through the head he doesn’t,’ said Rooth, taking something that looked like a half-eaten bar of chocolate from his jacket pocket. ‘If he has, that robs him of the right to choose his own address for at least ten years. But I don’t understand . . . These pictures surely can’t be the proof he was going on about? Not unless he was completely barmy. Verlangen, that is.’

‘It’s very possible that he was,’ sighed Münster. ‘I’m beginning to think he might well have been.’

‘He was murdered because he knew something,’ said deKlerk.

‘Or because somebody thought he knew something,’ said Stiller tentatively.

Beate Moerk stood up and walked over to the window. Folded her arms over her chest and looked out over Kleinmarckt.

‘That’s what we believe, yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘What we convince ourselves is the case, so that the evidence fits in with our theories. But what if it was in fact some other lunatic who shot him? . . . Somebody who has nothing at all to do with Jaan G. Hennan. That’s a possibility, in fact.’

Rooth crumpled up the chocolate paper into a ball, took aim and missed the waste-paper basket by one-and-a-half metres.

‘That’s plan B,’ he said. ‘You might be right, but surely we should continue with plan A for a bit longer. Shouldn’t we?’

Chief of Police deKlerk thought for a moment, then nodded and began collecting together the photographs. Stiller picked up the ball of paper and asked Rooth if he wanted to have another go. Rooth shook his head.

‘As I said,’ said deKlerk, ‘I’m also very sceptical about this leading us anywhere: but we’ve started and we might just as well finish . . . I suppose.’

‘But what should we do?’ wondered Stiller, looking round the table. ‘What, exactly?’

‘Any suggestions?’ said deKlerk, also looking round the table at his colleagues.

‘There is only one possibility, surely?’ said Moerk. ‘Identify the house. That must be our first priority.’

‘But how?’ said deKlerk. ‘Should each of us get into our own car and drive around until we find it?’

There followed a few seconds’ silence as all present seemed to weigh up that possibility.

‘Well,’ said Moerk. ‘That would probably work in the end – but I reckon there’s a faster way of doing it.’

‘What is it?’ asked Stiller.

‘There must be people in this town who are better at identifying houses than we are, don’t you think?’

‘Presumably, yes,’ muttered the chief of police. ‘But I think that whatever we do we should avoid appealing for assistance from the general public. We’ve already agreed on doing that. Or are you thinking of a specific person who might be able to help us?’

‘Forgive me,’ said Moerk. ‘Yes, I did have somebody in mind. He’s over seventy years old and has lived here in Kaalbringen all his life. He recognizes every single garden gate and front door.’

‘Who could that be?’ wondered Probationer Stiller.

‘Bausen,’ said Beate Moerk, opening the window. ‘The former chief of police. I think it’s time we let in a breath of fresh air – and interrupted a game of chess.’

It was half past six in the evening when Bausen and Van Veeteren scrambled into Bausen’s old Citroën, and set off to start looking for houses. A rain shower had just passed over, but the sky was starting to turn clear again, and provided that no more banks of clouds came sneaking in from the southwest they should have a few hours of daylight at their disposal.

Or twilight at least. Bausen did not think there was much point in working in darkness.

‘What did I say?’ he had let slip as he replaced the receiver after the telephone call from deKlerk. ‘We haven’t even got as far as move number thirteen!’

Van Veeteren had no comment to make on that. But on the other hand, he did wonder about Bausen’s motive in telling the investigation leader when he came round that he was pretty sure he recognized the house from the photographs, but that there were a few other possibilities that he ought to check up on – and then, when they were alone again, saying that in fact he didn’t think he had ever seen the house before.

‘Why did you lie?’ Van Veeteren had asked him.

‘There’s lying and lying,’ Bausen had replied. ‘I thought we ought to get out and about, you and I – and surely to God, we’re bound to find the right hovel sooner or later.’

‘Always assuming it really is in this dump,’ Van Veeteren had said.

‘Don’t be so finicky,’ Bausen had said.

He attached the two enlarged photographs to the instrument panel with the aid of a spring clip, and started the engine. Van Veeteren was holding another enlargement in his hands: one of the many pictures of the back of the house and the one in which the man’s face was clearest. He had been studying the somewhat blurred features of the man ever since he had first been given it an hour ago, but couldn’t make up his mind if it really was Jaan G. Hennan or not.

Maybe, maybe not.

But if I see him in person, he thought, I’ll be able to decide in half a second.

‘I’d have thought there were two districts for us to choose from,’ said Bausen. ‘Rikken and Wassingen. You can see that from the quality of the building – it’s not exactly a working man’s shack.’

‘Evidently not,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Have you thought about the location of the photographer? I think that ought to tell us something significant.’

Bausen nodded.

‘Yes, of course. He seems to have been able to shoot away more or less undisturbed from the back of the house. That could mean that there is a little wood or some sort of natural cover in that direction. The pictures from the front seem to suggest that as well. Anyway, we shall soon see. Keep your eyes skinned, we’ll start with Wassingen.’

The residential district of Wassingen was on the southeastern edge of Kaalbringen – an extensive estate with architect-designed detached houses mainly from the forties and fifties. There were about a hundred in all, with large gardens, and many of them bordering on the deciduous woods that ran around some two-thirds of the area.

Oost Honingerweg ran from east to west through the whole district, with banana-shaped side roads to the north and south, and it took Van Veeteren and Bausen over half an hour to crawl through the whole caboodle. They kept stopping here and there to compare what they saw with Verlangen’s photographs, and were twice attacked by an unsupervised male boxer badly in need of a pee (right rear wheel, left front wheel – at least they assumed it was the same dog, but it happened in two different streets); but when they had finished they were able to establish – with a level of probability bordering on certainty – that it was not in Wassingen that the deceased private detective Maarten Verlangen had stood (sat? lain?) taking photographs five months previously.

‘It’s only a quarter past seven,’ said Bausen, looking at his watch. ‘We can cover Rikken as well before it gets dark.’

‘And if we don’t find the place there either?’ wondered Van Veeteren as he wound down the side window and lit a cigarette. ‘What do we do then?’

‘We
shall
find it in Rikken,’ said Bausen. ‘I can feel it.’

Twenty minutes later Van Veeteren could concede that Bausen’s optimism had been justified.

He was also able to establish that he was not too old to have palpitations. Bausen switched off the engine and cleared his throat.

‘There we have it. No doubt about it, don’t you think?’

No, there was no doubt about it. The front of the solidly built brown-brick building was identical to the one in the photograph. Even the low brick wall along the edge of the street. And the garage, which was unclear in the photograph, and the projecting roof over the front door. The two pruned fruit trees at the gable end were now in leaf: in April they were only just in bud, but it was obvious that they were the same trees.

The right house. Definitely. Van Veeteren noticed that his palpitations were followed by a degree of dryness in his mouth, and he wished he’d had a pair of sunglasses with him, not to mention a broad-brimmed hat to pull down over his brow. So that he was ready for anything.