Free The G File by Håkan Nesser

neither of them noticeably well polished.
    It looked as if Hennan hadn’t come to the office today, in other words. A conclusion that fitted in well with last night’s intake of whisky, Verlangen decided, and, after the purchase of a new bottle of soda water at the kiosk in the square, he sat down on a bench to think things over. He didn’t have the telephone number of Hennan’s company, didn’t even know what it was called, so there was no chance of getting in touch with him in that way.
    He emptied the bottle of soda water in two swigs, and belched loudly. He remained sitting on the bench for a while until he seemed to feel a drop of rain on the back of his hand, and decided to take a chance and make contact with his employer. He might as well take the bull by the horns, he thought.
    Always assuming he wanted to continue coiling in these easily earned payments, and he did.
    Once again he rang from the kiosk outside the butcher’s shop. He let it ring ten times, then concluded that nobody was at home in Villa Zefyr. Or that nobody intended to answer the telephone, at least. He left the kiosk and put his hands in his pockets. It had turned three now, and it seemed pointless to waste any more energy on Hennan than he had already used up today. Especially as at the moment he had extremely limited resources of energy and patience.
    Because of the circumstances.
    And because it was now raining properly. Not all that heavily, but persistently and penetratingly. He decided to have something to eat, then go home. His agreement with Barbara Hennan dictated that he should only keep watch over Jaan G. on weekdays: there were only a couple of hours left until Friday evening, and so if he made another attempt to telephone her from Maardam, he could then pack up for the weekend and start work again on Monday morning. All bushy-tailed and raring to go.
    No sooner said than done. He had a mediocre pizza at the Ristorante Goldoni, drank a large beer, and felt that his spirits were beginning to perk up again. At a quarter to five he clambered into his faithful Toyota, switched on the engine and set off for Maardam.
    An hour later he made another attempt to call Villa Zefyr, but again nobody answered; and since nothing seemed to be working this godforsaken Friday, he went to bed shortly after nine o’clock.
    A working week in the life of Private Detective Maarten Verlangen had come to an end.
    ‘An accident,’ said Chief Inspector Sachs, stroking his fingers carefully over his thin moustache. ‘That is obviously the most likely explanation. But of course, you never know.’
    ‘Very true,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Maybe you could give us a summary in broad outline? We shall be talking to Hennan later, of course, but it’s always good to know the lie of the land before you actually walk on it. As it were.’
    Sachs cleared his throat.
    ‘Yes, of course. Incidents like this when somebody falls and kills him or herself are very tricky.’
    ‘Tricky?’
    ‘Tricky, yes. Let’s assume that A and B are standing on a balcony high up in a skyscraper – or on the edge of a precipice, or anywhere at all. A few seconds later B is lying dead fifty metres lower down. How the hell can you prove that A pushed him?’
    Van Veeteren nodded.
    ‘Or that he didn’t push him.’
    ‘Motive,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘You find out if there is a motive. If there is, you keep on interrogating the suspect until he gives up. There’s no other way – no better one, at least.’
    ‘But in this case,’ said Münster, ‘she was alone in the house, wasn’t she?’
    ‘As far as we know, yes,’ said Sachs. ‘But that’s only because nothing suggests otherwise so far. Fru Hennan seems to have been sitting around drinking, all by herself, and then got it into her head that she should go for a swim . . . Alternatively to take her own life by diving down into the empty swimming pool.’
    Van Veeteren took a drink from his mug of coffee, and produced a