Free The G File by Håkan Nesser Page A

toothpick.
    ‘Not all that likely,’ he said.
    ‘What?’ wondered Sachs.
    ‘That she took her own life. How was she dressed?’
    ‘Swimming costume. A red swimming costume. You mean that . . . ?’
    ‘Yes. In the first place it’s a damned unpleasant way of dying. And uncertain.’
    ‘I don’t know if—’
    ‘There’s a distinct risk that you might survive,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘And in all probability that would mean you’d be crippled for the rest of your life. A wheelchair would be the very least you could expect.’
    ‘I’m with you. It’s a point of view, of course.’
    ‘But if we assume she did decide to do that anyway, why the hell would she put on a swimming costume?’
    Nobody spoke for several seconds.
    ‘Because she wanted it to look like an accident,’ suggested Münster.
    ‘Not impossible,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘We’ll see eventually if there’s anything to support such an alternative, but for the moment it would surely make more sense to hear a summary of the situation, as I said before. The Hennans’ circumstances, that sort of thing – assuming that you have had time to gather a few details.’
    Sachs nodded and put on a pair of thin reading glasses. He thumbed back and forth once or twice in the notebook lying on the table in front of him.
    ‘There isn’t a lot,’ he explained apologetically. ‘The Hennans have only been living here since April. Barely two months. They arrived from the USA in the middle of March and stayed at a hotel in Maardam for a week or two while they were looking for a house to rent – obviously this is information I was given by Hennan himself, but I can’t see that there’s any reason to question it.’
    ‘Not so far,’ agreed Van Veeteren.
    ‘He was born here in Maardam, but he has spent the last ten years in various places in the States. New York. Cleveland. Austin. Denver. He has a company registered here in Linden under the name G Enterprises. There is an office in Landemaarstraat only a stone’s throw from here. So he’s some sort of businessman. According to what he says, he has always indulged in that kind of activity. He and his wife chose to move to Europe because trading conditions are better here, or so he says. I don’t know, I’m not all that well up in that kind of thing . . .’
    ‘I think we can forgive you for that,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But we know what kind of business he indulged in before he crossed over the Atlantic: mind you, it’s possible that he’s cleaned up his act since then. What do we know about his wife? They met and got married in Denver, is that right?’
    ‘Yes,’ Sachs confirmed. ‘Barbara Clarissa, née Delgado. Fifteen years younger than her husband. We don’t know anything about her, but I expect we shall be able to dig out some information . . . In any case, they rented that house in Kammerweg. The owner is called Tieleberg, and lives somewhere in Spain. It’s probably one of the most expensive homes in the whole of Linden, to tell you the truth. Eight or ten rooms plus kitchen, a few thousand square metres of garden, and a completely private situation – and with a swimming pool and diving tower. Kammerweg is where the crème de la crème live. He must be rather well off, this Hennan.’
    ‘Hmm,’ muttered Van Veeteren crossly, and broke off the toothpick. ‘And what does he have to say about this so-called accident?’
    ‘That it definitely was an accident. He’s absolutely certain of that. His wife had no reason to take her own life, and as for somebody pushing her down – who could that have possibly been? She knew next to nobody. And why? Hennan says that they had an excellent relationship. He loved her, she loved him . . . They’d been married for just over two years, and were thinking about having children soon. She was only thirty-four, after all.’
    ‘What about the alcohol?’ wondered Münster. ‘Why does she sit and drink herself silly if everything in her garden is