The G File (45 page)

‘You’ve taken me very much by surprise,’ she said, her voice a little steadier now. You must understand that. It feels . . . well, I don’t really know how it feels. But I have to trust you, I suppose.’

‘You can do that without any problem,’ said Münster.

‘How long will it take? I have to meet my husband at a restaurant at half past six.’

Moerk looked at her watch.

‘We should have plenty of time,’ she said. ‘It’s only twenty to six.’

‘Fire away,’ said Nolan. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

Münster nodded and opened his notebook. Moerk took a deep breath and clasped her hands tightly under cover of the desk.

‘Christopher Nolan,’ said Münster. ‘How long have you been married to him?’

‘Thirteen years,’ said Elizabeth Nolan. ‘Since 1989.’

‘You were born in England, is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where exactly?’

‘Thorpe. A little village in Cornwall.’

‘But you met your husband in Bristol?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have any children?’

‘No.’

‘Have you been married before?’

‘Yes . . . Why are you asking about that? I thought you were interested in Christopher, not me.’

‘Please don’t keep questioning things,’ said Moerk. ‘That will make things easier. As we’re not allowed to reveal the background to you, it may be difficult for you to understand the relevance of all the questions.’

‘I don’t understand the relevance of any questions at all,’ said Nolan, taking a deep drag at her cigarette. ‘But all right . . . Yes, I was married earlier. It lasted for barely three years. I was young, very young.’

‘Where does your husband come from?’ asked Moerk.

‘He was born in London. Luton, to be exact.’

‘What’s his job?’

‘We run this art business together, as I’m sure you know.’

‘Have you been doing that ever since you came to Kaalbringen?’

‘More or less, yes.’

‘What did you do in Bristol?’

‘I was an art teacher at a college. My husband was a curator at a museum.’

‘What was your maiden name?’ asked Münster after a short pause.

‘Prentice. But I kept my first husband’s surname after our divorce. Bowden.’

‘So you were called Elizabeth Bowden when you and your current husband got married?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did it happen?’

‘How did what happen?’

‘When you met.’

Elizabeth Nolan sighed and looked first at one of them, then the other for a while before making up her mind to answer. Moerk noticed that she was beginning to feel sorry for her.

‘It was at a party . . . nothing special. We started seeing each other, and then . . . well . . .’

Moerk nodded encouragingly.

‘And this was . . . when exactly?’

She thought for a moment.

‘December 1988.’

‘And you were both living in Bristol at that time?’

‘Yes.’

‘Had you lived there long?’

‘Which of us are you referring to?’

‘Your husband in the first place.’

‘I gather he’d been living there for four or five years at least . . . Yes, since the beginning of the eighties. I don’t remember exactly. He was head of one of the departments at the museum.’

‘Did you know him before you met at that party?’

She shook her head.

‘No. That was the first time I saw him . . . It was a Christmas party at the home of some mutual friends.’

‘Had your husband been married before?’ asked Münster.

She stubbed out her cigarette and brushed a few flakes of ash from her dress.

‘Yes. That’s the way it goes nowadays, isn’t it? We need to make two attempts in order to learn the ropes . . .’ She tried to smile, but it was reluctant to stick. ‘He’d been divorced for just over a year when we met.’

‘Only a year?’

‘Maybe a year and a half.’

‘Did he have any children from his previous marriage?’

‘No.’

‘Have you bumped into his former wife at all?’

‘Have I bumped into . . . ? What difference does it make if I’ve met his ex-wife or not? What are you getting at?’

‘Please answer the question,’ said Moerk.

Elizabeth Nolan seemed to have something shiny in her eye, and gritted her teeth.

‘No, I’ve never met her . . . I saw her briefly once from a distance. She moved up to Scotland after the divorce. With a new man. I don’t understand why you are asking these questions.’

Münster leaned back and exchanged looks with Beate Moerk. She nodded and encouraged him to continue.

‘What we are trying to clarify,’ said Münster, ‘is whether your husband is somebody different from the person he claims to be.’

Elizabeth Nolan’s lower jaw dropped.

‘Somebody different . . . ?’

‘Yes,’ said Moerk. ‘It might seem quite a shocking thought, but I’m afraid we have to insist on this question. Are you absolutely certain that your husband really is Christopher Nolan, that he was born in London, and that he was working at that museum since the beginning of the eighties?’

Elizabeth Nolan stared at her as if she couldn’t believe her ears. Or Inspector Moerk’s sanity. She opened and closed her mouth several times without saying anything. In the end she sighed deeply and shook her head vehemently.

‘What on earth are you suggesting?’ she said. ‘Are you saying that Christopher isn’t Christopher? I’ve had about enough of this absurd conversation.’

‘Come on now,’ said Münster. ‘Don’t forget the bottom line, fru Nolan! We are trying to eliminate your husband from our list, that’s all.’

She blinked in surprise a few times, then gathered herself together. Took another cigarette from the pack and lit it with shaky fingers.

‘Forgive me – but it’s so absurd . . . So totally absurd.’

‘How well acquainted are you with your husband’s background?’ asked Moerk. ‘What he was doing before you met in 1988, and so on?’

‘I’m extremely well acquainted with it,’ said Elizabeth Nolan. ‘We’ve discussed our previous lives, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Münster. ‘And no doubt you have met people who could confirm what he has told you – relatives of his, for example?’

Nolan held herself in check and thought for a moment.

‘I’ve met his mother,’ she said. ‘His father died some time in the mid-seventies, but we visited his mother a few times. At a care home in Islington . . . It was the spring after we’d met, and she died in June. He doesn’t have any brothers or sisters.’

Oh yes he has, thought Münster aggressively. He has a sister whom he raped regularly for five years.

‘And have you met friends of his who knew him before you got to know him?’

‘Of course.’

‘Any who you still socialize with?’

‘Very occasionally, yes. As you may have noticed, we no longer live in Bristol.’

‘Why did you leave England?’ asked Moerk.

Nolan drew on her cigarette, and suddenly seemed much calmer.

‘Why do you do anything in this life?’ she said. ‘We were tired of the jobs we were doing, both of us. I had just received a modest inheritance. We decided to make a change, that’s all there was to it. Neither of us enjoyed living in Bristol – nor in England, come to that. So yes, we took the plunge. We were both very interested in art – that was what we wanted to devote ourselves to. So we hopped over the Channel, and it became Kaalbringen.’

‘Why Kaalbringen, of all places?’

‘A good friend of mine had spent a summer here and spoke very positively about it, and, well . . . that was what swung it. We tried living here for a few months and found it suited us. We eventually found a nice house as well . . . and then this place.’

She made a vague gesture, and smiled briefly.

‘I understand,’ said Münster. ‘Does the name Jaan G. Hennan mean anything to you?’

He had signalled to Inspector Moerk before asking that question, and knew that she was just as keen on observing fru Nolan’s reaction as he was.

‘Hennan?’ she said. ‘No, I don’t think so . . . Who’s he?’

Münster swallowed. Nothing, he ascertained. Absolutely nothing to indicate that she was lying, or was put out by the question. He glanced briefly at Inspector Moerk before mentioning the next name.

‘What about Verlangen? Maarten Verlangen?’

She shook her head.

‘No, I know somebody called Veramten, but not Verlangen.’

‘Are you sure?’

She thought for a moment.

‘Yes. Can I ask you something?

‘Please do,’ said Münster.

‘What crime is it you suspect this man of having committed? Can you reveal that, at least?’

‘Why do you ask that?’ wondered Münster.

Fru Nolan looked in two minds for a moment.

‘I . . . I don’t really know. I suppose I just thought it would be interesting to know.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Münster. ‘I’m afraid we have to keep that a secret. For now, at least.’

‘I understand,’ said Nolan.

‘Has your husband lived in this country before?’ asked Moerk.

‘Yes. He lived for a few years near Saaren when he was a boy. Just after the war. But never as far east as this . . . Do you have many questions left? It’s turned six now, and I really ought . . .’

‘I suppose we can leave it at that,’ said Münster.

‘Just one more detail before we go our separate ways,’ said Moerk. ‘We might need to get back to you if we find we need to follow something up, but that’s some way ahead. But as we said earlier, we’d be very grateful if you didn’t say anything to your husband about this conversation.’

‘Obviously, we can’t muzzle you,’ said Münster. ‘We have no right to do that. We reckon that we’ll be able to conclude this investigation within the next twelve or fourteen days, and after that it won’t matter if you tell him about it. But meanwhile, we’d be grateful – as we’ve said.’

‘I understand,’ said Elizabeth Nolan again through gritted teeth. ‘This has been extremely unpleasant, but I hope it has been of some use. I won’t say anything about it to him.’

‘Thank you,’ said Münster. ‘We won’t detain you any longer.’

He closed his notebook, in which he had written no more than a couple of lines, and put it into his jacket pocket. Stood up and shook fru Nolan’s hand.

Beate Moerk did the same, and when she turned round briefly on the way out through the door, she noted that fru Nolan was still sitting at her desk with her head in her hands. It was twenty minutes past six, but Elizabeth Nolan didn’t seem to be in any great hurry to meet her husband.

The harbour cafe was still open. Münster asked Inspector Moerk if she fancied a beer, and she did.

‘Just don’t ask me what I think,’ he said when he returned from the bar and placed the two glasses on the table. ‘Anything else, but not that.’

Moerk looked at him somewhat surprised, and took a drink of beer.

‘I can say what I thought, though,’ she said.

‘By all means,’ said Münster.

She paused for a few seconds.

‘I would be surprised if she was lying.’

Münster said nothing.

‘But on the other hand it would
not
surprise me if Christopher Nolan turned out to be identical with Christopher Nolan.’

Münster leaned back on his chair and stared up at the ceiling.

‘Are you suggestion that the
Chief Inspector
was mistaken?’

She paused again before replying.

‘I’m only telling you my spontaneous reaction. What do
you
think?’

‘That’s precisely the question I asked you to avoid,’ said Münster, raising his glass to his mouth.

‘Oh yes, so it was,’ said Moerk. ‘Cheers in any case – it’s good to see you again.’

‘Well?’ said Van Veeteren. ‘What do they have to say?’

Bausen stayed put for a while with his hand on the telephone receiver, gazing out of the window so that Van Veeteren was unable to read his facial expression.

‘They’re not sure.’

‘Not sure?’

‘Yes, apparently. Or rather, fru Nolan didn’t seem to feel that there was anything amiss. Both Moerk and Münster maintain that she made a very convincing impression. She also provided quite a bit of information – they have sent a request for confirmation over to England.’

Van Veeteren nodded and contemplated the chessboard. They had begun the game in the garden, but moved into the living room at about half past eight when rain drifted in from the north-west. Bausen had prepared a simple ratatouille with basmati rice, and they had more or less finished his very last bottle of St-Emilion ’82.

Gruyère cheese with slices of pear for afters.

‘Not an enviable position to be in,’ said the
Chief Inspector
when Bausen had sat down at the table again. ‘Fru Nolan’s, that is. It’s somewhat paradoxical, in a way.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bausen.

Van Veeteren pulled a face.

‘Even if we can’t nail him, we can at least smash up his marriage. He has deceived her, and kept her in that state for thirteen years . . . No woman will accept that kind of behaviour. Not in my experience, at least.’

Bausen made no reply, merely sat there in silence, drumming with his index finger on the arm of his chair. Van Veeteren rolled a cigarette and looked at him inquiringly.

‘What’s the matter?’ he said in the end. ‘You look worried.’

Bausen leaned forward over the chessboard as if he were about to make a move.

‘The chief of police asked me to put a question to you,’ he said.

‘Really?’

‘About Nolan.’

‘Well?’

‘Hmm. About his identity. Just how convinced are you that he really is Hennan?’

Van Veeteren stiffened. Slowly and lengthily, he could feel that himself.

Like ice forming on a lake in December, he thought. Or when blood coagulates. What the hell is going on? he wondered, and remained sitting there, a cigarette unlit in his mouth, eyeing Bausen over the chessboard. He found it hard to judge which of them was more embarrassed. Several seconds passed, Bausen adjusted some of the chess pieces but didn’t make a move. Avoided Van Veeteren’s look.

‘So that was the cause of the uncertainty, was it?’ said Van Veeteren.

Bausen made a vague gesture, but said nothing.