The G File by Håkan Nesser Page B

worked away at his lower jaw for a while with a new toothpick before answering.
    ‘That’s among the most unlikely thing I’ve heard since Renate got it into her head that . . . anyway, that’s irrelevant. What the devil do you mean?’
    ‘I did say that it was a bit forced.’
    ‘Do you know how G travelled home that night?’
    ‘No, I—’
    ‘Taxi. He took a taxi. Are you suggesting that he stuffed her into a body bag and put her in the back seat, and then got the driver to help him carry her into the house?’
    ‘Stop,’ said Münster. ‘We haven’t yet had it confirmed that he really did take a taxi, have we? We only know that he said he did.’
    Van Veeteren eyed him critically.
    ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You have a point. We can check with Meusse if the injuries could have been caused by something different from the fall. We need to do that in any case, of course. But if it did happen in the way you describe, I hereby promise to clip your toenails for a whole year.’
    ‘Excellent,’ said Münster. ‘I look forward to that. But you’re the one who’s so keen to get G locked up, not me.’
    ‘Rubbish,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘We’re only discussing matters hypothetically, I thought you were capable of doing that. You have to try out any number of theories – if you don’t do that, you’ll never get anywhere.’
    Münster remained seated for a few seconds, thinking things over. Then he stood up.
    ‘I have quite a lot of other things to see to, if you’ll excuse me. Shall I tell you what I really think about Barbara Hennan’s death?’
    ‘If you feel you have to.’
    ‘Thank you. An accident. As clear as crystal. The Chief Inspector can put away all his nail scissors.’
    Van Veeteren snorted.
    ‘Inspector Münster, bear in mind that you are not employed in the CID to investigate accidents. Your job is to uncover and fight crimes. Not to turn a blind eye to them.’
    ‘Understood,’ said Münster. ‘Anything else?’
    ‘And to play badminton with your immediate superior. When do you have time? Tomorrow afternoon?’
    ‘Understood,’ said Münster again, and slunk out through the door.
    He’s getting better and better, thought the Chief Inspector when he was on his own. In fact.
    But then, he has such a good mentor.
    Inspector Münster had been working for the Maardam police for just over ten years, but had only been a detective officer for three. He moved to the CID at around about the same time as Van Veeteren took over from old Chief Inspector Mort, and Van Veeteren had noticed – especially during the last year – that more and more frequently Münster was the one he most wanted to have around. In cases where it was possible to pick and choose among colleagues, he almost always chose Münster.
    There was nothing seriously wrong with Reinhart, deBries, Rooth, Nielsen or Heinemann, of course, but it was only with Münster that he could develop the mutually fruitful teacher–pupil relationship – a game that was all too often misunderstood nowadays, he thought, and which he no doubt linked with Hesse’s
Das Glasperlenspiel
– a work he assumed would never appear on any reading list for courses on criminology.
    And which didn’t really fit in exactly with the slightly dissonant tone which occasionally seemed to arise between them as if they were two unequal siblings.
    Enough of that, he thought, looking out over the town, which was once again bathed in generous sunshine. Speculations and would-be-wise psychology. And this was not a good time to be thinking about Hesse, in fact. Nor Münster, come to that. It would be better to try to find a way of handling that confounded G.
    He realized that this was also easier said than done, put on his jacket and went down to the canteen for a coffee.
    Verlangen drove slowly past Villa Zefyr and stopped fifty metres further on. Sat at the wheel for five minutes while he smoked a cigarette and wondered what to do. Had the distinct feeling that