by Håkan Nesser
The Weeping Girl
( Inspector Van Veeteren - 8 )
Hakan Nesser
Hakan Nesser
The Weeping Girl
Thus we wreck our lives, at times and in moments when we fail to assign to our actions their true colour and significance
Tomas Borgmann, philosopher
ONE
1
21 July 1983
Winnie Maas died because she changed her mind.
Afterwards there were those who maintained that she died because she was beautiful and stupid — a combination acknowledged to be risky.
Or because she was gullible, and relied on the wrong people.
Or because her father was a shit who had abandoned his family long before Winnie had stopped using nappies or a baby’s bottle.
And there were others who claimed that Winnie Maas used to wear skirts that were rather too short and blouses that were rather too tight, and that in fact she had only herself to blame.
None of these explanations was totally without justification; but the thing that clinched it was that she changed her mind.
The moment before she hit the ground and smashed her skull on the steel rail, she even realized that herself.
She wiped away a tiny bit of extra lipstick and contemplated her image in the mirror. Opened her eyes wide and wondered if she needed a bit more eyeliner. It was a nuisance to have to keep remembering to open her eyes wide — easier to apply a bit more liner underneath. She drew a thin line with the pencil, leaned towards the mirror and checked the result.
Pretty good, she thought, and transferred her attention to her mouth. Showed her teeth. They were even and white, and her gums were hidden behind her lips, thank goodness — not like Lisa Paaske’s, who was very pretty with her green, slanting eyes and high cheekbones, but was condemned to wander around looking serious all the time, or at best to give an enigmatic smile, all because her upper gums grew down so far. Huh, Winnie thought. That must be hard to keep up.
She checked her watch. A quarter to nine. High time she was on her way. She stood up, opened the wardrobe door and checked how she looked in the full-length mirror. Tried out a few poses, thrusting out first her breasts, then her pelvis. She looked good, both high up and low down — she had just plucked out four strands of hair that had been sticking out dangerously close to her bikini line. Light-coloured, but even so. .
Perfect, Jurgen had said. I’ll be damned if your body isn’t perfect, Winnie.
Smashing, Janos had suggested, she recalled that clearly. You really are smashing, Winnie — I get a hard-on every time I walk past your house.
She smiled when she thought about Janos. Of all the boys she’d been with, Janos was the best. He’d done it in just the right way. He’d somehow managed to combine sensitivity and tenderness, just as they said it should be in Flash and Girl-zone.
Janos. In a way it was a pity that it wasn’t going to be Janos.
But so what? she thought, slapping her buttocks. No point in crying over spilled milk. She dug out a pair of lace panties from the dressing-table drawer, but she couldn’t find a clean bra and so didn’t bother. She didn’t need one, after all. Her breasts were quite small, and firm enough not to sag. If there was anything about her body she would have liked to improve, it would be slightly bigger breasts. Not much bigger, just a little bit. To be sure, Dick had said that she had the prettiest titties the world had ever seen, and he’d sucked and squeezed them so thoroughly that they’d hurt for several days afterwards — but let’s face it: a few extra grams wouldn’t have done any harm.
But that’ll come, she thought. Pulled her T-shirt over her head and wriggled her way into her tight skirt. Yes indeed, it was only a matter of time before she started putting on weight. Unless she. .
Unless she. .
For God’s sake, she thought, lighting a cigarette. I’m only sixteen. Mum was seventeen when it happened to her, and look how she’s turned out. .
She made one last check in the dressing-table mirror, licked carefully round her lips, then set off.
Frieder’s Pier, half past nine, he’d said. He came on the train that arrived at half past eight, but wanted to go home and have a shower first, if she didn’t mind. Of course she didn’t: she approved of men who kept themselves clean. Washed their hair and removed the dirt from under their fingernails — that showed they had a touch of class, she felt. It would be the first time they’d met for three weeks: he’d been up in Saren, staying with an uncle. A mixture of work and holiday. They’d spoken on the telephone a few times, and discussed ‘the project’, but she hadn’t told him that she’d changed her mind. She was going to do that now, this evening. Best to do it face to face, she’d thought.
It was a warm evening. When she came down on to the beach, she felt almost sweaty after the short walk. But it was cooler down here. There was a pleasant, gentle breeze blowing from the sea; she slipped off her canvas shoes and started walking barefoot over the sand. It was nice to feel the tiny grains rubbing against her toes. It was almost like being a child again. It didn’t do her nail varnish any favours, of course, but she would put her shoes back on before she got there. Before she met Him. She liked to think about him having a capital H. He was worth that. Mind you, if he wanted to have sex with her afterwards, it struck her, he would probably want her to be barefoot. But maybe it didn’t matter — in those circumstances it wasn’t usually her toenails that he was most interested in.
And why would he not want to have sex with her? They hadn’t seen each other for ages, after all!
She paused and lit another cigarette. Moved closer to the waterline where the sand was more tightly packed and it was easier to walk. The beach was pretty deserted at this time in the evening, but there were a few people around. An occasional jogger came running past, and she met an occasional dog-walker; she also knew that there would be quite a few young people necking on blankets in among the dunes — they always did that in the summer. She often did it herself, and maybe they would end up there this evening as well.
Maybe, maybe not.
It would depend on how he reacted. She started thinking about it. Would he be angry? Would he grab hold of her and give her a good shaking, as he’d done that time in Horsens when she’d been as high as a kite on hash, and rambled on about how she thought Matti Frege had nice muscles.
Or would he understand, and agree with her?
Perhaps he’d be able to talk her round. That wasn’t entirely out of the question, of course. Perhaps his unparalleled love for her would make her think again? And the money, naturally. Was that a possibility?
No, she didn’t think so. She was feeling strong and certain about the decision she’d made, goodness knows why. Maybe because she’d been on her own and able to think things over in peace and quiet for a few weeks.
But she knew that his love for her was all-consuming. He kept on telling her that, more or less every time they met. They were going to become an entity, they’d known that for a long time. There was no doubt about it. They didn’t need to hurry things.
But what they certainly did need was money.
Money for food. For cigarettes and clothes and somewhere to live, perhaps. Especially in the longer term: they’d need lots of money then — after all, that’s why they’d done what they’d done. .
Thoughts had started wandering around inside her head, and she realized now that it was difficult to keep track of everything. There was so much to take into account when you started thinking along these lines, and in the end you didn’t know if you were coming or going. That’s the way it nearly always turned out — it would be nice if somebody else could make the decisions, she used to think. Make decisions about difficult matters
, so that she could think about what she liked to think about instead.
Perhaps that’s why she was so much in love with him, of all people? Him. He liked to make decisions about things that were a bit complicated and major. Such as this plan they’d thought up. Yes, no doubt that was why she loved him, and wanted to be his. Yes indeed. Even if this last project had gone off the rails a bit, and she’d been forced to change her mind. As already said.
She came to the pier, and looked around in the gathering gloom. He hadn’t arrived yet, she was a few minutes early. She could have continued walking along the beach — he lived out at Klimmerstoft and would be coming from the opposite direction; but she didn’t bother. Sat down instead on one of the low stone walls that ran all the way along each side of the pier. Lit another cigarette, despite the fact that she didn’t really want another one, and tried to think about something pleasant.
He turned up after another fifteen minutes or so. A bit late, but not all that much. She saw his white shirt approaching through the twilight long before he reached her, but she remained sitting there until he came up to her. Then she stood up, put her arms round his neck and pressed the whole of her body against him. Kissed him.
She could taste that he’d taken a drop of the strong stuff, but only a little.
‘So you’re back.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you have a good time?’
‘Great.’
There was a moment’s silence. He was grasping her arms tightly.
‘There’s something I have to tell you,’ she said eventually.
‘Go on.’
He loosened his grip slightly.
‘I’ve changed my mind.’
‘Changed your mind?’
‘Yes.’
‘What the hell do you mean?’ he said. ‘Explain.’
She explained. She had trouble in finding the right words, but in the end he seemed to understand what she was saying. He didn’t respond at first, and she couldn’t see his face clearly in the darkness. He’d let go of her altogether now. Half a minute passed, perhaps a whole one, and they just stood there. Stood there, breathing in time with the sea and the waves, as it were, and there was something vaguely disturbing about it.
‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he said, putting his arm round her shoulders. ‘And have a little chat. I have an idea.’
2
July 1999
Helmut had been against it all from the very start.
Looking back, she had to give him that much. ‘Daft,’ he’d said. ‘Bloody silly.’
He’d lowered the newspaper and glowered at her for a few seconds with those pale eyes of his, slowly grinding his teeth and shaking his head.
‘I can’t see the point of it. It’s unnecessary.’
That was all. Helmut wasn’t one to waste words. As far as he was concerned, all in all, it wasn’t a case of from dust thou art — stone more like.
From stone thou art, and unto stone thou shalt return. It was a thought she’d had before.
There are two sides to every coin, of course. She knew when she decided on him that she was not choosing storm and fire — not love and passion — but solid rock. Grey, primary rock on which she could stand safely, without any risk of sinking down into the mire of despair once again.
Something like that.
That’s more or less what she’d thought fifteen years ago when he knocked on her door and explained that he had a bottle of Burgundy he’d bought while on holiday and wouldn’t be able to drink it all himself.
And if she hadn’t thought that as he stood there on the doorstep, she’d have done so shortly afterwards in any case. Once they’d started bumping into each other.
In the laundry room. In the street. In the shops.
Or when she was sitting on her balcony on warm summer evenings, trying to rock Mikaela to sleep, with him standing on his own balcony, leaning on the rail that separated them, smoking his pipe and gazing out into what remained of the sunset in the vast western sky over the polders.
Next-door neighbours. The thought came into her mind.
A godlike figure, solid and secure, holding out a hand of stone towards where she was drifting around in a floundering boat on a turbulent sea of emotions.
To her and Mikaela. Yes, that is in fact what the situation had been like: looking back, she could sometimes smile at the thought, sometimes not.
Anyway, that was fifteen years ago. Mikaela was three. Now she was eighteen. She celebrated her eighteenth birthday this summer.
Mark my words, he had declared from behind his newspaper. As I told you, this won’t make her any happier.
Why hadn’t she listened to him? She asked herself that over and over again. During these days of worry and despair. When she tried to get a grip on herself and look back over the links in the chain. To think back and try to find reasons for doing what she had done. . Or simply to let her thoughts wander freely; she didn’t have much strength to speak of just now. These hellish summer days.
But she’d done the right thing, as she saw it. All I’ve done is what is right and proper. I haven’t betrayed the decision I made all those years ago, then let it lie. In a way that’s another stone — a murky boulder sunk down at the muddy bottom of the well of memory, but one that she’d promised herself she would fish up again when the time was right.
Carefully and respectfully, of course, but bring it up into the light of day even so. So that Mikaela could see it. No matter how you looked at it, that was necessary. Something that had remained in abeyance for many years, but now needed to happen to put things into perspective.
Her eighteenth birthday. Even if they hadn’t discussed it, Helmut had known about it as well. Been aware of the situation all the time, but had preferred not to confront it. . The day would have to dawn when Mikaela was told the truth, one had no right to deny a child knowledge of its origins. One couldn’t hide away her roots under mundane everyday happenings and the detritus of time. One couldn’t send her out into life on false pretences.
Right? Life? Truth? Afterwards, she couldn’t understand how she had been able to fit such grandiose concepts into her thoughts. Wasn’t it this very pretentiousness that was hitting back and turning upon her? Wasn’t that what was happening?
Who was she to go on about right and wrong? Who was she to make such hasty judgements and shake off Helmut’s morose objections without giving them more than three-quarters of a second’s consideration?
Until later. When it seemed to be too late. These days and nights when everything seemed to lose every ounce of significance and value, when she had become a robot and didn’t so much as glance at these old thoughts which were drifting past her consciousness like tattered remnants of cloud over the blue-grey night sky of death. She simply let them sail past, on their disconsolate journey from horizon to horizon.
From oblivion to oblivion. Night to night and darkness to darkness.
From stone thou art.
From your gaping wounds your silent fury seethes up to a dead sky.
The pain of stone. Harder than anything else.
And madness, insanity itself was lying in wait round the corner.
Her eighteenth birthday. A Friday. In July, as hot as hell.
‘I’ll tell her when she comes back from the gym,’ she had said. ‘So you don’t need to be present. Then we can have dinner afterwards in peace and quiet. She’ll take it well, I can feel it in my bones.’
At first merely a sullen silence.
‘If it’s really necessary,’ he’d said eventually. When she was already at the sink, washing the cups. ‘It’s your responsibility, not mine.’
‘I have to,’ she said. ‘Remember that I promised her this when she was fifteen. Remember that it’s a gap that needs to be filled. She’s expecting it.’
‘She’s never said a word about it,’ he said. From the side of his mouth. With his back to her.
That was true. She had to grant him that as well.
That’s all. Nothing more. Then he left.
Daft?
Am I doing it for her sake, or for mine? she asked herself.
Reasons? Motives?
As blurred as the borderline between dreams and consciousness.
Unfathomable as stone itself.
Nonsense. Verbal sticking plaster. She probably knows anyway.
3
9 July 1999
When Detective Inspector Ewa Moreno stopped outside the door of Chief Inspector Reinhart’s office, it was a quarter past three in the afternoon and she was longing for a cold beer.
If she had been born into a different social class, or blessed with more imagination, she might have been longing for a glass of cold champagne instead (or why not three or four?); but today any possibility of thinking straight, any ability to think at all had been sweated away in the early hours of the morning. It was over thirty degrees, and had been about that all day. Both in town and inside the police station. A forgotten manic flat-iron seemed to be pressing down from above, overheating everyone and everything, and apart from chilled drinks, there seemed to be only two possibilities of surviving: the beach and the shade.
There was a noticeable absence of the former in the Maardam police station.
But there were Venetian blinds. And corridors where the sun was certain not to be shining. She stood there with her hand on the door handle, struggling with an impulse (that in itself was sluggish as a bluebottle high on Coca-Cola, so that the outcome could go either way) not to turn it. To retreat discreetly.
Instead of entering and finding out why he wanted to talk to her. There were good reasons for not going in. Or one, at least: in less than two hours’ time she would be going on leave.
Two hours. One hundred and twenty suffocating minutes. If nothing unexpected happened, that is.
