The Weeping Girl ivv-8

by Håkan Nesser

  Moreno thought it best not to respond to that, so she said nothing for a while and tried to look benignly neutral.

  ‘And you don’t want to go and talk to your ex-husband?’ she asked in due course.

  Fru Lijphart gave a start as if she had just burnt her fingers.

  ‘To Arnold? Talk to Arnold? No, I can’t see what good that would do.’

  ‘You could find out what they talked about, for instance,’ said Moreno. ‘Mikaela and him.’

  Fru Lijphart didn’t answer at first, looked as if she were contemplating the difference between the plague and cholera.

  ‘No,’ she said eventually. ‘I don’t think that whatever has happened had anything to do with that. Besides, that police constable has been to talk to him, so there’s no point in anybody else doing so.’

  ‘What actually happened?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sixteen years ago. What happened?’

  Fru Lijphart looked genuinely surprised.

  ‘You must know, surely.’

  ‘Only what was said at the police station,’ she lied.

  ‘You’re not from here?’

  ‘Maardam, as I said.’

  Fru Lijphart fished a cigarette out of her handbag. Put it into her mouth and lit it in so clumsy a fashion that Moreno realized that she was not a regular smoker.

  ‘He had sex with a sixteen-year-old,’ she said after the first puff. ‘A pupil of his.’

  Moreno waited.

  ‘He made her pregnant, then he killed her. My husband. I’m talking about the person I was married to, the father of Mikaela. Note that.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ said Moreno. ‘It must have been horribly traumatic for you.’

  Fru Lijphart eyed her for several seconds, apparently assessing her.

  ‘There was only one thing to do,’ she said. ‘Close the door and start all over again. That’s what I did. I knew that I had to create a new life for myself, for me and my daughter. If we were going to keep our heads above water. There are some things you can’t do anything about. You just have to turn your back on them. I hope you understand what I’m saying.’

  Moreno nodded vaguely. Wondered if she really did. Understand, that is. If she agreed with this sorely tried woman that there were certain things that couldn’t — shouldn’t — be faced up to. Understood or forgiven. They should simply be forgotten.

  Perhaps, she thought. But perhaps not. No doubt you ought to be fully aware of all the circumstances before you made up your mind, in any case. All the circumstances.

  ‘Why did you tell your daughter about it?’ she asked.

  ‘Because I had to,’ answered fru Lijphart without hesitation. ‘I’ve always known that despite everything, I would have to tell her. Always known. It wasn’t something I could get round, so I made up my mind that that was the right moment. Her eighteenth birthday. It’s easier if you pin a time on to difficulties like that — I don’t know if you’ve found that as well.’

  Moreno wasn’t convinced she could see the logic in that, but it seemed obvious that fru Lijphart believed what she said.

  ‘What about that girl?’ wondered Moreno. ‘The one that-’

  ‘A little whore,’ interrupted fru Lijphart just as unequivocally. ‘There are types who are born to become whores — I’m not being prejudiced, just realistic. Arnold wasn’t the first man she went to bed with, not by any means. No, I don’t want to talk about this, I’m sorry.’

  ‘What was her name?’ asked Moreno.

  ‘Winnie,’ said fru Lijphart, curling her lips in disgust. ‘Winnie Maas. He went out of his mind as a result, my husband — I take it you knew about that in any case? Went mad, just like that.’

  ‘I gathered that when you spoke to Vrommel,’ said Moreno, glancing at the clock. ‘Oh dear, I think I’m going to be late. Forgive me for intruding, but if there’s anything you think I could help you with, don’t hesitate to get in touch. You can ring me on my mobile. I’m really sorry for your sake, and I hope Mikaela turns up again soon.’

  She handed over her card, and fru Lijphart looked at it before putting it away in her handbag.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m going home tomorrow no matter what happens. I’m not spending more than two nights in this town, I couldn’t cope with that. I’m very grateful for your concern, it’s been good talking to you.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Moreno, getting to her feet. ‘Now, I must dash. My fiance will be sitting waiting for me.’

  Her fiance (lover? boyfriend? bloke?) wasn’t sitting in Donners Park waiting for her, as arranged. He was lying on his back under a chestnut tree instead, his head resting on a root, trying to eat an ice cream without spilling it all over his face.

  ‘You’re late,’ he pointed out as she flopped down beside him. ‘But it doesn’t matter. That’s a woman’s privilege after all, and I desire you just as much anyway.’

  ‘Good,’ said Moreno. ‘I suspect you’re also a little bit desirable in some people’s eyes. A pity you ended up with somebody as hard-boiled as I am. But don’t give up. How did it go?’

  Mikael raised himself into a half-sitting position, leaning against the trunk of the tree. As a gentlemanly gesture he gave her the remaining twelfth or so of the ice cream and wiped his hands on the grass.

  ‘Not too badly,’ he said. ‘If you bear in mind that I’m an amateur at this sort of thing, at least. I’ve dug up fru Maas’s address — she still lives here in Lejnice. In a flat in Goopsweg. More or less in the very centre of town. And the mystery of where she spent the night is also solved.’

  ‘Where she spent the night?’ said Moreno. ‘You mean that Mikaela Lijphart spent the night in Lejnice, despite everything?’

  ‘Yes. In the youth hostel, as we thought. Out at Missenraade. But only the Saturday night, unfortunately. She took her rucksack and caught the bus into town at about ten on Sunday morning, and that’s where the trail peters out, I’m afraid. I talked to one of the girls in reception at the youth hostel. She claimed she remembered her very well, but she had no idea about where Mikaela was intending to go to. They are always more or less full up out there in the summer, but nevertheless she was pretty sure that Mikaela had taken the bus into Lejnice on Saturday evening as well. And come back again, of course. So there you have it — but goodness knows where that leads us to. Nowhere, I assume.’

  ‘You never know,’ said Moreno with a sigh. ‘That’s the problem with what we do. And the charm, of course. A pretty grim sort of charm, but that’s what it usually looks like. Lots of straggling strands leading out higgledy-piggledy into the darkness — I’m afraid that’s yet another quotation from the Chief Inspector — and then all of a sudden one thing leads to another and it’s all sorted before you know where you are. Hmm, why am I sitting here babbling on like this? It must be the heat.’

  Mikael observed her with interest.

  ‘You like it,’ he said. ‘It has nothing to do with the heat. You don’t need to be ashamed of liking the job you do.’

  ‘There’s like and like,’ said Moreno. ‘You have to try to look at things from an angle that makes them bearable, don’t you think? I don’t suppose what you do in the social services is idyllic all round the clock.’

  Mikael scratched at the stubble on his chin that must be about three or four days old now.

  ‘You mean you have to be an optimist even though you’re really a pessimist?’ he said. ‘Yes, that’s not a bad principle, I suppose. Do you know who the funniest humorists are, by the way? Gravediggers. Gravediggers and pathologists. There must be a reason for that. Anyway, do you want to carry on playing the private detective for the whole of your holiday, or shall we go and lie on the beach for a while?’

  ‘The beach,’ said Moreno. ‘Several hours, at least. I want to exchange a few words with Vegesack before I pack it in, but there’s no rush. Perhaps he was right after all, Vrommel. Perhaps she’s just run off for a bit of fun. We’ll see what happens when they s
lam a Wanted notice on her tomorrow. It’s not as easy to turn one’s back on things as a lot of people seem to think.’

  On the way down to the sea another question cropped up inside her head.

  In connection with that business of having children. And very definitely in connection with the business of optimism versus pessimism.

  Wouldn’t it be better never to have any — children, that is — than to have to cope with their disappearance one fine day?

  Or their being found dead on a railway line under a viaduct?

  Another question without an answer, but she didn’t take it up with Mikael.

  17

  ‘Coffee?’ said Vrommel.

  ‘No thank you,’ said Sigrid Lijphart. ‘I’ve just had some.’

  Constable Vegesack was about to say that he wouldn’t mind a cup, but held himself in check.

  ‘Well?’ said Vrommel, sitting down at his desk. ‘Arnold Maager. What have you got to report?’

  Vegesack cleared his throat and leafed quickly through his notebook.

  ‘There’s not a lot to say, really,’ he said. ‘He’s a pretty uncommunicative type, this herr Maager.’

  ‘Uncommunicative?’ said Vrommel.

  ‘Introverted if you prefer,’ said Vegesack ‘Still, he’s ill, of course. It wasn’t easy to squeeze anything out of him.’

  ‘Did you tell him that Mikaela had gone missing?’ asked fru Lijphart.

  Her voice is reminiscent of a violin string, Vegesack thought.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘More or less straight away. Maybe I should have kept that back for a while. He was sort of struck dumb when I told him that.’

  ‘Struck dumb?’ said Vrommel.

  ‘Well, he was dead quiet in any case,’ said Vegesack. ‘I tried to find out what they’d talked about when she visited him on Saturday, but he just sat there shaking his head. In the end he started crying.’

  ‘Crying?’ said Vrommel.

  Does that idiot have to sit there repeating a word out of every sentence I say? Vegesack wondered. But he managed to restrain himself. Looked at the woman sitting by his side instead. Fru Lijphart was sitting with her back as straight as a poker, her hands on her knees, and she seemed somehow distant. Almost as if she’d been drugged.

  What a strange collection of people I find myself surrounded by, Vegesack thought. Arnold Maager. Chief of Police Vrommel. Sigrid Lijphart. They all seem to be a sort of caricature. Comic-strip characters.

  Or was everybody like this, if you got to know them a little better? That could be a topic worth thinking about in connection with the book, perhaps. Psychological realism, as it was called. He turned over a page in his notebook.

  ‘I spoke to one of the carers and a doctor as well,’ he said. ‘They said it was quite typical behaviour on Maager’s part. Confrontation avoidance, they called it. That means that you avoid all uncomfortable situations and retreat into yourself instead of confronting things or people-’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Vrommel. ‘We understand what it means. Did you meet anybody who had talked to the girl while she was there?’

  ‘One person,’ said Vegesack. ‘A carer by the name of Proszka. He was simply the one who received her when she arrived, and took her to where she wanted to go. He didn’t see her leaving Sidonis, unfortunately. Anyway, I’m afraid all this isn’t going to help us very much — with regard to Mikaela’s disappearance, that is.’

  Fru Lijphart sighed deeply and seemed to shrink somewhat.

  ‘Something has happened,’ she said. ‘I just know that something has happened to her. You must. . You must do something.’

  Vrommel leaned back on his chair and tried to frown.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’ll issue a Wanted notice. I’m not as sure as you are that she isn’t just staying away of her own free will, but never mind. Radio, television, the press, all the usual outlets. Vegesack, look after that.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we check up with her acquaintances?’ Vegesack wondered.

  ‘Acquaintances?’ repeated Vrommel.

  ‘Yes, her friends. . Or boyfriends. I mean, it’s possible that she’s just lying low somewhere and has been in touch with somebody she knows. Somebody apart from her mother, that is.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said fru Lijphart.

  Vegesack closed his notebook.

  ‘Maybe not, but surely we should check up even so?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Vrommel. ‘Fru Lijphart, you can sit down with Constable Vegesack and go through all the possible names. No stone must be left unturned from now on. One hundred per cent effort.’

  Good God, Vegesack thought.

  ‘Okay,’ he said.

  ‘When you have a complete list, phone all those who seem most likely. Any objections, fru Lijphart?’

  He stroked his tiny moustache and glared at Sigrid Lijphart. She avoided his gaze. Looked down at her hands, which were still clasped in her lap. It was several seconds before she replied.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No objections at all. Why should I have any objections?’

  As Moreno was walking the short distance from Grote Marckt, where she had been dropped off by Mikael, to Goopsweg, she asked herself why on earth she didn’t just walk away from all this.

  Why she refused to drop the disappearance of Mikaela Lijphart.

  Or assumed disappearance. After all, the probability that the girl had simply taken the opportunity of lying low for a few days (now that she had celebrated her eighteenth birthday) and as a result arousing guilt feelings in her parents (in Arnold Maager as well?). . well, despite everything it was surely quite strong?

  Or wasn’t it?

  Had something happened to Mikaela Lijphart? To use her mother’s euphemism, had something happened to her?

  If so, what?

  And what about this old story? Her father — the teacher Arnold Maager — who had an affair with one of his pupils. Made her pregnant. Killed her. Went mad as a result.

  Was that really what had happened? Was it so straightforward?

  It was a horrendous story, of course, but somehow or other Moreno thought it sounded too clinical. Clinical and neatly tied up. Shove the man into the loony bin, get rid of the girl. Put the lid on it for sixteen years, and then. .? Yes, what then?

  But she was well aware that it wasn’t merely curiosity that drove her. There was something fascinating about the story, Moreno was the first to acknowledge that: but there were other motives too.

  Other reasons why she didn’t want to drop the whole thing. Why she couldn’t simply turn her back on it all.

  Ethical? Yes, in fact. It’s only when you’re on leave that you have time to be moral — somebody had said that, she couldn’t remember who. Reinhart or Van Veeteren, presumably — no, hardly the Chief Inspector: if there was anybody who never ignored the moral aspect of things, he was the one. Not even in the most trivial of circumstances. Was that why he’d retired early? she asked herself. Was that why he’d had enough?

  Anyway, there was something in the thought. The one about morals and being on leave. When we’re pedalling away on the usual treadmill, Moreno thought, we slip hastily past goodness knows how many blind beggars (or terrified children or women beaten black and blue). But if we come across one of them while we’re strolling along a beach — well, that’s a totally different situation.

  Morals need time.

  And now she had time. Time to remember the weeping girl on the train. Time to think about her and her background and her worried mother.

  And Maager, the teacher.

  Time to make a diversion and take an extra hour on a sunny morning like this one — while Mikael had gone off to make arrangements with some workmen about something that needed doing on Tschandala: the gutters, if she remembered rightly.

  She turned into Goopsweg and started looking for the right number. Twenty-six. There it was. A block of flats, three storeys high. Boring seventies design in grey brick and concrete speckled with damp patch
es. But such buildings no doubt had to exist even in a comfortable if slightly tarnished little idyll like this.

  I’m a journalist, she reminded herself. I must remember to behave like a journalist. Be friendly and courteous, and make lots of notes. She hadn’t managed to think of a better cover to enable her to talk to a woman about her murdered daughter.

  She certainly didn’t want some kind of accreditation from Chief of Police Vrommel. Not yet, anyway.

  She crossed over the street, entered the courtyard and found the right entrance door without any difficulty. She walked up the stairs to the top floor. Stood for half a minute outside the door, composing herself, then rang the bell.

  No reaction.

  She waited for a while, then rang again. Pressed her ear cautiously against the door and listened.

  Not a sound. As quiet as the grave.

  Ah well, thought Detective Inspector Moreno. At least I’ve made an honest attempt.

  But when she came out into the sunshine again, it felt as if she still had some way to go before she’d fulfilled her moral obligations. As if she didn’t have the right to wash her hands of the Lijphart girl. Not really the right, and certainly not yet.

  If all citizens had the same sense of responsibility as I have, she thought as she very nearly stumbled over a black cat that came scuttling out of a hole in a fence, what a marvellous world we’d live in!

  Then she burst out laughing, making the cat turn round and scamper back to where it had come from.

  Sigrid Lijphart just managed to catch a train that left the station in Lejnice at 17.03. It set off as she was sitting down on a window seat in the half-empty coach, and she was almost immediately overcome by a feeling of having abandoned her daughter.

  She lit a cigarette in an attempt to counteract the attack of conscience. And looked around meticulously before drinking the last drops in the hip flask she kept in her handbag.

  It didn’t help much. Neither the nicotine nor the spirits. By the time the train had reached full speed, it was obvious to her that it had been a mistake to leave. To return home like this without Mikaela.