The Weeping Girl ivv-8

by Håkan Nesser

  ‘And he came up with a name, did he?’

  ‘He certainly did,’ said Munster.

  ‘And he’s not bluffing?’

  ‘It doesn’t seem so.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The only thing is that we haven’t confronted him yet. He’s on leave, and we thought we’d wait until he got back. I thought that would be best, and so did the Chief Inspector.’

  Moreno tried to recall which of her colleagues, apart from herself, were taking their holidays in July — but she stopped almost immediately.

  I don’t want to know, she thought. Not until I have to.

  ‘Anyway, that’s how things stand,’ said Munster. ‘I just thought you ought to know.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Moreno. ‘Bye for now.’

  ‘TTFN,’ said Munster.

  This time she had chosen to travel on the express, but she soon discovered that there were just as few passengers as when she’d travelled in the other direction, and sat down in a window seat.

  But of course, there was no pressing reason to leave the coast on a roasting hot Saturday like today. Two weeks, she thought. Exactly two weeks of my holiday have gone, and now I’m heading back home again.

  Not exactly rested and refreshed. Not a lazy fortnight by the sea. What the hell had she been doing? What was certain was that it hadn’t turned out as she’d expected in advance. She had told her boyfriend (bloke? lover? stallion?) to go to hell, she’d played the amateur sleuth day and night, and she hadn’t achieved a thing. Not a damned thing.

  She didn’t know what had happened to the weeping girl on the train.

  She didn’t know who had killed Winnie Maas.

  She didn’t know who had killed Tim Van Rippe.

  And there was a paedophile in the Maardam police station.

  Great, Moreno thought. A top-notch outcome, no question about it.

  FIVE

  38

  22 July 1983

  When he had passed the school again a breeze blew up from the sea, and he stopped once more.

  He couldn’t be sure if what had made him pause was the breeze, or the illuminated information board with the school’s name and a map with the functions of each of the buildings pedagogically listed. But he stood there, staring at the board, and something moved inside him. A sort of diffuse feeling of security, perhaps. His place of work. As empty as a desert on a summer’s night at half past one in the morning. But still?

  He flopped down on a stone bench outside one of the long walls of the gymnasium. Elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.

  What am I going to do? he thought. What the hell is going to happen now? Why am I sitting here? Bugger, bugger, bugger. .

  He noticed that a jumble of words was buzzing around inside his head. Not thoughts. Not action plans. Just a meaningless mish-mash of questions and desperate cries that seemed to be hovering over an abyss that he was not allowed to look down into, not at any price; that he didn’t dare to look down into — a swirl of words that only served to keep everything else at a distance. At a distance and out of sight. That’s all there was to it. It struck him that he was going out of his mind.

  Home? he thought. Home to Mikaela? Why? Why have I stopped here? Why don’t I rush up to the viaduct and look her in the eye? Who? Who do I mean? Winnie? Or Sigrid? I’ve lost everything in any case. I shall never come back here. . Not to Mikaela, not to Sigrid, not to the school. I’ve lost. Just now I’ve lost everything. . At this very moment I’m losing everything on this damned bench outside this damned gymnasium. I knew it, I’ve known it ever since that damned evening, why didn’t I do anything about it, what shall I do now when everything’s too late? Damn and blast! It’s too late. Damn and blast! Everything’s too late now. .

  He stood up. Keep quiet! he said to his thoughts. Shut up! He took a deep breath and tried to concentrate one last time. Last time? he thought. What do I mean, one last time?

  He started walking to the viaduct again. Is she still there? Are they there? Did Sigrid go rushing there? Was that where she went? It must be nearly half an hour ago.

  He increased his pace. Crossed over Birkenerstraat level with the cemetery and turned into Emserweg. And it was then, just as he came round the corner at Dorff’s bookshop and stationery store and into Dorfflenerstraat that he saw her.

  She passed the illuminated entrance to the sports field on the other side of the street, walking quite fast. Energetic and resolute steps. Sigrid, his wife. She didn’t see him, and he repressed an impulse to shout out her name. Instead he stopped under the bookshop’s awning and remained standing there until she was out of sight. She’s been there, he thought. She’s been up there and met Winnie.

  He hurried across Dorfflenerstraat, continued past the sports field and came down to the railway line. Once he had skirted the brewery the viaduct came into view.

  But in the distance. He still couldn’t see if there was anybody standing up there. Standing and waiting for him? He slowed down. What the hell could he say? Or do? What did she expect of him? She had ruined his life. She’d crushed him by telling the facts to his wife some — he looked at his watch — thirty-five minutes ago. It was no more than that. Just over half an hour since the telephone call. What the hell did she want of him now?

  Pregnant? She was pregnant, with his child. He remembered what she’d said that night. ‘Come on, Sir. . come, come, come, I’m on the pill!’

  Sir, she’d said. At the height of the act, while he was screwing her, she had actually used that word.

  The pill? Like hell she’d been on the pill.

  He started walking along the long, curving road and stupidly enough wondered if she wanted to go to bed with him again. That was a disgusting thought which must surely say something about the kind of man he was. Deep down. And that it was probably quite justified for him to be going mad. I’m a filthy swine, he thought. Swine, swine, swine! — he could almost hear Sigrid yelling those words. Have sex with Winnie Maas? Again? Let her ride him forwards and backwards and plunge his cock into her until she gasped in ecstasy, let her give him head while he stroked her stiff little clitoris until she screamed. . What the hell was he fantasizing about? His brain was racing like a car in too low a gear. What’s happening to my head? he thought. In any case, she’s not there.

  She wasn’t there.

  There was nobody up there on the viaduct. Not a soul, not even that little devil Winnie Maas, and nobody else either. He paused and looked around. To both the north and the south. He had quite a good view from where he was standing. He could see the whole town — the streets, the squares, the two churches, the beach and the harbour with its breakwaters and concrete foundations and protected entrance. The little wooded area beyond the football pitches. Frieder’s Pier and Gordon’s Lighthouse furthest to the south. . Everything enveloped by the grey darkness of the summer night.

  He looked down at the area below. Scanned the railway line from the distant station to where he was. There was something lying down there. Right next to the right-hand track, diagonally below where he was standing. It wasn’t quite so dark there, and a street light projected its dirty yellow beam over the street and the railway line at that point.

  There was something lying there. Something white and slightly blue and a bit skin-coloured. .

  It was a second or two before he realized what it was.

  It took another second before he realized who it was.

  39

  5 August 1999

  Constable Vegesack made the sign of the cross, and went in.

  Chief of Police Vrommel was lying on the floor in front of his desk, doing leg-raises.

  ‘Just a moment,’ he said.

  Vegesack sat down on the visitor’s chair and watched his boss. The raises were a bit on the strenuous side, it seemed, as Vrommel was groaning like a stranded walrus, and his shiny bald pate glowed like a red traffic light. When he had finished he remained lying there for a while, recovering. Then he got up and sat down at hi
s desk.

  ‘So you’re going on leave tomorrow, are you?’

  Vegesack nodded.

  ‘Tomorrow, yes.’

  ‘The weather’s not up to much.’

  ‘No,’ said Vegesack.

  ‘It was better last week.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Vrommel opened a desk drawer, produced a paper tissue and wiped his brow and the top of his head.

  ‘This Van Rippe case. It’s time to make a summary of where we’ve got to.’

  ‘Are we going to close it down?’ Vegesack asked.

  ‘Not close it down, no,’ said Vrommel. ‘One doesn’t close down murder investigations just like that. But I’m going to sum it up. It’s been hard going — I don’t think we’ve got anywhere at all, have we?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think we’ll have to scale it down. We’ve been using extra resources for three weeks now. It’ll be normal routines from now on.’

  ‘I see,’ said Vegesack.

  ‘So we need a summary. A sort of report on what we’ve achieved so far. I thought we’d have a little press conference tomorrow morning. We need to report to our superiors as well. Those girl guides from Wallburg haven’t been a lot of use.’

  ‘Not a lot.’

  Vrommel cleared his throat.

  ‘So, if you type out this summary, you can leave it on my desk before you go home. You have the whole day to devote to it.’

  Vegesack nodded.

  ‘Don’t make it too long-winded. Just the facts. Brevity is the soul of wit.’

  Vegesack started to get up.

  ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘If there had been, I’d have said,’ said Vrommel. ‘So, on my desk. Have a good holiday, and keep fit.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Vegesack, and left the room.

  Ewa Moreno woke up and looked at the clock.

  Ten to twelve.

  It dawned on her that she was in her own bed, and despite everything had slept no more than nine hours. She tried to feel if there was any muscle in her body that wasn’t aching, but couldn’t find any.

  I feel ninety, she thought. And this was supposed to be useful. .?

  She had gone to bed shortly before three. She’d got home dead on two o’clock, but had enough sense to take a hot bath before creeping between the sheets. If she hadn’t done that, she probably wouldn’t have been able to move at all now. The last lap of the cycling holiday with Clara Mietens had comprised seventy-five kilometres into a headwind, and the last thirty in rain. They’d expected to set off rather earlier than they actually did, so that they would have a pleasant east wind at their backs and would glide into Maardam with the setting sun in their faces. Well, that was the plan.

  An east wind? Moreno thought as she sat up gingerly on the edge of the bed. Had there ever been an easterly wind in Maardam? When they said their mutual goodbyes down at Zwille at a quarter to two, Clara had promised faithfully that if ever she had the strength to get out of bed again, the first thing she would do would be to attach a very heavy weight to her accursed bike (with six gears, two of which worked), throw it into the Langgraacht canal, and sing a hymn.

  But it had been quite a good holiday (apart from the last lap, that is). Eight gilt-edged days, brimful of camping life, swimming excursions, conversations, cycle rides (but never in the rain or with a headwind), and total relaxation in the picturesque Sorbinowo region. Clara’s red tent had been newly bought and easy to handle. And the weather had been splendid. Until yesterday.

  She went to the bathroom and had a shower. After ten minutes her body began to feel as if it were hers again. And as that happened, her thoughts began to branch out in another direction.

  That was inevitable, of course. It was time to re-enter the real world. High time.

  She put on her dressing gown and started by going through her mail. Bills, adverts, four picture postcards and a wage slip. Very interesting.

  Then she listened to the messages on her telephone answering machine. After considerable thought, she had decided to leave her mobile at home while she undertook the Sorbinowo Tour: so there ought to be quite a few messages waiting for her attention.

  And so there were. All kinds of things. A couple of cheerful greetings from Mikael Bau, for instance, and a message from her mother explaining that they (her father as well, presumably, always assuming that nothing hair-raisingly horrific had happened while she’d been away) were on the point of setting off for the airport to catch their flight to Florida, and that they wouldn’t be back until the end of August. In case she tried to contact them and wondered why there was no response.

  Eleven messages in all, explained the cool female voice on the tape.

  But nothing from Baasteuwel.

  Nothing from Vegesack or Kohler. Nothing from Mun-ster.

  Not even anything from Selma Perhovens.

  Ah well, Moreno thought as she went out to buy something for breakfast. One should never overestimate one’s importance.

  It was half past six in the evening when she finally got hold of Inspector Baasteuwel.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Are you back?’

  ‘I got home yesterday. I thought you said you’d be in touch?’

  ‘I tried, but I don’t like leaving empty messages on an answering machine.’

  ‘Really? Well?’

  Baasteuwel paused.

  ‘We’ve shelved it.’

  ‘Shelved it?’

  ‘Yes. That was the best thing to do. We came to that conclusion, Kohler and I. I’m on leave now.’

  Moreno’s mind was swamped by a tsunami of absurd incomprehension.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ she said. ‘What about Vrommel? You said it was just a matter of time.’

  She could hear Baasteuwel lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Now listen here,’ he said. ‘You have to trust me. It wasn’t possible to pin down that bastard as we’d hoped. We were in total agreement, Kohler and I, that we should stop digging into it any further. Vegesack as well. There was nothing else to take up, and no reason to take things any further. Not as things turned out.’

  ‘Not as things turned out?’ said Moreno. ‘What do you mean? I don’t understand what you’re saying.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘But that’s how things turned out in any case. You would agree with me if you had all the details in front of you.’

  ‘Details? What details?’

  ‘Rather a lot of them, in fact. I can assure you that this is the best solution. It’s just the way it turned out — that’s how it is in a lot of cases, as you ought to know.’

  Thoughts were piling up inside Moreno’s head, and she pinched herself on the arm several times to check that she really was awake before continuing.

  ‘You swore blind that you were going to put Vrommel behind bars,’ she reminded him angrily. ‘An innocent girl has disappeared and a man has been murdered. You became a police officer in order to get the chance of putting guilty swine behind bars, and now. .’

  ‘It wasn’t possible on this occasion.’

  ‘And Van Rippe?’

  ‘The case is in the chief of police’s hands. Kohler and I were called in merely to help out with the early stages of the investigation, don’t forget that. We’ve left it now.’

  Moreno removed the receiver from her ear and regarded it with suspicion for a few seconds.

  ‘Is it really Inspector Baasteuwel of the Wallburg police who I’m talking to?’ she asked eventually.

  Baasteuwel laughed.

  ‘I am indeed that who,’ he said. ‘But I think I can detect a trace of impatience in the inspector’s voice. It sounds almost as if she’s wondering about various things.’

  ‘Too right I am,’ said Moreno. ‘You’ve hit the nail on the head, dammit. I don’t understand what language you’re speaking. You are abandoning a murder and a missing girl, and going on leave. On which side is your brain haemorrhage?’

  ‘Right in the middl
e,’ said Baasteuwel cheerily. ‘I agree that I might well sound a bit off course now that my holiday is beginning to take root. But if you really do want to find out a bit more about what’s been happening in Lejnice, I suppose I might be able to get a grip and accede to your request.’

  ‘It’s your duty, dammit,’ said Moreno. ‘Where and when?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘The sooner, the better.’

  Baasteuwel seemed to be thinking it over.

  ‘Somewhere in Maardam, perhaps? So that you’re on home ground.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Moreno.

  ‘Gamla Vlissingen — is it still there?’

  ‘It certainly is.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘Tomorrow at seven o’clock, will that be okay? I’ll book a table.’

  ‘That will be excellent,’ said Moreno.

  She hung up and stared out of the window, which was just beginning to be splattered with a new downpour of rain coming in from the west.

  I don’t understand this, she thought. I haven’t a bloody clue what’s going on.

  40

  6 August 1999

  The Vlissingen restaurant was just as full as usual. She was slightly late, and passed by the solitary girl in the corner without reacting. It was only when she had walked around and investigated the whole of the premises — and established with some irritation that Inspector Baasteuwel didn’t seem to be there — that she realized who it was.

  And even then it was some time before her brain was able to interpret what her sight had told her. She shut her eyes tightly in order to reinstate reality, then walked over to the table. The girl began to stand up, then changed her mind and sat down again. Then she gave a tentative smile. Very tentative.

  ‘Mikaela?’ said Moreno. ‘Mikaela Lijphart? Is it really you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the girl, with a nervous laugh. Moreno could see that her lower lip was trembling.

  ‘Inspector Baas. .?’ Moreno began, but at the same moment the penny dropped and it dawned on her that no, Inspector Baasteuwel would not be coming to the Vlissingen restaurant this evening. This was how he had planned it. This was what lay behind the inconsistencies of the previous evening’s telephone call.