The Weeping Girl

27

20 July 1999

Constable Vegesack’s girlfriend was called Marlene Urdis, and the previous evening they had made a solemn promise not to make love that night. Two nights in succession and another session in the afternoon would have to suffice.

According to plan, they had gone to bed and fallen asleep before eleven o’clock — but a few hours later she rolled over and came a bit too close, and off they went again. But what else could one expect? They had been apart for three weeks (Marlene had been in Sicily with a girlfriend of hers, a combined working trip and holiday paid for partly by a glossy monthly magazine specializing in travel and interior decor and such-like), and the separation had left a sort of void, an erotic vacuum that needed to be filled and balanced out retroactively. They needed to make up for every missed opportunity, the sooner and more thorough, the better.

You only live once, after all — if that.

But it feels a bit odd even so, Vegesack thought as he drained his second cup of black coffee at about half past seven the next morning. And tiring. If they carried on like this much longer, he would have to take sick leave. Marlene was on summer vacation from her architecture studies, and could stay in bed all morning; but it was his duty to turn up at his office in the police station, and try to stay awake with the aid of every means of assistance available.

In other words, coffee. The heartblood of tired men, as the Great Man Chandler had put it.

And a murder, he reminded himself.

And perhaps also that attractive detective inspector. She had got her teeth into that old Maager business, God only knows why. Ah well, it’s good that there are things to occupy oneself with, he thought optimistically as he took his bicycle out of its stall. There might be enough to keep him awake today as well.

Always assuming he didn’t fall off his bike on the way to the police station, and he didn’t usually do so.

Chief of Police Vrommel hadn’t turned up for work yet today, but froken Glossmann in the office, and one of the probationers — Helme — were present and correct as usual.

Plus a blonde well into her thirties who seemed to have spent at least a hundred hours lying in the sun this last week. She was sitting opposite Helme at his desk, chewing at her cerise lower lip while Helme wrote something down in his notebook.

‘Ah,’ he said when he saw Vegesack appear in the doorway. ‘This is Damita Fuchsbein. She’s been waiting for a quarter of an hour, but I thought it was best if you or Vrommel took care of her.’

Vegesack shook her hand and introduced himself.

‘What’s it all about, then?’ he asked.

‘That dead body on the beach,’ said Helme in a stage whisper before Damita Fuchsbein had stopped chewing her lower lip.

‘I see,’ said Vegesack.

He looked at the clock. A few minutes to eight. Vrommel rarely put in an appearance before nine. Perhaps he might turn up a bit earlier today, in view of the situation and the circumstances. . There was supposed to be a summary session with colleagues from Wallburg as well. But why wait?

Why indeed. He nodded, and invited the woman to move over to his desk. Asked her if she’d like a cup of coffee, but she shook her head. There was a rustling sound from her dry locks of hair.

‘Well,’ he said, clicking his ballpoint pen. ‘What do you have to say for yourself?’

‘I think I know who it is.’

‘The man on the beach?’

‘Yes. I heard about it last night, they said you hadn’t identified him yet.’

‘That’s right,’ said Vegesack, wondering quickly if he knew her. He didn’t think so, but he was far from certain. Both her hair and her skin could well be very different in colour, depending on the time of year. In any case, Damita Fuchsbein seemed to have a hobby that was very much in tune with the times, and one she made no attempt to hide. Her body.

‘Who is it?’ he asked.

She cleared her throat and blinked a few times.

‘Tim Van Rippe,’ she said. ‘Do you know who that is?’

Vegesack wrote the name down in his notebook. Thought for a moment, and said that he didn’t think he knew who that was.

‘He lives out at Klimmerstoft. Works at Klingsmann’s. How should I put it — we haven’t exactly been having a relationship, but we see each other now and again. And we’d agreed to go to Wimsbaden last Monday. . To the music festival. But he never turned up. I’ve been ringing and trying to get hold of him all week, but he hasn’t answered.’

Her voice was shaky, and Vegesack realized that she was on the point of crying underneath her elastic exterior.

‘Tim Van Rippe? Have you any special reason for thinking that it’s him? Anything more besides the fact that he’s been difficult to get in touch with?’

Damita Fuchsbein sighed deeply and adjusted her hair.

‘I’ve spoken to quite a few others who’ve been trying to contact him. Nobody seems to have seen him since Sunday — last Sunday, that is.’

‘Does he have a family?’

‘No.’

‘Any relatives that you know of?’

‘He has a brother in Aarlach, I know that. His father’s dead, but I think his mother’s still alive. But she doesn’t live here either. I think she married again, and lives in Karpatz now.’

Vegesack noted it all down.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We’d better go and take a look. Do you think you’re up to it? It might be a bit unpleasant.’

Talk about understatement, he thought.

‘Where is. . Where’s the body?’

‘Wallburg. The forensic medicine centre. I can take you there — we’ll be back here in an hour and a half.’

Damita Fuchsbein seemed to be at a loss for a second or two, then pulled herself together and clasped her hands in her lap.

‘Okay. I suppose I don’t have any choice.’

It was Tim Van Rippe.

If one could believe what Damita Fuchsbein said, that is: and of course there was no reason to doubt her tear-soaked identification. Together with the pathologist himself, an incredibly overweight Dr Goormann, and a police nurse, Vegesack spent some considerable time consoling the devastated woman, and he began to wonder if she was in fact on rather more intimate terms with the dead man than she had admitted so far.

Perhaps, perhaps not, Vegesack thought. No doubt that would become clearer in due course. While they were sitting in Goormann’s poky little office, supplying a steady stream of paper handkerchiefs to Fuchsbein, Detective Intendent Kohler turned up: he was one of the two Wallburg officers who had been loaned to Vrommel as a result of the discovery of the dead body on the beach. He was a reserved, thin-haired man in his fifties, and immediately made a positive impression on Vegesack. He undertook to track down and make contact with Van Rippe’s relatives — his brother in Aarlach and his mother in Karpatz, if one could believe the information Fuchsbein had provided while she was still able to talk.

Although there was no reason to doubt that either.

Vegesack took care of froken Fuchsbein. Escorted her gently out of death’s visiting room and treated her to a cup of coffee and a glass of calvados in one of the cafes in the square before they got into the car and set off to return to Lejnice.

He drove her to her home in Gloopsweg, and promised to telephone her later that evening to see how she was.

Don’t go and lie down in the sun again, he thought, but he didn’t say so.

By the time he returned to the police station it was ten past eleven, and Chief of Police Vrommel had just started a small press conference in connection with yesterday’s macabre discovery on the beach. Vegesack sat down on a vacant chair behind a dozen journalists, and listened in.

Yes, the police were working all out.

Yes, they had every reason to believe that a crime had been committed. It was difficult to die a natural death in that way, and then dig oneself down into the sand.

Yes, they were following several lines of investigation, but there was no principal line. Extra resources had been moved in from Wallburg.

Yes, the leader of the investigative team was the chief of police himself; but there was no suspect, and they were still awaiting the results of certain technical tests.

No, the dead man had not yet been identified.

I ought to have rung him from Wallburg, Vegesack thought.

Moreno was woken up at a quarter to seven by the sun shining into her face. She had pulled down the old-fashioned dark-blue roller blind before going to bed, but at some point during the night it must have felt tired and rolled itself up again. Very discreetly, it seemed, as she hadn’t been woken up by any noise.

She sat up in bed and thought for a while. Then dug a pair of shorts, a vest and a pair of trainers out of her rucksack, and set off.

To the beach, of course. But southwards this time, in order to avoid any intrusive memories of bodies in the sand and abandoned lovers. (Blokes? Boyfriends? Fiances?)

It was a lovely morning, she felt that immediately. The beach was deserted, the sea mirror-like, and after only a couple of hundred metres she had to ask herself seriously why she didn’t begin every day of her life in this way. Was there any possible argument against it?

Well, perhaps a windy morning in January had a different sort of charm. And of course there was a distinct shortage of seaside in central Maardam.

She turned back after twenty minutes, and was back in Dombrowski’s at a quarter to eight. Took a shower and had breakfast in the company of a couple of morning newspapers in the shady garden. There were reports on the discovery of the body in both of them — especially in Westerblatt of course, which was the local paper — and as she read, drank coffee and chewed sandwiches made with thick slices of home-baked bread, cheese and paprika rings, she tried to sort out her programme for the day.

It wasn’t straightforward. Above all she would presumably have to be discreet in the way in which she worked together with the Lejnice police. There were special circumstances, of course, but it was perfectly obvious that Vrommel was not interested in any kind of cooperation. Not at all. One might well ask why, but that could wait until another time. It would be better to stick to Vegesack — and probably best to leave it until the afternoon, she decided. If for no other reason than giving herself the chance of doing something off her own bat. And to be honest, Vegesack could do with a bit of time in order to get down to work, even if he had so far displayed no great desire to get stuck into the investigation.

But perhaps one couldn’t expect him to have done so, Moreno thought. Bearing in mind the recent return of his girlfriend. But at least he had promised to investigate whether anybody had been to visit Maager at Sidonis. Or telephoned him. It had to be of crucial importance to get that sorted out as quickly as possible.

As she was thinking that, her mobile rang.

It was Mikael. They had spoken for a quarter of an hour the previous evening. Nothing very profound, but at least they had found an appropriate pitch at which to communicate with each other, which had to be good news.

And he hadn’t said a word about being in love with her.

Now he was ringing just to say that he intended to pay Kluivert, Kluivert and Sons’ bill himself: he had thought the matter over and concluded that he had been unfair. After a short discussion, she let him have his way.

When they had hung up, she remained seated for a while, thinking. She realized that she was having difficulty in suppressing a grim smile, but then took out her notebook and wrote down three questions.

What the hell has happened to Mikaela Lijphart?

What the hell has happened to Arnold Maager?

What the hell am I poking my nose into this business for, instead of enjoying my holiday like any normal person?

She stared at the questions and drank up the rest of her coffee. Then she wrote down a fourth question.

What the hell can I do today in order to find an answer to any of these questions?

She thought for a while longer, until she had decided on Plan A. It was five minutes to nine. Not a bad start to a day.

The woman who opened the door reminded her of a fish.

Perhaps it was something to do with her looks, or perhaps it was the smell. Probably an unholy alliance of both, with each sensual reaction reinforcing the other.

‘Fru Maas?’

‘Yes.’

Moreno introduced herself and asked if she might come in for a chat.

No, she may not.

She asked if she could treat her to a cup of coffee and a glass of something somewhere. Maybe in Strandterrassen?

Yes, she could.

But not in Strandterrassen. There were too many capitalists and other schmucks there, explained fru Maas, and instead led the way to Darms cafe in the bus square. Honest people could sit here at a pavement table and watch the crowds in the square. If you got tired of that, you could always watch the pigeons.

It was congenial, in other words. What the hell did she want?

Moreno waited until the coffee and cognac had been served, then explained that she was a private detective looking for an eighteen-year-old girl. And that it was linked in a way with the tragic happening concerning fru Maas’s daughter Winnie. Sixteen years ago, she thought it was.

‘Private filth?’ said Sigrid Maas, downing the cognac in one gulp. ‘Go to hell!’

Bitch? Moreno thought. I have a lot to learn.

‘I’ll make it easier for you,’ she said, cupping a protective hand round her own glass of cognac. ‘If you answer my questions truthfully, and cut out the nonsense and insults, you’ll earn yourself fifty smackers.’

Fru Maas glared at her, her mouth a mere narrow strip. She didn’t answer, but it was obvious that she was weighing up the offer.

‘You can have my cognac as well,’ said Moreno, removing her hand from the glass.

‘If you diddle me, I swear blind I’ll kill you,’ said fru Maas.

‘I shan’t diddle you,’ said Moreno, checking in her purse to see if she really had that amount of cash with her. ‘How could I?’

Fru Maas didn’t answer, but lit a cigarette and moved the glass of cognac closer to her.

‘Fire away!’

‘Mikaela Lijphart,’ said Moreno. ‘She’s the daughter of Arnold Maager, who murdered your daughter. A girl aged eighteen, as I said — she was only two when it happened. My first question is whether she’s been here to see you during the last few weeks.’

Fru Mass inhaled deeply and sniffed at the cognac.

‘Yes, she’s been,’ she said. ‘Last Sunday, I think it was. ‘God only knows why she came, God only knows why I allowed her in — the daughter of that bloody swine who ruined my life. I suppose I’m too kind-hearted, that’s the problem.’

For a moment Moreno suspected the woman sitting opposite her was lying through her teeth. In order to keep Moreno happy and not lose out on the promised payment, perhaps. But it was easy to check.

‘What did she look like?’

Fru Maas glared at her for a second, then leaned back on her chair and launched into a rather colourful description of Mikaela Lijphart: it was obvious to Moreno that this was the right girl. No doubt about it. Mikaela Lijphart really had come to visit fru Maas when she took the bus from the youth hostel that Sunday morning. What an unexpected bull’s eye!

She suddenly felt that little nervous twinge — that sudden stimulus that could almost send her shooting off on a high and which might well have been the main reason why she decided to become a detective officer in the first place. If she were to be honest with herself.

Or which kept her in her job, at least. Something clicked. A suspicion was confirmed, and loose assumptions suddenly became reality. She felt totally and thrillingly alive — there was something sensual about it.

She had never spoken to anybody about this, not even Munster. Perhaps because she was afraid of not being taken seriously — or of being laughed at — but also because she didn’t need to. She had no need to discuss this special pleasure with anybody else — or to attempt to put it into words. The fact that it was there was quite sufficient. It is, therefore it is, she had concluded on a previous occasion.

And now here she was, sitting at this cafe table with this ravaged, drunken woman, and experiencing this same vibrating excitement once again. Mikaela Lijphart had been to see her. That Sunday. Exactly as she’d thought.

Exactly as she would have done if she had been Mikaela Lijphart — gone to see the mother of the poor girl her father had killed. Sought her out so that. . Hmm, why?

Hard to say. Certain moves were so obvious that you didn’t really need to ask yourself why you had made them: reflex reactions in a way, but nearly always correct in the context. Just as instinctively straightforward as that nervous twinge.

‘Why the hell are you looking for this young lass?’ asked fru Maas, interrupting her train of thought.

‘She’s gone missing,’ said Moreno again.

‘Gone missing?’

‘Yes. Nobody has seen her since that Sunday when she came to see you. Nine days ago.’

‘Hmm. I expect she’s run off with a bloke. That’s what they do at that age.’

She took a swig of coffee, then poured the contents of the glass of cognac into the cup. Sniffed at the resultant brew with the expression of a connoisseur. Moreno didn’t doubt for a second that fru Maas used to run off with blokes when she was at that age, but she doubted whether Mikaela Lijphart had done that.

‘What did you talk about?’ she asked.

‘Not much. She wanted to talk about her bloody father, that bastard, but I didn’t want to. Why should I have to sit there remembering that shit-heap who killed my daughter? Eh? Can you tell me that?’

Moreno was unable to do so.

‘Do you know that he’s in the Sidonis care home, Arnold Maager?’ she asked instead.

Fru Maas snorted.

‘Of course I bloody well know. He can be where the hell he likes, as long as I don’t have to think about him. Or listen to people talking about him.’

‘And so you spoke about something else instead, then?’ asked Moreno. ‘With Mikaela Lijphart, that is.’

Fru Maas shrugged.

‘I don’t remember. We didn’t talk about much at all. She was quite a cheeky young lady, that Mikaela girl, yes indeed.’

‘Cheeky? What do you mean?’

‘She suggested that it wasn’t him.’

‘Not him? What do you mean?’

‘She started going on about how she might have jumped down from the viaduct of her own accord, and a load of crap like that. My Winnie? What? I was furious of course, and told her to hold her tongue.’

‘Did she say why?’

‘Eh?’

‘If she suggested that her dad might be innocent, she must have had some reason for saying that.’

Fru Maas stubbed out her cigarette and immediately started fumbling in the pack for another one.

‘God only knows. A lot of crap in any case — although she had been out at the loony bin and spoken to him. He evidently hadn’t the courage to admit to his own daughter what he’d done, the cowardly bastard! Of course he did it. Screwing a schoolgirl! A sixteen-year-old! My Winnie! Can you imagine it, such a shit-heap?’

Moreno thought for a moment.

‘What did she do next?’

‘Eh?’

‘Do you know where Mikaela went after she’d been speaking to you?’

Fru Maas lit her cigarette and seemed to be thinking things over.

‘I don’t know,’ she said eventually.

Moreno said nothing, and waited.

‘I suppose she wanted to speak to a few others,’ said fru Maas after a while, reluctantly. ‘Friends of Winnie — though God only knows what good that would do.’

She took a deep swig from her cup, and closed her eyes as she swallowed it.

‘Who exactly? Did you give her any names?’

Fru Maas inhaled and tried to look nonchalant. As if she didn’t want to say any more.

‘You haven’t exactly earned your reward,’ said Moreno.

‘A few,’ said fru Maas. ‘A few names, I seem to remember. . Since she was so bloody stubborn and wouldn’t shut up. I couldn’t get rid of her. So in the end I told her to go to Vera Sauger and leave me in peace.’

‘Vera Sauger?’

‘Yes, a hell of a nice girl. Best friends with Winnie since infants’ school. And she’s kept in touch as well, while all the others have just ignored me, and looked God in the arse when I’ve bumped into them in town.’

Looked God in the arse? Moreno thought. Reinhart would love that.

‘So you suggested that Mikaela should go and see Vera Sauger, did you?’

Fru Maas nodded as she emptied her cup. Pulled a face.

‘Do you know if she did visit her?’

‘How the hell should I know? I just gave her a telephone number. No, come on, it’s time for you to cough up. I’ve got better things to do than sitting around here being pestered.’

Moreno realized that she’d had enough as well. She handed over the money, and thanked fru Maas for her help. Maas grabbed the note and marched off without a word.

Vera Sauger? Moreno thought. The name sounds familiar.