The Weeping Girl

35

23 July 1999

The ridge of high pressure returned on Friday. The rain from the south-west had moved on, and it became rapidly warmer. As early as seven in the morning the big thermometer on the side of the Xerxes IT company building in Lejnice was showing 25 degrees in the shade, and it would get even hotter.

Detective Inspector Ewa Moreno was not one of those who got up to check the weather at seven o’clock that morning. Instead she was woken up at nine by Drusilla Perhovens, who immediately put her in the picture.

‘The sky is as blue as flax flowers, and the sun’s shining like hell.’

‘Don’t swear, Drusilla,’ said her mother, who was standing in the doorway, brushing her hair.

‘You’ve got to let yourself go now and then,’ said Drusilla. ‘You’ve taught me that.’

Then she turned to Moreno.

‘You can come with me to the beach if you like,’ she said. ‘We’ll be picking up a boy who’s a friend of mine, so you won’t need to entertain me all the time.’

Moreno thought about that for a couple of seconds, then accepted.

But as it turned out, merely lying around on the beach and making the most of the high pressure wasn’t entirely without its problems. Drusilla kept her promise and spent most of the time with a young man by the name of Helmer — swimming, building sandcastles, swimming, playing football, swimming, eating ice cream, swimming and reading comics. Moreno rang the changes by first lying on her back, then on her stomach; but irrespective of her position she found it hard not to think about what was hiding away in this warm, soft sand less than a week ago.

And what might still be lying hidden there.

Perhaps I’m lying on a corpse, she thought as she shut her eyes to keep out the glare of the sun. Before long Drusilla and Helmer will come running up to tell me that they’ve dug up a head.

She had the feeling that it was beginning to be high time she put all this behind her. Time to leave Lejnice and life on the beach, and go back home to Maardam at last. The Mikaela Lijphart case wasn’t her case any longer. Nor was the Arnold Maager case, nor the Tim Van Rippe case. They never had been her concern, strictly speaking; but now at least she had left them in competent hands: Kohler’s and Baasteuwel’s, and — if that weren’t enough — those of the collective of local journalists: Selma Perhovens and, as far as she understood, Aaron Wicker. There was no reason why she should be involved any longer. None at all. She had done more than anybody could reasonably have asked; and if her aim was to return to work in August with anything like recharged batteries, it was high time that she allowed herself some real holiday. Cycling and camping in the wild Sorbinowo region, for instance. Warm evenings round the campfire with barbecued fish, good wine and existential conversation. Nocturnal swims in dark waters.

And if they really were considering digging up the whole of this beach, teeming with holidaymakers, that was something she had no great desire to be involved in. No desire at all.

Even so, needless to say that was precisely what she started dreaming about when she fell asleep. Hordes of sweaty soldiers, dressed in green, under the command of a bald senior officer (looking remarkably like Vrommel, in fact, but with a Hitler moustache rather than a thin conventional one), hacking away with pickaxes and spades and digging up corpse after corpse, which were piled up according to age and sex under the supervision of herself and Constable Vegesack. Baasteuwel was wandering round with a brush, removing the sand from their faces and bodies, and they appeared one by one before her horrified eyes. Mikaela Lijphart, Winnie Maas, Arnold Maager (whom she had only seen in a bad photograph but who nevertheless was more recognizable than any of the others for some incomprehensible reason), Sigrid Lijphart, Vera Sauger, Mikael Bau, Franz Lampe-Leermann. . She had some difficulty in understanding how the last two were relevant in this context, but accepted it as an example of life’s inherent lunacy. It wasn’t until Drusilla came up hand in hand with Maud, Moreno’s sister — not as she had turned out, but as she remembered her as a teenager — that she’d had enough of the show and woke up.

Her head was bursting. Never lie down and fall asleep in the sun! She remembered that as an instruction her mother — for whatever reason — had tried to ram into her brain when she was a child, and even if she didn’t feel she’d derived all that much wisdom from that source, she felt she had to concede that today of all days her mother was right on that score at least. She struggled to her feet, and went for a swim.

‘Baasteuwel, detective inspector,’ said Baasteuwel.

Silence at the other end.

‘Am I speaking to Dr deHaavelaar?’

‘What do you want?’

‘Just a few questions. I’m involved in the Van Rippe case — you’ve doubtless read about it in the newspapers. There seems to be a connection with another case from a few years ago — the murder of Winnie Maas. Can you remember that?’

‘If I want to,’ said deHaavelaar.

‘I think you carried out the post-mortem, is that right?’

‘I have nothing to add in that connection.’

‘I’m only looking for some clarification.’

‘No clarification is needed. Has the chief of police sanctioned this phone call? He’s in charge of the investigation, isn’t he?’

Baasteuwel paused before answering.

‘May I ask why you are unwilling to talk about this?’

An irritated snort was audible at the other end of the line.

‘I have more important things to be getting on with,’ said deHaavelaar. ‘I was pestered the other day by another police officer as well. A woman.’

‘Inspector Moreno?’

‘Yes. I ought to have reported her to Vrommel, but I erred on the side of mercy.’

‘I see,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘But the fact is now that either you answer my questions over the telephone, or I shall send a police car round to collect you. It’s up to you.’

Silence. Baasteuwel lit a cigarette and waited.

‘What the hell is it you want to know?’

‘Just a few details. I’m sitting here with the trial transcripts in front of me. The trial of Arnold Maager. And there’s something about it that perplexes me.’

‘Really.’

‘You didn’t appear to give evidence.’

‘No.’

‘Why not? You were the medicolegal officer after all.’

‘It wasn’t necessary. It’s usual but not compulsory. It was an open-and-shut case, and I no doubt had other things to do.’

‘But you signed the medical certificate? The one that was read out in the courtroom.’

‘Yes, of course. What the hell are you getting at?’

‘It says here that you examined the girl Winnie Maas — together with a pathologist by the name of Kornitz — and ascertained that she was pregnant. Is that right?’

‘Of course.’

‘But it says nothing about how advanced the pregnancy was.’

‘It doesn’t?’ said deHaavelaar.

‘No.’

‘That’s odd. It should have said. I don’t recall exactly, but she wasn’t all that far gone. Five or six weeks, perhaps.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘So it wasn’t in fact rather more advanced than that? Ten to twelve weeks or so?’

‘Of course not,’ protested deHaavelaar. ‘What the devil are you insinuating?’

‘Nothing,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘I just wanted to check because the information is missing.’

DeHaavelaar had no comment to make on that, and there were a few more seconds of silence.

‘Was there anything else?’

‘Not at the moment,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘Thank you for your help.’

‘You’re welcome,’ said Dr. deHaavelaar, and hung up.

So there, Baasteuwel thought, eyeing the telephone with a grim smile. He’s lying, the bastard.

Which he knew he could get away with, he then decided. There’s not the slightest chance of putting him behind bars. Especially as Dr Kornitz has been dead for three years.

More interesting is to think about why he lied.

Moreno had not taken her mobile with her to the beach, but when she returned to the flat with Drusilla at about half past four, she found she had two messages.

The first was from Munster. He sounded unusually grave, and asked her to ring him back as soon as she had an opportunity.

She realized that she had yet again managed to erase Lampe-Leermann and the paedophile business from her mind (even if she recalled that the Scumbag had appeared fleetingly in her beach dream), and now that it cropped up again she could feel the noose tightening around her neck.

Oh hell, she thought. Don’t let it be true.

She phoned back immediately, but there was no reply. Neither from the police station nor from Munster’s home. She left a message on his answering machine, saying she’d tried to get hold of him.

That’s the way it seems to be nowadays, she thought in resignation as she replaced the receiver. We live in a world of botched communications. The only thing we use the telephone for is to explain that we’ve tried to make contact but failed. A pretty depressing state of affairs.

She didn’t need to respond to the other message. It was from her ex-boyfriend (lover? bloke? fiance?) stating that he’d be expecting her at Werder’s at eight o’clock.

The same restaurant as yesterday, she noted. And the same time.

But a different man. She thought it just as well that she was going home the next day. The staff will start to wonder. And draw a few less than complimentary conclusions, no doubt.

She decided to turn up in any case. But not to stay there for too long. She felt about as tired as Selma Perhovens looked when she came home at a few minutes past five.

‘No burning of midnight oil tonight,’ she said.

‘No way,’ said Moreno.

They had sat up talking until past two. Waded through the whole Maager-Lijphart business yet again. Spoken about relationships, men, work, books, the situation in the so-called former Yugoslavia, and what exactly it meant to be the first free woman in the history of the world.

Existential conversation, as stated before. Fruitful. But not another night, no thank you.

‘Thank you for babysitting,’ said Perhovens.

‘She hasn’t been a babysitter at all,’ insisted Drusilla. ‘Helmer and I have been looking after each other all day.’

‘That’s true,’ said Moreno. ‘Anyway, I’m going home tomorrow. I’ll be dining out again tonight, by the way. You mustn’t think that this is my normal habit.’

‘Not a bad habit, though,’ said Perhovens. ‘What does my little sweetheart want to gobble for dinner tonight?’

‘Fillet steak stuffed with gorgonzola, and baked potatoes,’ said the little sweetheart. ‘We haven’t had that for ages.’

‘You’ll get sausage and macaroni,’ her mother informed her.

Just as she was about to leave the telephone rang again.

This time it was Baasteuwel.

‘Nice to see you yesterday,’ he said. ‘Would you like a report?’

‘Nice to see you, too,’ said Moreno. ‘I’d like a report very much.’

‘I’m in a bit of a hurry,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘Only time for the most important things — okay?’

‘Okay,’ said Moreno.

‘That doctor’s lying.’

‘DeHaavelaar?’

‘Yes. Winnie Maas was pregnant when she died, but I wouldn’t have thought Arnold Maager was the father.’

Moreno tried to digest the information and register what it meant.

‘What the hell. .?’ she said. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Not at all,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘I just have that feeling — but I’m shit hot when it comes to feelings. And he’s come back.’

‘Come back?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who?’

‘Arnold Maager, of course. He came back to the Sidonis home this afternoon.’

Moreno was dumbstruck for a few seconds.

‘Came back? You’re saying he simply came back. .?’

‘Yep.’

‘How? Where has he been?’

‘He hasn’t said. He hasn’t said anything at all, in fact. Just lies on his bed, staring at the wall, it seems. Whatever he’s been up to, he’s been without his medication for almost a week. Antidepressants, I assume. They’re a bit worried about him.’

‘How did he come back?’

‘He simply came marching in, just like that. Vrommel’s out there now, talking to him.’

‘Vrommel? Wouldn’t somebody else have been better?’

‘We can’t very well take all his bloody duties away from him without his suspecting something. Vegesack went with him to keep an eye on things, and as Maager’s autistic now it probably doesn’t matter much.’

Moreno thought for a moment.

‘Let’s hope not,’ she said. ‘I can’t keep up with all this. Anything else?’

‘Quite a bit,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘But I have to go to a series of little interviews now. How long will you be around tomorrow?’

Moreno hesitated. She hadn’t yet decided what time to leave. But surely there was no need to set off at daybreak come what may? And she needed to buy something for Selma Perhovens. And for Drusilla as well.

‘There’s a train at four o’clock. I’ll probably take that.’

‘Excellent,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘That means we can have lunch together.’

He hung up. Moreno remained standing with the telephone in her hand for a while. Well, well, well, she thought. So Maager wasn’t the child’s father? What does that mean?

Hard to say. But he must have thought that it was his in any case. Wasn’t that the main thing?

Suddenly the questions started bubbling up inside her head again. The main thing for whom?

Winnie Maas, of course. Maybe somebody else as well?

After all, virgin births are rather unusual, just as Mikaela Lijphart had said on the train a couple of weeks ago. .

Moreno stretched herself out on the bed and stared up at the ceiling.

What on earth had happened to Mikaela Lijphart?

What had Arnold Maager been doing while he was away, and why had Tim Van Rippe died?

There’s a lot that isn’t clear. A hell of a lot.

And how were things going with regard to the ensnaring of Chief of Police Vrommel? She’d forgotten to ask Baasteuwel about that.

Ah well, that could wait until tomorrow, she decided.

Every day has enough trouble of its own to cope with.