The Weeping Girl

36

24 July 1999

Inspector Baasteuwel stood in the shadow of a warehouse, watching a seagull.

The seagull was watching him. Apart from that, nothing much was happening. The sun was shining. The sea was as calm as a millpond.

He checked his watch. It was no more than a quarter past ten, but he could swear that the temperature was already very close to the thirty mark. If it hadn’t already passed it. So the high pressure was still dominant, and the sky was so cloud-free that looking at it almost gave him a headache. It struck him that this Saturday should have been the third day of his leave. Damn and blast. But that was life. . He lit a cigarette, today’s fourth. Or possibly fifth.

At last the ferry came gliding round the breakwater. It looked half empty. Not to say completely empty. Needless to say there was no sensible reason why anybody should head for the mainland from the islands on a day like today. On the contrary. In the pens designated for passengers wanting to embark, people were packed as tightly as Westwerdingen sardines, and the barrier had been lowered behind the last car that could be accommodated on the eleven o’clock departure ten minutes ago. Why on earth should anybody want to take a car with them into the archipelago?

Baasteuwel left the relatively cool shade behind the warehouse and walked towards the gate through which disembarking passengers would be siphoned out. He opened up his umbrella.

He regretted the umbrella business: it was his wife who had given it to him in an attack of grim feminist humour, but what the hell? Bitowski must have something to look for that could be easily identified, and a blue-and-yellow umbrella decorated with an advert for Nixon condoms was no doubt as good as anything.

Especially in weather like this. When he looked round, he couldn’t see any other condom umbrellas pretending they were parasols.

So Claus Bitowski couldn’t very well miss him.

And he didn’t. One of the first passengers to disembark was a corpulent man of about thirty, perhaps slightly more. He was wearing sunglasses, and a back-to-front baseball cap. In one hand he was holding a dirty yellow sports bag made of PVC-coated fabric, in the other a half-empty bottle of beer. His T-shirt with the logo ‘We are the Fuckin’ Champs’ was unable to keep his pot belly from hanging down over the top of his jeans.

‘Are you that fucking cop?’ he asked.

Baasteuwel closed the umbrella. His parents ought to have used Nixon, he thought.

‘I am indeed. And I suppose you are Claus Bitowski?’

Bitowski nodded. Drank the rest of the beer and looked round for a rubbish bin. When he didn’t find one, he flung the empty bottle into the water instead. Baasteuwel looked the other way.

‘I’ve nothing to say,’ said Bitowski.

‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Baasteuwel. ‘I haven’t asked you anything yet.’

‘About Van Rippe. I know nothing.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘Good that you came in any case. Shall we find somewhere to sit down?’

Bitowski lit a cigarette.

‘I haven’t anything to say, no matter what we do.’

Great, Baasteuwel thought. A thirty-year-old baby. I’d better approach this pedagogically.

‘How about Strandterrassen and a beer?’ he suggested.

Bitowski took a deep drag and considered the offer.

‘All right, then,’ he said.

They crossed over Zuiderslaan and sat down at a table under a parasol. Baasteuwel beckoned to a waitress and ordered two beers.

‘I take it you know that Tim Van Rippe has been murdered?’ he said when the beers had been served.

‘Bloody horrendous,’ said Bitowski.

‘You knew him?’

‘Not nowadays. I suppose I used to.’

Baasteuwel took out a notebook and began writing.

‘In 1983, for instance?’

‘Eh?’

‘In 1983. That’s a year.’

‘I know that. Yes, I knew Van Rippe when we were at school, and-’

‘Did you know Winnie Maas as well?’

‘Winnie? What the hell has that got to do with it?’

‘Did you know her?’ asked Baasteuwel again.

‘Yes, but what the hell. .? Of course I knew Winnie a bit. I was at her funeral. We were at school together, and so-’

‘The same class?’

‘No, I was a year older. Why are you asking about this? I keep telling you I don’t know anything.’

‘We’re investigating the murder of Van Rippe,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘Surely you want us to catch whoever killed him?’

‘Yes, but I know nothing.’

That’s probably true, Baasteuwel thought. About most things.

‘When did you go out to the islands?’

‘Two weeks ago.’

‘What day?’

Bitowski thought that over.

‘Sunday, I think. Yes, we took the afternoon boat.’

‘We?’

‘Me and my mates.’

‘I see,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘You and your mates. Were you visited by a young lady called Mikaela Lijphart before you set off?’

‘Eh?’ said Bitowski. ‘Mikaela what?’

‘Lijphart. Did you talk to her that Sunday?’

‘Of course I bloody didn’t,’ said Bitowski. ‘I’ve never even heard of her.’

‘Did you know Tim Van Rippe well in your younger days?’

‘Fairly well.’

‘Did he have something going with Winnie Maas?’

Bitowski shrugged. His stomach wobbled.

‘I think so. She had something going with lots of people.’

‘When was she together with Van Rippe, do you remember that?’

‘No. How the hell could I?’

‘Was it just before she died, for instance?’

‘No, for Christ’s sake,’ said Bitowski. ‘It was long before that. She screwed around quite a bit.’

‘Screwed around?’

‘Yes, she was that type.’

‘Did you also have sex with Winnie Maas?’

Bitowski emptied his glass of beer and belched.

‘I might have done.’

‘Might have done? Did you have sex with her or not?’

Bitowski stared at his glass, and Baasteuwel waved to the waitress and ordered another glass.

‘Once,’ said Bitowski.

‘When?’ asked Baasteuwel. ‘When she was in class nine?’

‘No, before that. I was in class nine, she must have been in class eight.’

‘And it was just once?’

‘That I screwed her all ends up, yes.’

Baasteuwel contemplated his puffed-up face for a while.

‘Are you sure that she wasn’t together with Tim Van Rippe in May/June 1983?’

Bitowski was served with another beer, and took a swig.

‘Sure and sure,’ he said. ‘She ought not to have been, at least. She gave me a blow job at the beginning of May.’

‘Gave you a blow job?’

‘Yes — for Christ’s sake, it was a party, wasn’t it? But I don’t really remember.’

Baasteuwel repressed an urge to stab his Nixon umbrella in Claus Bitowski’s pot belly.

Don’t remember? he thought. Ten years from now you won’t remember your name, never mind where your cock is.

‘Can you give me the names of any other boys that Winnie might have had sex with? In the spring of ’83, that is.’

‘No,’ said Bitowski. ‘I don’t think there was anybody special, and I didn’t really know her all that well. I don’t know anything about all this, as I’ve already told you.’

‘Were you interrogated at all in connection with Winnie’s death?’ asked Baasteuwel.

‘Interrogated? No, why should I have been interrogated? I don’t understand why you’re sitting here and interrogating me now, either.’

‘So no police officer asked you any questions at all?’

‘No.’

Baasteuwel suddenly felt that he had no more questions to ask either. Apart perhaps from asking Bitowski if he knew the name of the president of the USA. Or a town in France. Or how much was 11 times 8.

‘That’s all,’ he said. ‘Thank you for the beer.’

‘Eh? What the hell. .?’

‘A joke,’ Baasteuwel explained.

Constable Vegesack was nervous.

It had nothing to do with going behind the back of Chief of Police Vrommel. Not at all. But it was hard to deceive other people. Unpleasant. Especially somebody like fru Van Rippe — her son had been murdered, and now he had to sit here and lie to her. It felt wrong and repugnant, even if what he was going to have to serve up to her was not a pack of outright lies.

It was more a case of keeping a straight face and not telling her the whole truth.

Pulling the wool over her eyes, as they say. But that was bad enough.

‘I don’t understand what’s going on,’ she’d said as she got into the police car. ‘Why do you want to talk to me again? Has something new happened?’

‘Not really,’ Vegesack had replied. ‘It’s just that we need a bit more detailed information.’

‘And because of that you need to drive me to Lejnice and back?’

‘We thought that would be best.’

It was rather more than an hour’s drive from Karpatz to Lejnice, but luckily she decided to keep quiet for most of the time. Vegesack stole a look at her as she sat in the passenger seat, squeezing a handkerchief in her lap. A sixty-year-old woman, over the hill, with a dead son. She blew her nose now and then. Perhaps she’s got hay fever, he thought. Or perhaps it was her grief that was releasing itself in that way. These were difficult days for her, of course. Her son was going to be buried the following week: Thursday, if Vegersack remembered rightly. Cremation was not possible, for technical reasons connected to the investigation. It must be awful for her, that was the bottom line. As if her own life had come to an end, in a way.

Although he found it difficult to imagine what she was feeling. He was relieved that he didn’t need to talk about it.

And uncomfortable at having to pull the wool over her eyes, as said before.

‘Did you know Tim?’ she asked when they’d gone about halfway.

Vegesack shook his head.

‘No, he was a few years older than me. Besides, I’ve only been living in Lejnice since ’93. I come from Linzhuisen.’

‘I see,’ said fru Van Rippe. ‘No, he didn’t have many friends, our Tim.’

‘No?’

‘No. He was a bit of a loner.’

Vegesack didn’t know what to say to that, and she didn’t enlarge on the subject. She sighed and put on a pair of glasses instead.

‘It’s nice weather,’ she said, as if she’d only just noticed that.

‘Yes,’ said Vegesack. ‘Warm and sunny.’

Not much more was said during the rest of the journey. They arrived in Lejnice at five minutes to one and he parked in Zeestraat outside the Westerblatt office.

She looked at him in surprise.

‘The newspaper? What have we come here for?’

Vegesack cleared his throat.

‘It’s full up in the police station, so we’ve borrowed a room from them, that’s all.’

He couldn’t make up his mind if she believed him or not.

Moreno bought a bottle of port for Selma Perhovens, as a thank-you for her hospitality, but she was a bit worried when it came to finding a suitable present for Drusilla. In the end she plumped for a book for so-called young adults that had won several prizes, and a box of chocolates: she had noticed that Drusilla had a rather full bookcase in her room, and she shouldn’t have any trouble in forcing down the chocolates.

Both mother and daughter seemed pleased with their presents, and Moreno left the Perhovens’ home after various exchanges of mutual admiration and promises to keep in touch. She deposited her suitcase at the railway station, had a final sunbathing session on the beach, and at two o’clock — as arranged — she met Inspector Baasteuwel at Darms’ for lunch.

‘Things are warming up,’ said Baasteuwel when their salad had been served, ‘but there’s some way to go before we catch up with the weather.’

‘Do you mean you’re not going to be able to serve me up with the solution?’ said Moreno.

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘We’ve not quite sorted everything out yet. God only knows how it all hangs together, in fact.’

Moreno waited.

‘And God only knows what’s happened to Mikaela Lijphart. We haven’t had a single response to the Wanted notice — not even the usual loonies who always ring to say that they’ve seen the devil and his auntie. It all seems a bit dodgy — but we’ve checked up and made sure that Vrommel isn’t hushing something up.’

‘What about Maager?’ said Moreno. ‘Have you asked Sigrid Lijphart about that telephone call to the Sidonis home?’

‘Yes, of course. She swears blind it wasn’t her. She hasn’t spoken to him for sixteen years, she claims, and has no intention of doing so for the next sixteen either. A warm-hearted lady, no doubt about that. But I suppose she has her reasons.’

‘Perhaps she’s lying.’

‘Could be,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘I haven’t spoken to her myself, it was Kohler who took care of that. Anyway, Maager is lying in his bed, staring at the same stain on the wallpaper. When he has his eyes open, that is — they had to shovel all kinds of stuff into him in order to help him sleep. But Winnie Maas is a bit more interesting — would you like to hear?’

‘I’m all ears,’ said Moreno.

Baasteuwel drank half a glass of mineral water and steered his fork round two laps of his salad before responding.

‘She wasn’t exactly God’s little angel.’

‘So I’ve gathered,’ said Moreno.

‘Hardly anybody wants to admit that they knew her, in fact. Everybody I’ve spoken to goes into their shell as soon as I start asking questions about her. They simply don’t want to talk about her. They all say that they knew who she was, but nobody has owned up to being a friend of hers. So her role is becoming pretty clear. A young and shameless femme fatale, to over-dramatize it a bit. This damned Bitowski fellow admitted that he’d been in bed with her once — but God only knows how many others were. And she was only sixteen when she died. And nobody seems to doubt that it really was Maager who pushed her over the edge of the viaduct. Nobody at all.’

Moreno thought for a moment.

‘So even if he wasn’t the father of the child, everybody thought it was him?’

‘It seems so. The important thing was that he thought he’d made her pregnant. Not that it was necessarily the truth. She intended to exploit the situation somehow or other, and he put a stop to that. Well, it couldn’t get much more straightforward than that.’

‘What about Vrommel? And that doctor?’

Baasteuwel sighed.

‘God only knows. Even if deHaavelaar really did withhold information, it wouldn’t necessarily be all that important.’

‘Yes it would,’ protested Moreno. ‘He must have had a reason for doing so. And Vrommel must have had a reason for keeping quiet about Vera Sauger. It’s simple logic.’

‘Hmm,’ muttered Baasteuwel. ‘I know. Damn and blast. All I said was that things were beginning to warm up. We’ll sort this mess out eventually, if for no other reason than the fact that I’m determined to teach this chief of police a lesson he won’t forget. He has something on his conscience, and so help me God, I’m going to make him face up to it as well. I promise to keep you informed about the date of the execution. And everything else, of course — if you’re interested.’

Moreno nodded.

‘I’m most concerned about that girl,’ she said. ‘I don’t want anything to have happened to Mikaela Lijphart, but I’m afraid that. . well, you know.’

‘Yes,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘Of course I know. We’ve seen it all before, you and I. But it doesn’t do any harm to be an optimist until the opposite is proved to be the case, that’s the principle I usually observe. We’re going to turn our attention to the mother today. Van Rippe’s mother, that is. With the assistance of Wicker, the editor of the local paper.’ He looked at the clock. ‘They should be sitting in the editorial office right now. It could produce results — Wicker knows this dump inside out. Anyway, that’s the situation in broad outline.’

‘And Vrommel doesn’t suspect anything?’

Baasteuwel displayed his teeth.

‘Not yet. He just wonders why Kohler and I haven’t gone home.’

‘And how have you explained that away?’

‘That we like Lejnice, and have crap marriages,’ said Baasteuwel, with a new grin. ‘He believes it, the silly bugger. He’s never been married, and seems to think that’s a blessing.’

Moreno had no comment to make on that.

‘Time we started eating,’ she said instead.