The Weeping Girl

37

Intendent Kohler introduced himself and invited fru Van Rippe to sit down.

‘I assume you recognize herr Wicker, the editor of Westerblatt?’

Fru Van Rippe sat down and looked in surprise at first one, then the other of them.

‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘But where’s the chief of police? I thought he was in charge of this case?’

‘He’s a bit busy at the moment,’ said Kohler. ‘There’s an awful lot to do, as I’m sure you realize. I’ve been called in from Wallburg to assist with the investigation into the murder of your son.’

‘Would you like some coffee and a sandwich?’ asked Wicker.

For a moment Vegesack thought that fru Van Rippe would stand up and refuse to cooperate. She gritted her teeth and stared down at the ground.

‘Yes please,’ she said in the end. ‘But I don’t understand why I’m here.’

‘We’re just doing our best to throw some light on this tragic incident,’ said Kohler. ‘The more information we have to assist us, the greater the chance we have of succeeding. In finding the murderer. We have a few questions we’d like to put to you, in order to build up a more comprehensive background picture of your son.’

Wicker poured some coffee and produced a plate of sandwiches from Doovers tea shop, which was next door to the newspaper office.

‘I’m sitting in on this because I have quite a bit of local knowledge,’ he explained. ‘Help yourself, fru Van Rippe.’

She took a ham sandwich and examined it suspiciously.

‘I’d like to be back home by four.’

‘No problem,’ said Kohler. ‘Constable Vegesack will drive you home as soon as we’ve finished. Now, can you tell us a little about your life?’

‘My life?’

Fru Van Rippe stared at Kohler as if she hadn’t understood the question. As if she’d never had a life.

‘Yes please. In general terms.’

‘What. . What do you want to know? I’ve lived here in Lejnice since I was a child, but moved to Karpatz when I met Walter, my new husband. About ten years ago. I don’t understand what you are looking for.’

‘Just a bit of background, that’s all,’ said Kohler again. ‘I think you have another son, besides Tim — is that right? A bit older, I gather.’

‘Yes.’

She hesitated. Took a bite of her sandwich and chewed slowly, then washed it down with a sip of coffee. Kohler waited.

‘Yes, Jakob,’ she resumed. ‘I have him as well. He’s six years older than Tim. I had him early. I was only nineteen, but that’s the way it goes. But you know all this already, I’m sure. Wicker here at least-’

‘Of course,’ said Kohler, interrupting her. ‘You married Henrik Van Rippe that same year, we know that as well. So you were very young. How long were you married?’

Her expression became more strained. She’s going to refuse to cooperate soon, Vegesack thought.

‘He left me in 1975,’ she said, her voice more shrill now. ‘Jakob was fifteen, Tim nine.’

‘Left you?’ said Kohler.

‘For another woman, yes. That’s not something anybody needs to root around in.’

Kohler nodded.

‘Forgive me. Of course not. What was Tim like as a child?’

‘Why are you asking that?’

‘Please help us by answering the question, fru Van Rippe. I see that you haven’t taken your new husband’s surname.’

‘We’re not actually married. I thought about reverting to my maiden name, but I’d become used to Van Rippe.’

‘I see. And what was he like as a boy, Tim?’

She shrugged.

‘He was quite shy and retiring.’

‘Really?’

‘But he was nice. Tim was never any trouble, he always did what he needed to do, and liked to keep himself to himself. Jakob was different.’

‘In what way?’

‘He was more of an extrovert. He always had friends coming to visit him. Tim preferred to do things on his own.’

Vegesack glanced at his watch. What the hell are they going on about? he wondered. If they continued like this he would have to drive like the very devil if he were going to get fru Van Rippe back in Karpatz by four o’clock. He’d been given strict orders by Kohler to keep quiet during the interview, and only speak if he were spoken to. It seemed the same applied to Wicker, who was sucking his biro and looking sleepy.

‘You met your current husband in 1988,’ said Kohler. ‘Is that right?’

Fru Van Rippe nodded.

‘Walter Krummnagel?’

No wonder she didn’t want to take his name, Vegesack thought.

‘Yes.’

‘And you moved to Karpatz the same year?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you live alone between — ’ Kohler put on his glasses and consulted his notebook — ‘1975 and 1988?’

Fru Van Rippe’s face became strained again.

‘Yes.’

‘So you didn’t have any other relationship during that time?’

‘No.’

‘Really? An attractive woman like you?’

No answer. Vegesack wasn’t sure whether or not she blushed, but he thought so. Kohler made a short pause.

‘Why?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why did you live alone?’

‘Because I didn’t want a man.’

‘But surely you must have had a little fling? It sounds hard going to live alone for such a long time. I mean, your children were quite grown up, and-’

‘I chose to have it that way,’ said fru Van Rippe, interrupting him. ‘One has the right to live any way one chooses.’

Kohler took off his glasses and put them away in his breast pocket. Nodded almost imperceptibly at Wicker.

‘Well,’ said Kohler, leaning a little bit closer towards her. ‘I think you’re lying, fru Van Rippe.’

She grasped the arms of her chair. She was obviously thinking about standing up, but after a few seconds she sank back.

‘Lying? Why would I lie?’

She stared at Kohler, who, however, lowered his gaze and was contemplating his coffee cup. Clever, Vegesack thought. There followed five seconds of silence.

Then Wicker took over.

‘Fru Van Rippe,’ he said, slowly folding his arms. ‘Isn’t the fact of the matter that you had an affair with a certain person here in Lejnice. . At the beginning of the eighties, if I’m not much mistaken — eighty-two or eighty-three, or thereabouts?’

‘No, no. . Who would that have been?’

Her voice wasn’t quite steady. She let go of the armrests.

‘Who would that have been?’ said Wicker, feigning surprise. ‘You know that better than anybody else, fru Van Rippe. I don’t think it’s something to be ashamed of. . I don’t understand why you are sitting there denying it. We’re all human, after all.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said fru Van Rippe, and suddenly her voice was no more than a whisper.

A few more seconds passed.

‘I’m talking about Vrommel,’ said Wicker, leaning back in his chair. ‘Chief of Police Victor Vrommel.’

Edita Van Rippe didn’t answer. Instead she leaned slowly forward over the table and put her arms over her head.

Kohler loosened his tie and went to the toilet.

Moreno thought about Baasteuwel’s comment as she was waiting for her train.

Never being married is a blessing? According to Vrommel?

It didn’t feel especially uplifting. If not getting hitched meant you became like the chief of police in Lejnice, she’d better find herself a man in the twinkling of an eye, that was obvious.

Perhaps she should take up Mikael Bau’s discreet offer of a meeting in August, for instance? Yesterday’s dinner had been more or less problem-free, she had to admit. Irrespective of his bad sides, he didn’t seem to harbour grudges. Whether they were linked to a broken-down Trabant or a detective inspector addicted to work. She had to grant him that.

So maybe we could start all over again in August? she thought.

She made up her mind to postpone a decision until then. An invigorating cycling holiday would surely help her to make discerning judgements, and just now she had more than enough to think about.

Instead, she made a different decision.

She telephoned Munster.

Unfortunately he replied. She’d hoped he wouldn’t.

‘Well?’ she asked, noticing that she was holding her breath.

‘I’m afraid Lampe-Leermann was right,’ said Munster.

Neither of them uttered a word for a good ten seconds after that.

‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes,’ said Moreno. ‘I’m still here. So you know who it is?’

‘We have a name,’ said Munster. ‘I have no intention of telling anybody what it is until we’re one hundred per cent certain. Not even you.’

‘Good,’ said Moreno. ‘I feel ill, but keep that to yourself, for God’s sake.’

‘This isn’t pleasant,’ said Munster.

Silence again.

‘How are you coping?’ Moreno asked.

‘Hmm,’ said Munster, clearing his throat. ‘I didn’t really know what to do. In the end I got in touch with the Chief Inspector. Van Veeteren, that is.’

Moreno thought for a moment.

‘I think that’s what I’d have done as well,’ she said. ‘If I’d thought of it, that is. So you confronted this journalist together, did you?’

‘We certainly did,’ said Munster. ‘He started by laughing it off, but soon changed his tune. VV scared him so much that he ended up by paying for the beers. I wouldn’t have been able to manage it on my own.’

‘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.