The Weeping Girl

41

7 August 1999

Inspector Moreno had never set foot in The Society’s premises in Weivers steeg — or Styckargrand, as it was known locally — but she was not entirely ignorant about the place. It was generally known that it was the Chief Inspector’s favourite haunt — or at least that he used to sit there and play chess and drink beer several times a week. That was his habit when he was in charge of the Maardam CID, and there was no reason to believe that he had abandoned this custom since he had changed his profession and become an antiquarian bookseller three years ago.

She hadn’t seen Van Veeteren for over six months — not since that tragic business concerning his son — and it was with mixed feelings that she walked down the stairs leading from ground level to The Society. In normal circumstances it would have been interesting to meet him, to find out if there were any truth in the rumour that he was writing a book, for instance: but the reason why they were meeting this mild August evening was sufficient to keep at bay all forms of expectation and enthusiasm. Sufficient to keep such things light years away.

The room was large and whitewashed, she noted once she had got used to the semi-darkness that was normal down there. The ceiling was low, and several dark beams and pillars, and oddly shaped nooks and crannies, made it difficult to get an idea of how big it really was, and how many customers it held. Most of the tables were screened off, and diners sat in little booths — each of them, as far as she could see, fitted with a dark-coloured, heavy pine table and benches fixed to the floor. The bar was directly in front of the entrance, and looked like all other bars anywhere in the world. A notice chalked on a slate announced that today’s special was rosemary-lamb and fried potatoes.

She caught sight of Munster’s head and raised hand in one of the booths at the very back, and made her way there. Van Veeteren stood up and greeted her, then they all sat down. Moreno thought he looked younger than when she’d last seen him. More lively and vivacious: his tall, well-built body seemed to emit an aura of energy — an aura she remembered from several years ago, but which had been absent during the years before he finally resigned. She was sure he’d passed his sixtieth birthday, but if she hadn’t known that she would have guessed he was about fifty-five to fifty-seven.

When you’re a police officer you grow older more quickly than if you’re not, she thought. That was hardly an original observation.

‘Nice to see you again, Inspector,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But sad that it has to be in these circumstances.’

Moreno nodded.

‘How did he do it?’ she asked.

‘Rope,’ said Munster.

‘I see, rope,’ said Moreno.

‘Yes, he hanged himself. One might ask why he didn’t use his service pistol, but perhaps there was some kind of inbuilt respect, or a mental barrier. . Anyway, it’s a horrific story, obviously.’

‘Did he leave a message?’

‘No. Nothing. But we know why he did it, of course. That is, we know. We three plus that blasted journalist. But he’s not likely to say anything. Don’t you think?’

He looked at Van Veeteren, who was messing around with his ungainly cigarette machine.

‘Most probably not,’ said the Chief Inspector, looking at first one, then the other of his former colleagues for several seconds. ‘It might have been better if he’d scribbled a line or two, but it’s easy to say that. I mean, he had an ex-wife and a daughter to take into consideration. I’m not suggesting he should have come out with the real reason, but if you don’t leave any kind of message behind, you leave the field wide open for speculation. I don’t suppose any of us thinks that it would be a good thing if all the shit were to hit the fan? Bearing in mind his daughter, for instance.’

‘Nobody,’ said Munster, having first waited for eye contact with Moreno. ‘Certainly not me, that’s for sure.’

He produced a brown envelope and placed it on the table between them.

‘You might like to take a look at the pictorial evidence before we burn it.’

But he didn’t touch the envelope. Nor did Van Veeteren. Moreno hesitated for a moment, then opened it and took out a photograph. Obviously an enlargement: black and white, about 20x30 centimetres. It wasn’t difficult to see what it depicted.

A cafe table. On the pavement, night or evening: the photographer must have used a flash, the background was pitch black. Only two people were in focus, but there was something white, blurred, in the bottom right-hand corner — possibly a shoe or a part of a trouser leg belonging to somebody else. On the table — apparently made of rattan, with a glass top — were two glasses: one with a straw and a miniature paper parasol, the other an almost empty beer glass. Nothing more, not on the half of the table depicted in the photograph at least.

Two chairs. Sitting on one of them Detective Intendent deBries. Leaning back and wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and light-coloured shorts. Suntanned. On the other chair a girl of South Asian appearance. Young. Dark-haired. Aged about ten or twelve.

She was looking straight at the camera, her eyes wide open. Her lipstick and make-up couldn’t conceal the fact that she was young. The white man had his arm round her slender shoulders, and was looking at her from the side. There was a trace of a smile on his lips. She was wearing a very short, light-coloured dress with a flower pattern. Her right hand was resting on Intendent deBries’s left thigh. Quite high up. His legs were slightly apart, his shorts loose-fitting, and her hand disappeared into the darkness. It was not possible to misinterpret the picture.

‘Thailand?’ Moreno asked.

Munster nodded.

‘Phuket, this last January. He’s been there once before as well.’

Moreno thought, and recalled that it was true.

‘The photographer?’

‘A freelance journalist. Who evidently recognized him. Used a special lens, and deBries apparently didn’t notice a thing. But then, he was a bit preoccupied. .’

‘How old is his daughter?’ Moreno asked, putting the photograph back into the envelope.

Van Veeteren cleared his throat.

‘Twelve. About the same age as she is,’ he said, gesturing in the direction of the envelope.

‘They haven’t been in contact,’ said Munster. ‘I’ve spoken to Maria, his ex-wife. She reckons that since they separated he’s gone downhill — to be honest, she didn’t seem all that surprised. But she knows nothing at all about this.’

Downhill? Moreno thought. You could say that again. She was having difficulty in sorting out her own emotions. That had been the case ever since Munster had phoned that morning. On the one hand, disgust at what deBries had been up to; but on the other, dismay at the fact that he was dead. That he had taken the consequences so extremely quickly. After only a few hours, by all accounts. Munster had spoken to him on Friday afternoon, and he’d done it that evening, or that night at the latest. A good friend had found him the next morning: the door hadn’t been locked. No room for doubt. Nor for explanations or excuses.

But then, what was there to say? Moreno thought. Make excuses? How?

‘How did you find out?’ she asked, because Munster hadn’t told her.

‘That friend phoned me. DeBries had written my number on a scrap of paper on the kitchen table.’

Van Veeteren lit a cigarette. They sat in silence for a while.

‘I thought it must be him,’ Moreno admitted. ‘If it had to be somebody. He seemed to be the only possibility, as it were. Do the others know about this? The fact that he’s dead, I mean?’

Munster shook his head.

‘No. Not as far as we know, that is. We thought that we’d first. .’

He was searching for words.

‘That we’d consolidate our silence,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘If you don’t have anything against that. The simplest line to take is that you are just as devastated as everybody else. That you don’t say a damned word, and don’t circulate this photo around your colleagues. But perhaps you see things differently? From a woman’s perspective, perhaps?’

Moreno thought for a few seconds. She didn’t need any longer.

‘For the moment I’m prepared to put the man’s and the woman’s perspective on the shelf,’ she said. ‘There seem to be general human considerations which are much more important.’

‘I agree absolutely,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I just need to check that we all agree that I should take charge of this, okay?’

Moreno exchanged looks with Munster and nodded. Van Veeteren took the envelope, folded it in two and put it in his inside pocket. Checked his watch.

‘Might I have the honour of treating two old colleagues to a glass?’ he then asked. ‘My chess match isn’t due to start for another hour yet.’

Moreno left The Society at about nine o’clock together with Munster. He offered to drive her home, but she declined and decided to walk instead. It was still quite warm, and there were lots of people in the streets and the pavement cafes. She chose a longer route, via Langgraacht and Kellnerstraat. Over Keymerplejn and Windemeerstraat. She passed by the Chief Inspector’s antiquarian bookshop, and noted that they were closed for the summer, until the twenty-second.

As she was walking through the town she tried to think about Intendent deBries: but it hadn’t become any easier to conjure up some sort of retroactive image of him after the conversation with Munster and Van Veeteren. More difficult, in fact. But even so, there was one question she couldn’t avoid. Would she always remember him as the child-molester? Was this destined to be his epitaph? Would she ever be able to see any other sides of his character?

She hadn’t known him all that long, but she had respected him as a colleague. As they say. As a competent and efficient police officer. Surely she had? Did that sort of judgement really have to be tainted by this other business? Would the passage of time ever be able to make it possible to plead extenuating circumstances to counterbalance the condemnation she was feeling just now? She didn’t know.

And what about Arnold Maager? it suddenly struck her. She had never met him, only seen a photograph of him. What did she feel when she tried to conjure up an image of him?

It was the same as with deBries, she concluded. Difficult to feel any kind of sympathy or understanding. One might feel sorry for them — Maager’s punishment was out of all proportion to his crime: but these men, both deBries and Maager, should surely have understood that there was a cause-and-effect chain? That what they did would sooner or later have consequences.

Always. Somehow or other.

Or am I judging them too harshly? she wondered. Is this just the bitchiness inside me that I’m trying to elevate into some kind of morality?

What the hell! she allowed herself to mutter. There was no doubt a big difference between the sixteen-year-old in Lejnice and the eleven-year-old (or however old the girl actually was) in Phuket; but even so, she could understand those who maintained that male sexuality was the devil’s contribution to the Universal Plan. But that’s life.

As far as deBries was concerned, she was grateful that she wasn’t the only one in possession of all the details. Good that Munster knew all about it as well — no doubt there would be an opportunity to discuss matters further with him, once it became clear what the fall-out was. Perhaps also with the Chief Inspector.

But then she remembered something Reinhart had once said.

A human being is an animal with a very dirty soul — but an amazing ability to wash it.

As she passed the Keymer church the clock struck a quarter to ten. She registered that she had one whole day left of her leave. Great.

On Monday, it was back to routine. Great.