The Weeping Girl

by Håkan Nesser

  She stroked her hand gently over his handsome back, and wondered if she knew the answer already.

  Then she fell asleep.

  9

  The youth hostel was completely full. After some desperate negotiations, however, she was allowed to share a room with two young Danish Inter-railing girls and a middle-aged nurse who had been unable to find a double room to share with her husband.

  She met the nurse – thoroughly roasted after a long day on the beach – in the shower; the Danish girls were lying on their beds, writing picture postcards. They were both listening to music on their Walkman cassette players, and both nodded to her without removing their earphones.

  She suppressed an urge to burst into tears. Packed her belongings into the locker, made up the rickety extra bed, and went to the canteen for something to eat. When she had eaten three sandwiches, drunk a large Coca-Cola and munched an apple, she felt a bit better. She took out her little blue notebook and read through what she had written. She thought for a while about where it would be best to begin, and having made up her mind went to reception to ask for a little help. It was only a quarter to six, and she thought that with a bit of luck she might be able to make one of her intended visits that same evening.

  Things went even better than she had hoped. The two girls behind the counter spent quite a lot of time helping her, and when she got to the bus stop she found that the bus had just arrived, and was waiting for her.

  She flopped down on the seat immediately behind the driver and continued to think over how best to approach the meeting. She took out her notebook, then put it away again once she had memorized the main points. The bus set off, and she started to think back over her walk through the care-home grounds instead. And the letters she had been given by her father, and read with ever-increasing surprise. The feeling of unreality took hold of her like a sudden nightmare.

  Arnold Maager. Her dad.

  Dad. She tasted the familiar word with its new meaning, and at the same time tried to conjure up his lean figure in her mind’s eye.

  His somewhat hunched figure. That heavy, oblong-shaped head on its narrow neck. His similarity to a bird. His hands thrust deep down into his trouser pockets, and his shoulders hunched as if he were feeling cold as he trundled along through the heat of summer. And the distance . . . The distance between himself and his daughter he was keen to maintain all the time, as if bodily contact were something dangerous and forbidden.

  They had wandered back and forth through the grounds in this fashion for over an hour – side by side, half a metre apart. At least half a metre. Walked and walked and walked. It was quite a while before it dawned on her that she had no need to keep nagging at him.

  She didn’t need to question him and press him to explain things. He had already made up his mind to talk to her.

  To talk to her and explain in his own good time. In his own words. With pauses and repetitions and names she didn’t recognize. He had become more and more tense the further they had progressed – but of course, that wasn’t so surprising.

  Because the story he had to put into words for his daughter was not a pleasant one.

  Not pleasant at all.

  But he told her it all the same.

  The bells in the low whitewashed church struck a quarter to seven just as she was getting off the bus in the square in Lejnice. Three muffled chimes that made a flock of pigeons in front of her feet take off, then land again.

  She walked round the dried-out fountain, and asked for directions at the newspaper kiosk. She had found the address in the telephone directory at the youth hostel: it turned out to be a mere stone’s throw away, according to the lady behind the counter, glowing with summery sweat as she pointed down towards the harbour. Dead easy to find.

  She thanked her, and set off in the direction indicated. Down Denckerstraat towards the sea – a narrow street lined with old wooden houses leaning inwards and making the street seem even narrower. Then left into Goopsweg for about fifty metres. The house before the pharmacy.

  Two things happened as she walked those fifty metres.

  The first was that a black cat emerged from behind a fence and strolled across the street directly in front of her.

  The second was that for some unknown reason a tile fell off one of the roofs and crashed to the ground three metres behind her. It happened only a couple of seconds after the cat had disappeared behind another fence; a woman she had just passed was even closer to the spot where the tile landed, and gave a scream that frightened her even more than the tile had done. At first, at least.

  She remained standing for quite a while outside number 26, wondering what to do next. She smelled a whiff of the sea drifting up on the slight breeze blowing in from the shore. And the scent of cooking oil and oregano from the pizzeria on the corner. The house – the house in question – was a small block of flats, three storeys high with only two entrance doors. Typical 1970s style with tiny built-in balconies facing the street, and perhaps also on the other side, facing the courtyard.

  I’m not superstitious, she thought. Never have been, never will be. I don’t believe in that sort of silly thinking that’s a remnant from a less enlightened age . . . Those were words she must have borrowed from Kim Wenderbout, she realized, her gigantic social studies teacher with whom at least half the girls in her class were secretly in love. So was she.

  Silly remnants? A less enlightened age? Rubbish, she thought.

  But she remained standing there nevertheless. The bells in the square started to strike seven.

  The cat and the tile, she thought. Perfectly natural. She counted the chimes. And made it eight.

  She turned on her heel and returned the same way that she had come.

  Odd, she thought when she was sitting in the bus again on the Sunday morning. Why did I do that?

  A cat runs across the street and a roof tile falls down onto the road. What’s so special about that?

  She had slept like a log for nearly twelve hours. She’d gone to bed the moment she had returned to the youth hostel, and only woke up when one of the Danish girls dropped a dish on the floor at half past nine.

  She had a shower, then checked out and just caught the bus that left at twenty past ten. Breakfast: a pear and a pear soda. Plenty of variation there . . .

  But it had been odd, her behaviour the previous evening. Very odd. Not like her at all, that was even more obvious now in the cold light of day. Not like Mikaela Lijphart, the sensible, clear-thinking Mikaela Lijphart. Quite a few of her classmates had fallen for various forms of new-age, turn-of-the-century mysticism and that kind of dodgy stuff, but not her. Not the clever, reliable Mikaela. So there really was something remarkable about it, that business with the cat and the roof tile. And her reaction to it.

  What if new omens were to confront her today? How would she react now?

  Don’t be silly, she thought. Yesterday was yesterday. I was tired. Tired out and overwrought. Who wouldn’t have been? The day had been full of tortures. Full to overflowing.

  As she walked towards Goopsweg it struck her that she hadn’t rung home since leaving yesterday morning.

  She hadn’t promised to do so, in fact, but she always used to get in touch even so. She noticed a phone box in the little lane just past the pizzeria, and remembered that she had a new telephone card in her handbag. She slowed down and began arguing with herself.

  She really ought to. Why make her mum and Helmut worry unnecessarily?

  But then again, there was a case for doing that. There certainly was. Why shouldn’t she allow herself to be a bit egoistic?

  She was eighteen now, after all.

  Why not let them get used to taking the rough with the smooth? she thought. Why not delay the call for an hour or two? Or even all day?

  She started whistling, and passed by the phone box.

  The woman who opened the door looked very like a maths teacher she’d had for a term when she was in class eight or nine. The same long, horsey
face. The same pale eyes. The same straggling, washed-out, colourless hair. For a moment Mikaela was so certain it was that very same teacher she had the name on the tip of her tongue.

  Then she remembered that Miss Dortwinckel had committed suicide one Christmas holiday – by eating half a dozen broken crystal glasses, if rumour was to be believed – and she realized that it was a case of similar features, no more than that. A certain charisma.

  Or lack of charisma, rather. Perhaps our Good Lord had only a limited number of features to choose from – especially when it came to middle-aged women past their sell-by date.

  Where do I get all these thoughts from? she wondered. And how can they come so quickly?

  ‘Well?’

  The voice was sharp and unfriendly. Not a bit like that of Miss Dortwinckel, which she could recall quite clearly.

  ‘Forgive me. My name’s Mikaela Lijphart. I hope I’m not disturbing you, but I would be very grateful if I could have a little chat with you.’

  ‘With me? Why?’

  Now the smell of strong drink hit her. Mikaela automatically stepped half a pace backwards, and had to grab the handrail in order not to fall down the steps.

  Eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning? she thought. Drunk already. Why . . . ?

  Then it occurred to her that it could have to do with her father. With what her father had said. Could it be that . . . ?

  She lost the thread. Or dropped it on purpose. The woman was staring at her.

  ‘Why do you want to talk to me?’ she asked again. ‘Why don’t you say anything? Are you mentally deficient, or are you one of those bloody hallelujah loonies trying to recruit new souls? I don’t have a soul.’

  ‘No . . . Certainly not,’ Mikaela assured her. ‘Please forgive me, I’m just a bit confused – so much has happened in the last few days and I don’t really know what to do. It’s about something that happened when I was a little girl . . . Only two years old. Something I’m trying to get straight, and I think you might be able to help me. I don’t live round here. May I come in for a while?’

  ‘I haven’t tidied up yet,’ said the woman.

  ‘It’ll only take a couple of minutes.’

  ‘The home help didn’t come on Friday when she should have done, and as I said, I haven’t tidied up yet.’

  Mikaela tried to produce an indulgent smile.

  ‘I understand. It doesn’t matter – but we could go to some cafe or other if you’d prefer that. The main thing is that I can talk to you.’

  The woman muttered something and hesitated. Stood in the doorway swaying back and forth as she sucked in her lips and held on to the radiator.

  ‘What about?’ she said. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I’d prefer not to discuss it here on the doorstep. It’s about my father.’

  ‘About your father?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And who’s your father?’

  Mikaela thought for two seconds, then said his name. The woman breathed in audibly, and let go of the radiator.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ she said. ‘Yes, come on in.’

  Mikaela had no doubt at all that the home help hadn’t turned up last Friday – nor any other Friday for the last six months. She had never seen a filthier or more squalid flat. Couldn’t even imagine a worse one. Her hostess ushered her into a cramped kitchen that smelled of tobacco smoke and old fish, and quite a lot more besides. She pushed a pile of newspapers and advertising leaflets on to the floor so that they could sit opposite one another at the table – separated by a small, sticky area just big enough for two glasses, an ashtray and a bottle.

  Cherry brandy. She filled Mikaela’s glass without asking. Mikaela took a sip of the bright red, lukewarm liquid and almost choked over its strength and sweetness.

  The woman emptied her glass in one swig, and slammed it down on the table. Fished out a cigarette and lit it.

  Why can’t she at least air the place? Mikaela wondered. Why does she live cooped up in a rubbish dump in the middle of summer? Ugh.

  But of course, she hadn’t come to discuss hygiene and home comforts.

  ‘So, Arnold Maager,’ said the woman. ‘That bloody arsehole.’

  ‘He is . . . Arnold Maager is my father,’ said Mikaela.

  ‘So you claim. Tell me what you know.’

  Mikaela could feel the tears welling up in her eyes, but she gritted her teeth and managed to hold them in check.

  ‘Is it okay if I open the window a little bit?’ she asked. ‘I’m allergic to tobacco smoke.’

  ‘No windows are ever opened in my home,’ said the woman. ‘You were the one who wanted to come in among all the shit.’

  Mikaela swallowed.

  ‘Let’s hear it, then,’ said the woman, pouring herself some more cherry brandy. ‘You first. Let’s do things properly.’

  Mikaela cleared her throat, and began talking. She didn’t really have much to say, but she had hardly started before the woman stood up and walked over to the sink, which was piled up with unwashed crockery, empty bottles and every kind of rubbish you could think of. She rummaged around in a box, with her back towards her guest, and when she turned round she was holding her right arm straight out, pointing at Mikaela with something.

  It was a second before Mikaela realized that it was a pistol.

  The cat, she thought. The roof tile.

  10

  12 July 1999

  Monday was overcast, but the high pressure was very much present in the interrogation room at Lejnice police station. Lampe-Leermann was wearing an orange shirt with a prominent collar and the top three buttons unfastened. The sweat stains under his arms were hardly visible. He smelled strongly of aftershave lotion.

  Well, rather that than old garlic, Moreno thought as she sat down opposite him. Observed him closely before saying anything, and decided that on the whole he seemed to be more composed than he had been on Saturday, and she felt quite optimistic when she started the tape recorder.

  It was exactly 13.15 when she did so, and when she finally switched it off after a most productive session, one hour and four minutes had passed.

  So, a most productive session, and job done. At least, that was how she assessed it. Whether or not Franz Lampe-Leermann would agree was doubtful: but as far as she could judge she had squeezed out of him most of what he had to say. Three names that were completely new to the police, half a dozen that were known already, and information that was probably sufficient for the police to start proceedings against the whole lot of them. And quite a lot more information as well, the value of which she couldn’t be sure about at the moment, but which would most probably lead to more guilty verdicts. Unless the prosecuting authorities saw things differently, or other things needed to be taken into account – but there was not much point in speculating about that at this stage.

  And she had not made him any significant promises regarding such things as extenuating circumstances or dropping charges against him. Needless to say she had no authority to grant such concessions anyway – but when all was said and done it was the police who eventually decided what information came into the public domain, and what didn’t.

  So, a satisfactory outcome: she could grant herself that much. Reinhart could look after the mopping-up: Inspector Moreno had done all that was required of her, and more besides.

  ‘Miss Copper is looking pleased with herself,’ said Lampe-Leermann, scratching his hairy chest.

  ‘That’s because I can now get out of this dump,’ said Moreno.

  ‘So you wouldn’t fancy a little bit extra, then?’

  The implication – or possible implication – made her see red, but she kept control of herself.

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘A titbit. A little goody to round things off. But I need a fag first.’

  Moreno hesitated. Looked at the clock and wondered what the hell he had in mind.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked eventually.

  ‘Exactly what
I say, of course. As always. A titbit. But first a fag. There’s a time and place for everything.’

  ‘You can have five minutes,’ said Moreno. ‘But make sure you really do have something worthwhile to come out with, otherwise you’ll lose all your bonus points.’

  Lampe-Leermann stood up.

  ‘Don’t worry, young lady. I’m not in the habit of disappointing my women.’

  He knocked on the door, and was let out into the smoking yard.

  ‘It’s about that hack.’

  ‘Hack?’

  ‘That journalist. Don’t quibble about words, young lady.’

  Moreno said nothing.

  ‘I’m sitting on a fascinating little story. And I’m sitting on his name . . .’

  He tapped the side of his forehead with two fingers.

  ‘That’s what these negotiations are all about.’

  Moreno nodded and glanced at the tape recorder, but Lampe-Leermann made a dismissive gesture.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d need to record this. I’d have thought you’d be able to remember it without any assistance.’

  ‘Come to the point,’ said Moreno. ‘A journalist who knows something?’

  ‘Exactly. What do you think about paedophiles?’

  ‘I love them,’ said Moreno.

  ‘I have a certain amount of sympathy for them as well,’ said Lampe-Leermann, scratching himself under his chin. ‘There’s such a lot of cheap comments written about them . . . You might think they’re being victimized. And they’re everywhere, of course. Normal decent citizens like you and me . . .’

  ‘Come to the point!’

  Lampe-Leermann looked at her with an expression that was presumably meant to be fatherly understanding.

  ‘Everywhere, as I said. It’s nothing to be ashamed of – you shouldn’t be ashamed of your inclinations, as my little mum always used to tell me . . . But it’s such a sensitive subject nowadays, and people are up in arms about what’s been happening. Anyway . . .’

  He made a dramatic pause while he stroked his dyed moustache, and it struck Moreno that she’d never seen anything like this. Nor heard. Scumbag was far too complimentary a name for this creature. She clenched her teeth and kept a straight face.