The Weeping Girl

by Håkan Nesser

  She immediately received an answer from another voice inside her.

  It’s not a question of your job, it said. It’s a question of being considerate and sympathetic towards other human beings. A missing girl and a desperate mother.

  Mikael continued drumming his fingers. The evening sun broke through a cloud: she closed her eyes to shut out the almost horizontal beams and thought for a while.

  ‘Something odd happened at the police station,’ she said in the end.

  He stopped drumming with his fingers. Then burst out laughing.

  ‘King of the Royal Mounted,’ he said.

  ‘What the hell has King of the Royal Mounted to do with this?’

  He flung out his arms.

  ‘Never rests. Never sleeps. Why do women so seldom have a real literary education?’

  It took her five minutes to tell the story.

  That’s all there was to it. A girl crying on a train. An unknown father in a home. A worried mother in a police station.

  Something that had happened rather a long time ago.

  When she had finished, the ferry had just begun to dock and she noticed that Mikael had acquired a vertical furrow on his forehead that wasn’t usually there. It suited him, in a way; but she didn’t know what it signified.

  He had no comment to make before they had gone ashore; and once they had left behind all the pot-bellied and well-coiffured, most of his concentration needed to be directed at remembering where they had parked the car. It had been bright and sunny in the morning, but now the car park was enveloped by a damp mist that seemed to distort the perspective and change the circumstances in some strange way.

  ‘Over there,’ said Moreno, pointing. ‘I recognize that seagull on the shed roof.’

  Mikael nodded, and twirled the car keys round his index finger. Then it all began to come back to him. Slowly, like a patient suffering from dementia on a rainy Monday.

  ‘It must be . . .’ he said. ‘Yes, as far as I can remember, that must be it. What else could it be?’

  Moreno waited.

  ‘What the hell was she called? Take it easy now, it’ll come . . . Winnie something? Yes, Winnie Maas, that was her name. It must be . . . er, what did you say? How long ago?’

  ‘Sixteen years,’ said Moreno. ‘Are you saying you know about it?’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Mikael. ‘I think so. I’ve lived out here every summer, as I said . . . 1983, then? Yes, that must be it.’

  ‘She was two years old when her father vanished,’ said Moreno. ‘And she was eighteen last Friday. Or so she said,’

  ‘Winnie Maas,’ said Mikael again, nodding. ‘Yes, it was a pretty distasteful story. I was about the same age as she was. But I didn’t know her, we never really made close contact with the natives – that’s what we used to call them. With the occasional exception, of course. There were half a dozen of us cousins, quite enough company to keep us going, and more besides. If you wanted some time to yourself you had to lock yourself into the outside loo, or dig yourself down into the dunes.’

  ‘But who was Winnie Maas?’ asked Moreno impatiently. ‘I’m sorry, but I couldn’t care less about your cousins.’

  They found Mikael’s old Trabant between a glistening silver-coloured Mercedes and a glistening red BMW. Like an old jackdaw between two eagles, Moreno thought. But not quite dead yet. They clambered into the jackdaw. Mikael started the engine, producing a considerable cloud of smoke, and they started manoeuvring their way out of the car park. It seemed that he was trying to create some kind of dramatic pause before he answered.

  ‘Winnie Maas was a girl who was murdered that summer,’ he explained eventually as he switched on the headlights. ‘She was found dead on the railway line under the viaduct. We shall be passing over it in two minutes from now, so you can get an idea of what it’s like, Inspector.’

  He laughed, but seemed to notice that it sounded hollow.

  ‘Sorry about that. Anyway, she was lying dead down there on the railway line, and the murderer was sitting beside her. At least, that’s the official version.’

  ‘The official version? Do you mean there are other versions?’

  He shrugged. ‘Who knows? I recall that there was a lot of chatter about this, that and the other, but I suppose that’s only to be expected. I think it was the only murder there’s been out here for the last thirty or forty years . . . I seem to remember that there was a blacksmith who killed his wife with a crowbar at the end of the fifties. So it’s no wonder that there was a lot of speculation. And there was something else as well . . . Something scandalous. The whole town was going on about it . . . You know what it’s like.’

  Moreno nodded. ‘And who was the murderer?’

  ‘I can’t remember his name. But it could well have been Maager. In any case, he was a teacher at the local school, which didn’t make things any better of course. He’d had the girl as a pupil of his and . . . Well, it seems they had an affair as well.’

  ‘Really?’ said Moreno, watching the paedophile cloud welling up so quickly and strangely in her mind’s eye. But sixteen years of age? It must have been just inside the limits of the law, thought the police officer inside her. At that time.

  But not the laws of morality, objected the woman and the human being Ewa Moreno. At any time. Teacher and pupil, that was outrageous, even if it wasn’t exactly anything new.

  ‘I think she was pregnant as well. Oh, it was a pretty juicy story, when you come to think about it. And this is where it happened.’

  They followed a long bend and came up to the viaduct that ran over the railway line. A good twenty metres above it, Moreno reckoned. Unusually high, but no doubt there must be a reason for that. Mikael slowed down and pointed.

  ‘Down there, if I remember rightly. They say he pushed her over the edge from up here – the railing wasn’t as high then as it is now. I think they built this new railing as a direct consequence of what happened then, in fact.’

  He pulled up close to the railing, and came to a halt.

  ‘Mind you, she could have jumped over the railing of her own accord,’ he added.

  Moreno wound down the window and looked out. Tried to make a sober and factual analysis. The way it looked today it wouldn’t have been easy to heave a body over the railing and down on to the track below. Not, at least, if the body had been more or less alive and able to resist. The railing was now almost two metres high.

  ‘There’s no memorial plaque at least,’ said Mikael. ‘Thank God for that.’

  He released the clutch pedal and they started moving forward again. Moreno wound up the window, and noticed that she had goose pimples on her forearms.

  ‘I don’t remember what happened next – the outcome of the trial and so on. It must have been held in the autumn, after we’d moved back to Groenhejm.’

  ‘But he was the one who did it, was he?’ Moreno wondered. ‘That teacher. Did he confess?’

  Mikael drummed on the wheel with his fingers before answering.

  ‘Yes, it must have been him. What happened sent him round the bend. He was sitting beside the body when they found it, as I said. Didn’t try to run away. But they couldn’t get much sense out of him. But what does this business of the girl and her mother have to do with all this? Can you enlighten me? You’re not suggesting that there’s a link, are you?’

  Moreno didn’t answer immediately. She tried to run through everything inside her head one more time first, but it was difficult to draw any conclusion different from the one she’d drawn already.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But in a way I think it probably is. Mikaela Lijphart was going to visit her father, who for some reason she hadn’t seen since she was two. Something had happened then, that’s how she put it: something had happened. Her father was evidently in a care home just outside Lejnice. Everything seems to suggest it has to do with this Winnie Maas business. Do you know if he had any children, this teacher? A little daughter, for instance . . . Aged about two or th
ereabouts.’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Mikael. ‘How the hell could I know? But I do recall reading something about the court case later on . . . While it was taking place. Apparently it wasn’t possible to cross-examine him. Either he would break down, sobbing, or he’d just sit there as silent as the grave. I probably remember that because it was the exact phrase the reporter used: “as silent as the grave”.’

  ‘So he must have been a psychiatric case, irrespective of the verdict – is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Presumably. Sidonis, did you say?’

  Moreno nodded. ‘Do you know it?’

  ‘Only by name,’ said Mikael. ‘All children know the name of the nearest loony bin, don’t they?’

  ‘I’m sure they do,’ said Moreno. ‘So that explains that, then. What an uplifting story . . .’

  They drove in silence for a couple of minutes.

  ‘Ergo,’ said Mikael eventually. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong. The girl comes here to visit her father, the murderer, whom she hasn’t seen since she was two years old. She meets him, talks to him for a few hours, then disappears. Is that what you’ve been brooding over all day?’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Moreno. ‘It was you who told me her father could call himself a murderer – only a few minutes ago. How’s your short-term memory?’

  Mikael didn’t respond. Merely changed the rhythm of his drumming, and sat there in silence again.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ he asked just as a sign saying Port Hagen 6 flashed past Moreno’s window.

  Moreno thought for a few seconds. Then:

  ‘Turn back,’ she said.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Turn back. We must go and speak to Vrommel.’

  ‘Now?’ said Mikael. ‘It’s nearly half past nine. Can’t we leave it until tomorrow? I suspect he hasn’t read King of the Royal Mounted either.’

  Moreno bit her lower lip and pondered for a moment.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow it is.’

  16

  15 July 1999

  Vrommel was doing heel-raising exercises.

  ‘Achilles tendons and calves,’ he explained. ‘You’ve got to keep your body in trim as well. On a day like this I thought you’d be lying on a towel on the beach.’

  ‘This afternoon,’ said Moreno. ‘I just thought I’d ask if the Lijphart girl had turned up.’

  ‘Unfortunately.’

  ‘Unfortunately not?’

  ‘Unfortunately not.’

  ‘Could we sit down for a bit?’ suggested Moreno. ‘I actually met the girl on the train, and so perhaps—’

  ‘A routine matter,’ interrupted Vrommel. ‘Nothing you need worry about. If she doesn’t get in touch today we’ll send out a Wanted notice tomorrow.’

  He continued stubbornly raising himself up and down on his toes. After every raise he emitted a brief guttural grunt, and the colour of his face confirmed that he wasn’t cheating, but putting his heart and soul into it.

  He’s not compos mentis, Moreno thought, leaning on the edge of the desk. Another one of ’em. Ah well . . .

  ‘What do you think has happened?’ she asked.

  Vrommel sank down on his heels, and stayed there. Took two deep breaths and started head-turnings. From right to left. Left to right. Slowly and methodically.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  ‘Nothing?’ said Moreno. ‘But the girl’s disappeared.’

  ‘Girls do disappear,’ said Vrommel. ‘Always have done. They come back a little redder in the cheek.’

  What the hell . . . ? Moreno thought, but managed to twist her lips into something she hoped might be interpreted as a smile. Albeit a stiff one. And a brief one.

  ‘So you don’t think it has anything to do with that other business from a few years ago?’

  ‘Oh, you know about that, do you?’

  ‘A bit. It was pretty sensational, I gather . . .’

  Vrommel said nothing.

  ‘I’d have thought there might be some sort of link . . . Somehow or other.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘No? But wouldn’t it be an idea to talk to the staff at the Sidonis home even so? Ask how the meeting between father and daughter went . . . Where she went afterwards, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Already taken care of.’

  ‘Really?’

  Silence. Right, left. Breathing out, breathing in.

  ‘Vegesack went out there last night. Why are you poking around in this business, Inspector? Do you think I don’t know how to do my job?’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Moreno. ‘Of course not. It’s just that I was a bit taken by the girl. I met her quite by chance on the train when I was on my way here. You were the one in charge of the investigation sixteen years ago, is that right?’

  ‘Who else?’ said Vrommel. ‘What do you do in the way of physical training?’

  Talk about changing the subject, Moreno thought, and smiled genuinely.

  ‘Oh, I go jogging, and to the gym,’ she said.

  ‘Gym!’ snorted Vrommel. ‘A bloody silly newfangled racket.’

  Moreno decided not to take the bait.

  ‘What did Vegesack have to say?’ she asked instead.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ said Vrommel, twisting his head so far to the right that Moreno could hear his cervical vertebrae creaking.

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘He hasn’t delivered his report yet,’ said Vrommel. ‘He takes the morning off on Thursdays. Looking after his ancient mum, or something of the sort. Another bloody silly newfangled racket.’

  Moreno wasn’t sure if the chief of police was attacking motherhood itself, or the fact that there were still people who accepted a certain amount of responsibility for their parents. She also began to feel that it was becoming more and more difficult to remain in the same room as Vrommel without giving him a kick between the legs or suggesting he should go and take a running jump . . . So she cleared her throat and stood up instead. Thanked him for being so cooperative. So extremely cooperative.

  ‘No problem,’ said Vrommel. ‘Code of honour. Go and lie down in the sun now. We’ll do all that’s required of us, in accordance with the rulebook.’

  Kiss my arse, thought Moreno when she had emerged into the sunlight. Code of honour! In accordance with the rule-book! Oh yes! She didn’t doubt for one second that Chief of Police Vrommel knew precisely what to do in a situation like this.

  How to handle girls who disappeared then turned up again a little redder in the cheek.

  She crossed over the square and sat down at a table in the pavement area of Cafe Darm. Ordered a cappuccino and freshly pressed orange juice and continued to wonder what to do next – Vegesack wasn’t due back at the police station until one o’clock, she had already established that after a chat with fröken Glossmann in reception. Then she suddenly caught sight of Sigrid Lijphart sitting only a couple of tables away.

  She hesitated for a moment, then took her cup and glass and asked if she might join fru Lijphart.

  Of course. Fru Lijphart didn’t look as if she had slept very well that night – hardly surprising, after all. She seemed to have been crying, Moreno thought, repressing an impulse to place her hand on fru Lijphart’s arm.

  She wasn’t quite sure why she had repressed that impulse, but it seemed obvious that the explanation had to do with her profession as a police officer rather than her being a woman. It wasn’t always easy to reconcile these two natures side by side within her. She had thought about that before. Many a time.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked cautiously.

  Fru Lijphart took out a handkerchief and blew her nose.

  ‘Not so good,’ she said.

  ‘I understand,’ said Moreno.

  ‘Do you?’ said fru Lijphart. ‘Do you have children of your own?’

  Moreno shook her head. ‘Not yet.’

  Yet? She gave a start and wondered why that phrase had just popped out of her mouth. Noted tha
t whatever else it might be, it wasn’t a police expression – rather some sort of Freudian slip: so the balance between her natures seemed to have been restored.

  ‘I’m so worried,’ said fru Lijphart, scraping her coffee cup against the saucer. ‘So really, really worried. Something . . . Something must have happened to her. Mikaela would never . . . No, so many days have passed now.’

  Her voice broke. Her body shuddered violently – like the after-effects of an attack of sobbing, Moreno thought – then she straightened her back and tried to collect herself.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s so hard.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Moreno again. ‘If I can do anything to help, just say the word.’

  Fru Lijphart looked at her in surprise.

  ‘You are . . . Are you a police officer here in Lejnice?’

  Moreno smiled.

  ‘No, Maardam. I’m here on holiday. It’s just that I had to see the chief of police about a certain matter.’

  ‘I see.’

  There followed a moment’s silence, and Moreno had time to ask herself what that I see might mean. If her interpretation was right, it seemed to indicate a certain degree of relief that Moreno wasn’t a member of Vrommel’s normal staff.

  Very understandable, in that case.

  ‘Have you tried to do anything off your own bat?’ she asked.

  Fru Lijphart shook her head.

  ‘No. I’ll meet Vrommel and that constable of his at one o’clock . . . No, I don’t feel that I can go round talking to people in this town. Not after what happened. I’ve sort of turned my back on it all . . . Left it behind me. I simply wouldn’t be able to look it in the face again now.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know where Mikaela intended to spend the night, do you?’

  Fru Lijphart looked unsure.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ she said. ‘She just upped and left. Naturally . . . naturally it was a sort of punishment on her part – that’s how I interpret it, at least. Punishing me for not having told her sooner. And punishing Helmut as well, perhaps. He’s my husband, Mikaela’s stepfather. A sort of demonstration, I reckon. She simply said she was going to come here and meet him, then she left. But I know that she wouldn’t keep out of touch like this. I don’t suppose everybody knows their own children inside out, but I do.’