The Weeping Girl

by Håkan Nesser

‘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. A
nd 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.

  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 arm
rests.

  ‘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 Münster.

  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 Münster.

  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 Münster. ‘I have no intention of telling anybody what it is until we’re one hundred per cent certain. Not even you.’