The Weeping Girl Read online

  And even then it was some time before her brain was able to interpret what her sight had told her. She shut her eyes tightly in order to reinstate reality, then walked over to the table. The girl began to stand up, then changed her mind and sat down again. Then she gave a tentative smile. Very tentative.

  ‘Mikaela?’ said Moreno. ‘Mikaela Lijphart? Is it really you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the girl, with a nervous laugh. Moreno could see that her lower lip was trembling.

  ‘Inspector Baas . . . ?’ Moreno began, but at the same moment the penny dropped and it dawned on her that no, Inspector Baasteuwel would not be coming to the Vlissingen restaurant this evening. This was how he had planned it. This was what lay behind the inconsistencies of the previous evening’s telephone call.

  Good Lord, she thought, surely I ought to have caught on? Then she produced the biggest smile she was capable of and encouraged the girl to stand up so that she could give her a big hug.

  ‘I . . . I’m so glad to see you,’ she said.

  ‘Me too,’ Mikaela managed to say in return. ‘It was him . . . Inspector Baasteuwel . . . who said you would no doubt want to meet me. He said I should wait here for you. And he gave me some money so that I could treat you to a meal as well.’

  If it hadn’t been for the girl’s anxious voice, Moreno could have burst out laughing. But Mikaela felt anything but at ease, that was very obvious. They sat down. Moreno put a hand on her arm.

  ‘You’re worried.’

  ‘Yes. It’s so horrible. I can’t sleep at night.’

  ‘You realize . . . I expect you realize that I want to know what happened?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ Mikaela looked down at the table. ‘I know I have to tell you everything. I’m so grateful that you were so kind to me on the train, and I know that you’ve been working very hard ever since as well.’

  Moreno tried to produce another encouraging smile, but could feel that it had difficulty in establishing itself.

  ‘It wasn’t all that much of an effort,’ she said. ‘Shall we order so that we can eat while we’re talking, perhaps?’

  It took some time to place the orders. Moreno wondered if she had ever been in a situation like this before. She didn’t think so. Her feelings told her this was the case, although it was of course anything but clear what the precise situation was. She had spent days, nights, weeks, trying to understand what could have happened to this girl who had disappeared without trace, and now she was suddenly sitting face to face with her at a restaurant table. Without so much as a second’s warning. That damned Baasteuwel, she thought. No, she’d never experienced anything like this before.

  And Mikaela wasn’t well. She looked pale and out of sorts. It seemed pointless starting to talk to her about banalities – the weather and the wind, and if she’d been to the cinema lately – totally pointless.

  ‘Let’s hear it, then, Mikaela,’ she said instead. ‘You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. I think you said that the last time we met.’

  ‘No, it was you who said that,’ said Mikaela. ‘Where shall I start?’

  ‘At the beginning, of course. From when we said goodbye outside the station at Lejnice.’

  Mikaela raised her gaze and looked Moreno in the eye for a few seconds. Then she took a deep breath and launched into her account.

  ‘Well, at first everything went just as I’d expected it would, in fact,’ she began as she slowly clasped her hands on the table in front of her – as if it were an accomplishment she had just learned and was still finding it a bit difficult to achieve, Moreno thought.

  ‘I went to that home and met my father. It was . . . it was so odd, so horrific to enter a room and see a complete stranger who was in fact my dad. I’d thought about it and tried to imagine it, of course, but even so it felt much stranger that I could ever have believed. He was so small and alien and so . . . ill. I thought he looked like a bird. This is my bird daddy, I thought. But nevertheless I knew that it was him the moment I clapped eyes on him, it was somehow so obvious, I can’t explain it.’

  Her voice was a little steadier now, Moreno noticed, once she’d got going.

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘You know . . . the background?’

  Moreno nodded.

  ‘I didn’t tell you everything I knew on the train; I think I was a bit ashamed. My dad had an affair with a schoolgirl who was only sixteen – when I was two. It happened, and there’s nothing I can do to change it. The girl died, and he was found guilty of having killed her. But it’s wrong. That’s not what happened. He told me that day that it wasn’t him who pushed Winnie Maas down on to the railway line. It took him two hours to tell me. He gave me a letter he’d written, and it said the same thing. He was with the girl, but he didn’t kill her . . . He was ashamed something awful when he tried to talk to me about it, but I forced him to do it. He’s not strong, my dad: he’s like a bird. A sick bird. I feel so sorry for him . . .’

  She paused, and looked enquiringly at Moreno, who encouraged her to continue.

  ‘I was crying when I left. I went to the youth hostel, but it was completely full and I very nearly didn’t get a bed – but it turned out okay in the end. I didn’t really know what to do next, but I believed my dad when he said that he was innocent of the girl’s death and so after I’d thought things over for a while, I decided to try to trace the girl’s mother – if she was still in Lejnice – and tell her what I’d discovered. And maybe ask her a few questions as well. And that’s what I did, without any real problems. I met her on the Sunday – she wasn’t very nice: a bit of a drunk, I think. She even showed me a revolver she kept in order to defend herself – goodness only knows what she needed to defend herself against . . . I’m quite sure she didn’t believe me when I said my dad had been wrongly convicted. She called him a disgusting creep and a murderer and plenty more besides, and claimed that he had ruined her life. Obviously I felt sorry for her as well: it must be awful if your child dies in such a horrible way . . .’

  The meal was served, but Mikaela didn’t seem to want to stop, now that she was under way.

  ‘As I sat there in fru Maas’s disgusting flat, I started thinking seriously about what had really happened when her daughter died – all my dad told me is that it wasn’t him who killed her – and it occurred to me that maybe I ought to try to talk to some more local people about it all, seeing as I was at the scene, after all. I regret ever having such an idea – my God, how I regret that . . .’

  ‘Did it ever occur to you that the girl might have jumped off the viaduct rather than being pushed?’ Moreno wondered.

  Mikaela shook her head.

  ‘I thought about that, but my dad didn’t think she had, and nor did fru Maas when I spoke to her.’

  ‘I see. Anyway, what did you do?’

  ‘I got a couple of names from fru Maas. People who had known her daughter, she claimed – I don’t really know why she gave me them. Most of the time she sat there going on about how I was the despicable child of a murderer, and how I ought to be ashamed of showing myself in public, and lots more along those lines.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Moreno. ‘I’ve also met her.’

  ‘Have you really?’

  Mikaela looked guilty for a moment – as if she were worried about having caused any trouble. Moreno urged her to continue.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I went to a woman called Vera Something . . .’

  ‘Sauger?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. Vera Sauger. She had known Winnie Maas quite well, and had my dad as a teacher, it seems. I told her I believed that my dad was innocent, and then . . . well, then she sort of shut up. Withdrew into her shell. I had the impression . . . No, I don’t really know.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Moreno.

  ‘I had the impression that she’d known that was the case all along. That he was not guilty. No, I don’t mean that she actually knew, just that I had that impression at the time, when I was at her house. Do you follow
me?’

  Moreno said that she did.

  ‘Well, this Vera Sauger gave me a couple of new names, people I ought to talk to. There was one whose name I’ve forgotten, and the other was Tim Van Rippe. God, but I wish I’d never been given those names . . .’

  ‘I understand,’ said Moreno. She was actually beginning to understand. At last. ‘How did that go?’ she asked.

  Mikaela took another deep breath. Picked up her knife and fork, but then laid them down again on the table.

  ‘It was so awful,’ she said. ‘So horrendously awful, I’ll never be able to forget it . . . Never, never ever. I’ve dreamt about it every single night since it happened. Several times every night, as soon as I fall asleep . . . All the time, nonstop, it seems like.’

  For a moment it looked as if the girl was going to burst into tears, but she gritted her teeth and continued instead.

  ‘I phoned him. Tim Van Rippe, that is. I told him who I was and asked if he had time for a little chat. He sounded a bit odd, but I didn’t think so much about that . . . He said he was busy until that evening, and we agreed to meet at a certain spot on the beach at nine o’clock.’

  ‘Nine o’clock in the evening?’

  ‘Yes. On the beach. I asked if he couldn’t make it a bit earlier, but he said he couldn’t. So I went along with nine o’clock. I checked the train times and there was one at ten to eleven, so I’d be able to get home anyway. Then I tried to get in touch with that other person . . . Ah yes, Bitowski his name was: but no luck. So I spent all the afternoon lying on the beach. It was lovely weather.’

  With a stab of self-reproach Moreno recalled that she had also spent the same afternoon on the same beach. A few kilometres further north, but still . . . It was that first Sunday, she was a bit hungover, on holiday and happy.

  ‘That evening I sat there waiting for him from about half past eight onwards. In the place we’d agreed on, quite close to that pier, whatever it’s called. Frieder’s Pier, I think. There weren’t many people on the beach, but it wasn’t dark yet. He came at about ten to nine, and we started walking slowly along the beach, northwards. I did the talking and he just listened. After a while we sat down – I thought it was unnecessary to walk, and my rucksack was quite heavy. I took it off and there was something wrong with it. One of the metal rods that make it more stable had started to come loose and was poking out from the pleat that was supposed to keep it in place. I took it out altogether in order to try and put it back in properly – or just throw it away, I didn’t really know which . . . By that time I’d almost finished talking, but I hadn’t said anything about my dad being innocent. I said so now, and that’s when it happened.’

  She bit her lip. Moreno waited.

  ‘I said: “I know my dad didn’t kill Winnie Maas.” Those were my exact words. He stood up while I was messing around with my rucksack. And when I looked up at him I suddenly realized what had really happened. It all came to me as quick as lightning. He was the one who did it. It was Tim Van Rippe who murdered Winnie Maas. I knew it in a flash, and he must have realized that I knew. I’ve thought about it a thousand times since then, and that’s how it must have sounded in his ears when I said that it wasn’t my dad who was guilty. He thought I was accusing him of having done it . . . And I could see that he intended to do the same to me. He took a step towards me and raised his arms and I could see in his face that he intended to kill me as well. He intended to kill me right there on the beach . . .’

  Now she crumbled at last. She had started talking faster and faster towards the end, and Moreno wasn’t caught off guard. She hurried round the table and put her arm round Mikaela’s shaking shoulders. She moved a chair up close and hugged her tightly. She could see in the corner of her eye how a young couple at the next table were looking at them with concern.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mikaela when the worst was over. ‘I just can’t cope with talking about it.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ said Moreno. ‘But it’s good that you’re doing so in any case. Many people say that’s the best way of coming to terms with horrific experiences. By experiencing them again.’

  ‘I know,’ said Mikaela. ‘Go and sit down on your own chair again. I haven’t finished yet.’

  She smiled bravely, and Moreno returned to her chair.

  ‘I go in for fencing, have I told you about that?’

  ‘No,’ said Moreno. ‘I don’t think you have.’

  ‘Both épée and foil. I’m quite good at it, though I say so myself. So when he attacked me I stabbed him in the eye with the metal rod.’

  ‘What?’ said Moreno. ‘With the metal rod?’

  ‘Yes, the pin that was supposed to stabilize the rucksack. It was about this long.’

  She demonstrated with her hands. Moreno gulped.

  ‘About thirty to forty centimetres. Made of metal. I was holding it in my hand, and it was a pure reflex reaction. I didn’t think at all. I just stuck my arm out and stabbed him right in the eye. He fell – fell on top of me, in fact: it wasn’t intentional, it was a purely automatic reaction, but I killed Tim Van Rippe out there on the beach, and it didn’t even take one single second.’

  Her voice was trembling, but it held. Moreno could feel that she was getting goose pimples on her lower arms.

  ‘The rest was panic, sheer panic. I realized straight away that he was dead. It wasn’t all that dark. People were passing by about twenty or thirty metres away from us, but nobody noticed anything amiss. If anybody looked in our direction they presumably thought that we were a courting couple larking about and having fun. So I dug him down. I suppose it must have taken an hour or so, but it was getting darker all the time, and soon there was nobody else around at all. He lost his shoes when I dragged him into the hole, and I threw them away. I took his wallet and his watch as well, I don’t know why . . . I threw them away later. When I’d finished, I left.’

  ‘When you’d finished, you left.’ Moreno echoed her words. ‘For God’s sake, Mikaela, you must have been scared to death.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mikaela. ‘I was. I was so frightened I didn’t know what I was doing. It was as if I’d become somebody else . . . I walked and walked all night.’

  ‘Walked?’

  ‘Yes, all night. Northwards. At seven in the morning I came to a greasy spoon cafe in Langhuijs, where I got a lift in a lorry up to Frigge. I had breakfast and slept in a park for a few hours. All the time, I was dreaming over and over again about how I stabbed Tim Van Rippe in the eye. And how I buried him. When I woke up the first thing I thought was that I should go to the police. But I didn’t dare. Instead, I withdrew all the money I had left in my bank account – just over a thousand, in fact – and bought a rail ticket to Copenhagen. I also nicked another thirty from Van Rippe’s wallet before I threw it away.’

  ‘To Copenhagen? Why there?’

  Had anybody checked with the banks? Moreno wondered. Evidently not. Careless. It shouldn’t have been difficult to track down the withdrawal.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ said Mikaela. ‘I’d been there on a school trip. I liked the place. And I had to run away to somewhere, didn’t I?’

  Moreno didn’t answer.

  ‘I mean, I’d killed him. Murdered him and buried him. It was obvious I had to hide away.’

  Moreno nodded and tried to look neutrally benevolent.

  ‘So then what did you do? Took the train to Copenhagen, presumably?’

  ‘Yes. The night train. I arrived the next morning and booked myself into a hotel called the Excelsior. Behind the railway station. A pretty seedy-looking district, but it was the first hotel I came across. Then I wandered around the city or lay in my room until I felt I was going mad. So I rang my mother. I don’t know how many days had passed by then, and I’d hardly had anything to eat from start to finish. I told my mother I was still alive, but I wouldn’t be for much longer if she didn’t collect my father – my real father – and come to see me. I suppose you could say I threatened her,
but it was true. I felt absolutely awful. Anyway, they turned up eventually.’

  ‘Your mum and dad came to your hotel in Copenhagen?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know what day it was when they arrived. But it must have been more than a week after I’d killed Van Rippe on the beach. And I killed him again and again every night, as soon as I managed to fall asleep . . . I suppose I was out of my mind for several of those days. But when my parents arrived, things became a bit better. And I made them talk to each other. We were together for four or five days, but my dad wasn’t feeling at all well without his medicine and . . . well, in the end we drove back. Mum phoned the police in Lejnice every day to ask about how the investigation was proceeding, so that nobody would suspect that the three of us were together. We agreed that we’d continue to say nothing about it, my mum and I. Dad never really understood exactly what had happened, apart from discovering that we knew he wasn’t guilty of the murder of Winnie Maas. It was difficult to talk to him – and then Baasteuwel gave us that horrific piece of news: I feel so heartbroken whenever I think about it. It’s so unfair that—’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ said Moreno. ‘I’m not quite with you. Where does Inspector Baasteuwel fit into the picture?’

  Mikaela blew her nose into her table napkin and continued.

  ‘We came back from Copenhagen,’ she said. ‘We dropped my dad off not far from the home, then Mum and I drove to Aarlach. We stayed for a few days in Aunt Vanja’s house – she wasn’t at home, but Mum has the keys to her flat. We discussed what we were going to do – with regard to my stepfather, for instance: should we tell Helmut the facts of what had happened, or not? In the end we agreed that we wouldn’t say a word about anything at all, not to anybody. It just wasn’t possible. And so we came home, it was a Monday evening, and the next morning the bell rang – and it was that Baasteuwel standing there. Helmut wasn’t at home, thank goodness, because within an hour Baasteuwel had squeezed the whole story out of us. And then he told us the worst thing of all.’