The Weeping Girl Read online

  ‘The worst thing of all?’

  ‘Yes. That he’d spoken to my dad at the Sidonis home, while Mum and I were in Aarlach. I don’t know how he managed to squeeze the information out of my dad – but then, he got my story out of us so I assume he’s pretty good at that kind of thing.’

  ‘He’s well known for it,’ said Moreno. ‘What was it that your dad told him?’

  Mikaela clenched her teeth and tried to blink away the tears that flooded into her eyes.

  ‘That he thought it was my mum who had killed Winnie Maas. That was why he said nothing. In order to protect us.’

  She fell silent. Moreno suddenly felt a burning sensation behind her eyelids, and she took a swig of mineral water to balance it out. Is that possible? she asked herself.

  But she could see immediately that it was.

  Not just possible. It was logical, and it all fitted together.

  ‘But of course, it all drove him round the bend,’ said Mikaela. ‘He really did go mad. But he’s always thought it was my mum who did it. All the time. She was the one who received the telephone call from Winnie that night . . . And found out about what had happened. She got furious, and went storming out into the night. And then when my dad found Winnie lying dead by the railway line, he thought . . . Well, you can understand the situation, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Moreno. ‘I understand.’

  And Van Rippe was protected by the chief of police, she thought. Who had an affair with his mother.

  Selma Perhovens had explained that on the telephone during the afternoon. And that the investigation, as far as she could understand it, was no longer being conducted especially intensively.

  For certain reasons.

  What certain reasons? she had asked: but Perhovens knew no more than that.

  Now, however, everything was clear. Crystal clear. The equation had worked out at last. Baasteuwel’s equation.

  The Skunk was going to get away with it.

  But Mikaela was also going to get away with it.

  And Winnie Maas’s murderer had received his punishment.

  Moreno noticed that she was clasping her hands so tightly that they almost hurt, and she had her mouth half open. She closed it, and tried to relax.

  Bloody hell! she thought. Have the gods finished their games now? Yes, it seemed like it, and the final result seemed to be a sort of draw, you could say. At least, that’s how Van Veeteren would have put it, she was sure of that . . . A Solomonic draw.

  ‘I intend to get my dad back on his feet,’ said Mikaela, breaking Moreno’s train of thought. ‘I’ll have a jolly good try, anyway.’

  ‘Good,’ said Moreno. ‘That’s certainly the right thing to do. But make sure you get back on your feet yourself first. It’s difficult to carry such a lot of this kind of stuff inside you – you ought to get some help, somehow or other.’

  Mikaela’s response came as a surprise.

  ‘That’s already organized,’ she said. ‘I’m going to see a vicar here in Maardam once a week. He’s a brother of Inspector Baasteuwel’s.’

  Moreno stared at the girl.

  ‘Are you telling me that there’s a vicar here in Maardam with the name Baasteuwel, with all its links with the devil?’

  Mikaela shook her head and managed a faint smile.

  ‘He’s changed his name. He evidently didn’t think it was appropriate for his job, so he changed it to Friedmann. That’s much more suitable.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ said Moreno. ‘Hmm. Shall we ask them to warm up our food in the microwave? I think it’s gone cold.’

  Mikaela looked at her plate and smiled a little more broadly.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘I’d forgotten I was hungry.’

  Mikaela was collected by her mother and stepfather outside Vlissingen, as they had arranged. Moreno suspected that Helmut had been brought along as a sort of safety measure – so that Moreno wouldn’t take it into her head to ask Mikaela’s mother any awkward questions. It wouldn’t have surprised her.

  For there was at least one unanswered question.

  The one about where exactly Sigrid Lijphart had been that night.

  Had she been up on the viaduct or not? Had she seen the girl’s body lying on the railway line before her husband did?

  And hence had she known that the murderer must have been somebody else? Somebody she had protected by keeping silent for so long.

  And had she possibly . . . well, could she possibly have known all along what Arnold had believed?

  Yes, Moreno thought. That question still needs to be answered. That one above all others.

  When all the implications slowly dawned on her, she started to feel sick.

  She would eventually be able to create a situation in which she could speak this suspicion out loud, but of course there was no reason to do it in Mikaela’s presence. No reason at all – the girl had travelled far enough into the heart of darkness as it was.

  ‘Let’s meet again some other time,’ she said instead. ‘Then it’ll be my turn to treat you.’

  After they had left Moreno went for a long walk to think over the whole business, and by the time she got home it was twenty minutes past eleven. She hesitated for a moment, then phoned Inspector Baasteuwel.

  ‘Congratulations,’ she said. ‘I mean it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘I mean it.’

  ‘A Solomonic solution. Was it you who persuaded the girl to keep quiet, or was it her mother?’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘Mostly Mikaela herself, in fact. Why?’

  ‘I’m not certain it’s right.’

  ‘Nor am I,’ agreed Baasteuwel after a pause. ‘But when I’d squeezed it all out of them, I explained that I was no longer involved in the case, and that I had only called in on them out of pure curiosity. I left the choice in their hands, and promised to help out if things became too difficult and she wanted to go public with it.’

  ‘Help out?’ wondered Moreno. ‘How would you do that?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘Cometh the hour, cometh the thought. But I reckon it would be pretty stupid to start talking, given her position. For Christ’s sake, she’s ensured justice all round. Well done! The murderer’s dead, RIP. We can take Vrommel some other time.’

  ‘I suppose there’s no doubt that it really was Van Rippe?’

  ‘No doubt at all. His mother banished any doubts there might have been on that score. She knew her son, and she was having it off with Vrommel at the time, and . . . Well, he made sure things turned out as they did. He’d had some kind of hold over that doctor for quite some time, it seems, but we didn’t poke our noses into that. Anyway, of course it was that bloody Tim Van Rippe who killed Winnie Maas, but that doesn’t mean it would be absolutely straightforward for the girl to plead that she killed him in self-defence. There’s a crystal-clear revenge motive, and she’s kept quiet about it for rather too long.’

  ‘And why was Van Rippe forced to kill Winnie Maas?’

  ‘There’s forced and forced,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘Necessity can always be argued about, but it’s quite obvious that he was responsible for her pregnancy. And that he very definitely – and successfully – tried to put the blame on Arnold Maager. It’s remarkable that he was actually present that evening when Winnie seduced her teacher. If you were to ask me to speculate, I’d say that he was involved in the plot and that they’d worked out in advance that they’d make Maager appear to be the father. You can say what you like about Winnie Maas, but she wasn’t much of a bright spark. But this is only speculation, of course.’

  ‘So what really happened that evening up on the viaduct?’

  ‘Van Rippe shoved her over the edge, I’d bet my life on it. But the question is to what extent it was planned . . . Why she phoned and who thought up the idea that she should do so. One possible set-up is that the girl no longer wanted to go through with the plan, and when Van Rippe caught on to that he arranged things the way they
turned out. He was bloody lucky, of course. He can hardly have reckoned with Maager going out of his mind and not saying anything at all. But in any case, there’s surely no reason to go on rooting around in it any more. Do you have any other comments?’

  ‘Just one question,’ said Moreno. ‘Was it necessary to bring up this business of Maager believing it was his wife who was the murderer? Bringing it up with Mikaela, I mean.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘I reckon I’m on pretty firm ground there. I think he needs a few plus points, that poor bloke. He’s only a shadow of a man, for God’s sake. But protecting his family is surely a noble thing to do. Young girls like noble actions. I must admit that I also thought it was the wife who’d done it. But only for a few days. Maager thought so for sixteen years.’

  ‘And she allowed him to think that?’

  Five seconds passed before Baasteuwel answered. She could hear him inhaling deeply on his cigarette.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘So you’ve noticed that as well.’

  Moreno thought for a while instead of responding. She felt she needed a little time in order to consider what Baasteuwel had said. No doubt there would be opportunities to come back to the subject, but she didn’t have any more vital points to raise.

  ‘Nice to have met you,’ she said eventually. ‘Is your brother the vicar as crafty as you are?’

  ‘He’s the clever one of the family,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘With a heart as big as hell. For a vicar, that is. You don’t need to worry about that aspect of things.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Moreno. ‘Then I don’t have any more questions. Good night, Inspector.’

  ‘Ditto,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘May the angels sing you to sleep.’

  41

  7 August 1999

  Inspector Moreno had never set foot in The Society’s premises in Weivers steeg – or Styckargränd, 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 Münster’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 Münster.

  ‘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 Münster, 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.

  Münster 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 Münster. ‘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 Münster 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. Münster 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 Münster 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?’

  Münster 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.’