The Weeping Girl (16 page)

‘Ah well, yes,’ muttered Salnecki. ‘Single mother. No siblings. The mother took it very badly. She was one of the lynch mob, you might say. Calmed down a bit afterwards. But
she still lives here in Lejnice, I bump into her occasionally . . . Poor woman, she doesn’t seem to have any strength left. But now it’s my turn to ask if there’s any justice left
in the world. What are you after? There must be a reason for your interest in these unpleasant goings-on.’

Moreno hesitated. She had expected the question, of course. And she had several more or less plausible responses already worked out: but somehow or other it didn’t seem right to come out
with half-truths and evasive answers when faced with this outspoken and foxy old schoolmaster. Not tempting and certainly not right. Especially bearing in mind her thoughts about ethics.

She thought for a few seconds while taking a sip of the mixture of red and white. Of life and death. Then she told him the absolute truth.

‘In the name of all that’s holy!’ exclaimed Salnecki. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out,’ said Moreno.

While Moreno was talking to Salnecki, Mikael had been buying groceries in the market, which had been held in Grote Marckt every Saturday within living memory. That morning both
of them – especially Moreno – had been sceptical about swimming and sunbathing, and when a cold front began to move in from the south-west that afternoon, it came as a relief. Instead
of conforming with convention and lying stretched out under the unforgiving sun, they could devote themselves with a clear conscience to a ratatouille with curry, Indian cumin and thick cream, a
dish they duly enjoyed in the conservatory while the rain pattered against the windowpanes and the tin roof.

And an Italian red to wash it down. Malevoli cheese with slices of pear for afters. And a glass of old port wine from a dust-covered bottle without a label – Mikael claimed that it was
from a cellar that came into the family with the house in the twenties. Moreno didn’t know whether to believe him or not. But it was very good in any case. Like a sweet, deep-frozen fire.

They eventually ended up in rocking chairs on either side of the open fire, and Montezuma indicated that Moreno had begun to be accepted by coming to lie in her lap. As she sat there digesting
the food and stroking the lazy cat between its ears, Mikael took the opportunity of taking twenty-four photos of them.

‘Very pretty,’ he announced. ‘So very damned pretty. The fire, the woman and the cat.’

She felt too full to protest.

‘You think of her as your own child, don’t you?’ he said when he’d put the camera away.

‘Who? Montezuma?’

‘Mikaela Lijphart. You’re assuming a mother’s responsibility for her . . . Because you don’t have any children of your own.’

‘Tuppeny-ha’penny psychology,’ said Moreno.

Is he right? she wondered. Why the hell is he raising this now?

‘Tuppence-ha’penny is worth something. Or used to be,’ Mikael said. ‘What are you trying to convince yourself’? That there’s something fishy about this old
scandal?’

‘What do you think yourself?’ Moreno asked, aware of the tone of irritation in her voice. ‘Don’t you agree that it’s a bit odd for this girl to go missing at a
moment like this? Just after she’s visited her loony father for the first time? Just after she’s finally discovered why she’s had to grow up without him?’

‘Yes, I agree,’ said Mikael after a moment’s silence. ‘It’s just that I thought you’d had enough of stuff like this nagging you when you’re supposed to
be on leave, that’s all.’

‘Are you suggesting that I should just let it all drop?’

He suddenly looked quite angry. Teeth clenched and grinding – for the first time, she thought.

‘Rubbish,’ he said. ‘I think you’re doing the right thing. Absolutely. You don’t need to defend yourself, but it gets more complicated if you keep changing your
mind all the time.’

What the hell is he on about? Moreno thought, giving Montezuma a pat which sent her jumping down to the floor.

‘Now listen here,’ she said. ‘I’m not very receptive to all that psychobabble about my motives just now. My period’s due tomorrow or the day after, so we can blame
it on that. But in any case, I can’t just stop thinking about that poor girl. And if I’m thinking thoughts, I might as well do something about them as well. If you can’t take
that, just say so. But none of these half-baked comments, if you don’t mind.’

That’s blown it, she thought. I might as well pack my things and book into a hotel for tonight.

But he just looked sorry.

‘For pity’s sake,’ he said. ‘What are you talking about? Do you have to empty your brain before your period starts? I’m saying I think you’re doing the right
thing. If you’re not sure about that, stop projecting your doubts on to me . . . Because that’s exactly what you’re doing. Now, where were we? What did Mikaela Lijphart do after
she’d visited her father at the Sidonis home?’

‘Booked herself into the youth hostel,’ said Moreno.

Thank goodness I don’t have to pack my things, she thought.

‘And then?’

‘She took the bus into Lejnice and back. On Saturday evening.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Then she took the bus again on Sunday. Into town. And since then there’s been no sign of her.’

Mikael nodded.

‘Any response to the Wanted notice?’

‘It only went out this morning,’ said Moreno. ‘If anybody’s seen her, the police ought to know by now. But Vegesack did say he’d ring . . .’

Mikael looked at the clock.

‘Why don’t you ring and ask?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Moreno. ‘I’ve eaten too much.’

It took quite a while to get through to Chief of Police Vrommel, since he was in the shower after an 8-kilometre jog.

These details were in the recorded message on his answering machine, and twenty minutes later he responded. Newly scrubbed, fresh and fragrant, one could assume. And well stretched. Moreno came
straight to the point and asked if the Wanted notice regarding Mikaela Lijphart had produced any results.

‘Negative,’ said Vrommel.

‘Do you mean nothing?’ Moreno wondered.

‘As I said,’ said Vrommel. ‘Negative.’

‘So didn’t anybody see her on Sunday?’

‘Nobody who has contacted us,’ said the chief of police. ‘Where I am it’s Saturday evening. Don’t you have anything better to do while you’re on leave,
Inspector?’

‘Lots,’ said Moreno, and hung up.

Forty-five minutes and one-and-a-half glasses of port later she telephoned Constable Vegesack.

‘I apologize for ringing so late,’ she began.

‘No problem,’ said Vegesack. ‘My girlfriend’s on a flight due into Emsbaden at half past two tomorrow morning. I’m going to collect her and have to keep awake until
then.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ said Moreno. ‘We’ve just come home, my . . . boyfriend and I. I’d be very interested to hear what came of the Wanted notice. For Mikaela
Lijphart, that is.’

‘I’m with you,’ said Vegesack. ‘No, nobody’s taken the bait. Not today, at least.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘Well,’ said Vegesack, ‘there was a woman who turned up at the station this afternoon. She said she was responding to the Wanted notice, but it turned out that she had nothing
of any value to contribute.’

Moreno thought for a moment.

‘Nothing else?’

‘No,’ said Vegesack. ‘But tomorrow is another day.’

‘I hope so,’ said Moreno. ‘I wonder if I could ask a favour of you.’

‘You don’t say,’ said Vegesack. ‘What exactly?’

‘Well,’ said Moreno, ‘I’d like to take a look at the interrogation records of the Maager case. I assume you still have them?’

‘I assume so,’ said Vegesack. ‘There are loads of shelves full of files – I take it that what you are after is in one of them. Just call in and take a look.’

Moreno waited for three seconds.

‘Another thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘Could we do this without involving the chief of police? He doesn’t seem too pleased at the thought of my poking my nose into this case.’

‘Of course,’ said Vegesack, and she could hear from his tone of voice that if there was anything in this world that didn’t worry him in the slightest, it was going behind his
boss’s back. She couldn’t help but sympathize with him.

In any case, as it was a matter of Sunday morning (Vegesack pointed out) the chances of the chief of police turning up in the station were less than a thousand to one.

So there was no problem at all if Inspector Moreno wanted to call in. Some time between eleven and twelve, Vegesack suggested, when he would be there anyway, sorting out various matters.

‘So early?’ Moreno wondered. ‘Will you really manage to get enough sleep if you’re going to collect your girlfriend at half past two tomorrow morning?’

‘We aren’t actually intending to sleep,’ said Vegesack.

Moreno smiled. Thanked him and hung up.

So that’s that, she thought. A shot in the dark. But a shot even so.

That was another quotation, she was aware of that. She asked herself what the point was of all these set phrases that seemed to be imposing themselves on her thoughts.

No point at all, she concluded.

‘I must,’ said Sigrid Lijphart.

Helmut folded up the newspaper.

‘I’ve no alternative to doing what I’m going to do, and I can’t give you any more details. You must trust me.’

He took off his glasses, and made quite a play of putting them into the case.

‘I’ll explain everything for you afterwards. If anybody rings, tell them I’m just visiting a friend. And that I’ll get back to them.’

‘Who?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Which of your lady friends will be honoured by your fake visit?’

The ill-humoured irony in his voice was unmistakable. She noticed that his neck was red and blotchy, which is how it looked when his favourite football team was losing an important match. Or
when Soerensen in the butcher’s had made some unusually preposterous remark.

No wonder, she thought. No wonder that he was angry. She had excluded him from this whole business: perhaps that had been a mistake from the start, but it was too late to do anything about it
now. Much too late.

And without doubt the wrong time to stand here feeling sorry for him. They would have to put right whatever was still capable of being put right when the time came. Afterwards. If he really was
a rock, now was the time for him to live up to it.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m treating you unfairly, but I have no choice. Try to understand, if you can. Trust me.’

He looked at her with eyes of stone. Hard, but not malicious. Unswervingly rock-like. But also vacant, in some strange way, so that one might be justified in wondering if they expressed anything
at all . . .

‘Trust me,’ she said again. ‘I’m off now. I’ll phone.’

He didn’t answer, but she hesitated for another moment.

‘Is there anything you want to say?’

He put the newspaper down. Put his elbows on the table and rested his head on his hands. His eyes were still rock-like.

‘Find her,’ he said. ‘What I want is for you to bring her home.’

She stroked his cheek, and left him.

The first hour in the car was almost like a nightmare. Dusk was falling and it was raining, the traffic was dense and spasmodic. She was a poor driver in normal circumstances,
she was the first to admit that, but on an evening like this everything was seven times as bad.

I mustn’t have a crash, she thought, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles turned white. That would be too much. Nothing must happen, I really must bring this off.

Then everything fell to pieces. Tears came welling up as if from a hot geyser, and she was forced to drive onto the verge and stop. That was a risky manoeuvre, of course, but it would have been
even more risky to continue. She switched on the hazard warning lights, and started sobbing. Might as well let it all come out, she thought.

It took a long time, and when she set off again she wasn’t at all sure that she felt any better than she had done to start with.

For the second time in just a few days, she prayed to God, and for the second time she doubted very much if there was anybody listening. When she finally joined the motorway at Loewingen, she
made a deal instead.

If we come out of this unscathed, I’ll thank You on my bare knees.

Did you hear that, God? It’s a promise.

He was standing waiting at the crossroads, as agreed. When she caught sight of him in the combined light of the streetlamp and her headlights, she felt dizzy for a moment.

What’s happening? she thought.

Am I dreaming?

Why does it feel as if I’m falling down through space?

Then she gritted her teeth, slowed down and signalled to him with her headlights.

For the first half-hour he didn’t say a word.

Neither did she. They sat next to each other in the front seats like two strangers who know from the start that they have nothing to say to one another. Not even a common language in which they
can exchange politeness phrases.

Perhaps it was just as well. She hadn’t thought about whether they would have anything to talk about, but now that she began to think about it, it soon felt like an impossibility. After
all those years there was nothing to add.

Time passed had made no difference. That’s the way it was, full stop.

Just as it had been that night in July sixteen years ago. Immovable and fixed, once and for all.

We hardly ever made love after our daughter was born, she suddenly thought. I didn’t want to. I don’t think I ever wanted him. Strange.

But then, life was strange. Sometimes like a wind blowing through a birch wood in the spring, sometimes like a hurricane. Sometimes like a sick, emaciated animal that wanted nothing more than to
hide away and die in peace . . . Strange thoughts, she didn’t recognize them. As if they were somehow being generated by him, by the man who was sitting beside her again, the man she had
excluded from her life so long ago, and who had no possibility of finding a way back again.