The Weeping Girl (18 page)

It was all about a dead girl by the name of Winnie Maas. And a girl they hoped was still alive, Mikaela Lijphart.

And the latter’s father, Arnold Maager.

He had had sixteen years in which to prepare his story before he met his daughter. Sixteen years alone with his thoughts and his remorse, presumably.

Sixteen hundred wouldn’t have been enough, Moreno thought. Time heals many wounds, but not those caused by shame. She recalled a line of poetry, she couldn’t remember the
context:

She put the files back on the shelf. Glanced at the door to Constable Vegesack’s room and established that he was still asleep in his desk chair. His head leaning back and
his mouth open.

She had intended to have a word with him about his conversation with Maager at the Sidonis home, but decided to let it pass.

On purely humanitarian grounds. In case he and his girlfriend didn’t intend to sleep tonight either.

Instead she left the Lejnice police station, and crossed over the square to Vlammerick’s sweetshop to buy a peace-offering for her boyfriend (fiancé? bloke? lover?).

And to some extent also to balance out her own premenstrual blood sugar deficiency.

19 July 1999

The call came just after she had parked in the shade of an elm tree, and she thought twice before answering.

‘I just thought you’d like to know,’ said Münster.

For a confused second she had no idea what he was on about.

‘Know?’

‘Lampe-Leermann. That paedophile business.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Moreno.

‘I’ve found the journalist.’

How is that possible? Moreno thought. I’ve almost managed to forget all about the Scumbag after only a couple of days . . .

‘So there really was a journalist, after all?’

‘It seems so,’ said Münster, and sounded more sombre than she could ever remember him being.

‘Go on,’ she said.

Münster cleared his throat.

‘I’m in a bit of a jam,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit of a bugger, this business – as they say.’

‘Why are you in a jam?’

‘Well, maybe not in a jam – but the whole business is very dodgy. Lampe-Leermann wasn’t a problem: he told us the name in exchange for a guarantee that he would be sent to the
Saalsbach prison. I think he has enemies in a few of the other establishments, and felt threatened. Anyway, he gave me the name of that reporter, no beating about the bush.’

‘Why are you not telling me his name?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Münster.

‘Do you mean you don’t know what he’s called, or that you don’t know why you don’t want to tell me his name?’

‘I know what he’s called,’ said Münster.

‘Have you spoken to him?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

She suddenly felt that hand squeezing her throat again.
Paedophile? One of her colleagues . . .
? She started chanting their names to herself . . .
Rooth, Jung, deBries
. . .
Like some kind of mantra, or whatever . . .
Krause, Bollmert
. . .

‘He admits that he’s spilled the beans to Lampe-Leermann,’ said Münster. ‘While drunk, of course. He claims that he has the name of one of our officers. He has
pictures to prove it, and has been given ten thousand to hush it up – exactly what Lampe-Leermann told us, in other words.’

‘God help us,’ said Moreno.

‘Exactly,’ said Münster. ‘And there’s another little snag.’

‘What?’

‘He wants another ten thousand before he’ll tell us the name.’

‘What? What the . . . ?’

‘That’s what I thought as well,’ said Münster. ‘At first. But there’s a sort of black logic behind it. If he’s been given ten thousand to keep quiet
about it, wouldn’t it be immoral to talk about it for nothing? Unethical, as he put it.’

‘But if we pay him another ten thousand . . . ?’

‘Then the situation is quite different. Have you gathered how things stand?’

Moreno thought for a moment.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose I have. What a prat.’

‘Amen to that,’ said Münster. ‘What do you think I should do now? Go in to Hiller and ask for ten thousand in cash?’

Moreno didn’t reply.

‘How’s the weather where you are on the coast?’ Mün-ster asked.

‘Changeable. It’s sunny again today. Do you have a plan?’

‘Not yet,’ said Münster. ‘But I suppose I’d better make one. I just thought I ought to inform you first.’

‘Thank you,’ said Moreno.

A few moments of silence ensued.

‘It can’t be . . . You don’t think he was bluffing,’ she asked, ‘that damned hack of a journalist?’

‘Of course,’ said Münster. ‘I’m sure he is.’

‘There’s nothing worse than false accusations.’

‘Nothing,’ said Münster. ‘Apart from genuine ones. I’ll be in touch.’

‘Do,’ said Moreno.

A black dog was on a lead attached to a kennel, barking at her as she made her way to the office. Deep, muffled, echoing barks as if they were coming from out of a well –
an almost surrealistic contrast with the well-tended grounds and the pale yellow buildings, Moreno thought.

But quite a good image for her own black thoughts. Could it be Cerberus? A reminder of the abyss, and the path we shall all tread sooner or later? She wondered why they didn’t get rid of
the dog, or at least let it run around loose: it could hardly be an especially encouraging companion to the poor battered and lost souls who lived here, in any case.

She found her way to reception, and introduced herself to a red-haired woman in a white coat behind a glass counter. She explained why she was there.

‘Arnold Maager, er . . . yes . . .’ said the woman, smiling nervously. ‘I think you’d better have a word with fru Walker.’

‘Fru Walker?’

‘She’s in charge of the clinic. Just a moment.’

She pressed four buttons on the internal telephone.

‘Why do I need to talk to the boss? I just want to pay a visit to herr Maager.’

The red-haired woman blushed.

‘Just a moment.’

She took three steps away from the counter and turned her back on Moreno. She spoke softly into the receiver, then returned to Moreno blushing slightly less obviously.

‘Fru Walker will be pleased to see you straight away. The third door on the right over there.’

She pointed in the direction of a short corridor.

‘Thank you,’ said Moreno, and set off as directed.

Fru Walker was a dark-haired little woman in her sixties. She was sitting at a gigantic desk. Moreno thought she looked out of place. A bit like a pigeon on the long side of a football pitch.
She stood up, walked round half the pitch and shook hands when Moreno had closed the door behind her. There seemed to be something wrong with one of her legs – she walked with the aid of a
brown walking stick. Perhaps this slight handicap was why she had gone to the trouble of getting up to greet Moreno. To make a point.

She was noticeably worried. She seemed to have made an excessive effort to be welcoming, obviously so, and Moreno wondered why. She had telephoned in advance and informed them of her visit, but
she had only spoken to an answering machine. She had mentioned that she was a detective inspector, but it seemed unlikely that this fact would have put the wind up the care-home staff as much as
this woman seemed to be signalling.

But the explanation soon emerged.

‘Please take a seat,’ said fru Walker. ‘I think we have a little problem.’

‘Really?’ said Moreno without sitting down. ‘I just want to meet Arnold Maager for a short conversation. What’s the problem?’

‘He’s not here,’ said fru Walker.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Arnold Maager isn’t here in the care home. He’s gone away.’

Gone away? Moreno thought. Arnold Maager? Is she out of her mind?

‘What do you mean?’ she asked. ‘Where has he gone?’

‘We don’t know. He’s been missing since last Saturday afternoon. I’m really sorry that you’ve come here for nothing, but as you didn’t give us a number we
couldn’t ring you back.’

‘How exactly did he go missing?’ Moreno asked.

Fru Walker moved back to sit down at her desk.

‘We don’t know exactly when, or how. But it was during the afternoon in any case. He usually goes for a walk round the grounds in the afternoon, but he didn’t turn up for
dinner. On Saturday, as I said.’

‘And he said nothing about where he was going?’

‘No.’

‘Has herr Maager gone missing like this before?’

‘No,’ said fru Walker wearily. ‘Some patients do go away sometimes – they usually go home. But Maager has never left this place during all the years he’s been
here.’

‘Sixteen years?’ said Moreno.

‘More or less, yes,’ said fru Walker. ‘We’re very upset, and we had a meeting this morning to discuss what we ought to do next.’

‘Have you reported him as missing?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said fru Walker.

‘When?’

The head of the care home contemplated her clasped hands.

‘Two hours ago.’

Brilliant, thought Moreno, gritting her teeth so as not to say anything over-hastily. Absolutely brilliant! A depressive mentally ill patient goes missing for two whole days, and then they
arrange a meeting and decide to contact the authorities. Perhaps it’s time to take a look at routine procedures, as those in authority generally say in circumstances like these.

‘Another police officer was here last week and spoke to Maager. Do you know about that?’

Fru Walker nodded.

‘Yes, I know. Last Wednesday. And he’d been visited by his daughter a few days prior to that. Might there be some connection, do you think? He doesn’t usually have so many
visitors.’

Moreno ignored the speculation.

‘You say that Maager went missing on Saturday afternoon, is that right?’

‘Yes. He had lunch as usual at about half past twelve – so it must have been some time after that.’

‘Have you spoken to all the staff?’

‘Yes, and the patients as well. Nobody saw him after two o’clock.’

‘Did anybody see him leave?’

‘No.’

Moreno thought for a moment.

‘What did he take with him?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Clothes? Suitcase? Or didn’t he have anything with him?’

Fru Walker had obviously not thought about this aspect before, but she did so now and hurried round her desk once more.

‘We’ll look into that immediately. We have lists of all the things the patients have in their rooms. Most of them, at least. Follow me.’

‘All right,’ sighed Moreno.

Half an hour later most things had become clear. By all appearances Arnold Maager had not rushed away on the spur of the moment. When all the carers and assistants pooled their
observations, it became clear that missing from his room were a small shopping bag and several changes of clothes from his wardrobe. Shirts, underpants and socks, in any case.

There were no other indications, either in Maager’s room or anywhere else, so Moreno thanked everybody for their help and went back to her car.

I must talk to Vegesack without delay, she thought. I need to find out exactly what Maager came out with when Vegesack spoke to him.

Vegesack had made it abundantly clear that Maager hadn’t said very much at all. Moreno assumed that meant there was all the more danger that the constable might have let slip too much.
Regarding Mikaela Lijphart, for instance. That she seemed to have disappeared, for instance.

She flopped down behind the wheel. Wound down the side window and turned the ignition key.

Dead.

Not a sound from the starter.

She tried again. And again.

Not so much as a sigh.

I don’t believe it, she thought. I simply can’t believe it. Not just now.

How the hell? she went on to think. How the hell can anybody choose to drive around in an old East German car ten years after the fall of the Wall? A tin-pot old banger that ought to be in a
museum!

My dear Mikael, she hissed as she fished for her mobile in her handbag. You’re in a right old mess now. A right old bloody mess!

It was 19 July, and the sun was scorching down from a cloudless sky. Detective Inspector Ewa Moreno’s holiday had just entered its second week. She was in a car park outside a remotely
situated mental hospital two kilometres away from the sea, her period had just started, and Mikael Bau’s damned Trabant refused to start.

The first liberated woman in the history of the world? Is that how she had defined her position in life’s system of coordinates just a few days ago?

Huh.

‘The world is round,’ said Henning Keeswarden, six years and five months old.

‘As round as a ball,’ said Fingal Wielki, a mere four years and nine months old, but a keen promoter of everything that seemed to be new and modern. Especially if the one who
announced it was his adorable cousin.

‘There are people on the other side,’ said young Keeswarden. ‘Do you understand that?’

Fingal nodded enthusiastically. Of course he understood.

‘If we dig a deep, deep hole down into the ground, we’ll eventually come out on the other side.’

‘On the other side,’ agreed Fingal.

‘But we have to dig really, really deep. Then all we need to do is to climb down and come out of the hole on the other side. In China, where the Chinese live.’

‘China, Chinese’ said Fingal. He wasn’t quite sure where that was, nor who the Chinese were, but didn’t want to admit it. ‘We’ll have to dig deep, deep
down!’ he said instead.

‘Let’s get going,’ said Henning. ‘We’ve got all day. I once dug a hole that very nearly came out on the other side of the world. I was nearly there – but then
I had to go in and eat. I could hear them talking down there.’

‘Talking?’

Fingal couldn’t suppress his surprise.

‘The Chinese. I was that close. I placed my ear against the bottom of the hole, and I could hear them talking quite clearly. I couldn’t understand what they said, of course –
they speak a different language, the Chinese do. Shall we dig a hole now that goes all the way through?’