The Weeping Girl (30 page)

‘Hang on a minute,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘Who exactly has been talking to all these people? Kohler and I have spoken to four or five people at most, but who dealt with this
girlfriend, for instance? And the relatives?’

Vegesack thought for a moment.

‘I interrogated Damita Fuchsbein,’ he said. ‘You couldn’t really say she was his girlfriend, by the way. Vrommel dealt with both his mother and his brother – the
mother as recently as yesterday, I believe. She’s been away.’

Baasteuwel slammed his fist down on the table.

‘Bloody hell!’ he snorted. ‘Vrommel deals with the mother! Vrommel deals with the brother! Vrommel deals with every bastard who might have something to hide . . . For
Christ’s sake! He’s running this show just as he wants to, the swine! Have you seen any transcripts from the interrogations he’s conducted?’

Vegesack looked embarrassed.

‘No . . .’ he said. ‘No, I don’t think he’s arranged for them to be typed out yet.’

‘Have you seen anything?’ said Baasteuwel, glaring at his colleague.

Kohler shook his head.

‘Calm down now,’ he urged. ‘Don’t get carried away again.’

Baasteuwel flung out his arms in frustration and sank back into his armchair. Moreno wondered if he often got carried away, and what might happen in that case. It seemed obvious that Kohler had
some kind of point in any case, as Baasteuwel didn’t bother to protest.

‘We must look into this,’ Kohler said. ‘Obviously. But I suggest we do so with a modicum of discretion. Does anybody think we have anything to gain by putting Vrommel up
against the wall straight away?’

Moreno thought about that. So did Vegesack and Baasteuwel: she could sense their minds working overtime. As far as she could judge neither of them would have anything at all against confronting
Vrommel with a 500-watt lamp shining into his face and a whole arsenal of accusations.

She certainly didn’t either, but that naturally didn’t mean that Kohler’s line was not to be preferred. Vrommel is presumably no thickie, even if he is a shit heap. Or a skunk.
But it would be better to have a little patience and give themselves a chance of ascertaining a few facts first.

It wasn’t at all clear what, but if there was anything they ought to be familiar with by now it was a lack of clarity.

Baasteuwel put her thoughts into words.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’ll give the bastard a few days to stew. It might be fun to see how he acts in the circumstances, if nothing else.’

Vegesack nodded. Moreno and Kohler nodded.

‘Let’s do that, then,’ said Kohler. ‘But what now? Perhaps we ought to share out the workload a bit?’

‘I agree,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘But what the hell should we do? All those who are on leave can go and buy themselves an ice cream if they’d prefer.’

That afternoon Moreno went to stay with Selma Perhovens. A promise was a promise, after all, and the landlady at Dombrowski’s had informed her firmly that new guests were
due to move into Moreno’s room that evening.

Perhovens hadn’t sounded as if she’d regretted making the offer when Moreno phoned her that morning. On the contrary. We women must stick together, she said, and the least we can do
is to offer one another a bit of hospitality in times of need. Besides, they had quite a lot to talk about, she thought.

Moreno thought so as well, and she had no hesitation in taking over the box room. Box room and guest room. The flat was in Zinderslaan, and was large, old and lived-in: four rooms and a kitchen
and high ceilings – far too big for a rather small mother and her slightly built daughter, but she had acquired it in connection with her divorce, so why not?

The daughter was called Drusilla, was eleven going on twelve, and seemed to have about twice as much energy as her mother. Which was saying something. When Moreno crossed the threshold, Drusilla
eyed her up and down, from top to toe.

‘Is she going to stay here? Cool!’

Moreno gathered that she wasn’t the first temporary guest in the box room. While a two-hour belt of rain drifted past, she devoted herself to playing cards, watching the television and
reading comics together with Drusilla. Not one thing after the other, but all at the same time. Simply gaping at the telly was too boring, Drusilla thought. And the same applied to playing cards.
You needed to have something to do as well.

Meanwhile Perhovens sat in her room, writing: there were two articles that needed to be written by half past four, she apologized for being a poor hostess, but what the hell . . .

She was afraid that she was also booked that evening, unfortunately, and at about five o’clock she took Drusilla with her and left Moreno to her own devices. They’d be back by about
eleven, all being well.

Or thereabouts.

‘You must stay for several days,’ insisted Drusilla as they left. ‘I shan’t be going to visit my cousins until next week, my friend is in Ibiza, and Mum’s so boring
when all she does is work.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Moreno.

When she was on her own she ran a bath. Luckily she had her mobile in the bathroom, for while she was lying there in the lime-blossom-scented foam, she had no fewer than three
calls.

The first was from her best friend Clara Mietens, who had finally got back home and listened to her answering machine. She had been on a buying trip to Italy (Clara owned and ran a boutique in
Kellnerstraat in central Maardam, selling clothing not produced by factories or sweat-shops), she’d met a man who wasn’t worth bothering about, and had nothing at all against a few days
cycling around Sorbinowo, as they had discussed earlier. Next week, Monday or Tuesday perhaps – she would need a bit of time to brief her stand-in. And to check and see if she really did
still have a bike.

Moreno explained – without going into detail – that she was also tied up for a few days, and they agreed to get in touch again on Sunday.

Was the idle life by the seaside invigorating? Clara had asked.

Moreno assured her that it was, and hung up.

Then Inspector Baasteuwel rang. He reckoned the pair of them ought to have a meeting in order to discuss things. In view of the latest development, he and Kohler had booked into Kongershuus, and
he was free that evening. So how about a bite to eat and a glass of wine? he wondered. And a bit of intelligent conversation about what the hell was going on in this godforsaken dump with that
goddamned chief of police.

Moreno accepted without needing to give the proposal any further thought. Werders restaurant, eight o’clock.

Two minutes later Mikael Bau rang. He was also free that evening and really needed to talk to her, he claimed. To sort out this and that, no hard feelings, but surely they could have a bite to
eat and a glass of wine, like civilized human beings?

She said that unfortunately she was tied up that evening, but that she’d have nothing against meeting him the next day, always assuming that she hadn’t gone home by then. He accepted
after a few seconds of reluctant silence. Then he wondered if she always behaved like this when she was having her period. Hiding herself away like a wounded lioness, telling all males to go to
hell.

She laughed and said that he didn’t need to worry about that. Her period was over, she was lying in lime-blossom-scented bubbles in a lion-footed bathtub and looking forward to new
adventures.

He asked what the hell she meant by that, but she didn’t know either and so they closed down the call having half agreed to meet the following day.

Inspector Baasteuwel had booked a table behind two dense artificial fig trees, and was sitting with a dark beer, waiting for her.

‘Why did you become a cop?’ he asked when they had completed their orders. ‘I’m not an idiot, but I can’t help asking that whenever I meet a new brother-in-misery.
Or sister.’

Moreno had seven different answers prepared for whenever she was asked that question, and selected one of them.

‘Because I thought I’d be good at it,’ she said.

‘Good answer,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘I can see that you’re not an idiot either.’

She noticed that she liked the man. She had hardly been able to think along such lines during that morning’s improvised meeting at Vegesack’s place, but now she had no doubt that she
was talking to a colleague she could trust. A man who could stand up for himself.

Slovenly and ill-mannered, to be sure – well, maybe not slovenly, but it was pretty obvious that he couldn’t give a toss about convention. His facial stubble was no doubt four or
five days old by now, and his grey-black, somewhat tousled hair had presumably not made acquaintance with a pair of scissors for at least six months. His eyes were deep and dark, and his crooked
nose at least two sizes too big. His mouth was wide and his teeth irregular. He’s as ugly as sin, Moreno thought. I like him.

But they were not sitting there in order to exchange compliments.

‘Has anything more happened?’ she asked. ‘During the afternoon, I mean.’

‘Yes indeed,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘Things might be starting to move at last. It’s a bit awkward to do things without Vrommel noticing, of course, but we’ll get round
that. It’s about time we had something to do as well – these first few days have been more like a wake than a murder investigation. But now we know why. Did you know that Vegesack calls
him the Skunk, incidentally? He happened to let it slip.’

Moreno said that she had also heard that, and smiled.

‘So far it’s just a question of laying out hooks, I’m afraid,’ Baasteuwel continued. ‘No bites yet, but they’ll come. Trust me: if Vrommel has any skeletons
in his cupboard, you can bet your sweet life we’ll dig them out. I’ve spoken to fru Van Rippe as well, only on the telephone mind you, and Kohler has had a chat with his brother. It
didn’t produce anything of interest, it seems. He’s six years older and doesn’t have much idea of what his younger brother got up to as a teenager. He’d already flown the
nest when it happened in 1983.’

‘What about Bitowski?’ asked Moreno. ‘The other name Mikaela got from Vera Sauger. Have you found him?’

Baasteuwel shook his head.

‘I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘Everybody’s on holiday at this bloody time of year. According to what we’ve been told he’s out in the archipelago with some
of his mates, but we haven’t been able to confirm that yet. A neighbour thinks he left on Sunday last week – that very same crucial Sunday, dammit . . . He’s unmarried as well, so
either he’s out there hitting the bottle, or he’s buried in the sand somewhere too. We’ll be questioning a few more relatives and acquaintances tomorrow.’

‘Have you any idea what sort of a person he is?’ Moreno wondered. ‘If he really did meet Mikaela Lijphart and had a talk to her, you’d have thought he’d have
reacted in some way.’

‘Not if he’s sitting back in a deckchair drinking sun-warmed beer,’ Baasteuwel suggested. ‘Not if he’s buried in the sand either, come to that . . .’

He popped a piece of meat into his mouth and chewed away thoughtfully. Moreno did the same, and waited.

‘Anyway,’ said Baasteuwel eventually, ‘I’ve ordered extracts from the court proceedings involving Maager. I should get them tomorrow. And a list of pupils who were
attending the school at the time – I suppose I’ll have to collect that myself, they don’t have many staff around at this time of year.’

Moreno nodded. Efficient, she thought. He’s not exactly sitting around twiddling his thumbs and ruminating. Not all the time, at least. For the first time during the weeks she’d
spent in Lejnice she felt that she could safely leave things in somebody else’s hands. That she didn’t need to accept responsibility for everything, but knew that things would get done
even so. It was a relief, no doubt about that.

Good, she thought. At last, somebody who has a clue about things.

That judgement was a bit hard on Constable Vegesack, she realized that; but you could say that Baasteuwel and Kohler were of a different calibre. A calibre that was probably necessary to
elucidate these obscurities and half-truths. And what it was now clear was at the bottom of it all.

They’ll solve this, she thought. I can wash my hands of it all.

‘Oh my God, I nearly forgot!’ said Baasteuwel as he swallowed a gulp of wine. ‘Maager! He had a phone call last Saturday – the staff at the home eventually realized that,
rang us and told us about it. Some stand-in or other took the call and went to fetch him. About twelve o’clock. Yes, the same day that he went missing. Last Saturday. What have you to say to
that?’

Moreno thought for quite some time before responding.

‘I’m not really surprised,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose they knew who the caller was?’

‘No. A woman, that’s all they knew. If she gave a name, they’d forgotten it. Who do you think it was?’

Moreno took another drink of wine while she thought about that.

‘Sigrid Lijphart,’ she said. ‘His ex-wife. But I’m only saying that because he hardly seemed to know anybody at all.’

‘Hmm,’ muttered Baasteuwel, who evidently hadn’t thought of that possibility. ‘What might she have wanted, then?’

‘To talk a few things over – it doesn’t need to be any more remarkable than that. They were married for six years, haven’t said a word to each other for sixteen, and they
have a daughter together who has gone missing. There was no doubt all kinds of things to talk about.’

‘Could be,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘But what might the telephone call – if it was her, in fact – have to do with his disappearance?’

Moreno shrugged.

‘I’ve no idea. Maybe they agreed to meet. He finds it hard to say anything at the best of times, and it probably wasn’t any easier on the telephone . . . Yes, she might well
have arranged to meet him.’

Baasteuwel raised a sceptical eyebrow while he sat there in silence, apparently weighing up this suggestion. After five seconds, he lowered it. It needs trimming, Moreno noted.

‘So why doesn’t she mention this when she phones and pesters the police?’ he wondered. ‘She rings at least twice a day, according to Vegesack. She’s a damned
annoying woman – I’ve listened to her tirades myself.’