The Weeping Girl (34 page)

‘You met your current husband in 1988,’ said Kohler. ‘Is that right?’

Fru Van Rippe nodded.

‘Walter Krummnagel?’

No wonder she didn’t want to take his name, Vegesack thought.

‘Yes.’

‘And you moved to Karpatz the same year?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you live alone between – ’ Kohler put on his glasses and consulted his notebook – ‘1975 and 1988?’

Fru Van Rippe’s face became strained again.

‘Yes.’

‘So you didn’t have any other relationship during that time?’

‘No.’

‘Really? An attractive woman like you?’

No answer. Vegesack wasn’t sure whether or not she blushed, but he thought so. Kohler made a short pause.

‘Why?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why did you live alone?’

‘Because I didn’t want a man.’

‘But surely you must have had a little fling? It sounds hard going to live alone for such a long time. I mean, your children were quite grown up, and—’

‘I chose to have it that way,’ said fru Van Rippe, interrupting him. ‘One has the right to live any way one chooses.’

Kohler took off his glasses and put them away in his breast pocket. Nodded almost imperceptibly at Wicker.

‘Well,’ said Kohler, leaning a little bit closer towards her. ‘I think you’re lying, fru Van Rippe.’

She grasped the arms of her chair. She was obviously thinking about standing up, but after a few seconds she sank back.

‘Lying? Why would I lie?’

She stared at Kohler, who, however, lowered his gaze and was contemplating his coffee cup. Clever, Vegesack thought. There followed five seconds of silence.

Then Wicker took over.

‘Fru Van Rippe,’ he said, slowly folding his arms. ‘Isn’t the fact of the matter that you had an affair with a certain person here in Lejnice . . . At the beginning of
the eighties, if I’m not much mistaken – eighty-two or eighty-three, or thereabouts?’

‘No, no . . . Who would that have been?’

Her voice wasn’t quite steady. She let go of the armrests.

‘Who would that have been?’ said Wicker, feigning surprise. ‘You know that better than anybody else, fru Van Rippe. I don’t think it’s something to be ashamed of .
. . I don’t understand why you are sitting there denying it. We’re all human, after all.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said fru Van Rippe, and suddenly her voice was no more than a whisper.

A few more seconds passed.

‘I’m talking about Vrommel,’ said Wicker, leaning back in his chair. ‘Chief of Police Victor Vrommel.’

Edita Van Rippe didn’t answer. Instead she leaned slowly forward over the table and put her arms over her head.

Kohler loosened his tie and went to the toilet.

Moreno thought about Baasteuwel’s comment as she was waiting for her train.

Never being married is a blessing? According to Vrommel?

It didn’t feel especially uplifting. If not getting hitched meant you became like the chief of police in Lejnice, she’d better find herself a man in the twinkling of an eye, that was
obvious.

Perhaps she should take up Mikael Bau’s discreet offer of a meeting in August, for instance? Yesterday’s dinner had been more or less problem-free, she had to admit. Irrespective of
his bad sides, he didn’t seem to harbour grudges. Whether they were linked to a broken-down Trabant or a detective inspector addicted to work. She had to grant him that.

So maybe we could start all over again in August? she thought.

She made up her mind to postpone a decision until then. An invigorating cycling holiday would surely help her to make discerning judgements, and just now she had more than enough to think
about.

Instead, she made a different decision.

She telephoned Münster.

Unfortunately he replied. She’d hoped he wouldn’t.

‘Well?’ she asked, noticing that she was holding her breath.

‘I’m afraid Lampe-Leermann was right,’ said Münster.

Neither of them uttered a word for a good ten seconds after that.

‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes,’ said Moreno. ‘I’m still here. So you know who it is?’

‘We have a name,’ said Münster. ‘I have no intention of telling anybody what it is until we’re one hundred per cent certain. Not even you.’

‘Good,’ said Moreno. ‘I feel ill, but keep that to yourself, for God’s sake.’

‘This isn’t pleasant,’ said Münster.

Silence again.

‘How are you coping?’ Moreno asked.

‘Hmm,’ said Münster, clearing his throat. ‘I didn’t really know what to do. In the end I got in touch with
the Chief Inspector
. Van Veeteren, that
is.’

Moreno thought for a moment.

‘I think that’s what I’d have done as well,’ she said. ‘If I’d thought of it, that is. So you confronted this journalist together, did you?’

‘We certainly did,’ said Münster. ‘He started by laughing it off, but soon changed his tune. VV scared him so much that he ended up by paying for the beers. I
wouldn’t have been able to manage it on my own.’

‘And he came up with a name, did he?’

‘He certainly did,’ said Münster.

‘And he’s not bluffing?’

‘It doesn’t seem so.’

‘I see.’

‘The only thing is that we haven’t confronted him yet. He’s on leave, and we thought we’d wait until he got back. I thought that would be best, and so did
the Chief
Inspector
.’

Moreno tried to recall which of her colleagues, apart from herself, were taking their holidays in July – but she stopped almost immediately.

I don’t want to know, she thought. Not until I have to.

‘Anyway, that’s how things stand,’ said Münster. ‘I just thought you ought to know.’

‘Okay,’ said Moreno. ‘Bye for now.’

‘TTFN,’ said Münster.

This time she had chosen to travel on the express, but she soon discovered that there were just as few passengers as when she’d travelled in the other direction, and sat
down in a window seat.

But of course, there was no pressing reason to leave the coast on a roasting hot Saturday like today. Two weeks, she thought. Exactly two weeks of my holiday have gone, and now I’m heading
back home again.

Not exactly rested and refreshed. Not a lazy fortnight by the sea. What the hell had she been doing? What was certain was that it hadn’t turned out as she’d expected in advance. She
had told her boyfriend (bloke? lover? stallion?) to go to hell, she’d played the amateur sleuth day and night, and she hadn’t achieved a thing. Not a damned thing.

She didn’t know what had happened to the weeping girl on the train.

She didn’t know who had killed Winnie Maas.

She didn’t know who had killed Tim Van Rippe.

And there was a paedophile in the Maardam police station.

Great, Moreno thought. A top-notch outcome, no question about it.

22 July 1983

When he had passed the school again a breeze blew up from the sea, and he stopped once more.

He couldn’t be sure if what had made him pause was the breeze, or the illuminated information board with the school’s name and a map with the functions of each of the buildings
pedagogically listed. But he stood there, staring at the board, and something moved inside him. A sort of diffuse feeling of security, perhaps. His place of work. As empty as a desert on a
summer’s night at half past one in the morning. But still?

He flopped down on a stone bench outside one of the long walls of the gymnasium. Elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.

What am I going to do? he thought. What the hell is going to happen now? Why am I sitting here? Bugger, bugger, bugger . . .

He noticed that a jumble of words was buzzing around inside his head. Not thoughts. Not action plans. Just a meaningless mish-mash of questions and desperate cries that seemed to be hovering
over an abyss that he was not allowed to look down into, not at any price; that he didn’t dare to look down into – a swirl of words that only served to keep everything else at a
distance. At a distance and out of sight. That’s all there was to it. It struck him that he was going out of his mind.

Home? he thought. Home to Mikaela? Why? Why have I stopped here? Why don’t I rush up to the viaduct and look her in the eye? Who? Who do I mean? Winnie? Or Sigrid? I’ve lost
everything in any case. I shall never come back here . . . Not to Mikaela, not to Sigrid, not to the school. I’ve lost. Just now I’ve lost everything . . . At this very moment I’m
losing everything on this damned bench outside this damned gymnasium. I knew it, I’ve known it ever since that damned evening, why didn’t I do anything about it, what shall I do now
when everything’s too late? Damn and blast! It’s too late. Damn and blast! Everything’s too late now . . .

He stood up. Keep quiet! he said to his thoughts. Shut up! He took a deep breath and tried to concentrate one last time. Last time? he thought. What do I mean, one last time?

He started walking to the viaduct again. Is she still there? Are
they
there? Did Sigrid go rushing
there
? Was that where she went? It must be nearly half an hour ago.

He increased his pace. Crossed over Birkenerstraat level with the cemetery and turned into Emserweg. And it was then, just as he came round the corner at Dorff’s bookshop and stationery
store and into Dorfflenerstraat that he saw her.

She passed the illuminated entrance to the sports field on the other side of the street, walking quite fast. Energetic and resolute steps. Sigrid, his wife. She didn’t see him, and he
repressed an impulse to shout out her name. Instead he stopped under the bookshop’s awning and remained standing there until she was out of sight. She’s been there, he thought.
She’s been up there and met Winnie.

He hurried across Dorfflenerstraat, continued past the sports field and came down to the railway line. Once he had skirted the brewery the viaduct came into view.

But in the distance. He still couldn’t see if there was anybody standing up there. Standing and waiting for him? He slowed down. What the hell could he say? Or do? What did she expect of
him? She had ruined his life. She’d crushed him by telling the facts to his wife some – he looked at his watch – thirty-five minutes ago. It was no more than that. Just over half
an hour since the telephone call. What the hell did she want of him now?

Pregnant? She was pregnant, with his child. He remembered what she’d said that night. ‘Come on, Sir . . . come, come, come, I’m on the pill!’

Sir
, she’d said. At the height of the act, while he was screwing her, she had actually used that word.

The pill? Like hell she’d been on the pill.

He started walking along the long, curving road and stupidly enough wondered if she wanted to go to bed with him again. That was a disgusting thought which must surely say something about the
kind of man he was. Deep down. And that it was probably quite justified for him to be going mad. I’m a filthy swine, he thought. Swine, swine, swine! – he could almost hear Sigrid
yelling those words. Have sex with Winnie Maas? Again? Let her ride him forwards and backwards and plunge his cock into her until she gasped in ecstasy, let her give him head while he stroked her
stiff little clitoris until she screamed . . . What the hell was he fantasizing about? His brain was racing like a car in too low a gear. What’s happening to my head? he thought. In any case,
she’s not there.

She wasn’t there.

There was nobody up there on the viaduct. Not a soul, not even that little devil Winnie Maas, and nobody else either. He paused and looked around. To both the north and the south. He had quite a
good view from where he was standing. He could see the whole town – the streets, the squares, the two churches, the beach and the harbour with its breakwaters and concrete foundations and
protected entrance. The little wooded area beyond the football pitches. Frieder’s Pier and Gordon’s Lighthouse furthest to the south . . . Everything enveloped by the grey darkness of
the summer night.

He looked down at the area below. Scanned the railway line from the distant station to where he was. There was something lying down there. Right next to the right-hand track, diagonally below
where he was standing. It wasn’t quite so dark there, and a street light projected its dirty yellow beam over the street and the railway line at that point.

There was something lying there. Something white and slightly blue and a bit skin-coloured . . .

It was a second or two before he realized what it was.

It took another second before he realized who it was.

5 August 1999

Constable Vegesack made the sign of the cross, and went in.

Chief of Police Vrommel was lying on the floor in front of his desk, doing leg-raises.

‘Just a moment,’ he said.

Vegesack sat down on the visitor’s chair and watched his boss. The raises were a bit on the strenuous side, it seemed, as Vrommel was groaning like a stranded walrus, and his shiny bald
pate glowed like a red traffic light. When he had finished he remained lying there for a while, recovering. Then he got up and sat down at his desk.

‘So you’re going on leave tomorrow, are you?’

Vegesack nodded.

‘Tomorrow, yes.’

‘The weather’s not up to much.’

‘No,’ said Vegesack.

‘It was better last week.’

‘Yes.’

Vrommel opened a desk drawer, produced a paper tissue and wiped his brow and the top of his head.

‘This Van Rippe case. It’s time to make a summary of where we’ve got to.’

‘Are we going to close it down?’ Vegesack asked.

‘Not close it down, no,’ said Vrommel. ‘One doesn’t close down murder investigations just like that. But I’m going to sum it up. It’s been hard going –
I don’t think we’ve got anywhere at all, have we?’

‘No.’

‘I think we’ll have to scale it down. We’ve been using extra resources for three weeks now. It’ll be normal routines from now on.’

‘I see,’ said Vegesack.

‘So we need a summary. A sort of report on what we’ve achieved so far. I thought we’d have a little press conference tomorrow morning. We need to report to our superiors as
well. Those girl guides from Wallburg haven’t been a lot of use.’