The Weeping Girl (36 page)

‘As I sat there in fru Maas’s disgusting flat, I started thinking seriously about what had really happened when her daughter died – all my dad told me is that it wasn’t
him who killed her – and it occurred to me that maybe I ought to try to talk to some more local people about it all, seeing as I was at the scene, after all. I regret ever having such an idea
– my God, how I regret that . . .’

‘Did it ever occur to you that the girl might have jumped off the viaduct rather than being pushed?’ Moreno wondered.

Mikaela shook her head.

‘I thought about that, but my dad didn’t think she had, and nor did fru Maas when I spoke to her.’

‘I see. Anyway, what did you do?’

‘I got a couple of names from fru Maas. People who had known her daughter, she claimed – I don’t really know why she gave me them. Most of the time she sat there going on about
how I was the despicable child of a murderer, and how I ought to be ashamed of showing myself in public, and lots more along those lines.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Moreno. ‘I’ve also met her.’

‘Have you really?’

Mikaela looked guilty for a moment – as if she were worried about having caused any trouble. Moreno urged her to continue.

‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I went to a woman called Vera Something . . .’

‘Sauger?’

‘Yes, that’s it. Vera Sauger. She had known Winnie Maas quite well, and had my dad as a teacher, it seems. I told her I believed that my dad was innocent, and then . . . well, then
she sort of shut up. Withdrew into her shell. I had the impression . . . No, I don’t really know.’

‘Go on,’ said Moreno.

‘I had the impression that she’d known that was the case all along. That he was not guilty. No, I don’t mean that she actually knew, just that I had that impression at the
time, when I was at her house. Do you follow me?’

Moreno said that she did.

‘Well, this Vera Sauger gave me a couple of new names, people I ought to talk to. There was one whose name I’ve forgotten, and the other was Tim Van Rippe. God, but I wish I’d
never been given those names . . .’

‘I understand,’ said Moreno. She was actually beginning to understand. At last. ‘How did that go?’ she asked.

Mikaela took another deep breath. Picked up her knife and fork, but then laid them down again on the table.

‘It was so awful,’ she said. ‘So horrendously awful, I’ll never be able to forget it . . . Never, never ever. I’ve dreamt about it every single night since it
happened. Several times every night, as soon as I fall asleep . . . All the time, nonstop, it seems like.’

For a moment it looked as if the girl was going to burst into tears, but she gritted her teeth and continued instead.

‘I phoned him. Tim Van Rippe, that is. I told him who I was and asked if he had time for a little chat. He sounded a bit odd, but I didn’t think so much about that . . . He said he
was busy until that evening, and we agreed to meet at a certain spot on the beach at nine o’clock.’

‘Nine o’clock in the evening?’

‘Yes. On the beach. I asked if he couldn’t make it a bit earlier, but he said he couldn’t. So I went along with nine o’clock. I checked the train times and there was one
at ten to eleven, so I’d be able to get home anyway. Then I tried to get in touch with that other person . . . Ah yes, Bitowski his name was: but no luck. So I spent all the afternoon lying
on the beach. It was lovely weather.’

With a stab of self-reproach Moreno recalled that she had also spent the same afternoon on the same beach. A few kilometres further north, but still . . . It was that first Sunday, she was a bit
hungover, on holiday and happy.

‘That evening I sat there waiting for him from about half past eight onwards. In the place we’d agreed on, quite close to that pier, whatever it’s called. Frieder’s Pier,
I think. There weren’t many people on the beach, but it wasn’t dark yet. He came at about ten to nine, and we started walking slowly along the beach, northwards. I did the talking and
he just listened. After a while we sat down – I thought it was unnecessary to walk, and my rucksack was quite heavy. I took it off and there was something wrong with it. One of the metal rods
that make it more stable had started to come loose and was poking out from the pleat that was supposed to keep it in place. I took it out altogether in order to try and put it back in properly
– or just throw it away, I didn’t really know which . . . By that time I’d almost finished talking, but I hadn’t said anything about my dad being innocent. I said so now,
and that’s when it happened.’

She bit her lip. Moreno waited.

‘I said: “I know my dad didn’t kill Winnie Maas.” Those were my exact words. He stood up while I was messing around with my rucksack. And when I looked up at him I
suddenly realized what had really happened. It all came to me as quick as lightning. He was the one who did it. It was Tim Van Rippe who murdered Winnie Maas. I knew it in a flash, and he must have
realized that I knew. I’ve thought about it a thousand times since then, and that’s how it must have sounded in his ears when I said that it wasn’t my dad who was guilty. He
thought I was accusing him of having done it . . . And I could see that he intended to do the same to me. He took a step towards me and raised his arms and I could see in his face that he intended
to kill me as well. He intended to kill me right there on the beach . . .’

Now she crumbled at last. She had started talking faster and faster towards the end, and Moreno wasn’t caught off guard. She hurried round the table and put her arm round Mikaela’s
shaking shoulders. She moved a chair up close and hugged her tightly. She could see in the corner of her eye how a young couple at the next table were looking at them with concern.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Mikaela when the worst was over. ‘I just can’t cope with talking about it.’

‘I can understand that,’ said Moreno. ‘But it’s good that you’re doing so in any case. Many people say that’s the best way of coming to terms with horrific
experiences. By experiencing them again.’

‘I know,’ said Mikaela. ‘Go and sit down on your own chair again. I haven’t finished yet.’

She smiled bravely, and Moreno returned to her chair.

‘I go in for fencing, have I told you about that?’

‘No,’ said Moreno. ‘I don’t think you have.’

‘Both épée and foil. I’m quite good at it, though I say so myself. So when he attacked me I stabbed him in the eye with the metal rod.’

‘What?’ said Moreno. ‘With the metal rod?’

‘Yes, the pin that was supposed to stabilize the rucksack. It was about this long.’

She demonstrated with her hands. Moreno gulped.

‘About thirty to forty centimetres. Made of metal. I was holding it in my hand, and it was a pure reflex reaction. I didn’t think at all. I just stuck my arm out and stabbed him
right in the eye. He fell – fell on top of me, in fact: it wasn’t intentional, it was a purely automatic reaction, but I killed Tim Van Rippe out there on the beach, and it didn’t
even take one single second.’

Her voice was trembling, but it held. Moreno could feel that she was getting goose pimples on her lower arms.

‘The rest was panic, sheer panic. I realized straight away that he was dead. It wasn’t all that dark. People were passing by about twenty or thirty metres away from us, but nobody
noticed anything amiss. If anybody looked in our direction they presumably thought that we were a courting couple larking about and having fun. So I dug him down. I suppose it must have taken an
hour or so, but it was getting darker all the time, and soon there was nobody else around at all. He lost his shoes when I dragged him into the hole, and I threw them away. I took his wallet and
his watch as well, I don’t know why . . . I threw them away later. When I’d finished, I left.’

‘When you’d finished, you left.’ Moreno echoed her words. ‘For God’s sake, Mikaela, you must have been scared to death.’

‘Yes,’ said Mikaela. ‘I was. I was so frightened I didn’t know what I was doing. It was as if I’d become somebody else . . . I walked and walked all
night.’

‘Walked?’

‘Yes, all night. Northwards. At seven in the morning I came to a greasy spoon cafe in Langhuijs, where I got a lift in a lorry up to Frigge. I had breakfast and slept in a park for a few
hours. All the time, I was dreaming over and over again about how I stabbed Tim Van Rippe in the eye. And how I buried him. When I woke up the first thing I thought was that I should go to the
police. But I didn’t dare. Instead, I withdrew all the money I had left in my bank account – just over a thousand, in fact – and bought a rail ticket to Copenhagen. I also nicked
another thirty from Van Rippe’s wallet before I threw it away.’

‘To Copenhagen? Why there?’

Had anybody checked with the banks? Moreno wondered. Evidently not. Careless. It shouldn’t have been difficult to track down the withdrawal.

‘I don’t really know,’ said Mikaela. ‘I’d been there on a school trip. I liked the place. And I had to run away to somewhere, didn’t I?’

Moreno didn’t answer.

‘I mean, I’d killed him. Murdered him and buried him. It was obvious I had to hide away.’

Moreno nodded and tried to look neutrally benevolent.

‘So then what did you do? Took the train to Copenhagen, presumably?’

‘Yes. The night train. I arrived the next morning and booked myself into a hotel called the Excelsior. Behind the railway station. A pretty seedy-looking district, but it was the first
hotel I came across. Then I wandered around the city or lay in my room until I felt I was going mad. So I rang my mother. I don’t know how many days had passed by then, and I’d hardly
had anything to eat from start to finish. I told my mother I was still alive, but I wouldn’t be for much longer if she didn’t collect my father – my real father – and come
to see me. I suppose you could say I threatened her, but it was true. I felt absolutely awful. Anyway, they turned up eventually.’

‘Your mum and dad came to your hotel in Copenhagen?’

‘Yes. I don’t know what day it was when they arrived. But it must have been more than a week after I’d killed Van Rippe on the beach. And I killed him again and again every
night, as soon as I managed to fall asleep . . . I suppose I was out of my mind for several of those days. But when my parents arrived, things became a bit better. And I made them talk to each
other. We were together for four or five days, but my dad wasn’t feeling at all well without his medicine and . . . well, in the end we drove back. Mum phoned the police in Lejnice every day
to ask about how the investigation was proceeding, so that nobody would suspect that the three of us were together. We agreed that we’d continue to say nothing about it, my mum and I. Dad
never really understood exactly what had happened, apart from discovering that we knew he wasn’t guilty of the murder of Winnie Maas. It was difficult to talk to him – and then
Baasteuwel gave us that horrific piece of news: I feel so heartbroken whenever I think about it. It’s so unfair that—’

‘Hang on a minute,’ said Moreno. ‘I’m not quite with you. Where does Inspector Baasteuwel fit into the picture?’

Mikaela blew her nose into her table napkin and continued.

‘We came back from Copenhagen,’ she said. ‘We dropped my dad off not far from the home, then Mum and I drove to Aarlach. We stayed for a few days in Aunt Vanja’s house
– she wasn’t at home, but Mum has the keys to her flat. We discussed what we were going to do – with regard to my stepfather, for instance: should we tell Helmut the facts of what
had happened, or not? In the end we agreed that we wouldn’t say a word about anything at all, not to anybody. It just wasn’t possible. And so we came home, it was a Monday evening, and
the next morning the bell rang – and it was that Baasteuwel standing there. Helmut wasn’t at home, thank goodness, because within an hour Baasteuwel had squeezed the whole story out of
us. And then he told us the worst thing of all.’

‘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.