The Weeping Girl (11 page)

This has nothing to do with me, thought Detective Inspector Ewa Moreno. Absolutely nothing at all.

21 July 1983

‘What is this idea of yours?’ she wondered.

He didn’t answer. Just put his arm round her, and squeezed her gently. Then they started walking.

In towards the town centre at first, but when they came to the water tower he turned off into Brüggerstraat instead of continuing straight ahead. He was leading, she followed. As usual, she
thought. Perhaps she had hoped they would go to one of the cafes in Polderplejn or Grote Marckt, but that was not to be. In recent weeks – for the last two months, in fact, ever since she
told him how things stood with her – he had avoided places like that. She had noticed the change before, and had even raised the matter with him; he’d said he preferred to have her to
himself.

She both liked and disliked that response. She liked to lie around in the summery darkness with him of course, cuddling and kissing. And being caressed. She enjoyed caressing him as well, and
riding on him with her hands on his chest and his hard cock deep inside her. But it was pleasant sitting around in cafes as well. Sitting and smoking and drinking coffee and chatting with people.
Just sitting there, looking good and letting them look at her. Maybe that was why, she thought. Maybe it was because he knew she liked being looked at that he’d turned off towards Saar and
the football pitches instead of towards the town centre.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

‘We need to talk a bit,’ he said.

They came to the park behind the fire station, she couldn’t remember what it was called. Fire Station Park, perhaps? He was holding his right hand quite a long way down her hip, and she
suspected he was beginning to feel randy. It was quite a long time since that had last happened. He led her into the park, and they sat down on a bench well hidden behind some bushes. She
couldn’t see any other people, but knew that there were usually a few couples cuddling close to the playground at the other end of the park. She’d been there herself quite a few times,
but never with him. She couldn’t help smiling at the thought.

‘Would you like a drop of this?’

He handed her a bottle he’d taken out of his shoulder bag. She took a sip. Some kind of schnapps. It was strong, and made her throat burn. But it was also sweet, warmed her up nicely and
tasted of blackcurrants or something similar. She took another bigger sip, and placed her hand between his legs. Just as she’d thought, he already had an erection.

When they had finished they emptied the rest of the bottle and smoked a few cigarettes. They didn’t say much – he didn’t usually like to chat afterwards. She
began to feel quite drunk, but she had a strange feeling of seriousness deep down inside, and guessed that it had to do with Arnold Maager.

And with the baby.

‘What was this idea of yours?’ she asked again.

He stubbed out his cigarette and spat twice into the gravel. She realized that he was probably just about as drunk as she was. He’d been drinking quite a lot earlier as well. But he could
take more, of course: men always could.

‘Maager,’ he said. ‘You said you’d changed your mind. What the hell do you mean?’

She thought for a moment.

‘I don’t want to go through with it,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to deceive him like that. You and me . . . It’s you and me . . . No, I don’t want
to.’

She was having difficulty in finding the right words.

‘We need the money,’ he said. ‘That’s why we did it, can’t you see that? We have to put pressure on him.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But I don’t want to even so. I intend to tell him the truth.’

‘Tell him the truth? Are you out of your mind?’

Then he muttered something that sounded like ‘bloody bitch’, but of course, she must have misheard him. In any case, he sounded really angry with her: this was the first time it had
happened, and she could feel her stomach churning.

‘I don’t want to,’ she said again. ‘I can’t. It’s so wrong . . . Such a bloody lousy thing to do.’

He didn’t respond. Just sat there, kicking at the gravel without looking at her. They had lost contact with each other now. There was a vast chasm between them, despite the fact that they
had just made love and were still sitting on the same bench in the same bloody park. It felt odd, but she wondered if it would have felt like that if she hadn’t been drunk.

‘For Christ’s sake, it’s our baby,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to pretend that anybody else is involved with our baby.’

‘Money,’ he said simply. He sounded both tired and angry. And drunk as well.

‘I know,’ she said

She suddenly felt extremely sad. As if everything was going to pot at a very high speed. Half a minute passed. He was still kicking at the gravel.

‘We worked out a plan,’ he said eventually. ‘For Christ’s sake, you were with me all the way . . . You can’t just let the old bastard exploit you and then change
your mind. He must cough up – or would you rather have the randy old goat instead of me? He’s a bloody teacher, for God’s sake!’

She suddenly felt sick. Don’t throw up now, she told herself. Gritted her teeth and clutched her knees tightly. Breathed deeply and carefully, felt the waves coming and going. When they
slowly began to ebb away, she burst out crying instead.

At first he just sat there and let her sob away, but gradually he moved closer to her and put his arm around her shoulder.

It felt good, and she let the tears keep on coming for quite a while.

When you cry, you don’t need to speak or think, her mother had once told her, and there was some truth in it. Sometimes her hopeless mother could come out with something sensible, but not
very often.

The bells in Waldeskirke, where she had been confirmed two years ago, chimed three times: a quarter to one. He lit two cigarettes, and handed her one. Then he produced a can of beer from his
shoulder bag, and opened it.

He took several large swigs himself before passing it to her. She drank, and thought that the schnapps had tasted much better. Beer simply couldn’t make you feel warm inside. Strong
spirits and wine were much better, she’d always thought that. And they didn’t make you want to pee so much either.

They sat there in silence for a few more minutes, then he said:

‘I have an idea.’

She reminded herself yet again that this was exactly what he had said a few hours ago. Down on the beach. She thought it was strange that he’d been carrying this idea around for such a
long time without telling her what it was.

Mind you, this might be another one now.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Let’s talk to him,’ he said.

She didn’t understand what he meant.

‘Right now,’ he said. ‘You can give him a call and we can have a chat with him. And then we’ll see.’

He emptied the can of beer and opened a new one.

‘How many have you got?’ she asked.

‘Just one more. Well?’

She thought for a moment. She badly needed a pee. Really badly.

‘How?’ she said.

‘There’s a phone box over there.’

He pointed in the direction of the fire station.

‘Well?’

She nodded.

‘Okay. I must just have a pee first.’

The viaduct? she thought as she stood in the cramped phone box and dialled the number. Why do we have to meet him up there at the railway viaduct?

She got no further with that train of thought as she could hear the telephone ringing at the other end of the line, then somebody picked up the receiver. She took a deep breath, and tried to
make her voice steady.

I hope it’s not his wife who’s answered, she thought.

It was his wife.

13 July 1999

Sigrid Lijphart managed to get a room at Kongershuus, thanks to a cancellation – the phone call came while she was still in reception, wondering what to do. It was
the holiday season, and vacancies in Lejnice and district were just as hard to come by as usual. In a brief moment of weakness she had played with the idea of turning to somebody she had known back
in those days – in her former life, sixteen years ago and more – but she rapidly decided that doing so would be about as pleasant as a foul-tasting belch.

Mind you, there were quite a lot of possibilities for her to choose from. Quite a lot of people who would no doubt have received her with open arms. In order to demonstrate how much they
sympathized with the problems she’d had, and to find out a bit more about the details, if for no other reason.

But that was all in the past. She had left those people and those relationships – every single one of them – without a moment’s hesitation, and she had never missed them at
all. The very thought must have been no more than a piece of jetsam floating around in the back of her mind, that was obvious. The idea of making contact with somebody from the past. It would never
occur to her to make use of any of those ancient contacts that no longer existed in her consciousness, not in normal circumstances and not now either. It would have felt like . . . well, like
opening a box and being hit by a foul stench from something that had spent the last sixteen years rotting away. Ugh, no!

I’d rather sleep on the beach, she thought as she stepped into the lift. Thank goodness I got a room.

It was on the fourth floor with a balcony and a splendid view to the west and south-west over the dunes and the long, gently curving coastline as far as the lighthouse at
Gordon’s Point.

It was rather expensive, but she only intended to stay the one night, so it was worth it.

She phoned Vrommel and told him where he could contact her, then took a shower. Ordered a pot of coffee from room service, and went out to sit on the balcony.

It was two o’clock. The sun came and went – or the clouds, to be more precise; but it soon became so warm that she could easily have sat there naked if she’d wanted to. Nobody
could see her, apart from helicopter passengers and seagulls. Nevertheless, she kept her bra and pants on. And her wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses. As if there had been somebody watching after
all.

Now what? she thought. What the hell am I going to do now?

And panic came creeping up on her like a fever in the night.

Guilt?

Why should I feel guilty? she asked herself. She’d only done what she had to do. Then and now.

She had done what she knew was inevitable. Sooner or later. A child must know the truth about its parents. One side of it, at least. A child had a right to that, an incontrovertible right, and
there was no way round that fact.

Sooner or later. And her eighteenth birthday had been decided on long ago.

She thought about Helmut, and his grumbling the previous night.

About Mikaela and her immediate reaction, which had been just about what she had expected.

Or had it really been? Had she really thought that her daughter would take her mother’s advice and let the whole matter rest? Leave everything just as it was, untouched, like something
dumb and withered away and forgotten? Not even try to open the lid on it?

Is that really how it was? Had she really believed that her daughter wouldn’t try to find her real father?

Of course not. Mikaela was Mikaela, and her mother’s daughter. Mikaela has reacted exactly as she had expected. Just as she would have done herself.

Had she blamed her?

Had Mikaela blamed her mother for not telling her sooner? Or for telling her now?

No, and no.

Perhaps to some extent because she hadn’t been told the full story – but when she discovered all the facts she would no doubt understand. Definitely. And she had to leave something
for Arnold to tell her. Or at least, give him a chance to do so.

But what about Helmut’s grumbling?

Not worth bothering about. As usual.

So why this suffocating feeling of guilt?

She’d bought a packet of cigarettes to help her out if an emergency arose. She went to fetch them from her handbag. Went back out onto the balcony, lit one and leaned back on her
chair.

The first drag made her feel dizzy.

Arnold? she thought.

Is there something I owe Arnold?

A preposterous thought. She took another drag.

And started thinking about him.

Not a single telephone call.

Not a letter, not even a line, not a word.

Not from him to her, nor from her to him.

It suddenly struck her that if he were dead now, she wouldn’t have known. Or was there some kind of duty to inform? On the part of the Sidonis Foundation? Had she signed any documents to
that effect? Did they have her name and address? She couldn’t remember.

If he’d moved out of the home, perhaps Mikaela would never find him?

But he was still there. She’d rung yesterday to check. Oh yes, Mikaela had been there, and he was still there. Those were the facts.

Presumably he’d been sitting there in his own silent hell for all those years. Sixteen of them. Waiting. Perhaps he’d been waiting for her? Waiting for Mikaela to come? Or maybe for
her, his lost wife, to visit him?

But probably not. Most likely he had no memory of anything. He hadn’t been well when she took their daughter and abandoned him. There had never been any question of sending him to prison.
Not as far as she was aware, at least.

Mad. Completely out of his mind. He’d even wet himself in the middle of the legal proceedings – for some reason that was the detail she had remembered down to the tiniest detail. How
he’d just sat there in the middle of the courtroom and let it come gushing forth without moving a muscle . . . No, Arnold had crossed the border into insanity sixteen years ago, and there was
no way back.

No way, and no bridges. Just oblivion and a new inner landscape. The more barren and desolate the better, presumably.

She stubbed out her cigarette. Too many words, she thought. There are too many words whizzing around inside me, they’re preventing me from thinking clearly.