The Weeping Girl (27 page)

‘DeHaavelaar,’ said Perhovens. ‘Old deHaavelaar, he used to do everything in those days. Births, illnesses and post-mortems. I think he even dabbled in veterinary matters as
well. Anyway, it was his word that counted. As infallible as amen in church. Although he didn’t appear in court, that wasn’t necessary.’

‘Wasn’t necessary?’ said Moreno in surprise. ‘Why ever not?’

Perhovens flung her arms out wide.

‘I don’t know. But they just read out his verdict. The clerk of the court, if my memory serves me correctly. I suppose he had other matters to see to, deHaavelaar.’

The shadow of a suspicion flashed past inside Moreno’s head. From left to right, it seemed, and that very fact – that she noticed the direction – made the actual content
disappear. At least, that’s what it felt like. Just a symbol from an alphabet she had never learned. Remarkable.

And immediately afterwards came just as fleeting an image of Chief Inspector Van Veeteren, sitting at a desk and looking at her. Or rather, boring his gaze into her. Very odd, she thought.
Surely I’m a bit on the young side for brain haemorrhages?

‘I see,’ she said, taking a deep breath. ‘Is he still living in Lejnice, this doctor?’

‘DeHaavelaar? Yes on both counts. Still living and still in Lejnice. He must be getting on for eighty, I would think, but he struts around town scattering cynicisms left, right and centre.
Why do you ask?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Moreno. ‘It was just a thought that flashed past.’

Perhovens looked hard at her for a few seconds, apparently somewhat confused. Then she slammed the palm of her hand down on her notebook.

‘I’m going to write about this – do you have any objections?’

Moreno shook her head.

‘By the way,’ said Perhovens. ‘I think we had an agreement. That bloke on the beach, what’s his name?’

‘Ah yes, of course,’ said Moreno. ‘Van Rippe. His name’s Tim Van Rippe.’

Perhovens frowned again.

‘Van Rippe? Sounds familiar. But no, I don’t know who that is. Are you sure about it?’

‘Do you think I’d sit here giving the wrong name of a murder victim to a journalist?’ said Moreno.

‘Sorry,’ said Perhovens. ‘I forgot that I wasn’t talking to the local police mafia. To change the subject, what do you say to lunch? Maybe we can reach some definite
conclusions if we get some protein inside us.’

Moreno looked at the clock and nodded.

‘No harm in trying,’ she said.

Former Town Medical Officer Emil deHaavelaar lived in Riipvej, it turned out, in a large patrician mansion among the dunes. But he declined to meet her there – if it was
just about a bagatelle, as she maintained. He might possibly be able to exchange a few words with her at Cafe Thurm later in the afternoon, after a visit to his dental hygienist to have some tartar
removed.

At about four o’clock, if that was all right with her. Moreno accepted, hung up and returned to Selma Perhovens at the table where they were eating lunch.

‘A grumpy old curmudgeon?’ she asked.

‘An aristocrat,’ said Perhovens. ‘The last one, if you believe what he says. I interviewed him when his book came out a few years ago. About his forty years as Aesculapius here
in Lejnice – you know, the ancient Greek god of medicine and healing. That’s what he called his book, believe it or not:
Through Aesculapius’s Magnifying Glass
. An
incredible load of crap, but I was forced to read it. On the very edge of racial biology. Anyway, he lives alone, with a housekeeper and two greyhounds. Twelve rooms and a tennis court – no,
he’s not my type, full stop. How long are you staying, by the way?’

Moreno shrugged.

‘I was intending to go home tomorrow,’ she said. ‘But I want to talk to that Vera Sauger first – I have a meeting with her this evening. Assuming she turns up. I
don’t know why I’m poking my nose into all this stuff, to be honest. I can’t afford to stay in a guest house for ever. My police wage doesn’t allow much in the way of
extravagance, I’m afraid. Not even at Dombrowski’s.’

Perhovens gave her what could only be described as a grim clown-smile.

‘How very odd,’ she said. ‘I have to say that money is my biggest unrequited love as well, come to think of it. It always lets me down, is never there when I need it. If you
decide to stay on for a few more days you’re welcome to stay at my place. I’ve got a little girl aged eleven, but no man to get in your way, and you can have your own room. I mean
it.’

‘Thank you,’ said Moreno, and felt a sudden rush of sympathy for this energetic journalist. ‘Let’s see what things look like tomorrow morning.’

Perhovens gave Moreno her card, and checked her watch.

‘Oh hell! I’m missing the stallion prize-giving ceremony at the horse show in Moogensball. I must dash!’

After she’d left Moreno stayed behind at the table for a while, wondering whether or not to ring Vegesack. Just to catch up on the latest situation.

But after mature deliberation she decided to postpone that until the evening.

Dr deHaavelaar ordered a cognac and a glass of milk. Moreno restricted herself to a cappuccino.

‘It’s for balance,’ explained the doctor when the waiter came with the tray. ‘Bodily balance is all you need to worry about if you want to live to be a
hundred.’

She didn’t doubt for a moment that Emil deHaavelaar would live to be a hundred. He had another twenty years or so to go, to be sure, but he looked like a well-dressed grizzly bear. Tall
and broad-shouldered, and with the charisma of a spoilt film star. His white hair was thick and combed back, his moustache as dense as it was trim, and the colour of his skin suggested that he had
spent enough hours in the sun out among the sand dunes to last him through any winter, no matter how long it turned out to be. She remembered that Selma Perhovens had used the word
‘strut’, and wondered why.

‘Always assuming one might want to hang on that long in this mish-mash of a world,’ he added, swirling his glass of cognac.

‘Yes,’ said Moreno, ‘one might well wonder about that.’

‘What do you want?’ asked deHaavelaar.

Moreno hesitated for a moment.

‘Winnie Maas,’ she said.

DeHaavelaar slammed his glass down onto the table with a bang. I’ve put my foot in it, Moreno thought. Dammit!

‘Who are you?’ said deHaavelaar.

‘Ewa Moreno. As I said on the telephone. Detective inspector.’

‘Can I see your ID?’

Moreno dug it out and handed it over. He put on a pair of glasses with very thin and presumably extremely expensive frames, and examined it carefully. Handed it back and took off his
glasses.

‘Does the chief of police know you’re meeting me?’

She thought for a moment again.

‘No.’

He emptied his glass of cognac in one gulp. Washed it down with half a glass of milk. Moreno sipped her coffee and waited.

‘Why the hell do you want to come here and root around in something that happened twenty years ago?’

‘Sixteen,’ said Moreno. ‘I only wanted to ask a few simple questions. Why are you so agitated?’

‘I’m not agitated,’ he snarled. ‘I’m furious. You’re not even from Lejnice, you don’t know a bloody thing and I’m not going to answer a single
question. But what I
am
going to do is report this to the chief of police.’

He stood up, stroked his thumb and index finger rapidly over his moustache and marched out of the premises.

For Christ’s sake, Moreno thought. What did Selma Perhovens call him? An aristocrat?

During the late afternoon and early evening dejection began to dig its claws into her.

Perhaps it had to do with the rain showers that came sailing in from the south-west in a never-ending stream. She lay down on the lumpy bed and tried to read, but it was impossible to
concentrate on anything unconnected with Mikaela Lijphart and the major issues associated with her.

Or with herself.

What am I doing here? she wondered. What am I playing around at? A police inspector on holiday! Would a bicycle repair specialist spend his hard-earned leisure repairing bicycles for nothing? I
must be mad.

She phoned Clara Mietens, but her solid rock was still not at home. She rang the police station, but Constable Vegesack was out on official business. She rang the automatic weather forecast
number, and was informed that several more belts of rain were queueing up over the Atlantic, waiting to move in.

Great, Moreno thought as she started reading the same page for the fourth time.

At seven o’clock she tried Vera Sauger’s number for the first time. No reply. She tried again half an hour later, and continued at half-hourly intervals for the rest of the
evening.

After her half-past-seven attempt she considered going out for a meal, but decided not to. Yesterday’s dodgy minced-meat pie didn’t exactly encourage her to risk a repeat
performance. She did two hundred sit-ups and forty arms-raises instead, and two hours later she installed herself in the shower and tried to work out what on earth could have made Dr deHaavelaar so
extremely upset.

She failed to do so. Not especially surprising, seeing as she told herself it was an impossible task. There was no point in trying to draw conclusions when the grounds for doing so were so
inadequate. It was like trying to find footprints in a swamp. Hopeless. Even a confused police inspector ought to understand that.

And eighty-year-olds were not always logical, even if they looked like well-dressed grizzly bears and didn’t strut at all.

One more try, she thought as she dialled Vera Sauger’s number at a few minutes past eleven. If she doesn’t answer now, I’ll give up.

The answer came after three rings.

‘Vera Sauger.’

Thank goodness for that, Moreno thought. Please let me exchange a few words with you as well. Despite the late hour.

And preferably have something constructive to tell me.

She was yet another single woman of about Moreno’s own age.

Will there be any children at all in Europe ten years from now? she thought, as she was ushered into the flat in Lindenstraat. Or will all women have renounced the option of contributing to the
proliferation of the human race? What was it Mikael had said?
Embrace the cold stone of
freedom?

She shrugged off the uninvited questions and sat down at the kitchen table, where her hostess had served up tea and small reddish-brown biscuits that looked like nipples. Coming to visit her
hadn’t been a problem, despite the fact that it was almost midnight and that Sauger seemed to be badly in need of some sleep after five days and nights in the archipelago. When Moreno had
mentioned the name Mikaela Lijphart on the telephone, Sauger had interrupted her immediately and invited her over.

It’s better to look the person you’re talking to in the eye, Sauger had explained. Moreno had been of the same opinion.

‘So she’s still missing, is she?’ Sauger asked after pouring tea into the yellow cups with large blue hearts on their sides. From some Swedish interior design outlet, Moreno
guessed.

‘So you know about it?’

Sauger looked at her in surprise.

‘Of course I do. Why do you ask? Who are you, in fact?’

Moreno produced her ID and wondered how many times she’d already needed to do that this seemingly never-ending day. This was the third, she thought.

‘Are you new here in town?’ Sauger wondered. ‘I don’t recognize you. Not that I have much to do with the police, but still . . .’

‘I’m from Maardam,’ said Moreno. ‘I’m here on holiday. But I met the girl before she went missing.’

Sauger nodded vaguely.

‘So you don’t have any contact with the police station here?’

‘Only occasionally,’ said Moreno. ‘Why do you ask?’

Sauger stirred her tea slowly and looked even more bewildered.

‘Because you asked if I knew about it,’ she said.

‘Well?’

‘Of course I damned well know about it. I was at the police station to say my piece before I set off for Werkeney.’

Two awkward seconds passed, then Moreno remembered that Vegesack had said something amounting to what Sauger had said several days ago. That a woman had turned up in connection with the first
Wanted notice, but that it hadn’t led anywhere. Wasn’t that the case?

Yes, as far as she could recall. There’d been one woman from Lejnice and another from Frigge. And the one from Lejnice must have been this Vera Sauger who was now sitting opposite her,
popping a nipple-biscuit into her mouth.

It suddenly felt as if a rather large-scale short circuit had taken place inside Inspector Moreno’s head. The only thing that seemed anything like certain was that something must be
wrong.

And outside her head as well.

‘I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid I must have missed that,’ she said with an attempt at an apologetic smile. ‘What exactly did you have to report?’

‘That she came to see me, of course. I think it’s odd that you don’t know about it.’

‘You reported that Mikaela Lijphart had come here to see you?’ said Moreno. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Sauger.

‘That you spoke to her that Sunday, ten days ago?’

‘Yes.’

Moreno said nothing while the next question slowly took shape in her mind. It took a while.

‘And who did you report this to?’

‘Who to? To the chief of police, of course. Vrommel.’

‘I see,’ said Moreno.

That wasn’t really true, but it didn’t matter. It was more important to take matters further now.

‘And when Mikaela came to see you, what did she want to talk about?’ she asked.

‘About her father, obviously,’ said Sauger. ‘About what happened sixteen years ago. She’d only just heard about it.’

‘Yes, I know about that,’ said Moreno. ‘And what did she want to hear from you?’

Sauger hesitated again.

‘I’m not really sure,’ she said. ‘She was a bit vague, and we didn’t talk for very long. Winnie’s mum had given her my name. It seemed . . . Well, it seemed
as if she’d got it into her head that her dad was innocent. She didn’t say so straight out, but that’s the impression I had. She’d been to talk to him the day before. On the
Saturday. It can’t have been easy . . . Not for either of them.’