Hakan Nesser - The Weeping Girl

It was a second before Mikaela realized that it was a pistol.

The cat, she thought. The roof tile.

12 July 1999

Monday was overcast, but the high pressure was very much present in the interrogation room at Lejnice police station. Lampe-Leermann was wearing an orange shirt with a prominent collar and the top three buttons unfastened. The sweat stains under his arms were hardly visible. He smelled strongly of aftershave lotion.

Well, rather that than old garlic, Moreno thought as she sat down opposite him. Observed him closely before saying anything, and decided that on the whole he seemed to be more composed than he had been on Saturday, and she felt quite optimistic when she started the tape recorder.

It was exactly 13.15 when she did so, and when she finally switched it off after a most productive session, one hour and four minutes had passed.

So, a most productive session, and job done. At least, that was how she assessed it. Whether or not Franz Lampe-Leermann would agree was doubtful: but as far as she could judge she had squeezed out of him most of what he had to say. Three names that were completely new to the police, half a dozen that were known already, and information that was probably sufficient for the police to start proceedings against the whole lot of them. And quite a lot more information as well, the value of which she couldn’t be sure about at the moment, but which would most probably lead to more guilty verdicts. Unless the prosecuting authorities saw things differently, or other things needed to be taken into account — but there was not much point in speculating about that at this stage.

And she had not made him any significant promises regarding such things as extenuating circumstances or dropping charges against him. Needless to say she had no authority to grant such concessions anyway — but when all was said and done it was the police who eventually decided what information came into the public domain, and what didn’t.

So, a satisfactory outcome: she could grant herself that much. Reinhart could look after the mopping-up: Inspector Moreno had done all that was required of her, and more besides.

‘Miss Copper is looking pleased with herself,’ said Lampe-Leermann, scratching his hairy chest.

‘That’s because I can now get out of this dump,’ said Moreno.

‘So you wouldn’t fancy a little bit extra, then?’

The implication — or possible implication — made her see red, but she kept control of herself.

‘And what might that be?’

‘A titbit. A little goody to round things off. But I need a fag first.’

Moreno hesitated. Looked at the clock and wondered what the hell he had in mind.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked eventually.

‘Exactly what I say, of course. As always. A titbit. But first a fag. There’s a time and place for everything.’

‘You can have five minutes,’ said Moreno. ‘But make sure you really do have something worthwhile to come out with, otherwise you’ll lose all your bonus points.’

Lampe-Leermann stood up.

‘Don’t worry, young lady. I’m not in the habit of disappointing my women.’

He knocked on the door, and was let out into the smoking yard.

‘It’s about that hack.’

‘Hack?’

‘That journalist. Don’t quibble about words, young lady.’

Moreno said nothing.

‘I’m sitting on a fascinating little story. And I’m sitting on his name. .’

He tapped the side of his forehead with two fingers.

‘That’s what these negotiations are all about.’

Moreno nodded and glanced at the tape recorder, but Lampe-Leermann made a dismissive gesture.

‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d need to record this. I’d have thought you’d be able to remember it without any assistance.’

‘Come to the point,’ said Moreno. ‘A journalist who knows something?’

‘Exactly. What do you think about paedophiles?’

‘I love them,’ said Moreno.

‘I have a certain amount of sympathy for them as well,’ said Lampe-Leermann, scratching himself under his chin. ‘There’s such a lot of cheap comments written about them. . You might think they’re being victimized. And they’re everywhere, of course. Normal decent citizens like you and me. .’

‘Come to the point!’

Lampe-Leermann looked at her with an expression that was presumably meant to be fatherly understanding.

‘Everywhere, as I said. It’s nothing to be ashamed of — you shouldn’t be ashamed of your inclinations, as my little mum always used to tell me. . But it’s such a sensitive subject nowadays, and people are up in arms about what’s been happening. Anyway. .’

He made a dramatic pause while he stroked his dyed moustache, and it struck Moreno that she’d never seen anything like this. Nor heard. Scumbag was far too complimentary a name for this creature. She clenched her teeth and kept a straight face.

‘Anyway, I met that hack, and he told me he’d been given ten thousand to keep his mouth shut.’

‘Keep his mouth shut?’

‘Yes.’

‘About what?’

‘Keep his mouth shut about that name. The name of that paedophile.’

‘Who?’

Lampe-Leermann shrugged.

‘I don’t know. I don’t know. It’s the hack who knows, but I’m the one who knows the name of the hack. Are you with me, Miss Copper?’

‘Of course,’ said Moreno. ‘And?’

‘It’s his job that makes it interesting. I wouldn’t call it a titbit if it weren’t for the place where he works. This chappie with the inclinations. What do you think, Inspector?’

Moreno said nothing. But she noted that for the first time since they began the conversation, he had referred to her as Inspector. She wondered if that was significant.

‘He lives in your little nest. How about that, eh? He’s a detective officer. . One of your crowd.’

He smiled and leaned back.

‘What?’ said Moreno.

Lampe-Leermann leaned forward again. Pulled a hair from out of his right nostril, then smiled once more.

‘I’ll say it again. There’s a paedophile in the Maardam police station. One of your sleuths. He paid my informant ten thousand to keep his gob shut. It would be daft to pay up if you had nothing to hide, don’t you think?’

What the. . Moreno thought. What the hell is he saying?

The information was reluctant to register in her consciousness, but somehow it did so in the end. Seeped slowly but inexorably through the defences of her reason and emotions and experiences and crystallized as a comprehensible message.

Or rather, incomprehensible.

‘Go to hell,’ she said.

‘Thank you,’ said Lampe-Leermann. ‘In due course, perhaps. .’

‘You’re lying. . Forget all the brownie points you thought you had amassed. I’ll see to it that you get eight years. Ten! You bastard!’

His smile grew broader.

‘I can see that you are upset. You have no sympathy, eh, you neither? Incidentally I don’t know if he took the money from his own pocket, or if it came from the public purse, as it were. . That would depend on his rank, of course, and I don’t know what that is. But the hack does.’

He fell silent. For a brief moment Moreno thought the room was shaking — just a slight swaying, as if the film they were taking part in was short of three frames instead of the full twenty-four and made a little jump. . Or how it must feel some distance from the epicentre of an earthquake.

An earthquake?

That could hardly be a metaphor that simply cropped up without reason. She contemplated Lampe-Leermann as he lolled back on the other side of the table. In slightly less civilized circumstances — they only needed to be slightly less — she wouldn’t have hesitated more than a mere second to kill him. If she had the chance. She really would. Like a cockroach under the heel of her shoe. The thought didn’t worry her one jot.