Hakan Nesser - The Weeping Girl

Easily said, harder to do, she thought as she emerged from the shower. Rather like stopping thinking about something on demand. Whatever, Mikael Bau happened to own this old house in Port Hagen. Or rather, owned it together with four siblings, if she understood it rightly. It was a sort of family jewel, and this year it was his turn to have access to it in July.

Big and dilapidated, he had warned her. But charming, and very private. With running water — sometimes, at least. A hundred metres to the beach.

It sounded like everything a lousily paid police inspector could ask for, and without much pause for thought she had said yes please to the offer of a couple of weeks. Well, no pause at all, to be honest: it was a Sunday morning in May, they had made love and had breakfast in bed. In that order. Some days were easier to organize than others — hardly an earth-shattering insight.

So, two weeks in the middle of July. With her bloke, by the seaside.

And now Franz Lampe-Leermann!

A five-star bastard of an omen, and incredibly poor timing.

She wondered again what it could mean. But then, perhaps there was no point in trying to find a meaning in everything?

As the Chief Inspector used to point out now and again.

After the shower she packed her things, then rang Mikael Bau. Without going into too much detail she explained that she would be arriving at some point in the afternoon rather than in time for lunch, because something had turned up.

Work? he’d wondered.

Yes, work, she’d admitted.

He laughed, and said that he loved her. He’d started saying that recently, and it was remarkable how ambivalent it made her feel.

I love you.

She hadn’t said that to him. It would never occur to her to say that until she felt sure of it. They’d talked about it. He’d agreed with her, of course — what else could he have done, for God’s sake? Said that it didn’t matter as far as he was concerned. The difference was that he was sure. Already.

How could he be? she’d wanted to know.

He explained that he hadn’t had his fingers burnt as badly as she had, and so felt able to stick his neck out and venture into the unknown rather sooner than she could.

A likely story, Moreno thought. We all have our private relationship with language and words, especially the language of love. It doesn’t necessarily have to do with bad experiences.

But she wondered — had often wondered — what the facts really were with regard to his former girlfriend, Leila. They’d been together for over three years, he’d told her, and yet the same evening that she’d dumped him he had marched up the stairs to her flat on the next floor, and rung her doorbell. Invited her to dinner — the dinner he’d prepared for Leila. Just like that. Surely that was a bit odd?

When she asked him about it, he’d blamed the food. He’d prepared a meal for two. You didn’t slave away in the kitchen for an hour and a half, he claimed, and then gobble it all up yourself within ten minutes. No way.

That brought them round to the question of food.

‘If you can bring a bottle of decent white wine with you, I’ll see if I can find a bit of edible fish for you. There’s an old bloke with a stall in the market square who has his own little boat and sells his own catch every morning. He has a wooden leg, believe it or not — the tourists take two thousand pictures of him every summer. . I’ll see what he’s got to offer.’

‘Okay, let’s do that,’ said Moreno. ‘I’ll assume that you get something tasty. I’ve given you an extra three hours, after all. Incidentally. .’

‘Well?’

‘No, it doesn’t matter.’

‘Come off it!’

‘Okay. What colour are your flip-flops?’

‘My flip-flops?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why the hell do you want to know what colour my flip-flops are? There must be at least ten pairs in the house. . Maybe even twenty, but who owns which isn’t at all clear.’

‘Good,’ said Moreno. ‘I regard that as a good omen.’

Mikael said he hadn’t a clue what she was on about, and suggested that she bought herself an efficient sun hat. She promised to think about it, and concluded the call. He didn’t tell her again that he loved her, and she was grateful for that.

If somewhat ambivalent.

Reinhart rang later in the evening, and they spent half an hour discussing how to proceed with the interrogation of Lampe-Leermann. It didn’t seem to be all that complicated in principle, but then again it was important to persuade him to come out with as much information as possible. Lots of names, and especially the key figures.

And it was also important to bear in mind the incriminating evidence, so that in the long run it would be possible to put the big noises in the dock. The question of concessions granted to Lampe-Leermann in return for his evidence would also need to be taken into account: but both Reinhart and Moreno had been involved in this kind of thing before, and in the end the chief inspector announced that he was satisfied with the plans.

But if that bastard had said he was prepared to confess all to Inspector Moreno, he’d damn well better do so, Reinhart stressed.

And he’d better have something worthwhile to tell them.

‘Just two things to bear in mind,’ said Reinhart in conclusion. ‘Everything must be recorded on tape. And we must make no specific concessions. Not at this early stage — Lampe-Leermann ought to understand that.’

‘I’m with you,’ said Moreno. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday. What’s Vrommel like, by the way?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Reinhart. ‘He sounds like a corporal on the phone, and I have the impression that he’s redhaired. He could even be a different Vrommel from the old days.’

‘How old?’

‘Too old for you. Could be your grandfather, at least.’

‘Thank you, Chief Inspector.’

Reinhart wished her good hunting, and said he was looking forward to reading her report in a couple of days’ time — three at most.

‘Report?’ said Moreno. ‘You’ll get a transcript of the interrogation, and I have no intention of getting involved in that. I’m on leave, as you know.’

‘Hmm,’ muttered Reinhart. ‘Is there no idealism left in the force nowadays? What’s the world coming to?’

‘We can discuss that in August,’ said Moreno.

‘If there’s a world left by then,’ said Reinhart.

10 July 1999

It was a while before it dawned on her that the girl opposite her was sitting there crying.

Not sobbing. She wasn’t making a fuss about it, the tears just seemed to be coming naturally. Her face seemed callow, clean-cut; her skin was pale and her reddish-brown hair combed back, held in place by a simple braid. Sixteen, seventeen years old, Moreno guessed: but she knew she was bad at judging the age of young girls. It could be a couple of years either way.

Her eyes were large and light brown, and as far as Moreno could see totally without make-up. Nor were there any dark stripes on her cheeks where the tears had been trickling down in a steady but not exactly torrential stream. Quietly and naturally. Moreno peered cautiously over the top of her book and noted that the girl was holding a crumpled handkerchief in her hands, which were loosely clasped in her lap; but she made no effort to stop the flow of tears.

No effort at all. Just cried. Let the tears flow however they liked, it seemed, as she gazed out through the window at the flat, sun-drenched countryside gliding past. The girl had her back to the engine, Inspector Moreno was facing it.

Grief, Moreno thought. She looks as if she’s grieving.

She tried to remember where the weeping girl had boarded the train. Moorhuijs or Klampendikk, presumably. In any case, one or two stops after Maardam Kolstraat, which is where Moreno had got on. It was one of those local trains that stops every two or three minutes. Moreno had begun to regret not having waited for the express train instead. That would probably have gone at twice the speed, and was no doubt the reason why the old boneshaker was almost empty. Apart from an elderly couple drinking tea from a thermos flask a few rows away, she and the girl were the only passengers in the whole carriage. . Which made it all the more remarkable that the girl had come to sit opposite Moreno when there were so many empty seats. Very odd.