Hakan Nesser - The Weeping Girl

‘Really.’

‘You didn’t appear to give evidence.’

‘No.’

‘Why not? You were the medicolegal officer after all.’

‘It wasn’t necessary. It’s usual but not compulsory. It was an open-and-shut case, and I no doubt had other things to do.’

‘But you signed the medical certificate? The one that was read out in the courtroom.’

‘Yes, of course. What the hell are you getting at?’

‘It says here that you examined the girl Winnie Maas — together with a pathologist by the name of Kornitz — and ascertained that she was pregnant. Is that right?’

‘Of course.’

‘But it says nothing about how advanced the pregnancy was.’

‘It doesn’t?’ said deHaavelaar.

‘No.’

‘That’s odd. It should have said. I don’t recall exactly, but she wasn’t all that far gone. Five or six weeks, perhaps.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘So it wasn’t in fact rather more advanced than that? Ten to twelve weeks or so?’

‘Of course not,’ protested deHaavelaar. ‘What the devil are you insinuating?’

‘Nothing,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘I just wanted to check because the information is missing.’

DeHaavelaar had no comment to make on that, and there were a few more seconds of silence.

‘Was there anything else?’

‘Not at the moment,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘Thank you for your help.’

‘You’re welcome,’ said Dr. deHaavelaar, and hung up.

So there, Baasteuwel thought, eyeing the telephone with a grim smile. He’s lying, the bastard.

Which he knew he could get away with, he then decided. There’s not the slightest chance of putting him behind bars. Especially as Dr Kornitz has been dead for three years.

More interesting is to think about why he lied.

Moreno had not taken her mobile with her to the beach, but when she returned to the flat with Drusilla at about half past four, she found she had two messages.

The first was from Munster. He sounded unusually grave, and asked her to ring him back as soon as she had an opportunity.

She realized that she had yet again managed to erase Lampe-Leermann and the paedophile business from her mind (even if she recalled that the Scumbag had appeared fleetingly in her beach dream), and now that it cropped up again she could feel the noose tightening around her neck.

Oh hell, she thought. Don’t let it be true.

She phoned back immediately, but there was no reply. Neither from the police station nor from Munster’s home. She left a message on his answering machine, saying she’d tried to get hold of him.

That’s the way it seems to be nowadays, she thought in resignation as she replaced the receiver. We live in a world of botched communications. The only thing we use the telephone for is to explain that we’ve tried to make contact but failed. A pretty depressing state of affairs.

She didn’t need to respond to the other message. It was from her ex-boyfriend (lover? bloke? fiance?) stating that he’d be expecting her at Werder’s at eight o’clock.

The same restaurant as yesterday, she noted. And the same time.

But a different man. She thought it just as well that she was going home the next day. The staff will start to wonder. And draw a few less than complimentary conclusions, no doubt.

She decided to turn up in any case. But not to stay there for too long. She felt about as tired as Selma Perhovens looked when she came home at a few minutes past five.

‘No burning of midnight oil tonight,’ she said.

‘No way,’ said Moreno.

They had sat up talking until past two. Waded through the whole Maager-Lijphart business yet again. Spoken about relationships, men, work, books, the situation in the so-called former Yugoslavia, and what exactly it meant to be the first free woman in the history of the world.

Existential conversation, as stated before. Fruitful. But not another night, no thank you.

‘Thank you for babysitting,’ said Perhovens.

‘She hasn’t been a babysitter at all,’ insisted Drusilla. ‘Helmer and I have been looking after each other all day.’

‘That’s true,’ said Moreno. ‘Anyway, I’m going home tomorrow. I’ll be dining out again tonight, by the way. You mustn’t think that this is my normal habit.’

‘Not a bad habit, though,’ said Perhovens. ‘What does my little sweetheart want to gobble for dinner tonight?’

‘Fillet steak stuffed with gorgonzola, and baked potatoes,’ said the little sweetheart. ‘We haven’t had that for ages.’

‘You’ll get sausage and macaroni,’ her mother informed her.

Just as she was about to leave the telephone rang again.

This time it was Baasteuwel.

‘Nice to see you yesterday,’ he said. ‘Would you like a report?’

‘Nice to see you, too,’ said Moreno. ‘I’d like a report very much.’

‘I’m in a bit of a hurry,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘Only time for the most important things — okay?’

‘Okay,’ said Moreno.

‘That doctor’s lying.’

‘DeHaavelaar?’

‘Yes. Winnie Maas was pregnant when she died, but I wouldn’t have thought Arnold Maager was the father.’

Moreno tried to digest the information and register what it meant.

‘What the hell. .?’ she said. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Not at all,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘I just have that feeling — but I’m shit hot when it comes to feelings. And he’s come back.’

‘Come back?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who?’

‘Arnold Maager, of course. He came back to the Sidonis home this afternoon.’

Moreno was dumbstruck for a few seconds.

‘Came back? You’re saying he simply came back. .?’

‘Yep.’

‘How? Where has he been?’

‘He hasn’t said. He hasn’t said anything at all, in fact. Just lies on his bed, staring at the wall, it seems. Whatever he’s been up to, he’s been without his medication for almost a week. Antidepressants, I assume. They’re a bit worried about him.’

‘How did he come back?’

‘He simply came marching in, just like that. Vrommel’s out there now, talking to him.’

‘Vrommel? Wouldn’t somebody else have been better?’

‘We can’t very well take all his bloody duties away from him without his suspecting something. Vegesack went with him to keep an eye on things, and as Maager’s autistic now it probably doesn’t matter much.’

Moreno thought for a moment.

‘Let’s hope not,’ she said. ‘I can’t keep up with all this. Anything else?’

‘Quite a bit,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘But I have to go to a series of little interviews now. How long will you be around tomorrow?’

Moreno hesitated. She hadn’t yet decided what time to leave. But surely there was no need to set off at daybreak come what may? And she needed to buy something for Selma Perhovens. And for Drusilla as well.

‘There’s a train at four o’clock. I’ll probably take that.’

‘Excellent,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘That means we can have lunch together.’

He hung up. Moreno remained standing with the telephone in her hand for a while. Well, well, well, she thought. So Maager wasn’t the child’s father? What does that mean?

Hard to say. But he must have thought that it was his in any case. Wasn’t that the main thing?

Suddenly the questions started bubbling up inside her head again. The main thing for whom?

Winnie Maas, of course. Maybe somebody else as well?

After all, virgin births are rather unusual, just as Mikaela Lijphart had said on the train a couple of weeks ago. .

Moreno stretched herself out on the bed and stared up at the ceiling.

What on earth had happened to Mikaela Lijphart?

What had Arnold Maager been doing while he was away, and why had Tim Van Rippe died?