Hakan Nesser - The Weeping Girl

Pregnant? She was pregnant, with his child. He remembered what she’d said that night. ‘Come on, Sir. . come, come, come, I’m on the pill!’

Sir , she’d said. At the height of the act, while he was screwing her, she had actually used that word.

The pill? Like hell she’d been on the pill.

He started walking along the long, curving road and stupidly enough wondered if she wanted to go to bed with him again. That was a disgusting thought which must surely say something about the kind of man he was. Deep down. And that it was probably quite justified for him to be going mad. I’m a filthy swine, he thought. Swine, swine, swine! — he could almost hear Sigrid yelling those words. Have sex with Winnie Maas? Again? Let her ride him forwards and backwards and plunge his cock into her until she gasped in ecstasy, let her give him head while he stroked her stiff little clitoris until she screamed. . What the hell was he fantasizing about? His brain was racing like a car in too low a gear. What’s happening to my head? he thought. In any case, she’s not there.

She wasn’t there.

There was nobody up there on the viaduct. Not a soul, not even that little devil Winnie Maas, and nobody else either. He paused and looked around. To both the north and the south. He had quite a good view from where he was standing. He could see the whole town — the streets, the squares, the two churches, the beach and the harbour with its breakwaters and concrete foundations and protected entrance. The little wooded area beyond the football pitches. Frieder’s Pier and Gordon’s Lighthouse furthest to the south. . Everything enveloped by the grey darkness of the summer night.

He looked down at the area below. Scanned the railway line from the distant station to where he was. There was something lying down there. Right next to the right-hand track, diagonally below where he was standing. It wasn’t quite so dark there, and a street light projected its dirty yellow beam over the street and the railway line at that point.

There was something lying there. Something white and slightly blue and a bit skin-coloured. .

It was a second or two before he realized what it was.

It took another second before he realized who it was.

5 August 1999

Constable Vegesack made the sign of the cross, and went in.

Chief of Police Vrommel was lying on the floor in front of his desk, doing leg-raises.

‘Just a moment,’ he said.

Vegesack sat down on the visitor’s chair and watched his boss. The raises were a bit on the strenuous side, it seemed, as Vrommel was groaning like a stranded walrus, and his shiny bald pate glowed like a red traffic light. When he had finished he remained lying there for a while, recovering. Then he got up and sat down at his desk.

‘So you’re going on leave tomorrow, are you?’

Vegesack nodded.

‘Tomorrow, yes.’

‘The weather’s not up to much.’

‘No,’ said Vegesack.

‘It was better last week.’

‘Yes.’

Vrommel opened a desk drawer, produced a paper tissue and wiped his brow and the top of his head.

‘This Van Rippe case. It’s time to make a summary of where we’ve got to.’

‘Are we going to close it down?’ Vegesack asked.

‘Not close it down, no,’ said Vrommel. ‘One doesn’t close down murder investigations just like that. But I’m going to sum it up. It’s been hard going — I don’t think we’ve got anywhere at all, have we?’

‘No.’

‘I think we’ll have to scale it down. We’ve been using extra resources for three weeks now. It’ll be normal routines from now on.’

‘I see,’ said Vegesack.

‘So we need a summary. A sort of report on what we’ve achieved so far. I thought we’d have a little press conference tomorrow morning. We need to report to our superiors as well. Those girl guides from Wallburg haven’t been a lot of use.’

‘Not a lot.’

Vrommel cleared his throat.

‘So, if you type out this summary, you can leave it on my desk before you go home. You have the whole day to devote to it.’

Vegesack nodded.

‘Don’t make it too long-winded. Just the facts. Brevity is the soul of wit.’

Vegesack started to get up.

‘Was there anything else?’

‘If there had been, I’d have said,’ said Vrommel. ‘So, on my desk. Have a good holiday, and keep fit.’

‘Thank you,’ said Vegesack, and left the room.

Ewa Moreno woke up and looked at the clock.

Ten to twelve.

It dawned on her that she was in her own bed, and despite everything had slept no more than nine hours. She tried to feel if there was any muscle in her body that wasn’t aching, but couldn’t find any.

I feel ninety, she thought. And this was supposed to be useful. .?

She had gone to bed shortly before three. She’d got home dead on two o’clock, but had enough sense to take a hot bath before creeping between the sheets. If she hadn’t done that, she probably wouldn’t have been able to move at all now. The last lap of the cycling holiday with Clara Mietens had comprised seventy-five kilometres into a headwind, and the last thirty in rain. They’d expected to set off rather earlier than they actually did, so that they would have a pleasant east wind at their backs and would glide into Maardam with the setting sun in their faces. Well, that was the plan.

An east wind? Moreno thought as she sat up gingerly on the edge of the bed. Had there ever been an easterly wind in Maardam? When they said their mutual goodbyes down at Zwille at a quarter to two, Clara had promised faithfully that if ever she had the strength to get out of bed again, the first thing she would do would be to attach a very heavy weight to her accursed bike (with six gears, two of which worked), throw it into the Langgraacht canal, and sing a hymn.

But it had been quite a good holiday (apart from the last lap, that is). Eight gilt-edged days, brimful of camping life, swimming excursions, conversations, cycle rides (but never in the rain or with a headwind), and total relaxation in the picturesque Sorbinowo region. Clara’s red tent had been newly bought and easy to handle. And the weather had been splendid. Until yesterday.

She went to the bathroom and had a shower. After ten minutes her body began to feel as if it were hers again. And as that happened, her thoughts began to branch out in another direction.

That was inevitable, of course. It was time to re-enter the real world. High time.

She put on her dressing gown and started by going through her mail. Bills, adverts, four picture postcards and a wage slip. Very interesting.

Then she listened to the messages on her telephone answering machine. After considerable thought, she had decided to leave her mobile at home while she undertook the Sorbinowo Tour: so there ought to be quite a few messages waiting for her attention.

And so there were. All kinds of things. A couple of cheerful greetings from Mikael Bau, for instance, and a message from her mother explaining that they (her father as well, presumably, always assuming that nothing hair-raisingly horrific had happened while she’d been away) were on the point of setting off for the airport to catch their flight to Florida, and that they wouldn’t be back until the end of August. In case she tried to contact them and wondered why there was no response.

Eleven messages in all, explained the cool female voice on the tape.

But nothing from Baasteuwel.

Nothing from Vegesack or Kohler. Nothing from Mun-ster.

Not even anything from Selma Perhovens.

Ah well, Moreno thought as she went out to buy something for breakfast. One should never overestimate one’s importance.