The Weeping Girl (32 page)

‘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 Münster. 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 Münster’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? fiancé?) 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?

There’s a lot that isn’t clear. A hell of a lot.

And how were things going with regard to the ensnaring of Chief of Police Vrommel? She’d forgotten to ask Baasteuwel about that.

Ah well, that could wait until tomorrow, she decided.

Every day has enough trouble of its own to cope with.

24 July 1999

Inspector Baasteuwel stood in the shadow of a warehouse, watching a seagull.

The seagull was watching him. Apart from that, nothing much was happening. The sun was shining. The sea was as calm as a millpond.

He checked his watch. It was no more than a quarter past ten, but he could swear that the temperature was already very close to the thirty mark. If it hadn’t already passed it. So the high
pressure was still dominant, and the sky was so cloud-free that looking at it almost gave him a headache. It struck him that this Saturday should have been the third day of his leave. Damn and
blast. But that was life . . . He lit a cigarette, today’s fourth. Or possibly fifth.

At last the ferry came gliding round the breakwater. It looked half empty. Not to say completely empty. Needless to say there was no sensible reason why anybody should head for the mainland from
the islands on a day like today. On the contrary. In the pens designated for passengers wanting to embark, people were packed as tightly as Westwerdingen sardines, and the barrier had been lowered
behind the last car that could be accommodated on the eleven o’clock departure ten minutes ago. Why on earth should anybody want to take a car with them into the archipelago?

Baasteuwel left the relatively cool shade behind the warehouse and walked towards the gate through which disembarking passengers would be siphoned out. He opened up his umbrella.

He regretted the umbrella business: it was his wife who had given it to him in an attack of grim feminist humour, but what the hell? Bitowski must have something to look for that could be easily
identified, and a blue-and-yellow umbrella decorated with an advert for Nixon condoms was no doubt as good as anything.

Especially in weather like this. When he looked round, he couldn’t see any other condom umbrellas pretending they were parasols.

So Claus Bitowski couldn’t very well miss him.

And he didn’t. One of the first passengers to disembark was a corpulent man of about thirty, perhaps slightly more. He was wearing sunglasses, and a back-to-front
baseball cap. In one hand he was holding a dirty yellow sports bag made of PVC-coated fabric, in the other a half-empty bottle of beer. His T-shirt with the logo ‘We are the Fuckin’
Champs’ was unable to keep his pot belly from hanging down over the top of his jeans.

‘Are you that fucking cop?’ he asked.

Baasteuwel closed the umbrella. His parents ought to have used Nixon, he thought.

‘I am indeed. And I suppose you are Claus Bitowski?’

Bitowski nodded. Drank the rest of the beer and looked round for a rubbish bin. When he didn’t find one, he flung the empty bottle into the water instead. Baasteuwel looked the other
way.

‘I’ve nothing to say,’ said Bitowski.

‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Baasteuwel. ‘I haven’t asked you anything yet.’

‘About Van Rippe. I know nothing.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘Good that you came in any case. Shall we find somewhere to sit down?’

Bitowski lit a cigarette.

‘I haven’t anything to say, no matter what we do.’

Great, Baasteuwel thought. A thirty-year-old baby. I’d better approach this pedagogically.

‘How about Strandterrassen and a beer?’ he suggested.

Bitowski took a deep drag and considered the offer.

‘All right, then,’ he said.

They crossed over Zuiderslaan and sat down at a table under a parasol. Baasteuwel beckoned to a waitress and ordered two beers.

‘I take it you know that Tim Van Rippe has been murdered?’ he said when the beers had been served.

‘Bloody horrendous,’ said Bitowski.

‘You knew him?’

‘Not nowadays. I suppose I used to.’

Baasteuwel took out a notebook and began writing.

‘In 1983, for instance?’

‘Eh?’

‘In 1983. That’s a year.’

‘I know that. Yes, I knew Van Rippe when we were at school, and—’

‘Did you know Winnie Maas as well?’

‘Winnie? What the hell has that got to do with it?’

‘Did you know her?’ asked Baasteuwel again.

‘Yes, but what the hell . . . ? Of course I knew Winnie a bit. I was at her funeral. We were at school together, and so—’

‘The same class?’

‘No, I was a year older. Why are you asking about this? I keep telling you I don’t know anything.’

‘We’re investigating the murder of Van Rippe,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘Surely you want us to catch whoever killed him?’

‘Yes, but I know nothing.’

That’s probably true, Baasteuwel thought. About most things.

‘When did you go out to the islands?’

‘Two weeks ago.’

‘What day?’

Bitowski thought that over.

‘Sunday, I think. Yes, we took the afternoon boat.’

‘We?’

‘Me and my mates.’

‘I see,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘You and your mates. Were you visited by a young lady called Mikaela Lijphart before you set off?’

‘Eh?’ said Bitowski. ‘Mikaela what?’

‘Lijphart. Did you talk to her that Sunday?’

‘Of course I bloody didn’t,’ said Bitowski. ‘I’ve never even heard of her.’

‘Did you know Tim Van Rippe well in your younger days?’

‘Fairly well.’

‘Did he have something going with Winnie Maas?’

Bitowski shrugged. His stomach wobbled.

‘I think so. She had something going with lots of people.’

‘When was she together with Van Rippe, do you remember that?’

‘No. How the hell could I?’

‘Was it just before she died, for instance?’

‘No, for Christ’s sake,’ said Bitowski. ‘It was long before that. She screwed around quite a bit.’

‘Screwed around?’

‘Yes, she was that type.’

‘Did you also have sex with Winnie Maas?’

Bitowski emptied his glass of beer and belched.

‘I might have done.’

‘Might have done? Did you have sex with her or not?’

Bitowski stared at his glass, and Baasteuwel waved to the waitress and ordered another glass.

‘Once,’ said Bitowski.

‘When?’ asked Baasteuwel. ‘When she was in class nine?’

‘No, before that. I was in class nine, she must have been in class eight.’

‘And it was just once?’

‘That I screwed her all ends up, yes.’

Baasteuwel contemplated his puffed-up face for a while.

‘Are you sure that she wasn’t together with Tim Van Rippe in May/June 1983?’