the police station.
‘Kluuge.’
‘It’s me,’ the chief inspector explained. ‘Well?’
‘One of the girls has started talking,’ said Kluuge.
‘Excellent,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘What does she have to say?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Kluuge. ‘She’s on her way here now, with Inspector Lauremaa.’
‘Brilliant,’ said the chief inspector. ‘I’ll be there in a moment. Don’t lose her.’
19
When Van Veeteren entered the chief of police’s office, the car from Waldingen still hadn’t arrived. Kluuge was sitting at his desk, his bronzed arms contrasting with his light blue tennis shirt, but the chief inspector noticed that he looked both older and more tired.
‘A hard day?’ he asked as he flopped down on the sofa.
Kluuge nodded.
‘It’s sheer chaos out there,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to do something about those psychologists. They act like defence lawyers and bodyguards as soon as we get near any of the girls. Makes you wonder whose side they’re on.’
‘I recognize the phenomenon,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘What about the parents? Have they started rolling up?’
‘No, they haven’t in fact.’ Kluuge stood up and started wiping his brow with a wet wipe. ‘Not yet. Four have been in touch, but we told them that the situation is under control and that we would like to keep the girls here for a few more days at least. Besides, they don’t want to go home.’
‘Really?’
‘It seems to be a part of their holy oath, or whatever the hell it is they’ve sworn, that they should stay on. I don’t know, but I suppose we might find out now that one of them has started talking.’
‘Hmm,’ muttered the chief inspector, examining a toothpick. ‘What’s she called?’
Kluuge threw the wipe into the waste bin and consulted a sheet of paper.
‘Marieke Bergson. I wasn’t there; it was Lauremaa who called. About an hour ago.’
He looked at the clock.
‘I don’t understand what’s holding them up.’
‘You don’t know what she’s said, then?’
Kluuge shook his head.
‘No idea. Shall we have a cup of coffee?’
‘I think so,’ said the chief inspector. ‘It might be an idea if you could conjure up some Coca-Cola and that sort of stuff as well. Whatever else the Other World has to offer…’
Kluuge nodded and left the room in order to delegate the food question to Miss Miller. Van Veeteren inserted the toothpick and waited.
The girl’s name was Marieke Bergson. She looked pale, and her eyes were red with weeping.
When she came into the office with Inspector Elaine Lauremaa from the Haaldam police – and also a grim- looking but well-dressed child psychologist with her name, Hertha Baumgartner, taped to her chest – the chief inspector had a fleeting impression of a shoplifter who had just been caught red-handed.
Perhaps that was more or less what Marieke Bergson felt like. She sat down sheepishly on the edge of the chair she was allocated, clasped her hands in her lap and stared hard at her red gym shoes.
Lauremaa sat down next to Van Veeteren. The psychologist stood behind the girl with her hands on the back of the chair, looking at all those present in turn with a sceptical expression on her face, clenching her teeth so that her mouth became no more than a narrow stripe.
Kluuge cleared his throat twice, and introduced all present. That took ten seconds. Then there was silence for another five.
Somebody ought to say something, Van Veeteren thought – but instead there was a knock on the door and Miss Miller appeared with a tray of coffee, soft drinks, crisps and various other refreshments.
‘I’d like you to think carefully about what you say,’ said the psychologist when Miss Miller had withdrawn.
‘That sounds like a good idea,’ said Van Veeteren.
‘Marieke has made a difficult decision, she is under a lot of pressure and I don’t really think she ought to be exposed to cross-examination. I think that ought to be said.’
Lauremaa sighed. She was a rather sturdily built woman in her fifties, and the chief inspector immediately felt a degree of sympathy for her. Probably a woman with three children of her own and plenty of common sense, he thought. But perhaps not much of a diplomat.
Kluuge had no children as yet, but even so managed to serve up coffee and gave the impression of having reacquired some of his earlier irresolution.
It’s up to me, Van Veeteren thought. Just as well, I suppose.
‘Perhaps it might be easier if there weren’t so many of us,’ he suggested.
‘I’m not shifting from Marieke’s side,’ said the psychologist.
Lauremaa and Kluuge exchanged looks. Then Kluuge nodded in agreement and stood up.
‘I think we’d better record this,’ said the chief inspector.
Kluuge and Lauremaa left the room. A minute or so later Kluuge reappeared with a tape recorder.
So, here we go again, the chief inspector thought.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Marieke,’ said the girl, without looking up.
‘Marieke Bergson?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is your mouth feeling a bit dry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Drink a drop more Coca-Cola – that usually helps.’
The psychologist gave him a withering look, but Marieke Bergson did as he’d suggested and sat up a bit straighter.
‘How old are you?’
‘Thirteen.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘In Stamberg.’
‘And you’re in year six?’
‘I’m just going up into year seven.’
‘But you’re enjoying your summer holiday at the moment?’
‘Yes.’
‘At the camp here in Waldingen?’
‘Yes.’
‘If I’ve got it right, there’s something you want to tell us.’
No response.
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes. Maybe.’
‘Would you like me to ask you questions, or would you prefer to tell me about it yourself?’
‘Questions… I think.’
‘Okay. Have another bun if you’d like one.’
The chief inspector took another sip of coffee. He had the impression that the colour of the girl’s face had deepened by several degrees, but the psychologist still looked like a plaster cast.
No doubt she has domestic problems, he decided, then resumed his questions.
