‘Only what was said at the police station,’ she lied.
‘You’re not from here?’
‘Maardam, as I said.’
Fru Lijphart fished a cigarette out of her handbag. Put it into her mouth and lit it in so clumsy a fashion that Moreno realized that she was not a regular smoker.
‘He had sex with a sixteen-year-old,’ she said after the first puff. ‘A pupil of his.’
Moreno waited.
‘He made her pregnant, then he killed her. My husband. I’m talking about the person I was married to, the father of Mikaela. Note that.’
‘That’s terrible,’ said Moreno. ‘It must have been horribly traumatic for you.’
Fru Lijphart eyed her for several seconds, apparently assessing her.
‘There was only one thing to do,’ she said. ‘Close the door and start all over again. That’s what I did. I knew that I had to create a new life for myself, for me and my daughter. If we were going to keep our heads above water. There are some things you can’t do anything about. You just have to turn your back on them. I hope you understand what I’m saying.’
Moreno nodded vaguely. Wondered if she really did. Understand, that is. If she agreed with this sorely tried woman that there were certain things that couldn’t — shouldn’t — be faced up to. Understood or forgiven. They should simply be forgotten.
Perhaps, she thought. But perhaps not. No doubt you ought to be fully aware of all the circumstances before you made up your mind, in any case. All the circumstances.
‘Why did you tell your daughter about it?’ she asked.
‘Because I had to,’ answered fru Lijphart without hesitation. ‘I’ve always known that despite everything, I would have to tell her. Always known. It wasn’t something I could get round, so I made up my mind that that was the right moment. Her eighteenth birthday. It’s easier if you pin a time on to difficulties like that — I don’t know if you’ve found that as well.’
Moreno wasn’t convinced she could see the logic in that, but it seemed obvious that fru Lijphart believed what she said.
‘What about that girl?’ wondered Moreno. ‘The one that-’
‘A little whore,’ interrupted fru Lijphart just as unequivocally. ‘There are types who are born to become whores — I’m not being prejudiced, just realistic. Arnold wasn’t the first man she went to bed with, not by any means. No, I don’t want to talk about this, I’m sorry.’
‘What was her name?’ asked Moreno.
‘Winnie,’ said fru Lijphart, curling her lips in disgust. ‘Winnie Maas. He went out of his mind as a result, my husband — I take it you knew about that in any case? Went mad, just like that.’
‘I gathered that when you spoke to Vrommel,’ said Moreno, glancing at the clock. ‘Oh dear, I think I’m going to be late. Forgive me for intruding, but if there’s anything you think I could help you with, don’t hesitate to get in touch. You can ring me on my mobile. I’m really sorry for your sake, and I hope Mikaela turns up again soon.’
She handed over her card, and fru Lijphart looked at it before putting it away in her handbag.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m going home tomorrow no matter what happens. I’m not spending more than two nights in this town, I couldn’t cope with that. I’m very grateful for your concern, it’s been good talking to you.’
‘No problem,’ said Moreno, getting to her feet. ‘Now, I must dash. My fiance will be sitting waiting for me.’
Her fiance (lover? boyfriend? bloke?) wasn’t sitting in Donners Park waiting for her, as arranged. He was lying on his back under a chestnut tree instead, his head resting on a root, trying to eat an ice cream without spilling it all over his face.
‘You’re late,’ he pointed out as she flopped down beside him. ‘But it doesn’t matter. That’s a woman’s privilege after all, and I desire you just as much anyway.’
‘Good,’ said Moreno. ‘I suspect you’re also a little bit desirable in some people’s eyes. A pity you ended up with somebody as hard-boiled as I am. But don’t give up. How did it go?’
Mikael raised himself into a half-sitting position, leaning against the trunk of the tree. As a gentlemanly gesture he gave her the remaining twelfth or so of the ice cream and wiped his hands on the grass.
‘Not too badly,’ he said. ‘If you bear in mind that I’m an amateur at this sort of thing, at least. I’ve dug up fru Maas’s address — she still lives here in Lejnice. In a flat in Goopsweg. More or less in the very centre of town. And the mystery of where she spent the night is also solved.’
‘Where she spent the night?’ said Moreno. ‘You mean that Mikaela Lijphart spent the night in Lejnice, despite everything?’
‘Yes. In the youth hostel, as we thought. Out at Missenraade. But only the Saturday night, unfortunately. She took her rucksack and caught the bus into town at about ten on Sunday morning, and that’s where the trail peters out, I’m afraid. I talked to one of the girls in reception at the youth hostel. She claimed she remembered her very well, but she had no idea about where Mikaela was intending to go to. They are always more or less full up out there in the summer, but nevertheless she was pretty sure that Mikaela had taken the bus into Lejnice on Saturday evening as well. And come back again, of course. So there you have it — but goodness knows where that leads us to. Nowhere, I assume.’
‘You never know,’ said Moreno with a sigh. ‘That’s the problem with what we do. And the charm, of course. A pretty grim sort of charm, but that’s what it usually looks like. Lots of straggling strands leading out higgledy- piggledy into the darkness — I’m afraid that’s yet another quotation from
Mikael observed her with interest.
‘You like it,’ he said. ‘It has nothing to do with the heat. You don’t need to be ashamed of liking the job you do.’
‘There’s like and like,’ said Moreno. ‘You have to try to look at things from an angle that makes them bearable, don’t you think? I don’t suppose what you do in the social services is idyllic all round the clock.’
Mikael scratched at the stubble on his chin that must be about three or four days old now.
‘You mean you have to be an optimist even though you’re really a pessimist?’ he said. ‘Yes, that’s not a bad principle, I suppose. Do you know who the funniest humorists are, by the way? Gravediggers. Gravediggers and pathologists. There must be a reason for that. Anyway, do you want to carry on playing the private detective for the whole of your holiday, or shall we go and lie on the beach for a while?’
‘The beach,’ said Moreno. ‘Several hours, at least. I want to exchange a few words with Vegesack before I pack it in, but there’s no rush. Perhaps he was right after all, Vrommel. Perhaps she’s just run off for a bit of fun. We’ll see what happens when they slam a Wanted notice on her tomorrow. It’s not as easy to turn one’s back on things as a lot of people seem to think.’
On the way down to the sea another question cropped up inside her head.
In connection with that business of having children. And very definitely in connection with the business of optimism versus pessimism.
Wouldn’t it be better never to have any — children, that is — than to have to cope with their disappearance one fine day?
Or their being found dead on a railway line under a viaduct?
Another question without an answer, but she didn’t take it up with Mikael.
17
‘Coffee?’ said Vrommel.
‘No thank you,’ said Sigrid Lijphart. ‘I’ve just had some.’
Constable Vegesack was about to say that he wouldn’t mind a cup, but held himself in check.
