the bell.
No reaction.
She waited for a while, then rang again. Pressed her ear cautiously against the door and listened.
Not a sound. As quiet as the grave.
Ah well, thought Detective Inspector Moreno. At least I’ve made an honest attempt.
But when she came out into the sunshine again, it felt as if she still had some way to go before she’d fulfilled her moral obligations. As if she didn’t have the right to wash her hands of the Lijphart girl. Not really the right, and certainly not yet.
If all citizens had the same sense of responsibility as I have, she thought as she very nearly stumbled over a black cat that came scuttling out of a hole in a fence, what a marvellous world we’d live in!
Then she burst out laughing, making the cat turn round and scamper back to where it had come from.
Sigrid Lijphart just managed to catch a train that left the station in Lejnice at 17.03. It set off as she was sitting down on a window seat in the half-empty coach, and she was almost immediately overcome by a feeling of having abandoned her daughter.
She lit a cigarette in an attempt to counteract the attack of conscience. And looked around meticulously before drinking the last drops in the hip flask she kept in her handbag.
It didn’t help much. Neither the nicotine nor the spirits. By the time the train had reached full speed, it was obvious to her that it had been a mistake to leave. To return home like this without Mikaela.
How could she leave her fate — and her daughter’s fate — in Chief of Police Vrommel’s hands? she asked herself. Was there anything at all to suggest that he would be able to solve the problem? Vrommel! She recalled how even sixteen years ago she had regarded him as an utterly useless berk, and there was nothing to suggest that he had improved since then. Nothing that she had noticed during the days she had spent in Lejnice, at least.
And now he was the one who was going to find out what had happened to Mikaela. Chief Inspector Vrommel! How could she — as a mother and a thinking woman — allow that to happen? How could she hand over responsibility to such an arch-cretin?
She stubbed out her cigarette and looked out of the window at the sun-drenched polder-landscape. Canals. Black-and-white cattle grazing. A cluster of low stone-built houses with a church steeple sticking up like an antenna or a tentative attempt to make contact with the endless sky.
What am I going on about? she suddenly thought. What am I sitting here gawping at? It doesn’t really matter if it’s Vrommel or somebody else. It’s all about Mikaela. Where on earth is she? What’s happened? Arnold. . Just think that Arnold might actually know something about it!
And once again this inexplicable feeling of guilt dug its claws into her. As inexplicable and irritating as a sore on her soul. Why? Why should she — Sigrid Lijphart, formerly Sigrid Maager — have anything to reproach herself for? In fact she had done more than anybody could have demanded of her. . Much more. She had told Mikaela about Arnold, despite the fact that it would have been much easier to say nothing. She could just as well have remained silent about the whole affair. Now and for ever. That was the line Helmut would have preferred to take — he hadn’t said that in so many words, of course: but then, Helmut was not one for saying anything in so many words.
Keep quiet and let the past be buried. That’s what she could have done. Nobody could have asked more of her than that, and nobody had done so either.
So why? Why hadn’t she taken the easy way out for once? Why always this unreasonable and inflexible demand for honesty?
But hardly had she formulated these questions than his voice rang out from the past.
She couldn’t remember the context in which he’d said it, but that was irrelevant. She didn’t understand what he’d meant even so.
Not then, and not now, perhaps twenty years later. Odd that she should remember that. Odd that it occurred to her now. Motives?
She sighed and lit another cigarette. Scrunched the packet up and chucked it into the litter bin, despite the fact that there were four or five cigarettes left in it.
Enough of that now, she thought. I don’t want to come back home to Helmut stinking of tobacco. I must observe the proprieties.
But nothing seemed to go right. That question that she didn’t even dare to formulate in silence, not even deep, deep down at the bottom of her consciousness — it continued to float around inside her without being expressed, forcing all other thoughts to flee.
That question.
18
‘Do you think she’s dead?’
Moreno didn’t reply straight away. Got out of the car. Walked round to his side and thought of giving him a kiss on the cheek, but for some reason found that inappropriate and desisted. Put her hand on his arm instead.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Let’s hope to God that she isn’t, but I really have no idea. I have to keep following this up for a bit longer, though. I’m sorry, but I need to know a few more answers before I can let go of it.’
Mikael nodded.
‘Take it easy with the headmaster,’ he urged her. ‘Don’t forget that he’s over eighty. Shall we say an hour?’
‘Plus or minus a half,’ said Moreno. ‘Find yourself a table in the harbour cafe, so that you don’t get irritated unnecessarily.’
She waited until he’d driven off before opening the white-painted gate and walking along the stone-paved path to the house. It looked large and well cared-for. A substantial two-storey house in yellowish-white pommer stone; balconies on the upper floor and terraces on the ground floor, and generous picture windows facing the sea. It must be worth a million, Moreno thought. Especially when you think of the position and the garden. The large lawn was newly mown, the flower beds, bushes and fruit trees well tended, and the large array of garden furniture under an orange parasol looked as if it could have been delivered by the carpenter only a couple of hours ago.
Former headmaster Salnecki was lounging back in one of the comfortable armchairs, and seemed to be about as old as Adam.
White trousers, white shirt, white cotton cardigan. A sporty-looking yellow cap and blue leisure shoes. But none of that helped. He looked older than the gnarled apple trees. He can’t have much longer left, Moreno thought. This is probably his last summer. I hope he’s clear in the head.
He was.
Unusually clear, that was obvious after only a few seconds. And a couple of comments. A rather younger, light-haired and suntanned woman came out carrying a tray with a carafe and glasses. And a dish of bread sticks.
‘A mixture of red and white,’ explained herr Salnecki, filling her glass. ‘Life and death, in the form of blackcurrants and Riesling. I don’t suppose I need to point out that white is the colour of death in quite a lot of cultures. Welcome, and your very good health.’
‘Cheers,’ said Moreno. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me.’
‘My niece’s daughter. .’ He nodded in the direction of the woman who had just disappeared round the corner. ‘She looks after me. She’s writing a dissertation on the Klimke group, and is making use of my library. Sylvia. A nice girl, as good as gold. My wife passed away a few years ago, I need somebody to look after me. . But
