fashioned dark-blue roller blind before going to bed, but at some point during the night it must have felt tired and rolled itself up again. Very discreetly, it seemed, as she hadn’t been woken up by any noise.
She sat up in bed and thought for a while. Then dug a pair of shorts, a vest and a pair of trainers out of her rucksack, and set off.
To the beach, of course. But southwards this time, in order to avoid any intrusive memories of bodies in the sand and abandoned lovers. (Blokes? Boyfriends? Fiances?)
It was a lovely morning, she felt that immediately. The beach was deserted, the sea mirror-like, and after only a couple of hundred metres she had to ask herself seriously why she didn’t begin every day of her life in this way. Was there any possible argument against it?
Well, perhaps a windy morning in January had a different sort of charm. And of course there was a distinct shortage of seaside in central Maardam.
She turned back after twenty minutes, and was back in Dombrowski’s at a quarter to eight. Took a shower and had breakfast in the company of a couple of morning newspapers in the shady garden. There were reports on the discovery of the body in both of them — especially in
It wasn’t straightforward. Above all she would presumably have to be discreet in the way in which she worked together with the Lejnice police. There were special circumstances, of course, but it was perfectly obvious that Vrommel was not interested in any kind of cooperation. Not at all. One might well ask why, but that could wait until another time. It would be better to stick to Vegesack — and probably best to leave it until the afternoon, she decided. If for no other reason than giving herself the chance of doing something off her own bat. And to be honest, Vegesack could do with a bit of time in order to get down to work, even if he had so far displayed no great desire to get stuck into the investigation.
But perhaps one couldn’t expect him to have done so, Moreno thought. Bearing in mind the recent return of his girlfriend. But at least he had promised to investigate whether anybody had been to visit Maager at Sidonis. Or telephoned him. It had to be of crucial importance to get that sorted out as quickly as possible.
As she was thinking that, her mobile rang.
It was Mikael. They had spoken for a quarter of an hour the previous evening. Nothing very profound, but at least they had found an appropriate pitch at which to communicate with each other, which had to be good news.
And he hadn’t said a word about being in love with her.
Now he was ringing just to say that he intended to pay Kluivert, Kluivert and Sons’ bill himself: he had thought the matter over and concluded that he had been unfair. After a short discussion, she let him have his way.
When they had hung up, she remained seated for a while, thinking. She realized that she was having difficulty in suppressing a grim smile, but then took out her notebook and wrote down three questions.
She stared at the questions and drank up the rest of her coffee. Then she wrote down a fourth question.
She thought for a while longer, until she had decided on Plan A. It was five minutes to nine. Not a bad start to a day.
The woman who opened the door reminded her of a fish.
Perhaps it was something to do with her looks, or perhaps it was the smell. Probably an unholy alliance of both, with each sensual reaction reinforcing the other.
‘Fru Maas?’
‘Yes.’
Moreno introduced herself and asked if she might come in for a chat.
No, she may not.
She asked if she could treat her to a cup of coffee and a glass of something somewhere. Maybe in Strandterrassen?
Yes, she could.
But not in Strandterrassen. There were too many capitalists and other schmucks there, explained fru Maas, and instead led the way to Darms cafe in the bus square. Honest people could sit here at a pavement table and watch the crowds in the square. If you got tired of that, you could always watch the pigeons.
It was congenial, in other words. What the hell did she want?
Moreno waited until the coffee and cognac had been served, then explained that she was a private detective looking for an eighteen-year-old girl. And that it was linked in a way with the tragic happening concerning fru Maas’s daughter Winnie. Sixteen years ago, she thought it was.
‘Private filth?’ said Sigrid Maas, downing the cognac in one gulp. ‘Go to hell!’
Bitch? Moreno thought. I have a lot to learn.
‘I’ll make it easier for you,’ she said, cupping a protective hand round her own glass of cognac. ‘If you answer my questions truthfully, and cut out the nonsense and insults, you’ll earn yourself fifty smackers.’
Fru Maas glared at her, her mouth a mere narrow strip. She didn’t answer, but it was obvious that she was weighing up the offer.
‘You can have my cognac as well,’ said Moreno, removing her hand from the glass.
‘If you diddle me, I swear blind I’ll kill you,’ said fru Maas.
‘I shan’t diddle you,’ said Moreno, checking in her purse to see if she really had that amount of cash with her. ‘How could I?’
Fru Maas didn’t answer, but lit a cigarette and moved the glass of cognac closer to her.
‘Fire away!’
‘Mikaela Lijphart,’ said Moreno. ‘She’s the daughter of Arnold Maager, who murdered your daughter. A girl aged eighteen, as I said — she was only two when it happened. My first question is whether she’s been here to see you during the last few weeks.’
Fru Mass inhaled deeply and sniffed at the cognac.
‘Yes, she’s been,’ she said. ‘Last Sunday, I think it was. ‘God only knows why she came, God only knows why I allowed her in — the daughter of that bloody swine who ruined my life. I suppose I’m too kind-hearted, that’s the problem.’
For a moment Moreno suspected the woman sitting opposite her was lying through her teeth. In order to keep Moreno happy and not lose out on the promised payment, perhaps. But it was easy to check.
‘What did she look like?’
Fru Maas glared at her for a second, then leaned back on her chair and launched into a rather colourful description of Mikaela Lijphart: it was obvious to Moreno that this was the right girl. No doubt about it. Mikaela Lijphart really had come to visit fru Maas when she took the bus from the youth hostel that Sunday morning. What an unexpected bull’s eye!
She suddenly felt that little nervous twinge — that sudden stimulus that could almost send her shooting off on a high and which might well have been the main reason why she decided to become a detective officer in the first place. If she were to be honest with herself.
Or which kept her in her job, at least. Something clicked. A suspicion was confirmed, and loose assumptions suddenly became reality. She felt totally and thrillingly alive — there was something sensual about it.
She had never spoken to anybody about this, not even Munster. Perhaps because she was afraid of not being taken seriously — or of being laughed at — but also because she didn’t need to. She had no need to discuss this special pleasure with anybody else — or to attempt to put it into words. The fact that it was there was quite sufficient. It is, therefore it is, she had concluded on a previous occasion.
