The same people, the same dogs running after sticks, the same clusters of holidaymakers. But nevertheless, it somehow seemed that the passage of time, albeit only a few days, had cast a sort of membrane over it all. As if it didn’t concern her any more, that kind of life.
‘But why would anybody want to attack Arnold Maager?’ she asked.
Vegesack shrugged.
‘Don’t ask me. But he’s gone missing, and there must be something behind it.’
‘What about his wife?’ Moreno asked. ‘Sigrid Lijphart. What do we know about her?’
‘She rings every day, wondering why we haven’t done anything.’
‘How did she react to the fact that Maager had also disappeared?’
‘It’s hard to say,’ said Vegesack, frowning. ‘It’s the daughter she’s interested in. To be honest, I don’t think she cares all that much if her ex-husband is dead or alive. But nevertheless, we’ll be issuing new Wanted notices tomorrow. In newspapers, magazines and so on.’
Moreno thought that over for a while. Tried to conjure up an image of Arnold Maager the man, but the only images of him she had were from a few old photographs, and it was hard to produce a clear picture. The story attached to him became all the more vivid — what he had been guilty of doing sixteen years ago. It seemed as if actions could somehow overshadow the people who had carried them out, make them incomprehensible, irresponsible: it wasn’t an implausible way of looking at things, and perhaps there were resonances with that membrane she seemed to have sensed, covering the beach. He must be an absolute wreck of a human being, she thought. Must have been even then.
‘What a fascinating story,’ she said in the end. ‘The girl’s missing and her father’s missing. Can you tell me what the hell is going on?’
‘Hmm,’ said Vegesack. ‘I haven’t really got round to thinking about it all that much. I’ve been too busy trying to sort out that business of the bloke buried in the sand. Tim Van Rippe.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Moreno. ‘Where have you got to with him?’
‘The only thing we’re sure about is that we aren’t sure about anything,’ said Vegesack, draining his glass of beer.
‘Hmm,’ muttered Moreno. ‘As far as I remember, that is the basis of all knowledge.’
29
Aaron Wicker, editor of the Lejnice local newspaper
He probably wouldn’t have been, no matter what the circumstances; but as things stood, he thought he had unusually good reasons. Ever since Vrommel had succeeded in raiding the newspaper offices on false pretences at the beginning of the nineties, Wicker felt such a deep and genuine hatred for the main local upholder of law and order that he never bothered to try to hide it. Or to analyse it.
Shit is shit, he used to think. And you don’t always reap what you sow.
The ostensible reason for searching the premises was that the police had received an anonymous bomb threat aimed at the newspaper. No bomb was found, but Wicker had known from the start that there had been no threat either. The real reason for the raid was an attempt to find the names of some of Wicker’s informants for an article about financial irregularities in the town council. So that was that, and ever since, relations between two of the town’s powerful institutions had been irreparable. As long as the chief of police was called Vrommel, at least.
No names had been found during the operation, since Wicker had had time to erase them; but the mere thought that the forces of law and order could ignore such fundamental matters as freedom of the press in this way was enough to send shivers of impotent fury down Wicker’s spine. Still.
And now he was expected to submit once again.
‘We know who the victim is, of course,’ said the chief of police.
‘Bravo,’ said Wicker.
‘But unfortunately I can’t give you his name.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because we haven’t been in touch with his next of kin yet.’
‘The mass media can be pretty effective in getting through to people,’ said Wicker. ‘If your telephones are out of order, for instance. And we are pretty good judges.’
‘That may be,’ said Vrommel. ‘But there is nothing wrong with our means of communication. I’m speaking on the telephone just now, for instance, even though I ought to be devoting myself to more important things. But that aside, you’re not going to get the victim’s name.’
‘I shall find out what it is even so.’
‘If you do, I forbid you to publish it.’
‘Forbid? Since when have we had official censorship in this town? Not that it would surprise me if we did, but it must have escaped my notice.’
‘It’s not the only thing that escapes your notice,’ said the chief of police. ‘The way things are nowadays we don’t need to keep an eye simply on compliance with the law. As the press can’t be trusted to obey its own ethical rules, we have to ensure that they do. I’m rather busy at the moment — is there anything else you’d like to raise?’
I would quite like to raise my right fist and give you a punch on the nose, Wicker thought, but he made do with slamming down the receiver and decided to put Selma Perhovens on the case.
Selma Perhovens was Wicker’s only colleague on the newspaper: only part-time, it’s true, but if there were two people in Lejnice — or in the whole of Europe come to that — who knew the identity of the dead man on the beach, Selma was just the person to discover his name in no more than a few hours. Unless he misjudged her.
The first murder here in sixteen years, and the local newspaper didn’t know the name of the victim? Bloody hell!
He took two tablets to lower his blood pressure, and started looking for her mobile number.
Moreno had dinner at a restaurant called Chez Vladimir, and promised herself that this would be not only the first time, but also the last. She assumed the same would apply to the evening’s other three diners. The minced meat pie with salad she had ordered — and was served after a long wait, and tried to eat — was not something that inspired a desire to set foot inside the place again.
Nor did the wine, despite the fact that it matched rather accurately the roughness and sourness of the waitress. Moreno thanked her lucky stars that she had only ordered one glass.
Whether or not the following day would be her last one in Lejnice was a more open question.
Or perhaps it wasn’t so open after all. Go home now? she thought as she forced down the last of the gall. With two people missing and an unsolved murder on the beach? Is it really Detective Inspector Moreno asking herself that question? The first liberated woman in the history of the world?
She couldn’t help but smile at the implausibility.
I’ll make up my mind tomorrow, she thought. A pot of hot coffee in my room tonight, then I’ll massage my temples until either I make a hole or reach a conclusion. It would be quite nice to settle down in my own bed one of these nights.
She started off by writing down the names of those involved on a blank page in her notebook.
It looked neat. She thought for a while before adding another name.
Not because he seemed to have anything to do with it, but he had been murdered after all. And then two
