possible to put the big noises in the dock. The question of concessions granted to Lampe-Leermann in return for his evidence would also need to be taken into account: but both Reinhart and Moreno had been involved in this kind of thing before, and in the end the chief inspector announced that he was satisfied with the plans.
But if that bastard had said he was prepared to confess all to Inspector Moreno, he’d damn well better do so, Reinhart stressed.
And he’d better have something worthwhile to tell them.
‘Just two things to bear in mind,’ said Reinhart in conclusion. ‘Everything must be recorded on tape. And we must make no specific concessions. Not at this early stage — Lampe-Leermann ought to understand that.’
‘I’m with you,’ said Moreno. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday. What’s Vrommel like, by the way?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Reinhart. ‘He sounds like a corporal on the phone, and I have the impression that he’s redhaired. He could even be a different Vrommel from the old days.’
‘How old?’
‘Too old for you. Could be your grandfather, at least.’
‘Thank you, Chief Inspector.’
Reinhart wished her good hunting, and said he was looking forward to reading her report in a couple of days’ time — three at most.
‘Report?’ said Moreno. ‘You’ll get a transcript of the interrogation, and I have no intention of getting involved in that. I’m on leave, as you know.’
‘Hmm,’ muttered Reinhart. ‘Is there no idealism left in the force nowadays? What’s the world coming to?’
‘We can discuss that in August,’ said Moreno.
‘If there’s a world left by then,’ said Reinhart.
5
It was a while before it dawned on her that the girl opposite her was sitting there crying.
Not sobbing. She wasn’t making a fuss about it, the tears just seemed to be coming naturally. Her face seemed callow, clean-cut; her skin was pale and her reddish-brown hair combed back, held in place by a simple braid. Sixteen, seventeen years old, Moreno guessed: but she knew she was bad at judging the age of young girls. It could be a couple of years either way.
Her eyes were large and light brown, and as far as Moreno could see totally without make-up. Nor were there any dark stripes on her cheeks where the tears had been trickling down in a steady but not exactly torrential stream. Quietly and naturally. Moreno peered cautiously over the top of her book and noted that the girl was holding a crumpled handkerchief in her hands, which were loosely clasped in her lap; but she made no effort to stop the flow of tears.
No effort at all. Just cried. Let the tears flow however they liked, it seemed, as she gazed out through the window at the flat, sun-drenched countryside gliding past. The girl had her back to the engine, Inspector Moreno was facing it.
Grief, Moreno thought. She looks as if she’s grieving.
She tried to remember where the weeping girl had boarded the train. Moorhuijs or Klampendikk, presumably. In any case, one or two stops after Maardam Kolstraat, which is where Moreno had got on. It was one of those local trains that stops every two or three minutes. Moreno had begun to regret not having waited for the express train instead. That would probably have gone at twice the speed, and was no doubt the reason why the old boneshaker was almost empty. Apart from an elderly couple drinking tea from a thermos flask a few rows away, she and the girl were the only passengers in the whole carriage. . Which made it all the more remarkable that the girl had come to sit opposite Moreno when there were so many empty seats. Very odd.
‘You’re crying.’
The words came without her thinking about them. Tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them, and she wondered whether Mikael Bau had been right after all when he’d suggested she should wear an efficient sun hat. Something with a wide brim to provide protection against the sun — the high pressure was a strong as ever today.
The girl looked up at her briefly. Then blew her nose. Moreno sat up, and waited.
‘Yes. I’m having a bit of a cry.’
‘That’s what we need to do sometimes,’ said Moreno.
My God, she thought. What am I doing? I’ve just started to look after a teenager in crisis. . A young girl with a broken heart running away from her boyfriend. Or from her parents. But running away in any case. . I should start reading again and pretend I’d never spoken to her. Just ignore her until we get to Lejnice — haven’t I got enough to worry about with Lampe-Leermann? Why the hell can’t I hold my tongue?
‘I’m crying because I’m afraid,’ said the girl, looking out of the window at the sun again. ‘I’m on the way to my dad.’
‘Really?’ said Moreno non-committally, scrapping the running-away theory.
‘I’ve never met him.’
Moreno put her book down.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve never seen him before.’
‘You’ve never seen your dad? Why?’
‘Because my mum thought that was best.’
Moreno thought that over. Took a deep drink of mineral water. Offered the bottle to the girl. The girl shook her head.
‘Why would it be best for you not to meet him?’
The girl shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Mikaela Lijphart.’
‘How old are you? Sixteen, seventeen. .?’
I’m interrogating her, it suddenly struck Moreno. She tried to smooth things over by holding out a pack of chewing gum. Mikaela took a couple of pieces and smiled.
‘Eighteen,’ she said. ‘I had my eighteenth birthday yesterday.’
‘Many happy returns!’ said Moreno. ‘Of yesterday. .’
‘Please forgive me. I’ve interrupted your reading.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Moreno. ‘I find it hard to concentrate when I’m on a train anyway. I usually read things I’ve read already. If you want to tell me about your dad, I’ll be happy to listen.’
Mikaela sighed deeply, and looked as if she were discussing that prospect with herself. It took three seconds.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘No, I’ve never met him. Not since I was tiny, at least. I didn’t really know who he was until yesterday. His name’s Arnold Maager — my mum told me that because I’m eighteen now. A nice present, don’t you think? A dad.’
Moreno raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. The train started to slow down noisily as it approached the next station.
‘He’s in a psychiatric hospital. Something happened when I was only two years old. That’s why she kept it secret from me until now, my mum.’
My God, Moreno thought. What on earth is she sitting there telling me? For an awful moment she wondered if she’d come up against a young mythomaniac — a somewhat neurotic teenager who took pleasure in making herself interesting to total strangers. It was not unusual for young ladies in trouble to indulge in such escapades, she knew that from experience. The years she’d spent in the police unit with special responsibility for young people had taught her that. Two-and-a-half years, to be precise, that she hadn’t exactly hated, but which she would prefer not to live through again. Like all the other years she had thrown on the scrapheap in the last few days.
