Edita Van Rippe didn’t answer. Instead she leaned slowly forward over the table and put her arms over her head.
Kohler loosened his tie and went to the toilet.
Moreno thought about Baasteuwel’s comment as she was waiting for her train.
Never being married is a blessing? According to Vrommel?
It didn’t feel especially uplifting. If not getting hitched meant you became like the chief of police in Lejnice, she’d better find herself a man in the twinkling of an eye, that was obvious.
Perhaps she should take up Mikael Bau’s discreet offer of a meeting in August, for instance? Yesterday’s dinner had been more or less problem-free, she had to admit. Irrespective of his bad sides, he didn’t seem to harbour grudges. Whether they were linked to a broken-down Trabant or a detective inspector addicted to work. She had to grant him that.
So maybe we could start all over again in August? she thought.
She made up her mind to postpone a decision until then. An invigorating cycling holiday would surely help her to make discerning judgements, and just now she had more than enough to think about.
Instead, she made a different decision.
She telephoned Munster.
Unfortunately he replied. She’d hoped he wouldn’t.
‘Well?’ she asked, noticing that she was holding her breath.
‘I’m afraid Lampe-Leermann was right,’ said Munster.
Neither of them uttered a word for a good ten seconds after that.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes,’ said Moreno. ‘I’m still here. So you know who it is?’
‘We have a name,’ said Munster. ‘I have no intention of telling anybody what it is until we’re one hundred per cent certain. Not even you.’
‘Good,’ said Moreno. ‘I feel ill, but keep that to yourself, for God’s sake.’
‘This isn’t pleasant,’ said Munster.
Silence again.
‘How are you coping?’ Moreno asked.
‘Hmm,’ said Munster, clearing his throat. ‘I didn’t really know what to do. In the end I got in touch with
Moreno thought for a moment.
‘I think that’s what I’d have done as well,’ she said. ‘If I’d thought of it, that is. So you confronted this journalist together, did you?’
‘We certainly did,’ said Munster. ‘He started by laughing it off, but soon changed his tune. VV scared him so much that he ended up by paying for the beers. I wouldn’t have been able to manage it on my own.’
‘And he came up with a name, did he?’
‘He certainly did,’ said Munster.
‘And he’s not bluffing?’
‘It doesn’t seem so.’
‘I see.’
‘The only thing is that we haven’t confronted him yet. He’s on leave, and we thought we’d wait until he got back. I thought that would be best, and so did
Moreno tried to recall which of her colleagues, apart from herself, were taking their holidays in July — but she stopped almost immediately.
I don’t want to know, she thought. Not until I have to.
‘Anyway, that’s how things stand,’ said Munster. ‘I just thought you ought to know.’
‘Okay,’ said Moreno. ‘Bye for now.’
‘TTFN,’ said Munster.
This time she had chosen to travel on the express, but she soon discovered that there were just as few passengers as when she’d travelled in the other direction, and sat down in a window seat.
But of course, there was no pressing reason to leave the coast on a roasting hot Saturday like today. Two weeks, she thought. Exactly two weeks of my holiday have gone, and now I’m heading back home again.
Not exactly rested and refreshed. Not a lazy fortnight by the sea. What the hell had she been doing? What was certain was that it hadn’t turned out as she’d expected in advance. She had told her boyfriend (bloke? lover? stallion?) to go to hell, she’d played the amateur sleuth day and night, and she hadn’t achieved a thing. Not a damned thing.
She didn’t know what had happened to the weeping girl on the train.
She didn’t know who had killed Winnie Maas.
She didn’t know who had killed Tim Van Rippe.
And there was a paedophile in the Maardam police station.
Great, Moreno thought. A top-notch outcome, no question about it.
FIVE
38
22 July 1983
When he had passed the school again a breeze blew up from the sea, and he stopped once more.
He couldn’t be sure if what had made him pause was the breeze, or the illuminated information board with the school’s name and a map with the functions of each of the buildings pedagogically listed. But he stood there, staring at the board, and something moved inside him. A sort of diffuse feeling of security, perhaps. His place of work. As empty as a desert on a summer’s night at half past one in the morning. But still?
He flopped down on a stone bench outside one of the long walls of the gymnasium. Elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.
What am I going to do? he thought. What the hell is going to happen now? Why am I sitting here? Bugger, bugger, bugger. .
He noticed that a jumble of words was buzzing around inside his head. Not thoughts. Not action plans. Just a meaningless mish-mash of questions and desperate cries that seemed to be hovering over an abyss that he was not allowed to look down into, not at any price; that he didn’t dare to look down into — a swirl of words that only served to keep everything else at a distance. At a distance and out of sight. That’s all there was to it. It struck him that he was going out of his mind.
Home? he thought. Home to Mikaela? Why? Why have I stopped here? Why don’t I rush up to the viaduct and look her in the eye? Who? Who do I mean? Winnie? Or Sigrid? I’ve lost everything in any case. I shall never come back here. . Not to Mikaela, not to Sigrid, not to the school. I’ve lost. Just now I’ve lost everything. . At this very moment I’m losing everything on this damned bench outside this damned gymnasium. I knew it, I’ve known it ever since that damned evening, why didn’t I do anything about it, what shall I do now when everything’s too late? Damn and blast! It’s too late. Damn and blast! Everything’s too late now. .
He stood up. Keep quiet! he said to his thoughts. Shut up! He took a deep breath and tried to concentrate one last time. Last time? he thought. What do I mean, one last time?
He started walking to the viaduct again. Is she still there? Are
He increased his pace. Crossed over Birkenerstraat level with the cemetery and turned into Emserweg. And it was then, just as he came round the corner at Dorff’s bookshop and stationery store and into Dorfflenerstraat that he saw her.
