The Weeping Girl

. Why she phoned and who thought up the idea that she should do so. One possible set-up is that the girl no longer wanted to go through with the plan, and when Van Rippe caught on to that he arranged things the way they turned out. He was bloody lucky, of course. He can hardly have reckoned with Maager going out of his mind and not saying anything at all. But in any case, there’s surely no reason to go on rooting around in it any more. Do you have any other comments?’

‘Just one question,’ said Moreno. ‘Was it necessary to bring up this business of Maager believing it was his wife who was the murderer? Bringing it up with Mikaela, I mean.’

‘Yes,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘I reckon I’m on pretty firm ground there. I think he needs a few plus points, that poor bloke. He’s only a shadow of a man, for God’s sake. But protecting his family is surely a noble thing to do. Young girls like noble actions. I must admit that I also thought it was the wife who’d done it. But only for a few days. Maager thought so for sixteen years.’

‘And she allowed him to think that?’

Five seconds passed before Baasteuwel answered. She could hear him inhaling deeply on his cigarette.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘So you’ve noticed that as well.’

Moreno thought for a while instead of responding. She felt she needed a little time in order to consider what Baasteuwel had said. No doubt there would be opportunities to come back to the subject, but she didn’t have any more vital points to raise.

‘Nice to have met you,’ she said eventually. ‘Is your brother the vicar as crafty as you are?’

‘He’s the clever one of the family,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘With a heart as big as hell. For a vicar, that is. You don’t need to worry about that aspect of things.’

‘Excellent,’ said Moreno. ‘Then I don’t have any more questions. Good night, Inspector.’

‘Ditto,’ said Baasteuwel. ‘May the angels sing you to sleep.’

41

7 August 1999

Inspector Moreno had never set foot in The Society’s premises in Weivers steeg — or Styckargrand, as it was known locally — but she was not entirely ignorant about the place. It was generally known that it was the Chief Inspector’s favourite haunt — or at least that he used to sit there and play chess and drink beer several times a week. That was his habit when he was in charge of the Maardam CID, and there was no reason to believe that he had abandoned this custom since he had changed his profession and become an antiquarian bookseller three years ago.

She hadn’t seen Van Veeteren for over six months — not since that tragic business concerning his son — and it was with mixed feelings that she walked down the stairs leading from ground level to The Society. In normal circumstances it would have been interesting to meet him, to find out if there were any truth in the rumour that he was writing a book, for instance: but the reason why they were meeting this mild August evening was sufficient to keep at bay all forms of expectation and enthusiasm. Sufficient to keep such things light years away.

The room was large and whitewashed, she noted once she had got used to the semi-darkness that was normal down there. The ceiling was low, and several dark beams and pillars, and oddly shaped nooks and crannies, made it difficult to get an idea of how big it really was, and how many customers it held. Most of the tables were screened off, and diners sat in little booths — each of them, as far as she could see, fitted with a dark-coloured, heavy pine table and benches fixed to the floor. The bar was directly in front of the entrance, and looked like all other bars anywhere in the world. A notice chalked on a slate announced that today’s special was rosemary-lamb and fried potatoes.

She caught sight of Munster’s head and raised hand in one of the booths at the very back, and made her way there. Van Veeteren stood up and greeted her, then they all sat down. Moreno thought he looked younger than when she’d last seen him. More lively and vivacious: his tall, well-built body seemed to emit an aura of energy — an aura she remembered from several years ago, but which had been absent during the years before he finally resigned. She was sure he’d passed his sixtieth birthday, but if she hadn’t known that she would have guessed he was about fifty-five to fifty-seven.

When you’re a police officer you grow older more quickly than if you’re not, she thought. That was hardly an original observation.

‘Nice to see you again, Inspector,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But sad that it has to be in these circumstances.’

Moreno nodded.

‘How did he do it?’ she asked.

‘Rope,’ said Munster.

‘I see, rope,’ said Moreno.

‘Yes, he hanged himself. One might ask why he didn’t use his service pistol, but perhaps there was some kind of inbuilt respect, or a mental barrier. . Anyway, it’s a horrific story, obviously.’

‘Did he leave a message?’

‘No. Nothing. But we know why he did it, of course. That is, we know. We three plus that blasted journalist. But he’s not likely to say anything. Don’t you think?’

He looked at Van Veeteren, who was messing around with his ungainly cigarette machine.

‘Most probably not,’ said the Chief Inspector, looking at first one, then the other of his former colleagues for several seconds. ‘It might have been better if he’d scribbled a line or two, but it’s easy to say that. I mean, he had an ex-wife and a daughter to take into consideration. I’m not suggesting he should have come out with the real reason, but if you don’t leave any kind of message behind, you leave the field wide open for speculation. I don’t suppose any of us thinks that it would be a good thing if all the shit were to hit the fan? Bearing in mind his daughter, for instance.’

‘Nobody,’ said Munster, having first waited for eye contact with Moreno. ‘Certainly not me, that’s for sure.’

He produced a brown envelope and placed it on the table between them.

‘You might like to take a look at the pictorial evidence before we burn it.’

But he didn’t touch the envelope. Nor did Van Veeteren. Moreno hesitated for a moment, then opened it and took out a photograph. Obviously an enlargement: black and white, about 20x30 centimetres. It wasn’t difficult to see what it depicted.

A cafe table. On the pavement, night or evening: the photographer must have used a flash, the background was pitch black. Only two people were in focus, but there was something white, blurred, in the bottom right-hand corner — possibly a shoe or a part of a trouser leg belonging to somebody else. On the table — apparently made of rattan, with a glass top — were two glasses: one with a straw and a miniature paper parasol, the other an almost empty beer glass. Nothing more, not on the half of the table depicted in the photograph at least.

Two chairs. Sitting on one of them Detective Intendent deBries. Leaning back and wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and light-coloured shorts. Suntanned. On the other chair a girl of South Asian appearance. Young. Dark- haired. Aged about ten or twelve.

She was looking straight at the camera, her eyes wide open. Her lipstick and make-up couldn’t conceal the fact that she was young. The white man had his arm round her slender shoulders, and was looking at her from the side. There was a trace of a smile on his lips. She was wearing a very short, light-coloured dress with a flower pattern. Her right hand was resting on Intendent deBries’s left thigh. Quite high up. His legs were slightly apart, his shorts loose-fitting, and her hand disappeared into the darkness. It was not possible to misinterpret the picture.

‘Thailand?’ Moreno asked.

Munster nodded.

‘Phuket, this last January. He’s been there once before as well.’

Moreno thought, and recalled that it was true.

‘The photographer?’

‘A freelance journalist. Who evidently recognized him. Used a special lens, and deBries apparently didn’t notice a thing. But then, he was a bit preoccupied. .’