The Weeping Girl

‘How old is his daughter?’ Moreno asked, putting the photograph back into the envelope.

Van Veeteren cleared his throat.

‘Twelve. About the same age as she is,’ he said, gesturing in the direction of the envelope.

‘They haven’t been in contact,’ said Munster. ‘I’ve spoken to Maria, his ex-wife. She reckons that since they separated he’s gone downhill — to be honest, she didn’t seem all that surprised. But she knows nothing at all about this.’

Downhill? Moreno thought. You could say that again. She was having difficulty in sorting out her own emotions. That had been the case ever since Munster had phoned that morning. On the one hand, disgust at what deBries had been up to; but on the other, dismay at the fact that he was dead. That he had taken the consequences so extremely quickly. After only a few hours, by all accounts. Munster had spoken to him on Friday afternoon, and he’d done it that evening, or that night at the latest. A good friend had found him the next morning: the door hadn’t been locked. No room for doubt. Nor for explanations or excuses.

But then, what was there to say? Moreno thought. Make excuses? How?

‘How did you find out?’ she asked, because Munster hadn’t told her.

‘That friend phoned me. DeBries had written my number on a scrap of paper on the kitchen table.’

Van Veeteren lit a cigarette. They sat in silence for a while.

‘I thought it must be him,’ Moreno admitted. ‘If it had to be somebody. He seemed to be the only possibility, as it were. Do the others know about this? The fact that he’s dead, I mean?’

Munster shook his head.

‘No. Not as far as we know, that is. We thought that we’d first. .’

He was searching for words.

‘That we’d consolidate our silence,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘If you don’t have anything against that. The simplest line to take is that you are just as devastated as everybody else. That you don’t say a damned word, and don’t circulate this photo around your colleagues. But perhaps you see things differently? From a woman’s perspective, perhaps?’

Moreno thought for a few seconds. She didn’t need any longer.

‘For the moment I’m prepared to put the man’s and the woman’s perspective on the shelf,’ she said. ‘There seem to be general human considerations which are much more important.’

‘I agree absolutely,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I just need to check that we all agree that I should take charge of this, okay?’

Moreno exchanged looks with Munster and nodded. Van Veeteren took the envelope, folded it in two and put it in his inside pocket. Checked his watch.

‘Might I have the honour of treating two old colleagues to a glass?’ he then asked. ‘My chess match isn’t due to start for another hour yet.’

Moreno left The Society at about nine o’clock together with Munster. He offered to drive her home, but she declined and decided to walk instead. It was still quite warm, and there were lots of people in the streets and the pavement cafes. She chose a longer route, via Langgraacht and Kellnerstraat. Over Keymerplejn and Windemeerstraat. She passed by the Chief Inspector’s antiquarian bookshop, and noted that they were closed for the summer, until the twenty-second.

As she was walking through the town she tried to think about Intendent deBries: but it hadn’t become any easier to conjure up some sort of retroactive image of him after the conversation with Munster and Van Veeteren. More difficult, in fact. But even so, there was one question she couldn’t avoid. Would she always remember him as the child-molester? Was this destined to be his epitaph? Would she ever be able to see any other sides of his character?

She hadn’t known him all that long, but she had respected him as a colleague. As they say. As a competent and efficient police officer. Surely she had? Did that sort of judgement really have to be tainted by this other business? Would the passage of time ever be able to make it possible to plead extenuating circumstances to counterbalance the condemnation she was feeling just now? She didn’t know.

And what about Arnold Maager? it suddenly struck her. She had never met him, only seen a photograph of him. What did she feel when she tried to conjure up an image of him?

It was the same as with deBries, she concluded. Difficult to feel any kind of sympathy or understanding. One might feel sorry for them — Maager’s punishment was out of all proportion to his crime: but these men, both deBries and Maager, should surely have understood that there was a cause-and-effect chain? That what they did would sooner or later have consequences.

Always. Somehow or other.

Or am I judging them too harshly? she wondered. Is this just the bitchiness inside me that I’m trying to elevate into some kind of morality?

What the hell! she allowed herself to mutter. There was no doubt a big difference between the sixteen- year-old in Lejnice and the eleven-year-old (or however old the girl actually was) in Phuket; but even so, she could understand those who maintained that male sexuality was the devil’s contribution to the Universal Plan. But that’s life.

As far as deBries was concerned, she was grateful that she wasn’t the only one in possession of all the details. Good that Munster knew all about it as well — no doubt there would be an opportunity to discuss matters further with him, once it became clear what the fall-out was. Perhaps also with the Chief Inspector.

But then she remembered something Reinhart had once said.

A human being is an animal with a very dirty soul — but an amazing ability to wash it.

As she passed the Keymer church the clock struck a quarter to ten. She registered that she had one whole day left of her leave. Great.

On Monday, it was back to routine. Great.