The Weeping Girl

‘I need a rest and a fag,’ said Lampe-Leermann, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. ‘That heap of shit won’t even let me smoke.’

‘A rest?’ said Moreno. ‘We haven’t even started yet. You can have one half an hour from now at the earliest. Assuming you are cooperative. Is that clear?’

Lampe-Leermann cursed again, and shrugged.

‘Let’s get going then,’ said Moreno, pressing the start button. ‘What do you have to say?’

6

Mikaela Lijphart got off at the crossroads in the village of St Inns, as she’d been instructed. Remained standing with her rucksack on the grass verge until the bus had disappeared round the long curve to Wallby and Port Hagen.

She looked around. To her left, in a westerly direction, the road ran as straight as an arrow through the dunes to the sea, only a couple of kilometres or less away. She would walk along that later — in an hour or two — in order to get to the youth hostel where she intended to spend the night. But not yet. Now she would be heading eastwards. Away from the sea, along the narrow, winding strip of asphalt that seemed to be almost roasting in the heat between high, flower-covered grassy mounds. According to what she’d been told, it was only about a kilometre to the Sidonis home, but she wished it were even shorter. Or that she’d bought a bottle of water before leaving Lejnice.

Because it was hot. Unbearably hot. It was half past one — no doubt the ideal time for a walk in the sun. If you wanted to catch sunstroke.

That would be all she needed. On top of everything else.

She looked around again. Tried to get an overall picture of the village: it didn’t seem to be more than a dozen or so houses — but something sticking out from one of them looked as if it might be an advertising placard. Perhaps it was some kind of shop. . Maybe she’d be able to get a bottle of water at least. She heaved her rucksack up over her shoulders and set off towards the reddish-brown brick building.

She had better check that she really was on the right road for the home, she thought.

To the home and her father.

Sure enough it was a small grocery shop. She bought a litre of water, an ice cream and a packet of lemon Rijbing biscuits. The plump little lady behind the counter also gave her directions to the Sidonis Foundation: carry on along this road and turn right at the signpost on the other side of the bridge. Not far at all. The lady wondered if Mikaela had a car — if not, she could have a lift there in about half an hour: they’d be delivering a selection of goods to the home, like they did most days.

Mikaela smiled and shook her head, saying she liked walking, and it was such nice weather.

‘Lovely weather,’ said the lady, fanning herself with a magazine. ‘Almost too much of a good thing, you might say.’

As she was walking, she started thinking about what she’d said to the woman on the train.

The truth, but not the whole truth.

Not quite the whole truth. She knew a bit more than she’d admitted, and now she had a bad conscience for keeping that extra bit to herself. A little prick, at least. The woman had been friendly and gone out of her way to help her; she could have told her a bit more, she really could.

But then she hadn’t told her any lies. It really was true that her mum had said very little about the background, no more than Mikaela had told the woman on the train.

Something had happened.

Sixteen years ago.

Something involving her dad.

What? What? Now when she thought back to yesterday’s conversation with her mother, she found it almost more difficult than ever to understand her mum’s attitude. More difficult than when they’d been sitting at the breakfast table but miles apart mentally, and she’d heard the name for the first time.

Arnold Maager.

Arnold? For twelve years she’d had a dad called Helmut. For three years she’d had one without a name. But now he was suddenly called Arnold.

What happened? she had asked her mother. Tell me what happened that was so horrible. Then, sixteen years ago.

But her mother had simply shaken her head.

But you must understand that you have to say B once you’ve said A, Mikaela had insisted. That’s what her mother always used to tell her. I have a right to know.

More head-shaking, more firmly than ever. Then that harangue.

Yes, you have a right to know who your father is, Mikaela, and I’ve told you that now. But it wouldn’t help you at all to know exactly what happened, why I left him. Believe me, Mikaela. I wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t necessary, surely you can understand that?

I’ll find out anyway.

That’s up to you. You’re eighteen now. But I’m just thinking what’s best for you.

That’s as far as they’d got, even though they’d been sitting there in the kitchen for half an hour. Mikaela had begged and pleaded. Nagged and cursed and wept, but her mother wouldn’t budge.

As sometimes happened. Mikaela had beaten her head against the wall before. She knew what usually happened, and what it felt like. But the distance between them never used to be as wide as this. It was quite remarkable.

Auntie Vanja was the answer: that had also happened before. Mikaela shut herself away in her room and telephoned her immediately after the conversation in the kitchen. Explained the situation with no beating about the bush, and after a lot of intensive persuasion, she succeeded. Just when she’d been on the point of giving up. Auntie Vanja had told her. Not a lot, it’s true, but a little bit. . Opened the curtain slightly, as the saying goes.

He killed somebody, your dad did. A young girl. . Well, it was never actually proved that he did it.

Pause.

But it’s obvious it was him.

Pause.

And then he couldn’t cope with what he’d done. He fell to pieces — it’s best not to dig around into it any more, I’ve said too much already.

Who?

Who had he killed? Why?

But Auntie Vanja had refused to go into that. The curtain was now closed again, it wasn’t any business of hers and she’d already said too much. He was presumably still in that home near Lejnice, she thought so at least. He’d gone there more or less straight away. But it’s best to forget all about it. Forget and move on.

Mikaela knew that already. That he was in that home — her mother had told her as much. I wonder why, Mikaela thought when she had thanked her aunt and hung up. Why had her mother told her that? If she didn’t want her daughter to start rooting around and finding out things, surely it would have been better not to give her that piece of information?

Or to say nothing at all?

I have to, she had explained. I’m obliged to tell you your father’s name and I’m obliged to tell you where he is. But I hope. . I hope with all my heart that you don’t go and visit him.

With all my heart? Mikaela thought. That sounded rather pathetic. And incomprehensible. Both yesterday