The Weeping Girl Read Online Free PDF Page A

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 . . .
    But it was hard to believe that Mikaela Lijphart was making it all up. Really hard. She seemed more like an open book, Moreno thought – with those big, bright eyes and straightforward
features. Obviously, she could be mistaken – but she was hardly your blue-eyed innocent.
    ‘So now you’re on your way to meet him,