Free The Weeping Girl by Håkan Nesser

. . Certainly not,’ Mikaela assured her. ‘Please forgive me, I’m just a bit confused – so much has happened in the last few days and I don’t really know
what to do. It’s about something that happened when I was a little girl . . . Only two years old. Something I’m trying to get straight, and I think you might be able to help me. I
don’t live round here. May I come in for a while?’
    ‘I haven’t tidied up yet,’ said the woman.
    ‘It’ll only take a couple of minutes.’
    ‘The home help didn’t come on Friday when she should have done, and as I said, I haven’t tidied up yet.’
    Mikaela tried to produce an indulgent smile.
    ‘I understand. It doesn’t matter – but we could go to some cafe or other if you’d prefer that. The main thing is that I can talk to you.’
    The woman muttered something and hesitated. Stood in the doorway swaying back and forth as she sucked in her lips and held on to the radiator.
    ‘What about?’ she said. ‘What do you want to know?’
    ‘I’d prefer not to discuss it here on the doorstep. It’s about my father.’
    ‘About your father?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And who’s your father?’
    Mikaela thought for two seconds, then said his name. The woman breathed in audibly, and let go of the radiator.
    ‘Bloody hell!’ she said. ‘Yes, come on in.’
    Mikaela had no doubt at all that the home help hadn’t turned up last Friday – nor any other Friday for the last six months. She had never seen a filthier or more
squalid flat. Couldn’t even imagine a worse one. Her hostess ushered her into a cramped kitchen that smelled of tobacco smoke and old fish, and quite a lot more besides. She pushed a pile of
newspapers and advertising leaflets on to the floor so that they could sit opposite one another at the table – separated by a small, sticky area just big enough for two glasses, an ashtray
and a bottle.
    Cherry brandy. She filled Mikaela’s glass without asking. Mikaela took a sip of the bright red, lukewarm liquid and almost choked over its strength and sweetness.
    The woman emptied her glass in one swig, and slammed it down on the table. Fished out a cigarette and lit it.
    Why can’t she at least air the place? Mikaela wondered. Why does she live cooped up in a rubbish dump in the middle of summer? Ugh.
    But of course, she hadn’t come to discuss hygiene and home comforts.
    ‘So, Arnold Maager,’ said the woman. ‘That bloody arsehole.’
    ‘He is . . . Arnold Maager is my father,’ said Mikaela.
    ‘So you claim. Tell me what you know.’
    Mikaela could feel the tears welling up in her eyes, but she gritted her teeth and managed to hold them in check.
    ‘Is it okay if I open the window a little bit?’ she asked. ‘I’m allergic to tobacco smoke.’
    ‘No windows are ever opened in my home,’ said the woman. ‘You were the one who wanted to come in among all the shit.’
    Mikaela swallowed.
    ‘Let’s hear it, then,’ said the woman, pouring herself some more cherry brandy. ‘You first. Let’s do things properly.’
    Mikaela cleared her throat, and began talking. She didn’t really have much to say, but she had hardly started before the woman stood up and walked over to the sink, which was piled up with
unwashed crockery, empty bottles and every kind of rubbish you could think of. She rummaged around in a box, with her back towards her guest, and when she turned round she was holding her right arm
straight out, pointing at Mikaela with something.
    It was a second before Mikaela realized that it was a pistol.
    The cat, she thought. The roof tile.

10
    12 July 1999
    Monday was overcast, but the high pressure was very much present in the interrogation room at Lejnice police station. Lampe-Leermann was wearing an orange shirt with a
prominent collar and the top three buttons unfastened. The sweat stains under his arms were hardly visible. He smelled strongly of aftershave lotion.
    Well, rather that than old garlic, Moreno thought as she sat