Free The Weeping Girl by Håkan Nesser Page A

down opposite him. Observed him closely before saying anything, and decided that on the whole he seemed to be more composed than he
had been on Saturday, and she felt quite optimistic when she started the tape recorder.
    It was exactly 13.15 when she did so, and when she finally switched it off after a most productive session, one hour and four minutes had passed.
    So, a most productive session, and job done. At least, that was how she assessed it. Whether or not Franz Lampe-Leermann would agree was doubtful: but as far as she could judge she had squeezed
out of him most of what he had to say. Three names that were completely new to the police, half a dozen that were known already, and information that was probably sufficient for the police to start
proceedings against the whole lot of them. And quite a lot more information as well, the value of which she couldn’t be sure about at the moment, but which would most probably lead to more
guilty verdicts. Unless the prosecuting authorities saw things differently, or other things needed to be taken into account – but there was not much point in speculating about that at this
stage.
    And she had not made him any significant promises regarding such things as extenuating circumstances or dropping charges against him. Needless to say she had no authority to grant such
concessions anyway – but when all was said and done it was the police who eventually decided what information came into the public domain, and what didn’t.
    So, a satisfactory outcome: she could grant herself that much. Reinhart could look after the mopping-up: Inspector Moreno had done all that was required of her, and more besides.
    ‘Miss Copper is looking pleased with herself,’ said Lampe-Leermann, scratching his hairy chest.
    ‘That’s because I can now get out of this dump,’ said Moreno.
    ‘So you wouldn’t fancy a little bit extra, then?’
    The implication – or possible implication – made her see red, but she kept control of herself.
    ‘And what might that be?’
    ‘A titbit. A little goody to round things off. But I need a fag first.’
    Moreno hesitated. Looked at the clock and wondered what the hell he had in mind.
    ‘What do you mean?’ she asked eventually.
    ‘Exactly what I say, of course. As always. A titbit. But first a fag. There’s a time and place for everything.’
    ‘You can have five minutes,’ said Moreno. ‘But make sure you really do have something worthwhile to come out with, otherwise you’ll lose all your bonus points.’
    Lampe-Leermann stood up.
    ‘Don’t worry, young lady. I’m not in the habit of disappointing my women.’
    He knocked on the door, and was let out into the smoking yard.
    ‘It’s about that hack.’
    ‘Hack?’
    ‘That journalist. Don’t quibble about words, young lady.’
    Moreno said nothing.
    ‘I’m sitting on a fascinating little story. And I’m sitting on his name . . .’
    He tapped the side of his forehead with two fingers.
    ‘That’s what these negotiations are all about.’
    Moreno nodded and glanced at the tape recorder, but Lampe-Leermann made a dismissive gesture.
    ‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d need to record this. I’d have thought you’d be able to remember it without any assistance.’
    ‘Come to the point,’ said Moreno. ‘A journalist who knows something?’
    ‘Exactly. What do you think about paedophiles?’
    ‘I love them,’ said Moreno.
    ‘I have a certain amount of sympathy for them as well,’ said Lampe-Leermann, scratching himself under his chin. ‘There’s such a lot of cheap comments written about them .
. . You might think they’re being victimized. And they’re everywhere, of course. Normal decent citizens like you and me . . .’
    ‘Come to the point!’
    Lampe-Leermann looked at her with an expression that was presumably meant to be fatherly understanding.
    ‘Everywhere, as I said. It’s nothing to be ashamed of – you shouldn’t be ashamed of your inclinations, as my