Only her hands revealed the grief she experienced and the tension she felt. She could not keep them still. Every time she had to speak her dead daughter’s name, her hands clenched. Gini pitied her deeply. She could see that Erica van der Leyden was a woman fighting desperately to stay calm, a woman hanging on by the slenderest of threads.

There was only one discordant element in this room, and that was the teenage girl now slouched in a chair to Gini’s right. She had been introduced as Fricke, Anneke’s elder sister, and was about sixteen. She was not prepossessing, and Gini suspected she both knew that, and chose to emphasize it. She was overweight, with heavy eyeglasses, and long, fair, greasy hair. She was wearing jeans and a turtleneck sweater, and she, too—to judge from the few sullen remarks she had so far made—spoke excellent English.

Her mother had already made two attempts to persuade her to leave the room. Neither had been successful, for all that strict upbringing. Rising to her feet now, Erica van der Leyden made a third.

“Fricke, I’m sure you must have some studying to do.”

“I’ve already done it.”

“Then if you would leave us alone, please, for just a short while. You can see—this isn’t easy for Miss Hunter or for me.” She hesitated, then said something more sharply, in Dutch. Fricke gave her another sullen stare and did not move.

“Why shouldn’t I stay? I’m Anneke’s sister. I don’t suppose it occurs to anyone I might have something useful to say.”

The rudeness, and the fact that she spoke in English so Gini could not mistake the rudeness, seemed to please her. Erica van der Leyden flushed, and Gini quickly intervened.

“No, please. Don’t ask Fricke to leave on my account. It’s true. She might well remember something—something that seems unimportant perhaps.”

Fricke made a small grimace that might have implied satisfaction, or scorn. Her mother gave a resigned gesture of the hands and returned to her chair. She gave Gini a bewildered, helpless look. Gini could feel this interview slipping away from her. She leaned forward.

“Perhaps, Mrs. van der Leyden, if you could describe Anneke to me. I know it must be painful, but under the circumstances…”

“Of course.” Her hands twisted in her lap. “Another young girl is dead. A third is missing. My heart goes out to their parents. I wish I could assist, but—”

“If you could just tell me the kind of things Anneke liked, that might help. Did she like to go to the movies, or dance? Did she like music?”

“Well, she liked music, I suppose—modern music, as most girls of her age do. She was interested in clothes. She used to buy fashion magazines, didn’t she, Fricke? We had some arguments, as mothers and daughters do, about hair, and makeup and clothes—but nothing serious. Anneke was a very sweet girl, not as clever as Fricke, of course, but imaginative. Gregarious. She had lots of friends. She had pen pals too, all over the world. She loved receiving letters and cards. And then she was quite good at languages. She liked to travel. We had all been to Italy, and Spain, and to Switzerland to ski. She made a school trip to Paris last year, and another, the year before, to London, which was a great excitement. She took ballet classes. She was good at dancing, very graceful…”