After the Silence: Inspector Rykel Book 1 (Amsterdam Quartet) (12 page)

Tuesday, 3 January
12.19

As Kees drove, his conversation with Smit kept playing in his head, changing slightly with each re-imagining.

He’d watched himself, rising up through the ranks, quickly becoming Smit’s favourite, the hotshot officer who was assigned the best cases, and by the time he reached the turn-off to Haarlem he’d mapped out his whole career in Technicolor, the images vivid in his mind.

And he wasn’t surprised that Marinette hadn’t featured in the movie of his future life at all.

In fact the woman who had been at the door – an expensive house near the Vondelpark, one of those large buildings he drove past on the way to the station every morning, not dissimilar to Korssen’s place – to greet him home with smouldering eyes was pretty close, he realized with a jolt, to the pathologist, Carice.

She is
, he admitted to himself as he drove down the road scanning numbers,
pretty hot.

Which made her response to his text all the more exciting.

He found the house, parked up on the far side of the road – the only free space left on the street – and let the silence settle in around him for a few moments as the engine died away.

An old man with a dog, some kind of mongrel, shuffled round the corner and the pair made their way towards him. The dog was limping – one of its hind legs, or maybe its hip, wasn’t working properly – so they moved in fits and starts, the old man occasionally tugging at the lead.

Another car passed on the road, and Kees cracked the door open, filling the interior with cold air, wet against his skin. As he got out he caught a glimpse of his face in the rearview mirror and wondered if the face he could see there was the face of a snitch.

The house was large, set back from the road and built predominately from red brick. Five polished marble steps led to a front door. Two box trees with long slender trunks and immaculately pruned branches stood guard.

He’d called ahead; he knew that really he should have been in front of her when she was told about Friedman’s death, but he didn’t want to drive out all that way and find she wasn’t in, find she was at work, away on holiday, or any other of the many reasons why someone might not be at home during the day.

She answered the door, and though her eyes might have held the slightly misty, liquid quality of the recently bereaved, her manner wouldn’t give a casual observer any idea that she had recently lost a husband, even an ex. She was a slight woman, short blonde hair and a figure that, when she wasn’t pregnant as now, Kees noted as his eyes travelled downwards, could be confused for a slim man from the right angle.

‘I’m Paultje,’ she said as she motioned him in and showed him through to a room at the back of the house, impeccably decorated, white marble floors, low furniture
and a large red dragon standing by one of the sofas, the scales picked out with gold leaf.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ she asked when she saw Kees looking at it. ‘I picked it up when my husband and I were on our honeymoon in Beijing. They have amazing craftsmanship there, and Japan too. They really take care of things, not like here where everything is done in a rush and as cheaply as possible. But then again they seem to have a different regard for human life, especially in China, or at least they did when we were there.’

She paused for a moment, seemingly confused.

‘Sorry, I’m talking nonsense, it’s just a bit of a shock. Will you sit?’

She motioned with a delicate twist of her wrist, her open palm showing the chair allocated for him, and then sat herself on a sofa, arranging the cushions against her back so she was upright.

‘You said he was …’ She looked down at the floor for a second before her eyes rose again. ‘… murdered.’

‘I’m afraid so. Do you know anyone who he’d argued with, anyone who had threatened him?’

‘Other than me?’

‘I’m guessing that given your …’ He cleared his throat. ‘… present condition you probably wouldn’t have been up to it.’

She felt instinctively for her stomach, laying a hand just on the top of the curve.

‘No, hard enough getting up the stairs at the moment let alone running around killing ex-husbands.’ A weak smile, not reaching the eyes. ‘Would it surprise you to know he was a difficult man?’

‘In what way?’

‘He was very domineering, he always wanted things his own way, and he was very secretive, he’d sometimes not talk for what seemed like days, just the basics, yes, no, I love you, all on autopilot.’

‘Is that why you split up?’

‘Have you ever split up with someone?’

‘Many times.’

And I’m heading that way again.

‘Then you’ll know what it’s like. There’s that feeling you start to get, when you look at them sometimes and you suddenly realize that you’re not attracted to them in the same way you were once. Something they do irritates you, makes you want to avoid catching their eye. That’s when you know it’s over. It’s just a question of how long you keep on deluding yourself.’

‘So there wasn’t anything specific?’

‘There were many reasons, the main one was that he really wanted a child, but it just never happened. He got really agitated about it, we went to all sorts of doctors, had tests done, everything. And each time the results came back fine, but it just didn’t work. Then he started talking about adopting a child but by then our relationship was over, I’d known it for a while, but it took him longer to realize. And I think that made me actually get up and go – the fact that I’d been ahead of him, that he’d not figured out that something was wrong just made it more important that I left. That and the porn.’

‘Porn?’

‘I found some. On his computer once. He tried to lie about it, say it wasn’t his, that he didn’t know how it got
there. This was towards the end anyway, and I don’t know if he’d always been into that kind of thing, or if it was recent. But it was like the final straw.’

Kees wondered what proportion of the male population had some kind of porn stashed on their computer. He figured it was pretty high.

‘What type of porn, anything out of the usual?’

‘I don’t really know what usual is, but it looked to me like the women in it were made up to look like teenagers. You know, pigtails and bright nail varnish, that kind of thing.’

So Friedman liked them young
, Kees thought.

‘Did he have any financial worries?’

‘Not that I knew of, he always seemed to have enough money, and he always talked as if the business was going well.’

‘And what about friends, is there anyone who I should be talking to?’

‘He was always seeing people, meeting them, taking them out to expensive restaurants, for the business he’d always say, but I don’t think he had any actual friends at all.’

Kees was wondering what he was doing here. It was a complete waste of time, she didn’t know anything, and it clearly couldn’t have been her. He should be back in Amsterdam getting on with more important things.

Like spying on Jaap.

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Ages ago, I think it must have been August, September maybe.’

‘Where?’

‘In the newspaper, there was something about him
becoming a patron for some charity, a children’s charity, I think it was. Made me laugh, I figured he still hadn’t found someone to have a baby with.’ She massaged her stomach again, running her hands over it, a gypsy woman with a crystal ball.

‘Especially,’ she said as her hand stopped, ‘as the problem was clearly his, not mine.’

Tuesday, 3 January
13.39

Jaap sat on a creased leather sofa in the reception of Vrijheid Nu, the last appointment in Friedman’s diary. Green palms, moved by the aircon, were scraping their fronds gently against the wall, and the receptionist was filing her nails with a dry rasp.

Subdued abstract paintings hung above her and a water cooler hummed softly.

The receptionist’s phone rang and she answered, cradling the phone between her shoulder and head whilst she started to apply nail polish. The intense chemical smell rapidly gave Jaap a headache.

As if his head hadn’t been aching already.

Borst didn’t exist, that much was clear. After
De Adelaar
claimed no one worked there he’d called the station and got them to check the press pass list, and wasn’t surprised to find Borst missing from it.

Was this the Black Tulips further trying to muddy the water, create a diversion away from the real reason Andreas had been killed? To accuse a cop of being involved with child porn was smart, from their point of view. It would throw the top brass into panic, the thought of the headlines alone, justified or not, would be enough to rile them
into a state of near frenzy. The pressure would be to shift the focus of the investigation.

Jaap suddenly felt he was in a better position not being in charge of the case.

‘You can go through now.’

On the other side of the door there was a large open-plan office, a similar size to the station, but filled with half the people. And each luxuriated in a desk several feet apart from that of their colleagues. A young man stepped forward awkwardly, holding his hand out to be shaken but he seemed to judge it wasn’t appropriate, changing his mind and withdrawing it just as Jaap reached out.

‘I’m Teunis van Marwijk, assistant to the director. He’ll be along shortly, if you’d like to follow me?’

He ended up in a smaller office off the back, a window on to the street, and a glass wall looking on to the main area. At Teunis’ insistence he sat at a round table, and declined his offer of coffee. Teunis seemed slightly nervous.

‘Can you tell me what this charity does exactly?’ Jaap asked just as Teunis appeared to be on the verge of leaving him.

‘Well, it’s for children who’ve been victims of abuse. We help with everything we can, both for the parents, unless they were the abusers, of course, and for the children.’

‘So this is a step after the social services?’

Teunis grimaced.

‘The social services pass most of this on to us, they can’t cope.’

‘Who can’t cope?’

The question came from the man at the door, dressed
in dark blue jeans and crisp white shirt buttoned tight at the neck but with no tie.

Teunis jumped at the voice and turned round.

‘I was just telling them about the social services …’

‘Oh, I see. Well, he’s right, they really can’t cope.’ He advanced into the room and Jaap stood to shake hands. ‘Hans Grimberg, pleased to meet you.’

Jaap guessed his age to be around thirty, young for someone in his position, though the dark circles like bruises below his eyes,
almost the same colour as the bruises on Friedman’s neck
, he thought, made him look older. From his accent he placed him as being from somewhere south.

Like Andreas.

He’d been from down south as well, though his accent had changed quite rapidly when he moved to Amsterdam.

Jaap could see him, lying on the table at the morgue. He tried to erase the image.

Grimberg sat down, Teunis hanging back for a few moments, before Grimberg thanked him, the dismissal clear.

‘So what can I do for you?’

‘I’m afraid we have some bad news. Dirk Friedman was found dead yesterday morning.’

‘Dead? How?’

‘He was killed.’

Jaap watched as Grimberg absorbed the news, his face going slack for a few moments before he regained control.

‘I don’t know what to say … do you know who killed him?’

‘Not yet, that’s partly why I’m here, I believe you had a meeting with him on Sunday?’

‘Yes, he was here, sitting right where you are now.’

Jaap found himself shifting in his chair and stopped abruptly.

‘And was there anything wrong? Was he acting strangely?’

‘Not at all, he seemed his normal self.’

‘And what time did he leave?’

‘Umm … I’d have to check when the appointment was for.’ His face pinched with concentration.

‘According to his diary it was at eleven a.m.’

‘Yeah, that sounds about right, so he would have left by about quarter to twelve at the latest.’

He was staring down at his hands, clasped together on the table, the angle of his neck making his voice indistinct.

‘Did he mention anything unusual?’

‘It was a fairly normal conversation, we’re … we
were
planning a fundraising event, in March, and we had a few details to go over.’

‘Why Sunday?’

‘He’d had to cancel early in the week, and we had to meet up so I suggested Sunday. So when you say he was discovered yesterday, was that when he was killed?’

‘Sunday evening, maybe early Monday morning, we’re waiting for the time of death from the pathologist. The thing is, as far as we can tell at the moment, you might well have been the last to see him alive.’

Grimberg forced a laugh, a goat choking on the cud.

‘That’s usually a bad sign, right?’

Jaap shrugged.

‘How long have you known him?’

‘About seven, eight months maybe.’

‘And how did that come about?’

‘He wrote to us, or no, maybe he rang first … I’m pretty sure, he rang, and said he was interested in somehow being involved with the charity, so we arranged to meet.’

‘And you didn’t know him before that?’

‘I’d heard of him, not sure where, he wasn’t famous or anything … I think I must have read something about his business in the paper.’

Jaap took out a notebook from his coat pocket and flipped through it.

‘So what was the outcome of your initial meeting?’

‘Well, like I said, he wanted to be involved, become a patron. He initially made a donation, but then he had the idea to do an event, he was going to host it, tap into some of his rich clients.’

‘Do you not get public funding?’

Grimberg sighed, and leant back in his chair.

‘We used to. Then two years ago it was cut. So we’re totally dependent on raising our own funds. And to be honest we’re struggling’ – his voice dropping, a quick glance towards the glass wall, as if afraid his staff might hear. ‘This event we were planning. It was probably going to be the last chance to get some real exposure.’ He shook his head, resigned. ‘I guess that sounds callous, here he is dead, and I’m worrying about money. But the thing is, what we do for these kids – and we cover the whole country here, every abuse case is referred to us, and some people find their own
way – is essential. It’s not something you can get over easily. I guess some people think that with a bit of counselling they can get over it, that as they’re kids they’ll be able to somehow shrug it off …’ He leant forward. ‘… but it can affect their whole lives, everything they do, what job they get, how they interact with people, whether they end up in trouble with the law, everything. There are studies that show the brains of abused children are actually different – there’s an area called the hippocampus?’

Jaap nodded.

‘Well, abuse can re-wire it. It’s scary.’

Someone knocked on the glass door and motioned to Grimberg.

‘Look, I’ve got a meeting, is there anything else I can help with?’

‘Did you ever have reason to suspect his motives?’

Jaap couldn’t be sure but he thought he detected a stiffening in Grimberg’s shoulders.

‘How do you mean?’

‘You know, a single man, a childless man, interested in helping out with children?’

Grimberg seemed to think about it.

‘He did mention that he didn’t have children, and that’s why he wanted to help. I didn’t ask him
why
he didn’t have his own.’

‘Presumably you’d run a CRB on him?’

‘No, why would I? He wanted to raise money, he wasn’t going to have anything to do with the children themselves.’

Jaap thought about it. The question of children was coming up in this investigation far too often for his liking. He stood and pushed his card across the table.

‘I think that’s it for now, if you do think of anything …’

Grimberg picked it up and held it for a few moments then looked up at him, and Jaap wondered for a second if he was going to ask him for a donation.

‘I hope you find the person responsible.’

The same person who’d knocked on the glass door had now opened it, sounds of office life flowing into the room, a kettle rumbling to the boil, voices, a phone cut off mid-ring as someone answered.

Jaap looked at Grimberg, at his grey eyes set slightly too wide on his face.

‘We’re working on it.’