by Rachael Blok
‘I know. It just doesn’t… Well, it doesn’t feel right.’ Maarten thinks of the anger at dinner on Friday. There was so much anger in the room. ‘And Marieke receiving the threatening letter, it certainly feels as though the helicopter crashing so soon afterwards, with Marieke on board – well – it feels more than a coincidence. But no other attempts have been made on her life. Why here? Why now? Why like this? It’s not as though the tone of the letter has changed – it didn’t read as though something had changed. There was no real increase in threat. What’s changed?’
‘Well, until we get the full forensics back on the helicopter, and the pathologist’s report, we’re just speculating,’ Adrika says, tilting her head as she speaks.
The floodlights on the lawn are bright, and Maarten squints; the contrast of the surrounding darkness seems blacker. He swigs water. His throat is still raw from breathing all the smoke. Adrika’s right. There is nothing obvious that could have caused Aksel to behave so chaotically. From his brief acquaintance, he would describe Aksel as anything other than chaotic.
Maarten says, half to himself, ‘We can’t ask him.’
For the first time with the death of another, Maarten feels something like relief. As Aksel dies, so does the threat to his future.
Since Aksel had looked at him, told him he had recognised him, Maarten has been coiled inside. The knowledge of what he had done had been heavy enough; but the idea of Aksel telling others – the force finding out. He thinks of the faces of the super, of Adrika and Sunny. He’s worked so hard to establish himself, to earn respect.
The idea of one night, one mistake, one man, undoing all his work of the last twenty years – it’s been crippling.
Now, with Aksel dead, he can lay it all to rest. He will never get over the guilt, but now he will not feel he might have to walk away from his job.
The private relief, sudden and forceful, hits him, and his hands tremble.
The wet rain hides the tears that prick at his eyes, make his voice thick, choke his throat. He waits for control to return. Pleased with the darkness, the wetness.
‘I’ve managed to get a pathologist on standby. He could be with the body in under two hours. It’s a bit of a miracle. So hopefully the blood tests will tell us something. Once we hear from the super, we can go ahead. No word as yet.’
Maarten nods. He thinks of Aksel’s eyes, glassy, unseeing. He thinks of the drinks before the flight. Aksel had had a couple, but he certainly hadn’t had enough to cause him to act so senselessly.
‘Is everyone still at the hospital?’ He thinks of the need for questions, and he wants this finished before the press get hold of it.
‘I think so. Most seem to have come away relatively unscathed, except Richard Arkwright. He’s in a coma, still hasn’t come round. They don’t know.’
Watching the teams work, pulling a tarpaulin over a patch of grass, a huge truck arrives to take the wreckage away. Maarten hopes there isn’t too much damage to the old ruins.
It’s still the thirty-first of October; at least an hour left. Maarten thinks of children in the city, with their Halloween buckets and ghost costumes, and he thinks of the blood spilt on the grass.
‘There’s a lot I don’t know. How do all these people fit together? We need to get under the skin of this group,’ he says. ‘You know what I heard mentioned a lot last night? Bangladesh. I can’t tell you why it’s important, but it is. I know Iqbal Bari is from there originally. I heard Iqbal asking Richard Arkwright about his time there. And earlier, Lois was telling me about their visit. Something happened there. Iqbal, Richard, Lois, Ebba… Can you find out, in the interviews? Find out what went on.’
Adrika nods.
Maarten repeats an earlier statement. It still rankles. ‘This was on our watch, Adrika.’
*
The floor they work on at the station is quiet. It’s gone 11 p.m. but Sunny, Adrika and Maarten look at the board.
‘What have we got so far?’ Maarten says. ‘Let’s run through it.’ He’s tired and his head hurts. Adrika has got biscuits from somewhere and he’s on his sixth.
Sunny stands. ‘Guests for the weekend include Marieke Visser; Filip Schmidt and Sophie Atwood; Sarah and Richard Arkwright; Aksel Larsen. The hosts are Ebba and Lois Munch, and Iqbal Bari.’ Their names are all up there, with photos. ‘And you and Liv were at dinner too. So, shall I add you both?’
Maarten nods. ‘Go ahead. That’s eleven for dinner.’
‘Yes. During the dinner, a letter to Marieke, telling her she would get what she deserves, I paraphrase a bit, is found on the doormat of the house. Eleven p.m.?’
Maarten nods again.
‘A member of the catering staff, Alison Hampshire, finds the envelope in her pocket, with money, and then leaves it on the mat. Initially we were thinking that the catering staff must have brought the letter in with them, but after extensive interviewing, we feel confident that the letter was left in the pocket after the dinner began. Alison keeps her cigarettes there, and she’d had one earlier, without seeing the packet.’
‘And you’re sure the rest of the staff are telling the truth?’ Adrika asks.
‘As sure as I can be. The PC on duty checked all their bags on entry. It would be hard for them to have got anything in. The guests’ luggage wasn’t checked. It was felt unnecessary.’
‘Our first mistake,’ Maarten says, thinking of the super’s reluctance to unsettle the VIP guests.
‘So, one of the guests is our letter writer?’ Adrika says. She takes the last bourbon biscuit and Maarten inwardly curses. He’s starving and there are only custard creams left.
‘And Marieke was on the helicopter. No evidence yet, but it’s a bit of a coincidence that the helicopter came down with her on it.’
‘Who wasn’t on the helicopter?’ Adrika asks.
‘Sophie Atwood, Lois Munch and Iqbal Bari.’
‘Well, let’s assume that if you were going to try to bring down a helicopter, you’d not get on it. Is there any reason we can see that one of those three could be the letter writer? And we also need to think about who might want to bring down the whole helicopter. Is more than one person here the intended victim?’
‘There’s no obvious motive for the death of Marieke or indeed for anyone to bring an end to this deal. They all benefit from the transaction. Having Marieke stay away from the Archipelago expansion would be less helpful to its success. Her support has been huge. She’s been promoting their ethos for months.’ Adrika dips a biscuit in a mug of tea.
Maarten blows air from his mouth, thinking. ‘We need results on Aksel. It could still be just a heart attack. Just a coincidence.’
Adrika smiles. ‘You don’t think that at all.’
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘Is there any reason for any of them to try to kill Aksel Larsen?’ Sunny asks.
‘I’d say there are a few individuals who had varied reasons to wish harm to Aksel,’ Maarten says, thinking of how Aksel’s death has made him breathe easier. ‘Filip Schmidt clearly hated him. Aksel was all over Filip’s wife – he was doing it deliberately, clear provocation. And Filip mentioned something to do with their agreements with Archipelago; he implied that Aksel was getting better terms, and they were trying to rip him off.’
‘What about the others?’ Adrika asks.
Maarten thinks back to Richard’s anger. ‘Richard Arkwright hated him too. I don’t know why. It came off him in waves. Did you get anything from his wife?’
Sunny nods. ‘She was a bit evasive. She’s obviously upset about her husband. I got the impression there was something she was holding back about Aksel when I asked how he and Richard were getting on.’
‘Hmm…’ Maarten thinks. ‘Make a point of following that up? As for the others, there was tension. Lois was unsettled about something. Marieke mentioned thinking men were “shits” – I assumed she was referring to the letter writer, but I can’t be sure.’
‘And
your attack, sir,’ Adrika prompts.
He nods, touching his head. ‘Yes, someone clunked me over the head. I’d seen a figure running down to the amphitheatre and I followed it out. I think it was Lois Munch I was following. Can you speak to her? She looked like she was meeting someone. I have no idea who, or even if it was suspicious, but someone hit me, and I’d be surprised if it wasn’t to stop me following her. Though why, I have no idea. And someone else was out there, under a tree, crying…’ He thinks of the tears and the vomit. ‘I think that was Filip Schmidt. There was tension between him and Sophie Atwood for most of the evening. He barely spoke to her.’
‘Fun night,’ Sunny says.
‘Yes, cracking.’ Maarten smiles wryly. ‘I’m starving. Can we get some takeaway in?’ He really does hate custard creams.
Sitting in his office, Maarten looks over the statements Sunny had taken from the catering staff. One stands out:
I think the blonde one was having a bit of a thing with the handsome one. I saw them earlier on in the kitchen. She came out all flushed, like he’d been… Well, you know. Tell you what I did see, was that dark-haired woman talking to Filip Schmidt. Really angry, almost passionate like. Something going on there, if you ask me.
Maarten pauses over this last statement. Ebba and Aksel? Filip and Marieke? That hadn’t occurred to him. That might change a few things.
47
LOIS
The kitchen is empty. A few coffee cups sit, pumpkins, the knives. All like before, except now the world has shaken around her like a snow globe.
Lois hasn’t eaten anything for hours. They’d been due to have lunch after the helicopter had left. The cocktails on the lawn had been handed out, but she hadn’t touched hers. A cup of tea? The calories from the milk had long since burned off. She is running on nothing.
She takes another bite of a stale croissant sitting on the table.
A scrape of a chair makes her stir. Sarah slips in next to her and, for a moment, they say nothing.
‘How is he?’ Lois asks, leaning to hug Sarah, pulling her in close; feeling overall a sense of guilt that they had organised the weekend. They could have cancelled. They could have asked Marieke not to come.
Sarah is stiff in her arms. Sitting slowly, Lois sees the lines under her eyes, the redness. In the kitchen lights, her ragged tear marks are still clear.
‘He’s still unconscious. They don’t know why. Nothing. His neck is… They think his neck is OK.’ She cries, her shoulders sagging low, and her back curves forward and down, her head too heavy.
‘My daughters made me come and get changed, have a shower. I said I’d eat, but I can’t eat. I’ll lie to them. If I eat, I’ll throw up.’
Lois is quiet, watching her unravel, certain she must blame them, blame Archipelago.
‘Anyway, I’m pleased you’re here. Lois, I don’t know what to do.’ Sarah cries fresh tears.
‘What, Sarah? I’ll do anything to help.’ Lois puts her hand on the older woman’s. Sarah, who is usually so practical, is fraying at the seams.
‘You remember I said Richard had been upset with Aksel? But I didn’t know what it was? What the problem was?’
Lois nods, thinking of walking into the dinner only the night before, her arm linked with Sarah’s.
‘There’s something I’ve found.’ She sounds tired, but she also sounds scared. She opens her handbag and pulls out a letter, creased at the edges. Laying it on the table, she slides it to Lois with her three middle fingers. It’s still in its envelope, with Richard’s name clearly printed on the front.
They both look at it. Sarah rubs her temples with two fingers from each hand.
‘I knew he’d received something. Richard brushed it off the other day, but I heard him curse Aksel after the post arrived, and he stuffed something in his pocket. To be honest, I didn’t think much about it.’ Her eyes are sore, and she rubs them. ‘But he’d hidden it. I just found it in his suitcase, slid between his clothes, inside a book. I was looking for some clean clothes for him…’ She shakes her head, and starts to cry again. ‘I knew he was angry before the weekend, cross with Aksel. Though I didn’t realise who Aksel was until Friday. Now that I’ve met him, I’m still surprised.’ Her sobs are loud. ‘Lois, he hid it from me! I can’t even read it! What has he done? What has Richard done?’
‘It’s OK, Sarah.’ Lois can’t think of anything to say.
‘I was interviewed at the hospital – I didn’t mention this. I didn’t really think about it, but now I’ve found the letter, I have to show them. Lois, I daren’t even read it! Why would he have hidden something from me? What will I do, if it suggests…’
Lois looks at the letter. So many letters. This one is differently addressed. This is formal, free of the thick black marker pen from last night.
‘Lois, what do I do? Like I said, I haven’t even read it. It’s the last thing I want to do right now. What shall we do? I can’t face talking to the police. And if there is something behind it…’ She shakes her head. Tears fall through her fingers to the kitchen table, splashing. Liquid grief.
Lois feels sick.
‘You just need to focus on him getting well. I’ll take care of this,’ she says. ‘He’ll be OK, Sarah. This is Richard we’re talking about. He’ll pull through.’ But she knows this is just something people say. She has no idea. And neither does Sarah.
*
‘I haven’t read it,’ Lois tells Maarten over the phone. ‘But he’d hidden it from his wife, and she’s convinced it’s something to do with Aksel. It looks as though he’s written Richard a letter.’
‘I’ll have it collected now,’ Maarten says.
Lois can feel the desire to lie down on the floor take hold. What else can this weekend throw out?
48
MAARTEN
‘Richard Arkwright was being blackmailed by Aksel Larsen. Listen.’ Maarten reads:
I have evidence that you have avoided paying tax on the death duties on the inheritance you received after the death of your parents. You will of course be aware this is a crime. I will have no choice but to report you…
‘Shit. What would he have to gain by revealing that?’ Sunny asks.
‘Aksel Larsen is asking for the shares. Cut price,’ Maarten says, reading down.
Adrika shakes her head. ‘But if Aksel Larsen owned Arkwright’s shares, then…’
‘…then Larsen would have become the majority shareholder. Lois and Ebba were lucky Richard held back. They would have lost control of their company. But this gives Richard Arkwright a clear motive, if Larsen was killed.’ Maarten leans back in his chair.
‘Sir, we need to get the house shut down as soon as possible. What else is in there?’ Sunny shakes his hair back from his head. His face is pale with exhaustion.
Maarten nods. ‘Yes, but we’ve no authority yet. This letter was sitting there. You’re right, what else is in that house? Where are we with the post-mortem and the toxicology?’
‘Apparently the toxicology results will take ten days to come back. We still can’t hold…’
Maarten doesn’t listen to the rest of it. He calls the super; she answers quickly.
‘Maarten, I know you’re going to…’
‘Look, ma’am. I know you don’t want to push this. But I’m convinced we’re looking at a suspicious death. And until we get some evidence, I can’t get the search warrant for Ostle House. And the Munchs will not give permission to search the property.’
There is a sigh, tired and fraught, down the phone. ‘I’ve just had Ebba Munch on the phone.’
‘Ebba?’ Maarten is surprised.
‘Yes, and what she says makes sense. She can’t authorise a search on behalf of all her guests: one still hasn’t woken up, and his family are stretched to the limit. The wife was on the helicopter. She just wants to give everyone a chance to get the medical attention they need before she pushes them for an answer to a search. Maarten, he died in a helicopter crash. I’m not saying you’
re wrong, but the evidence isn’t there, not yet. And if we go in too hard on this, then the press will be horrendous. This deal is important to us, as much as it will be to Rotterdam and Bergen. Archipelago are investing in the local community, and with such high-profile guests, we have to be careful. We’ll be hauled over the coals if we don’t do this by the book.’
‘But ma’am, a high-profile figure is now dead, and we need to be seen to be doing all we can,’ Maarten says. There’re only so many times he can be told no and ask again.
‘Yes, but I’m not sure that involves placing a number of other high-profile figures under duress to search their property. You’re going to need evidence and a warrant. We need this to be all above board. I’m not risking relations by doing anything other than taking every necessary step.’
‘Can you authorise the spend on the HO pathologist?’
The sigh returns, deep and reluctant. ‘Yes, I’ve read your report. I think there’s enough evidence to warrant the early exam. I’ve sent word to the forensic lab to fast-track the tests. You do not move until you get toxicology back, Maarten. You do nothing. If I hear that you’ve…’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
The line goes quiet, and Maarten’s brain flies through the coming hours.
‘Adrika, can you get the application written? We’ll need to send Sunny with the Bible to the magistrate’s house for the search warrant, as soon as we hear back from the forensic lab.’ Maarten’s head stabs. The pain from the whack he’d received has dulled, but the bruise is tender and as he rubs his head, he winces. ‘I think whatever killed Aksel also brought that helicopter down. Our primary suspects must be those who didn’t get on board. We’ve got hours to get what we need out of that house, before someone gets rid of it first.’
49
FILIP
The kitchen is hot. Lois has made tea and toast. Filip has lost all track of time. It must have crossed midnight at some point. The cars have been bringing them back from the hospital, slowly. The three of them sit, faded and gaunt.