Ghosts from the Past

by Sally Spedding

  *

  My lock-picking sessions at Hendon paid off, and soon I was in a tiny, gloomy kitchen where I raised its grease-stained blind a few inches to see a plate of fresh cake crumbs, also coffee grounds in a matching breakfast cup. My subject hadn’t long been there, which surely backed up what his nurse had meant by him being ‘out and about.’

  So, had his time at Les Platanes also been a ploy to make him invisible when it suited him? He could have convinced his doctor and the retirement home itself that he’d needed care. Hadn’t I too been fooled, seeing a chameleon with new, acrylic teeth, stepping nimbly into the sunlight?

  Why I’d be mad to linger too long in case that little party never planned to go to any funeral.

  *

  First, I searched for knives, especially one sharp enough to have sliced Herman Oudekerk up so cleanly, but found only a serrated one for bread and a smaller version for vegetables with a loose handle.

  I then looked for any recently-delivered post and again, was unlucky. A small, wood- burner containing only unburnt wood, while the pedal bin revealed two used, shrivelled teabags and an empty UPSAS carton lurking at the bottom.

  However, minutes later, it was a purple file embossed by a crucifix tucked away upstairs in a single bedroom’s corner cupboard, that answered some questions. Liesbet Ryjkel’s life represented by the usual milestones. But not quite. Where my grandmother had kept both mine and Carol’s school reports, college successes and job confirmations, Joop Maurits Ryjkel had been more selective. Also, careless.

  That name appeared just the once, in faint capitals behind a faded colour photograph of a young, blonde woman astride a chestnut horse. Maja was about to land, having cleared an equally large wooden fence. The second shot in a sequence I’d seen at Les Pins, but his time, the mare’s ears were laid back as if fearful, while the rider’s face had been blanked out by correction fluid. The date, October 10th 1969. That same day and month as the disappreances from Mas Camps.

  JOYEUX ANNIVERSIRES

  Happy Anniversaries, again, in French, and I mentally compared the handwriting with that on Karen’s latest card. Apart from the difference in the black ink’s density, most letters bore similarities. But enough for a definite match? I couldn’t be sure.

  *

  16:40 hours, with my lungs tightening and an increased heartbeat, there was still more to find, particularly on Joop Ryjkel’s possible transition from being a vineyard aide-de-camps to man of the Catholic cloth. But time wasn’t on my side in case someone had seen me unlocking the back door. In case God’s messenger returned.

  In that same, purple file lay a battered A-Z of London, published in 1966, with a red circle drawn around a grid of streets in West Dulwich. Also, a letter of acceptance for his sister’s Emergency Medicine degree from Kings College on the Strand, and a postcard to her Dulwich address from Eva Ryjkel in Rotterdam. Its uneven handwriting begging to see her daughter soon and for her to solve the puzzle of her missing menfolk. Dated 20th September 1962.

  Most of this memorabilia must have been stolen from Karen at some point, but why no mention of Les Pins? Why this collector’s apparent obsession with her? The gap between stalker and killer is a narrow one. If he had tried to kill her up on Mount Canigou, he’d surely be trying again, with more determination. Why my warning to Lieutenant Cordier at the Clinic had been necessary.

  *

  As I searched the main bedroom, dominated by a single, monastic bed sharing space with a horde of Bibles exuding that sickly-sweet smell of old paper, my mind raced over all the possibilities following that vendage on October 10th 1942. Some too far-fetched, too grim to dwell on.

  I found nothing on the sale of the family’s domaine or his entitlement to any share of it. No relevant photographs either, and I cursed myself yet again for having left my trusted Canon camera in the Volvo’s boot.

  No sign of any black ink nor any kind of pen, but my time was limited.

  As for both thosr rust-grey strands of hair I’d found beneath that single bed’s dented pillow, they would stay, in case he missed them. I then sniffed the slightly stained cotton pillowcase. Apart from recent sweat ingrained in its fibres, I also detected a hint of ncense. With my subject no longer officiating as a priest, could that have originated in Jules Suzman’s church? And which ‘Angel’ in black had so regularly graced that Visitors’ Book at Les Platanes?

  A no-brainer.

  Careful to leave no prints, I scanned each Bible in turn. Some falling apart, others brand new. Most in different languages, ranging in size from huge to minute. One, in Dutch, covered in a yellowing ivory-coloured plastic, was dedicated to ‘Mijn Leefd Christian Hans Ryjkel’ from his mother on his Confirmation in July 1936 in Rotterdam. Nothing it seemed, for his older brother, who must surely have received the same Protestant upbringing, but then chosen to follow the Pope. For theological reasons, or some other motive?

  Then came news from the church of Saint-Luc. Parish matters he’d obviously taken seriously, dating from the spring of 1949, three years after his sister and mother had sold Mas Camps. There was neither reference to the massacre of any children, nor his associates who, if Sophie Blumenthal was right, had betrayed them. Nothing on Les Chanterelles either, and the name he might have used there. Where he’d later trained in his vocation.

  However, in between parish monthly newsletters for May and July 1985, lay that June copy of Sanctum.

  Coincidence or what?

  Inside its front cover lay two sheets of lined paper covered in handwriting matching that on the back of the photograph. Forgetting to breathe, I scanned its contents, riddled with corrections and alternative ways of presenting the material.

  This revisionist article similarly attributed to Joel Dutroux, was his.

  The back cover revealed more. A folded edition of the right-wing rant, Le Cri du Peuple, printed in May 1941, also a crumpled, beige envelope. Although its stamp had been torn off and the date and postmark long gone, what made my hand shake was the smudged, typed address to a J. M. Ryjkel at Mas Camps, Dansac. Roussillon.

  Also hidden, was a letter headed by an image of a lighted candle whose flame was encircled by the words WHITE LIGHT. YOUR FUTURE OR THEIRS? 148, Winterstrasse, Rotterdam. The date, Friday September 18th 1942. Below this, in Dutch and a smaller typed font, were, as far as I could tell, instructions for the safe-keeping of a very valuable parcel to be dropped at Mas Camps on the night of October 7th. Its outer packaging would bear an image of a white angel, for better visibility.

  The signature accompanying all this had been blocked out, substituted by another. THE GOOD GOD whose capitals also seemed close to those on that old photo and Karen’s two messages.

  I paused for a few seconds to think.

  Pablo Lopez’s account had been quite different. Clearly, Joop Ryjkel and the Mas Camps land had been the chosen ones. Perhaps other ‘rescuers’ hadn’t been considered trustworthy enough to receive such a large sum. Even Ricard Suzman and his zealous co-worker.

  *

  Once I’ d copied down that Rotterdam address and checked everything in the room was as I’d found it, I retraced my steps to the kitchen and fully raised that same blind.

  Just then, something made me pull down a thick, battered recipe book from a shelf next to the cooker. My Gran used her own trusted standby in which to store cuttings from parish magazines and the like. Here, RECETTES DE ROUSSILLON seemed no different. However, when I opened it, realised that the Pastados and Violette Arbrus had been right. Le Mystère des Hollandais had been well reported by the regional press. The brown-edged, fragile cuttings nevertheless showed a different world to the one I’d recently witnessed at Mas Camps. Here were neat rows of spent vines. A pristine farmhouse with a large, equally pristine car parked close by. The Ryjkel family itself in happier times.

  Photos of its three men were too grainy for me to distinguish one from the other, despite the younger pair’s five-year age difference. Despite the kitchen window’s added lig
ht. There was even a picture of their black mare, Edwige. Alert, proud, presumably waiting to be harnessed. But it wasn’t the horse I wanted to see. It was Liesbet.

  There she was, dominating a separate section underneath, with her mother, an unassuming figure, whose deep-set eyes and a firm mouth bore no resemblance to her youngest child. In contrast, the blonde. pigtailed daughter seemed to shine; smiling at the camera while expertly it seemed, cutting down a bunch of black grapes.

  You can’t keep it, an inner voice warned me. Put it back.

  I stared at her youthful image one last time, wanting only to return that same smile to light up her face, yet knowing she was in greater danger than ever. She, the hunted, had been gradually isolated and weakened for a possible final blow.

  *

  I swiftly replaced the book on the shelf before opening the drawer beneath. Here, neatly arranged, lay every kind of over-the-counter cures for headaches, other pills, infusions, you name it.

  “Perhaps it’s the headaches...”

  What that receptionist at Les Platanes had said, when suddenly an almost empty tube of flesh-coloured L’Oréal spot concealer appeared, while other items on the right were clearly new. So he had a few problems, but checking up on him again, might make too any people suspicious.

  *

  I jogged back past the junk trail to the nearest public call box which was way too public. So, with the afternoon breeze behind me, I reached the one I’d noticed by my car.

  The Clinic’s line was busy. I couldn’t wait, so called Saint-Antoine’s gendarmerie where my verbal ID was queried twice.

  Finally, I was told that Lieutenant Vollard was out on a call, while Capitaine Serrado was too busy. Precious seconds slipped by, and just as I’d given my former CID number and an update on what I’d just discovered, Serrado himself picked up. Keen to know more.

  “Address?”

  I gave it.

  “Seems too, he left it in a hurry. Not me who told you, right? I suspect he may be going with Ricard Suzman and Alize Saporo to Joel Dutroux’s funeral.”

  I then mentioned my encounter with her at Les Chnterelles. How the two bullets she’d fired at me were probably still there, and her stolen weapon, a new S&W 45 had been loaned to me by Karen Fürst.

  “Liesbet Ryjkel, please remember?”

  Let it go…

  A pause. His initial keen tone fading. The once warm sun also sank behind a fir-clad hill and suddenly the phone booth seemed dangerous, too exposed. Justice too high a price to pay.

  “I’ll pass all this on,” he said eventually. “But back to that drop. Why such humanitarian funds were sent in this manner, defies belief. The risk of loss huge.”

  “This was no humanitarian gesture, Capitaine. Quite the opposite. And the loss at Dansac, with or without the money, was far worse than four million francs. We’re talking a total of thirty-five minors, on October 14th 1942. And God knows how many before or since.”

  My pulse marked out the silence.

  “You’ve got my sister’s number in Elne, and for Liesbet Ryjkel’s sake, I’d also appreciate any updates on the Suzman family Especially Alize Saporo, now Ricard Suzman’s second wife. There’s also Yvette Suzman, Joel Dutroux’s dead mother.”

  Another pause.

  “What about her?”

  I relayed what I knew of that ‘accident’ in the bath, and suggested it be investigated immediately. That thuggish Michel Suzman might have another crime to answer for.

  I needn’t have bothered.

  “Monsieur, let me advise you again…”

  I held the receiver away from my ear, seeing different vehicles all slowing down as they passed by. Had their drivers been reading today’s newspaper? And, with Father Diderot’s address already in the police domain, would it be autographs or bullets for me next?

  *

  At last, the Clinic’s phone line was clear and Lieutenant Cordier reassured me that nothing had changed since I’d left, except that the poppies card and envelope had been checked for possible prints. The excited buzz around DNA testing hadn’t yet resulted in its universal application. Only he USA was more advanced than Europe. However, give it another year, which was far too long, given the need.

  “I should be back tomorrow afternoon,” I said, then added, feeling suddenly choked. “Please tell her I love her.”

  “OK. And you watch your back.”

  “I will. By the way, is Sophie Blumenthal still safe?”

  “She’ll have to be. Her guard’s being transferred here.”

  “Why?”

  “Priorities. We’re all spread too thin.”

  Chapter 55. Karen.

  I’ve been sick three times. Nothing much came up - just grape skins and that liquorice sweet Christian gave me. Moeder puts her bony arm around my shoulders, telling me to take deep breaths. That nature will do its work. But this isn’t nature. It’s Joop, my brother, whom I’ve loved since I first knew he was my brother. Yet he’s also someone whose horrible threats still turn my stomach whenever I think of them.

  “Are you upset because of Jeanne Tremblant?” asks Moeder. “That Boussioux creature should never have described her so, in front of you.”

  “Yes,” I lie. “And I’m praying for her soul, just like Joop told me to do.”

  “Good. But he’s taking too much interest in that Catholic church over in Villedieu for our liking. We Ryjkels are Protestants. Good Dutch Protestants. Never the Pope’s followers. We don’t want you going over there with him again. Catechism or no catechism. Is that clear?”

  “But Moeder, saying prayers calms him down. Haven’t you and Vader noticed?”

  “I said, is that clear?”

  “Ja.”

  She removes her arm and sighs milk and garlic.

  “We’ll keep you on dry food tonight and tomorrow. That should end your sickness.”

  Didn’t she see Joop chasing me, or hear him above the wind swirling inside the cabane? I knew then that in my world of terror, they’d always disappoint me. And what about when I start school again next week? I’ll be even more tempted to tell any new friend I might make, or my teacher...

  “Finished?” Moeder bends to take the smelly bucket away.

  No, but there’ll be plenty more nights when I can’t sleep, and fear for my life every time his path crosses mine.

  “Let’s hope your father and Christian are back soon. Let’s hope too, whoever could have done such a terrible, wicked thing to a harmless old widow, will be caught.”

  *

  The windy darkness beyond the kitchen window seems more like midnight. Joop is out there with his torch strapped to his cap, stabbing at the vines like a madman. Making up for lost time, perhaps pretending those stubborn shoots are me instead..

  I’ve already refused to join him, and Moeder says she understands. That for an eight year-old, I’ve done enough work today.

  “By the way, where are my special knife and gloves?” she asks without warning. “Are they safe?”

  “Of course.” But her question made me jump. Tell yet another lie. “I’ll need them for tomorrow, though. Our last day...”

  “Bring them to me once I’ve emptied this bucket.”

  I grab the handle. “I’ll do it. Please. It’s my sick.”

  She looks at me oddly. Suddenly, in her place I see an old crone. Someone I don’t recognise.

  *

  This Tramontane wind is worse than ever, choking my breath, pushing me up towards the cabane whose entrance seems even more than ever like a black, uninviting grave. I’ve fallen twice already and grazed my knees but dare not cry in case Joop hears me.

  Now Vader and Christian are returning from Jeanne Tremblant’s. Their voices rising, blown my way as I grub around on hands and knees near that big hole I’d dug. But where in God’s name are Moeder’s implements? Where?

  “Looking for something?”

  My heart turns over. I can still taste grapes and liquorice on my tongue. Joop? Christian?
Without seeing, I can’t tell. Both are tall, thin, with wild hair...

  “Who’s that?”

  “Christian, silly.”

  Relief makes me almost start laughing.

  “I’m looking for Moeder’s gloves and little folding knife. I left them here when I went off exploring. She wants them back.”

  Just then comes angry shouting from the vineyard below. A white beam judders on the old wall opposite the cabane’s entrance.

  “Am I to cut this lot on my bloody own, then?” Joop shouts. “Sorry to disturb you both...”

  Christian helps me to my feet. His hand reassuring.

  “Take no notice, Liesbet. It’s neither you nor me at fault. He’s been strange ever since that letter arrived for him. On a short fuse. And listen to me,” he adds. “No jokes.”

  “Ssh...” I hiss as we leave together, in the torch‘s cruel glare. He, tall as a tree beside me. “Anyhow, what letter?”

  “From Rotterdam. He wouldn’t show it to anyone. Said it was very private. A girlfriend.”

  “Girlfriend?” I’d only heard the word once before when Christian told us a few weeks ago how he’d met someone nice at the Café des Étoiles. I still love being included in his confidences.

  “He’s never had one of those,” he says. “I should know.”

  With the wind in our faces, we reach the farmhouse. Joop’s given up trying to blind us, but still shouts away. In the light from the kitchen window, I can see how Vader’s face has changed, and know better than to ask why.

  “Liesbet will look for your belongings in the daylight tomorrow,” he tells Moeder once we’re indoors. “And now we’d better prepare ourselves for a visit from the gendarmerie.”

  *

  This visit comes sooner than expected, and Vader’s still on the lavatory, while my brothers wash their hands and brush their hair without saying a word to each other.

  “Boussioux’s been putting down poison,” Vader says, emerging from the privy beyond the kitchen, buttoning up his breeches.” He called us white-feathered army dodgers and parasites for taking over the vineyard here, making a success of it. Said he wanted to spit on our new car.”