Stardust: A Sam Smith Mystery (The Sam Smith Mystery Series Book 10)

by Hannah Howe

  “What about your gambling pals,” I asked, “their embarrassment?”

  “That’s for me to resolve. You do your job and resolve things your end. I don’t hire failures, Ms Smith; you understand that? I want you on the first plane out of Rhoose bound for the Netherlands. Phone me as soon as you locate Velvet. My name is a byword for success, not failure. I trust that you will not disappoint me. I demand that you return my briefcase to me, along with its contents. If you fail, there will be repercussions, you can count on that.”

  Jolly-dee, I thought, there’s nothing like being threatened and treated as a doormat. Even so, I made a point of holding my head up high as I walked from Loudon’s house.

  Chapter Ten

  I drove home and packed a suitcase. While I packed, I telephoned my friend Mac. Mac was an ‘odd-job’ man, hired muscle. He’d visited the Netherlands recently on a work assignment, so it seemed appropriate to engage him as an ally, to show me around. Thankfully, Mac was available, so I booked two seats on an early morning flight.

  What to pack? How long before I tracked down Velvet? Best to play safe and stuff my suitcase with underwear; I could get by with stinky outer clothing, but fresh underwear was essential.

  I was retrieving my toothbrush from the bathroom and lining my overnight bag with toiletries when Alan walked in from his social evening. He frowned at me and asked, “What are you doing?”

  “I’m packing,” I said.

  “No need to run away,” he smiled; “if you don’t want to cook for the dinner party tomorrow, I’ll do it.”

  “The missing briefcase,” I explained while walking into the bedroom, “the trail leads to Amsterdam.”

  “You’re flying to Amsterdam?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tonight?”

  “In the morning. I managed to secure two reservations, early hours of the morning.”

  “Two?” Alan frowned.

  “For me and Mac. Velvet already has a head start; we can’t delay any longer.”

  “I see,” he said.

  I stuffed a trouser suit into my suitcase, sat on the suitcase and zipped it up. Then I mopped my brow and placed my arms around Alan’s neck. “I’m sorry,” I said. “You’ll apologize to our guests.”

  “They were looking forward to seeing you.”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated.

  “I was looking forward to spending time with you.” He pulled me close, kissed me on the lips.

  “Look on the bright side,” I said, “at least your guests won’t be poisoned or bored stupid listening to my bum-numbing tales of pointless stakeouts. And you can have the sports channel all to yourself.”

  “You don’t like sport or watch TV,” Alan said, “so I always have the sports channel to myself.”

  “Happy days then,” I said, placing my passport in my shoulder bag, running through a mental checklist to ensure that I’d remembered everything.

  Alan sat on the edge of the bed. With his left hand, he caressed his chin. “This is not as planned,” he said.

  “Story of my life,” I sighed.

  “Can’t you delay for a day?”

  “The flight’s booked. I’m meeting Mac in an hour.” I turned to face Alan. He was not amused. “Are you angry?” I asked.

  “I’m not overjoyed.”

  “This is what I do,” I said.

  “I appreciate that. Or, at least, I’m beginning to appreciate it.”

  “I’ll be home soon,” I said, “as soon as I locate Velvet.”

  “How will you locate Velvet?”

  “According to Slick Stephens, Velvet is meeting an impresario called Gijs de Wolff.”

  “Sounds ominous,” Alan said.

  “It is. I think Slick has exploited Velvet. And Velvet has exploited my client.”

  Alan removed his tie and jacket, and placed them neatly in the wardrobe. He turned to gaze at Marlowe, who’d wandered into the bedroom, the cat’s upright tail brushing against my legs.

  Alan lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Then he asked, “Who are you doing this for – your client, Velvet or yourself?”

  “Probably all three,” I confessed. “Even though I don’t particularly like my client, I made a promise to him, and I try to keep my word; Velvet strikes me as someone who is easily led, a person who needs saving from herself; if I catch up with her and recover the briefcase, maybe Loudon will let bygones be bygones.”

  “And a satisfactory outcome for them would mean satisfaction for you.”

  I nodded, “Like I said, this is what I do. I need the positive affirmation of doing a job well.”

  “I can understand that,” Alan said.

  “Can you also understand that I’m not a nine-to-five woman?”

  “That’s harder,” he admitted.

  Marlowe jumped up, on to the bed, and I caressed him. His deep throaty purr spoke of contentment, whereas Alan’s frown hinted at displeasure.

  “I’ll be home soon,” I said, “we can discuss it then.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Take care.”

  After kissing Alan on the lips, I placed my suitcase and assorted bags in my car. As Sam Smith, single woman, I would have pulled away without a second thought. As Mrs Samantha Storey, I wondered if I was doing the right thing.

  Before pulling away, I glanced up to the bedroom window and waved at Alan. He offered me a tight smile then waved back. Next stop, Rhoose Airport and a rendezvous with Mac. At least the big Scotsman would be at my side. And with Mac at my side, what could possibly go wrong?

  Chapter Eleven

  I met up with Mac in the car park at Rhoose Airport. The night was black and cloudless with stars twinkling in the sky. Underfoot, the gathering frost made conditions slippery. That said, the bright lights within the airport hinted at warmth and comfort, a partial illusion as we later discovered, tapping our toes at the end of a slow-moving queue.

  “Good of you to come running,” I said to Mac. I noted that he was travelling light with a small suitcase.

  “Well, Missy, it’s like this, you see. I’m at a bit of a loose end, what with my lover away, filming and all. So I thought, what better way to entertain myself than to get involved in your shenanigans.”

  “Your lover, he’s filming The Guards of Magog?”

  “Aye, in mid-Wales. The series has attracted a cult following, as sci-fi series tend to do. Actually, it’s more than a cult following with fans in Europe and America as well.”

  “How do you feel about that?” I asked.

  “It’s his career. As long as the demands are not too great, I want him to succeed. And fair’s fair, he never complains about the derring-do I get up to.”

  “A perfect relationship,” I said.

  “Aye, I think so.” Mac paused. He stretched his back and pulled himself up to his full height, six foot six. Then he smoothed the corners of his huge ginger moustache. With his bald head gleaming under the airport lights, he cut an impressive figure, hard, uncompromising, not a man to cross or upset, definitely a man to have on your side.

  “What about the good Dr Storey,” Mac asked; “how does he feel about you jetting off to wicked Amsterdam.”

  “Not thrilled, but I think he understands.”

  As we shuffled along the queue, I wondered if I was trying Alan’s patience. Should I be at home cooking, cleaning and loving, or traipsing around Europe in search of who-knows-what? Home life versus career, how to strike that balance?

  “What are you involved in this time?” Mac asked, the airport preliminaries finally over, our seats taken on the plane.

  I glanced through the window to the horizon, to the first light of dawn as it illuminated the sky. A night without sleep. I’d get by on caffeine and adrenaline, drugs of choice in our trade. While gazing at the horizon I told Mac about Loudon and Velvet, and the missing briefcase.

  “If you’d given me more time, I could have flown us to the Netherlands.”

  “You have a pilot’s licence?”

&
nbsp; “Aye,” Mac said, “and access to a Citabria. Trouble is, my contact requires a few days notice.”

  I nodded, “Something to keep in mind, for the future.”

  “Indeed,” Mac agreed as our plane took off.

  Airborne, and with the city lights shining bright below us, I asked, “When did you learn to fly?”

  “During my stint serving Queen and Country.”

  “You were in the armed forces?”

  “Aye.”

  “Which branch?” I asked.

  Mac smoothed his moustache. He offered me a wink, but that wink couldn’t hide the twinkle in his bright blue eyes. “One of the branches no one talks about.”

  For half an hour, we travelled in silence. Mac dozed while I studied a guidebook on Amsterdam. I’d picked up the guidebook at the airport. Flicking through the pages, I garnered knowledge about the city.

  As I turned another page, Mac opened his eyes. He glanced at the guidebook, then at me. “You know where we’re heading, once we get to Amsterdam?”

  “Roughly,” I said.

  “Roughly could mean that we wander around, wasting time.” He grinned, “Good job I phoned ahead.”

  “You have a contact in Amsterdam?”

  “Several,” Mac said.

  “Who did you phone?”

  “Saskia Mertens.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “She runs an operation, a security business, similar to yourself.”

  “Tell me about her,” I said.

  “Saskia’s married, two children; two boys.”

  “And I bet she’s a domestic goddess.”

  “Aye,” Mac grinned, “she’s that as well. Fabulous cook; spotless house; everything under control and organized. She’s well connected in Amsterdam, to the type of people we’re interested in. Saskia’s agreed to hold our hand and act as our guide, so to speak.”

  “You reckon that we’ll need someone to hold our hand?”

  Mac glanced across the aisle to a grey-haired businessman. The businessman was enjoying an early breakfast. Mac could tuck away three breakfasts and still have room for more, followed by a slab of chocolate, his favourite dessert.

  In answer to my question, Mac said, “Missy, in my mind’s eye, I have a picture of you.”

  “Go on.”

  “As a child, walking up to a hornet’s nest. You walk up to the hornet’s nest, then you kick it over, just to see what’s inside.”

  “Sounds like me,” I said.

  “Aye,” Mac smiled. “So best to plan ahead; have someone on standby to hold our hand, and when the hornets start buzzing to apply some ointment as well.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Without incident, we arrived at Schiphol Airport. The airport reminded me of a village, or a small town, with lots of shops and cafés. Indeed, we had to walk miles to collect our luggage.

  As we walked through the airport, following the colour-coded signs, helpfully displayed in Dutch and English, I admired an art gallery, a small casino and a person offering a chair massage. While we walked, I thought back to my guidebook and a note, which stated that Schiphol Airport was below sea level, a relevant fact for much of Amsterdam.

  At security, we met a guy who looked like Captain America. He gave me a sultry smile and I grinned back. Welcome to Amsterdam!

  The airport ritual seemed to take an age, a symptom of my tiredness, but eventually, via a taxi, we arrived at our hotel, The Rembrandt.

  In the hotel, I unpacked my suitcase then jumped into the bath for a hot soak. Suitably refreshed, I joined Mac for breakfast. While he demolished a plateful of meat, eggs, tomatoes and waffles, I contented myself with cereal, fruit juice and coffee. Fortified and frisky, I followed Mac to a hire company where he hired a car, a petrol blue Mercedes Benz E Class; I crossed my fingers and hoped that Jeremy Loudon wouldn’t question the expense account.

  In the Mercedes, we drove south through the city, from Grachtengordel to Buitenveldert and Saskia Mertens’ office. During the journey, I tried to phone Alan, but he didn’t answer; probably, he was with a client. So I sent him a text message: arrived safely, miss you lots, love you more xxx.

  The light blue sky of early morning had succumbed to a bank of dark grey clouds. The temperature had dropped, close to freezing point.

  Through the car window, I eyed the gabled houses and the olive-green canals, the waterfront bars and the stallholders preparing their stalls for market. I saw a number of people smoking and reminded myself that the authorities tolerated cannabis in Amsterdam.

  In Buitenveldert, Mac parked the Mercedes. Then we entered a multi-storey office block and climbed the stairs to Saskia’s office. Mac led the way, into a light, modern, airy office; on the stairs, he’d phoned ahead, paving our entrance.

  “Hello, Mac,” Saskia said. She stood then kissed the big man on both cheeks. “So good to see you again.”

  “Aye, you too, Saskia.” Mac waved a hand towards me. “This is Sam.”

  “Hello, Sam,” Saskia smiled.

  “Hi,” I said.

  Slim, tall and aged around forty, Saskia Mertens was smartly dressed in a light grey trouser suit and pink blouse. The blouse had a wide collar, which sat atop her jacket. Her hair was fine, straw-coloured and pulled back from her lightly made-up face, though a few mischievous strands drifted across her forehead. Pale blue eyes dominated an attractive face along with a strong jaw and an easy smile. Saskia Mertens looked as though she meant business, and would excel at whatever business she set her mind to.

  “Sam runs an enquiry agency out of Cardiff,” Mac explained. “She’s on the trail of a missing briefcase.”

  “I hope you find the briefcase,” Saskia said.

  “She will. Sam’s a bit like a hurricane; when she breezes into town, she turns everything upside down, but she gets what she wants, in the end.”

  Saskia returned to her desk. She invited us to sit down, on her clients’ chairs, tubular constructions that looked uncomfortable, but were surprisingly soft on the bum.

  From my position, perched on a chair, I glanced around the office, to the large picture window, the tasteful scenic prints, the computer on Saskia’s desk and the photographs of her family.

  Dragging my thoughts back to the matter in hand, I asked, “How did you meet Mac?”

  “I required a bodyguard for a client. Mac’s reputation extends into Europe, so I hired him.” Saskia smiled at Mac. “SM77 Securities only hires the best.”

  I nodded. “Mac said that you could help me.”

  “I’m happy to do that,” Saskia said. She paused while a colleague entered her office. He was a tall man, lean with an earnest expression. He spoke, in Dutch, to Saskia. She nodded then turned to me and said, “One moment, please.”

  While Saskia talked with her colleague, I glanced through the window to a tree-lined park. Inevitably, a canal ran through the centre of the park. I also spied a number of people riding bicycles. I would hire a bicycle. My guidebook recommended cycling as a prudent way of travelling around Amsterdam.

  “I am sorry about that,” Saskia said. She paused while her colleague left the office, closing the door behind him. Then she sat forward, placing her elbows on the desk, resting her strong chin against her hands. “Now, how can I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m looking for a young woman called Velvet. I believe that she stole a briefcase from my client and along with her friend, Lia Jansen, travelled to Amsterdam. Velvet has dreams of becoming a singer. I believe that she’s in Amsterdam to meet up with Gijs de Wolff. I understand that Gijs de Wolff is involved in the music industry?”

  “If it’s the Gijs de Wolff I know,” Saskia said, grimacing, tightening the muscles around her jaw, “he is involved, but not in music.”

  “What’s his line of business?” I asked.

  “Porn. Gijs de Wolff is a filmmaker, a notorious figure in Amsterdam.”

  I nodded. As I suspected, Slick had set Velvet up, ripped her off and sent her on a wild goose ch
ase.

  With a hint of desperate optimism, I asked, “Any chance that de Wolff will help Velvet with her singing career?”

  “If she’s prepared to sing naked while amorous couples copulate around her, maybe. But apart from that...”

  “Where might I find de Wolff?”

  “He has an office in Amsterdam, adjacent to the Oude Kerk, near the Red Light District.”

  “I’d like to talk with him,” I said.

  Saskia fingered her wedding ring. Along with her wedding ring, she wore stud earrings, a gold necklace and a slim, gold wristwatch. She lapsed into thought then said, “That should be possible. I will make a phone call and arrange a meeting. When I tell de Wolff how pretty you are, he will want to meet you.” She flashed me an easy, friendly smile then asked, “You are staying at a local hotel?”

  I nodded, “The Rembrandt.”

  Saskia made a note on her notepad. She looked up, glanced at her wristwatch then said, “When time permits, you must join me for dinner.”

  “Saskia’s a fabulous chef.” From his position, lounging on a clients’ chair, Mac joined the conversation. At times, he appeared disinterested, miles away, yet I knew from experience that Mac stayed within the moment, ready to react, to respond to any eventuality.

  “I suggest that we start with erwtensoep,” Saskia said, “a pea and smoked sausage soup, with rye bread and slices of ham, followed by shrimp croquettes – shrimps in a creamy sauce coated in breadcrumbs.”

  “Deep fried?” Mac grinned.

  “Of course,” Saskia laughed.

  “I’m a vegetarian,” I said. “Sorry to be awkward.”

  “No problem,” Saskia shrugged. “For you, I will prepare gado-gado, a vegetable salad with peanut sauce.”

  “If it’s no trouble,” I said.

  “No trouble,” Saskia smiled. “These are simple meals. I can prepare them in minutes. Meanwhile, I suggest that you familiarize yourself with our city. You have a business card?” she asked.

  From my shoulder bag, I produced my business card, complete with my mobile phone number. I handed the card to Saskia and she studied it.