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

by Hannah Howe

  “How are you?”

  “Fine. And you?”

  “I’m okay. Where are you?”

  “Amsterdam. I’m staring into a shop window at a range of sex toys.”

  “Hmm,” he said.

  “Hmm?” I frowned, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Hmm,” he said, again.

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  Alan laughed; he was in a good mood.

  “How’s Marlowe?” I asked.

  “Fine. He brought in a mouse yesterday.”

  “He tends to hunt mice while I’m away.”

  “The mouse escaped,” Alan said.

  “Into the field?”

  “Yes.”

  “Marlowe’s slipping, thank goodness; he’s getting lazy.”

  “Too well fed,” Alan said, “too comfortable in his lifestyle.”

  I paused while an inebriated man dressed in a kilt wandered by. He raised a bottle to his lips, slaked his thirst then offered the bottle to me. Politely, I declined. He shrugged, walked on, then mooned me; he wore nothing under his kilt, even though the temperature hovered around zero. The line about freezing the balls off a brass monkey came to mind. I listened, in vain, for a clang as he staggered down the street.

  “Still there?” Alan asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “How did the dinner party go?”

  “The dinner party went well.”

  “You offered your guests my apologies.”

  “I did, and they were accepted.”

  “Do you forgive me?” I asked; anxiously, I bit my upper lip.

  “Nothing to forgive,” he said.

  “You sure?”

  “It’s what you do.”

  “I miss you,” I said.

  “I miss you too.”

  “I miss you more. I wouldn’t swap you for anyone or anything.”

  Alan laughed, “Not even a window full of sex toys?”

  “That’s a leading question,” I scowled.

  “That’s the wrong answer,” he said. “My question was a cue for you to express your undying love.”

  “I thought it was a cue for me to talk dirty and make a nuisance of myself in a public street.”

  Alan laughed again. “You can make a nuisance of yourself, when you get home.”

  “I will,” I promised.

  “When will you return?”

  “That depends on Velvet.” I brought Alan up to date with our fruitless search for Velvet, and the missing briefcase.

  “Take care,” Alan said at the close of our conversation.

  I blew him a kiss, “I will.”

  After dropping my phone into my shoulder bag, I walked on only to pause near a bridge. There, I gazed at the lights, lining the arches. The lights reflected on the dark water, offered an orange glow. Indeed, the streetlights and the house lights bathed the scene in orange. The colour offered the illusion of warmth, despite a stray flake of snow.

  Combating an icy tingle, I adjusted the collar on my coat. Then my phone rang. It was Mac.

  “Missy.”

  “Hello.”

  “I’ve found Velvet. She’s with me now.”

  “Great,” I sighed. “Where are you?”

  “In a café overlooking the Amstel canal. It’s full of students, the café that is, not the canal.”

  I dipped my fingers into my shoulder bag and retrieved my guidebook. While flicking through the pages, I said, “Near the Eastern Canal Ring?”

  “That’s right; you got it.”

  “Not far from me,” I said; “I’ll be with you now.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Most of the cafés in Amsterdam closed at 1 a.m., so that left us with a few hours to spare. I had to remind myself that café in Amsterdam basically meant pub, a place to meet up and consume alcohol. Brown cafés are a Dutch tradition. Dark wooden panelling, dark furniture, low ceilings, dim lighting and a haze of tobacco smoke characterized a traditional brown café.

  From the cold street, I stepped into a brown café, into a warm convivial atmosphere. The place was crammed with students, most of them wearing denim. Through the haze, I spied Mac and Velvet; they were sitting beside a small table, near the bar. Saskia had joined them. All were sipping drinks, traditional Dutch beers, so I ordered a beer to nurse and sip through our conversation.

  “You found her,” I said to Mac.

  “Aye; we literally bumped into each other; pure chance.”

  Saskia and I exchanged a knowing glance. Mac didn’t believe in chance; he plotted and schemed. Determination and an intrinsic knowledge of his surroundings had led him to Velvet.

  “What happened to you?” I asked Velvet.

  “I’ve been sleeping in the parks.”

  Velvet looked tired and forlorn; despite the warmth within the café, she was shivering. I sensed that Velvet felt the cold more than most, so a night spent under the stars must have chilled her bones.

  “Have you been eating?” I asked.

  “Until this morning.” She lowered her head, glanced at her suitcase then offered a sad pout. “My money’s all gone.”

  “Where’s Lia?”

  “She abandoned me.”

  “And the briefcase?”

  “She took that with her.”

  I nodded. Lia had absconded with the briefcase – no surprise there. “Suppose you tell us what happened, from the start.”

  Velvet stared at the dark wooden floorboards. She lapsed into silence. Above us, cream globes offered a dim light. On the wall, a circular clock ticked towards 10.30 p.m. In a corner of the café a group of students laughed, uproariously, as someone cracked a joke.

  “We’re trying to help you,” Mac said, his gaze and focus on Velvet. “I think you need our help.”

  “You stole the briefcase from Jeremy Loudon,” I said.

  “Yes,” Velvet nodded.

  “Why?”

  “Because I knew that Mr Loudon stuffed his briefcase with money. And Slick said if I gave him ten thousand pounds, he’d set me up with a music agent in Amsterdam. He said the agent would secure a recording contract, and tours.”

  “So you stole the money?”

  “Yes. I discussed it with Lia first. I told her it would be easy to steal the money because the gamblers were always high on drink and drugs at the end of the evening. Lia said that I should do it and she would help me.”

  “On your way out, how did you get past the guard on the gate?”

  “I threw the briefcase over the wall, well away from the guard. Then I walked out of the grounds, around the corner, and picked up the briefcase off the street. It was nearly three o’clock in the morning. There was no one around.”

  “So,” I said, “you had the briefcase and the money, and you gave ten thousand pounds to Slick?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened to the briefcase?”

  “I gave it to Lia. She gave me the money to give to Slick.”

  “Did you see inside the briefcase?” I asked.

  Velvet shook her head. “No.”

  “So, you have no idea how much money the briefcase contained?”

  “No, no idea,” Velvet said. Again, she shook her head and her ponytail swayed from side to side. Her hair had lost its sheen, its lustre, while spots had developed on her chin, presumably due to stress.

  Meanwhile, a group of students gathered around a pool table and commenced a game. Meanwhile I glanced at Mac and Saskia. They glanced back then sipped their beers. Velvet stared at her beer. She continued to shiver. Taking pity on her, I removed my coat and draped it over her shoulders.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  I nodded then asked, “Slick gave you Gijs de Wolff’s address?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “And you met de Wolff?”

  “Yes,” Velvet nodded. “Lia said it would be better if I met de Wolff alone; it would show him that I had confidence in myself.”

  “And while you talked with de Wolff, Lia disappea
red?”

  “Yes.”

  “With the briefcase?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you met with De Wolff, he made you an offer?”

  Velvet nodded. She placed her head in her hands. She seemed close to tears. “I turned him down. I want to sing. I don’t want to appear in porn films.”

  I asked, “Any idea where Lia is now?”

  “She took everything from our room. We were staying in a guest house, a doss house, a student place; it was cheap.” Velvet looked up. She sniffed back her tears. “She left a note; she said she was sorry.”

  “Do you still have the note?” I asked.

  “It’s in my pocket, I think.” Velvet fumbled in her jeans pocket. Eventually, she located the note and handed it to me.

  I read the note with some difficulty, partly due to the low level of lighting, but mainly because of Lia’s tiny, spider-like scrawl. “Lia’s joined the Zusterschap 2010.” I frowned, “What’s that?”

  Opposite me, Saskia leaned back in her chair. She sipped her beer, then shook her head sadly. “If Lia’s joined the Zusterschap 2010,” Saskia said, “then your problems have only just begun.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  We returned to our hotel. There, we booked an extra room for Velvet, adding the price tag to the ever-lengthening expense account. In her hotel room, Velvet crawled on to the bed. Fully clothed, she fell asleep in seconds.

  Five conjoined seventeenth century canal houses served as our hotel. My room consisted of a double bed with a sofa at the foot of that bed, facing into an open space. Mac and Saskia sat on the sofa. Meanwhile, I sat on a chair, near the window. Outside the window, a tree rose majestically up to the roof, while inside the hotel room the wooden panelling, low beams and dark floorboards reminded the guests of the building’s origins.

  When warm and comfortably seated, I said to Saskia, “Tell me about the Zusterschap.”

  “The Zusterschap, the Sisterhood, is an extreme feminist organization.”

  “How extreme?” I asked.

  “They go beyond equality. They believe that society should be controlled by women.”

  “Many women lead their countries,” I said, “in a political sense.”

  “Yes,” Saskia agreed, “but the Zusterschap believe that men should be subservient to women across all levels of society. The Zusterschap state that for women, their time is now. After thousands of years of oppression, it is time to strike back.”

  “Which doesn’t go down well with the men,” I surmised.

  Saskia nodded. She offered a tight smile. “Men dismiss the Zusterschap as idiots.”

  “And the women?”

  “Some are in broad agreement with the Zusterschap’s aims; many can see that the extreme nature of those aims is counterproductive.”

  “How do they campaign?” I asked.

  “Through the media. They’re very active on social media. They’ve also dabbled in politics.”

  “With success?”

  “Limited success,” Saskia said. “People are looking for alternatives. They’re tired of mainstream politics, tired of the stream of lies. They’re willing to listen to radical voices.”

  The sound of a car horn dragged my attention away from Saskia, to the window. Outside, across the canal, house lights flicked on and off as people visited the bathroom, watched late-night TV or retired to bed. On the surface, the Dutch seemed so laid-back it was difficult to think of them as radicals. Yet, every society has its malcontents, people who seek to disturb the established order. Often, those groups are small in number, with a limited membership. However, because mainstream news is now a branch of the entertainment industry, news editors offer radicals a voice – the more outrageous their statements, the higher the viewing figures; facts and honesty are sacrificed, modern lambs to the slaughter.

  With my attention focused on Saskia, I asked, “Are the Zusterschap a non-violent organization?”

  “Originally, yes. But lately they’ve supported violent acts, citing the Suffragettes of the 1900s and their protests.”

  “They’ve thrown bricks and bombs?”

  “They have. They’ve thrown bombs in the shape of Molotov cocktails.”

  “Anyone injured?” I asked.

  “Minor grazes,” Saskia said. “But the Molotov cocktails are a show of intent.”

  “Anyone arrested?”

  “A few minor figures, caught on surveillance cameras. The leaders distance themselves from the violent acts. They talk in political doublespeak, condemning and supporting the violence in the same breath.”

  “Who are the leaders?” I asked.

  “The extreme branch of the Zusterschap is led by a woman called Karla.”

  “Do you think I could meet Karla?”

  Saskia smiled. Leaning forward, she adjusted her gold necklace, her fingers grazing her skin, caressing a rash of light freckles. “You wish to become radicalized?”

  “I wish to find Lia and the briefcase.”

  Standing, Saskia walked to the window. There, she glanced at her wristwatch then across the canal to the windows in the apartment blocks. Most of those windows were in darkness now. Once again, we’d drifted into the early hours of the morning, added a coda to another day.

  “When the city wakes up in the morning,” Saskia said, “I will see what I can do.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Another day, another Euro. While Saskia tapped up her contacts and tried to arrange a meeting with the Zusterschap, I walked the streets of Amsterdam with Velvet. As ever, Mac blended into the background, his keen eyes observing everything. Even though Mac possessed highly distinctive features, he had the ability to transform himself, like a chameleon, and remain hidden.

  Velvet and yours truly walked through the markets, pausing occasionally to eye the wares. The stalls contained a variety of items, from chocolate to flower seeds, from beer to cheese; from old maps and prints to ceramics, from jewellery to bric-a-brac. Velvet took a passing interest in the merchandize and seemed in better spirits today.

  “You feel rested?” I asked.

  “I feel better,” she said.

  “You can stay at the hotel, for now.”

  “Who will pay for me?”

  “Loudon.”

  Velvet frowned. She wrapped her arms around her midriff and hugged herself tight. “Won’t he be angry?”

  “Possibly,” I said. “My guess is, his anger will dissipate, if we return with the briefcase.”

  We wandered away from the market, to a canal. There, a large green barge dominated the view, its tall slim mast competing with the canal-side trees. The trees were bare while the cobblestones under our feet were slippery, a reminder of the icy conditions, of winter’s arctic grip. A number of bicycles lined the canal, their front wheels canted to one side. I also spied an elegant rusty lamppost, clearly a relic from a bygone age.

  “What’s going to happen to me?” Velvet asked. As she spoke, she shivered, maybe from the cold, maybe because of her predicament.

  “What would you like to happen?” I asked.

  “I want to sing,” she said, her tone plaintive, mournful.

  “We need to get you home first; then you can sing.”

  “If I return home,” she said, “Mr Loudon will inform the police. They’ll arrest me.”

  “Not if we return with the briefcase.”

  We walked along the canal, keen to keep moving, to generate some warmth. At one point, I gazed across the canal to a tall seventeenth century building. The building struck me as peculiar because its windows, twelve of them, dominated the facade; the facade was a sheet of glass with hardly any brick visible.

  With her gaze lost in the canal, in the nebulous reflections cast on the water, Velvet said, “Even if we return with the briefcase, what about the money I gave to Slick?”

  “That is an issue,” I admitted, “but I think there’s more to the briefcase than money.”

  “What if we can’t find the briefcase
?”

  “We revert to Plan B,” I said.

  “What’s Plan B?” Velvet frowned.

  “I don’t know,” I shrugged. “I haven’t thought of it yet.”

  Velvet continued to shiver. So, we ducked into a coffeehouse in search of sustenance and warmth. As we entered the coffeehouse, I reminded myself that the Dutch offered two types of establishment, those that sold cannabis and those that didn’t. Thankfully, through more luck than judgement, we’d selected the latter.

  Inside the coffeehouse, we discovered a number of ladies chatting, sipping coffee, eating cake. Clearly, this establishment catered for the well-heeled in society, with price tags to match. Adding further items to our expenses, I ordered coffee and pancakes for Velvet and myself.

  As I sipped my coffee, I asked, “Did Lia discuss the briefcase with you, its contents?”

  “No. She just said that she’d look after the money.”

  “How radical is Lia?”

  “She’s a feminist,” Velvet said.

  “Did she discuss the Zusterschap with you?”

  “Sometimes.” Velvet chewed on her pancake; they were tasty though personally I found that pancakes soon filled me up. “But her words bored me; I’m not into any political bullshit.”

  “Did she ask you to join the Zusterschap?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I refused.”

  Feeling full, I offered Velvet my second pancake; she accepted and proceeded to make short work of the three pancakes on her plate.

  While dabbing her lips with a napkin, Velvet said, “Are you a feminist?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  She sipped her coffee then stifled a burp. “You do a man’s job.”

  “These days,” I said, “many women are enquiry agents and private eyes.”

  “But it’s still a man’s job,” Velvet insisted.

  “It’s an equal opportunities job,” I said, “like singing.”

  Velvet sat back and rubbed her tummy. In her desire for food, she’d eaten too fast.

  “Indigestion?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” she frowned. “Just nipping to the washroom; back in a tick.”

  Alone at our table, I sipped my coffee and eyed the clientele. Some of them spoke in French, I noted. Indeed, the lettering on the coffeehouse window was in French. Multilingual, multinational; people who communicate are usually happier; find a way to live in peace.