by Graham Ison
‘Oh, that’s a shame.’ De Jonker was clearly disappointed at my answer, almost crestfallen.
‘Did Dirk Cuyper get any information at all before he was murdered, Pim?’ I asked.
De Jonker took a document from his pocket and handed it to me. ‘This is a copy of the only information he sent me. It is not on official police paper for obvious reasons. It is just four names, one of whom is a woman. Dirk identified them as being heavily involved, but I don’t know why he wasn’t able to tell me more.’
‘Is there any chance that Dirk’s other reports were intercepted or hacked into in any way?’ asked Kate.
‘We know how vulnerable emails and communications of that sort can be, Kate.’ De Jonker afforded her one of his rare smiles and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Dirk always addressed his reports to me using my nom de guerre, and sent them by post to the secure private address here in Poperinge that we keep for such matters. The ordinary post stands much less chance of interception than electronic mail, but just to be absolutely safe he signed them with the codename Mercury.’
‘The messenger,’ observed Kate.
‘Will another officer be sent to London, Pim?’ I asked.
‘Not now, Harry. Dirk’s murder has made the people in Brussels realize just how dangerous it is, and with hindsight it was an unwise thing to do. My chief in Brussels accepted that Dirk was probably out of his depth, even though he did a good job to the best of his ability. It would be just as difficult for you to try looking for sex slavers in Brussels. We have an expression in our language: each to his own.’
‘We have that expression too,’ I said, remembering how sometimes Metropolitan officers were sent abroad, or even to other parts of the UK, only to find themselves floundering.
‘The murder of Dirk Cuyper is a great loss to us,’ de Jonker continued. ‘As I mentioned earlier, he was well educated. He spoke faultless English, and it looked as though he was getting somewhere. But there are dark forces at work and it seems they will stop at nothing.’ He paused to give a shrug of despair. ‘He had a pretty wife, too, Renata, but they did not have any children, so that’s a blessing of sorts. And Renata is young enough to marry again.’
I’d put Cuyper’s list of names in my pocket without reading it. Time enough for that when we returned to London. ‘I’ll check these names with our records when I get back to the Yard, Dirk,’ I said, tapping my pocket. ‘It may be that they are well known to us.’
‘I would be most grateful if you could pass on any information you have, Harry, particularly about the sex slavery that you learn. I’ll give you details of the accommodation address here in Poperinge and the name I use. You can either write to me or call me on the telephone, but only on the number you called me on yesterday. Whatever you do, don’t telephone the Federal Police office in Ieper.’ De Jonker tore a page out of his notebook and scribbled something on it. ‘That is the name and address you should write to, Harry. In the meantime, you may care to have a wander round the town. It won’t take long, because it’s not very large. Normally I’d give you a conducted history tour of Ieper, but too many people there know who I am.’
‘And we’d be condemned by association, I suppose.’
For the first time de Jonker laughed outright. ‘Exactly so, Harry. But we will meet here again this evening for dinner, yes? I’ll telephone your room when I arrive. In the meantime, I must get back to Ieper and brief my boss on what has happened. You know how it is, Harry: a policeman never stops work.’
I did know, no matter the nationality of the detective involved. But I had never been in the position that Pim de Jonker now found himself. He had been forced by higher authority to send his friend Dirk Cuyper to do a job that he probably thought wouldn’t be too dangerous, but Cuyper had been murdered. I couldn’t begin to think what that must be like, and I hope I never find out.
We stood up, but as we were about to say goodbye to de Jonker, he paused, a pensive look on his face.
‘What is it, Pim?’
‘Renata Cuyper lives here in Poperinge, Harry. I wonder if you would be prepared to call on her and perhaps explain what happened to Dirk?’ De Jonker spoke hesitantly and the expression on his face managed to combine pleading and sympathy. ‘Right now I’m not exactly the most popular man she knows. And it might help having Kate with you,’ he added.
‘Of course, Pim. Just give me the address and tell me how to get there.’ The prospect actually appalled me, but I couldn’t refuse a fellow police officer, albeit of another nationality. Now it was my turn to pause. ‘Is Mrs Cuyper likely to be at home?’
‘Almost certainly. She’s a schoolteacher, and now that the schools are on holiday you’re sure to find her there.’
‘Does she speak English, Pim?’
‘Of course. Anyway she teaches the language.’ De Jonker shot me one of his rare smiles, then gave us Renata Cuyper’s address and directions to a street only a hundred yards away.
‘This looks like the place, Kate.’ The Cuypers’ neat terrace house and those adjacent to it were square in every particular. In fact, nowhere was there anything curved that would soften the severity of the architect’s rigidly austere lines. Even the short driveway, upon which stood a small Renault saloon car, was paved in square slabs that had been laid with painstaking symmetry. The surrounds to the front door and the integral garage were highlighted with white stone so that they presented a stark contrast to the warmth of the distinctive Flemish bricks with which the houses were built.
‘Mrs Cuyper?’
‘Yes.’ Renata Cuyper was no older than twenty-five, if that, and her attire – short denim skirt and a white tee shirt – and the fact that she was barefooted emphasized her youthfulness. She wore heavy black-rimmed spectacles that reminded me she was a schoolteacher. She had a superb figure, good legs, long black hair, beautiful skin and the right sort of make-up. But for a reason I couldn’t fathom, despite this overt perfection, she was completely devoid of sexual attraction.
‘My name is Harry Brock, Mrs Cuyper,’ I said, ‘and this is Kate Ebdon. We’re with the police in London.’
Renata Cuyper nodded. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said nervously, before turning and mounting the stairs. The impression was immediate: she wasn’t pleased to see us.
The sitting room, which was on the first floor, at the front of the house, was simply furnished. There was a settee against the wall in front of the wide window and two matching armchairs on either side; the space between them was filled with a large, squarely placed coffee table. It was as though the furniture had been placed with a symmetry that deliberately matched the exterior of the house.
‘Please sit down,’ said Renata Cuyper, glancing at her wristwatch. It was something, I noticed, that she did frequently during our brief interview and she also turned her head from time to time and glanced out of the window behind her. ‘May I get you some tea or coffee?’
‘No, thank you. As a matter of fact we’ve only just had lunch.’
Cuyper’s wife sat in the centre of the settee, immediately drawing her legs up to her chest and locking her arms around them. She stayed in this tightly bunched, stressful pose all the time we were talking to her. Kate and I sat opposite each other in the armchairs.
‘I suppose you’ve come to tell me what happened to Dirk.’ It was a bald statement, spoken without emotion of any sort: no obvious regrets and no tears.
‘Yes,’ I said. This was going to be difficult. ‘I believe that Pim de Jonker has told you that your husband was shot.’
‘Who?’
‘Pim de Jonker, the Commissaris who was Dirk’s boss.’
‘Oh yes, of course. I was told he was shot.’ Still Renata Cuyper did not express any emotion.
‘Our enquiries are still at a very early stage, Mrs Cuyper.’
Renata Cuyper nodded. ‘Yes, I imagine so.’ There was just a trace of bitterness in the comment. ‘It must be very difficult for you. But do you have no idea why it happened?’
‘Not a
t this stage, I’m afraid, Mrs Cuyper,’ said Kate. ‘It was only yesterday that we found out that Dirk was a police officer and was in London on official business, and that might complicate matters.’
‘Where did this shooting take place?’ Renata Cuyper’s blue eyes fixed me with an uncompromising stare, and she fired the question in much the same way as I imagined she would pose a question to her pupils before suggesting that they had not read the set book.
‘He was living in a flat in North Sheen, near Richmond in south-west London.’
‘With a woman?’ She glanced out of the window again, as though uninterested in the answer.
That question took me aback somewhat. ‘Our information is that Mr Cuyper was living alone, and nothing we’ve discovered leads me to think otherwise.’ I had no intention of mentioning the kinky women’s wear and the handcuffs and restraints we’d found in Dirk Cuyper’s wardrobe at Cockcroft Lodge. In view of what we’d learned since arriving in Belgium about his mission, it may well have been that he’d collected them as part of his investigation. But the copper in me said otherwise.
Mrs Cuyper gave me a frosty smile. ‘You policemen will always defend each other,’ she said.
‘But women police officers won’t,’ snapped Kate. I got the impression that she was getting a little tired of Renata Cuyper’s apparent indifference to her husband’s death. ‘I can assure you that what Mr Brock says is correct.’
Renata Cuyper shrugged. ‘Maybe. But I can tell you that Dirk’s head would always be turned by a pretty woman, and in our short marriage he had several affairs. In fact, I was told by a friend that she’d seen him in a restaurant in Ieper with some tart just before he went to London.’
Renata Cuyper spoke as though she had learned the lines she had just delivered, and that added to the suspicion that was beginning to grow on me about this whole affair. I also noticed that at some stage she had removed her spectacles and seemed to be managing quite well without them.
Suddenly a telephone rang somewhere in the house and Renata Cuyper tensed.
‘Do you want to get that, Mrs Cuyper?’ I asked.
‘No, it’s all right.’ Renata still seemed apprehensive almost to the point of being terrified, but then the answering machine kicked in and she relaxed. All we could hear was a muffled message in Flemish.
‘To return to what we were talking about, Mrs Cuyper, do you think your husband was having an affair in London?’ Looking at Renata Cuyper, I wouldn’t have blamed him. The woman seemed as cold as charity.
‘How on earth would I know that?’ responded Renata tartly. ‘I doubt that he would have written and told me,’ she added sarcastically.
‘Did he write at all while he was away? Do you have any of his letters?’
‘No. He said he had been forbidden to communicate with me in case it gave him away. Frankly, I don’t believe him.’ Renata paused and coloured slightly. ‘I mean, I didn’t believe him. To me it sounded like one of his typical cover stories, designed to put me off the scent of what he was getting up to.’
‘I have been assured that he was in London on official business, Mrs Cuyper,’ I said.
‘That’s what Piet Janker told me.’
‘I think you mean Pim de Jonker,’ I said.
‘Oh yes, of course,’ said Renata hurriedly, and blushed again.
‘Do you know the names of any of the women he was seeing, Mrs Cuyper?’ Kate asked.
‘Haven’t you heard that the wife is the last to know?’ Renata Cuyper stood up, obviously tiring of the interview. ‘Thank you for coming to see me, Mr Brock,’ she said, merely affording Kate a dismissive toss of the head. ‘I’ll show you out.’
SEVEN
Kate and I had spent the afternoon wandering around the small town of Poperinge, but it didn’t appear that there was a great deal to see. Presumably because we were from England, Pim de Jonker had suggested we should visit Talbot House, the home of the Christian Toc H movement founded by an army padre during the Great War. But neither of us was in the mood for sightseeing, and instead we decided to waste a pleasant hour or two over coffee and waffles sitting outside a café in the market square. Having nothing better to do but watch the world go by made a relaxing change from the hurly-burly of London.
‘What d’you make of it all, Harry?’ asked Kate, as our second cups of coffee arrived together with two more waffles.
‘It all strikes me as a bit iffy, Kate. What was your take on Renata Cuyper?’
‘Apart from the fact that I disliked the cold bitch the minute I set eyes on her, I think she was bogus. And the phone ringing really put her on edge. After that she just couldn’t wait to get rid of us.’
‘I’m beginning to think the whole set-up’s bogus.’
‘Do we even know if this de Jonker guy is a copper?’ Kate sliced a corner off her waffle and coated it with a generous amount of Chantilly cream. ‘We could ask him for his ID.’
‘Not a good idea, Kate. Anyway, d’you know what a Federal Police warrant card looks like?’
‘We saw the one that was in Dirk Cuyper’s safe and I suppose de Jonker’s would be the same.’
‘If Cuyper’s ID was the real thing. We can do some checks when we get back to the Smoke. If it is a genuine covert operation, then de Jonker’s wise to act the way he’s been acting. But I get the impression that he’s trying to get as much information out of us as he can, while giving us very little in return.’
‘Yeah, I sussed him for a sticky-beak the moment he started jabbering. So, what’s the order of the day, Harry? Stay shtum?’
‘Sounds right, so long as we don’t alert him to our suspicions.’
‘There was another thing,’ Kate said. ‘Renata, or whatever her name really is, got de Jonker’s name wrong. She called him Piet Janker.’
‘I noticed that, Kate, but she may only have met him the once. I wouldn’t set too much store by it.’
‘Maybe, although de Jonker did say he was not Renata Cuyper’s most popular man, from which I assumed that she might’ve remembered him. And there’s another thing, Harry,’ Kate continued. ‘Janssen’s so-called “police” taxi that brought us here didn’t have a police radio in it. That’s the first police vehicle I’ve ever come across without a force radio.’
‘Yes, I wondered about that, Kate. But the sensible thing is to play along with de Jonker and get the hell out of here ASAP. We might pick up something useful if de Jonker and company are actually part of this sex-slavery gang. But if they think we’ve rumbled them, we could be in danger. I don’t think these guys take prisoners.’
‘We could do a runner, Harry.’
‘No, we’ll stick it out, Kate.’
We returned to our hotel at about six and had a drink before going back to our respective rooms to wash and change for dinner. At seven thirty exactly I received a call from Pim de Jonker to say that he was waiting for us in the bar. I tapped on Kate’s door and we went downstairs.
‘How did you get on with Renata Cuyper, Harry?’ de Jonker asked, anxiously I thought, once we each had a beer in front of us.
I felt far happier dealing with de Jonker now that I’d more or less made up my mind that he was bogus. I wasn’t quite sure what sort of answer he was hoping for or what he hoped to hear, but I decided it would do no harm to give him my own interpretation of the woman’s mood as if I had actually been talking to a recently bereaved copper’s wife. ‘She wasn’t what I’d expected the grieving widow to be like, Pim. As a matter of fact, she seemed to be rather indifferent. I got the impression that the marriage had been an acrimonious one and she wasn’t all that sorry he’d been killed. She certainly didn’t waste any time before telling us that Dirk was a serial womanizer.’
‘I’m afraid that was true, Harry.’ De Jonker looked at me over his spectacles and nodded gravely, leaving me with the impression that he was pleased to hear it. ‘He was a good policeman, though.’ He took a pipe with a bent stem from his pocket and caressed the bowl for a moment or tw
o, but realizing he wasn’t allowed to smoke here, returned it to his pocket with a sigh of regret.
‘Is that the reason you sent him to London, Pim? Because he was a womanizer?’ Kate put her glass carefully in the centre of a beer mat and looked straight at de Jonker, once again going to the heart of the matter. ‘Was the idea that he would try to discover what these people were doing by engaging some of their prostitutes?’
‘That may have been the reason my chief in Brussels picked him,’ said de Jonker. ‘Sometimes I think he knows more than I give him credit for.’ It sounded a reluctant and vague admission, and reinforced the belief that de Jonker might be a sex slaver himself and was attempting, in a rather clumsy way, to tap us for information.
‘Had Dirk Cuyper ever undertaken any similar sort of enquiry before, Pim?’
‘No.’ De Jonker answered without hesitation.
‘I was interested to know whether he had any experience in this particular field, that’s all.’
‘Unfortunately no, Harry.’ De Jonker relaxed slightly. ‘But when the boss in Brussels tells you to do something, you get on and do it.’ He shrugged, implying that it was useless to argue with the system.
‘We’ll do what we can to find his murderer, Pim, but any information we dig up about the sex-slave trade will have to be passed to the department at Scotland Yard that deals with it. However, at the same time I’ll let you have anything we find out,’ I said, hoping that would satisfy him if he was bogus and we’d been unwittingly involved in an elaborate charade.
If, on the other hand, my suspicions were ill-founded and he really was a Belgian policeman, the whole plan struck me as having been poorly conceived. But I wasn’t about to say so. My personal opinion of this particular operation was irrelevant, and it may well be that the names on the piece of paper de Jonker had given me over lunch would eventually lead us to Cuyper’s murderer. Yet somehow I didn’t think so. The longer I spoke to de Jonker, the less I was inclined to share any information with him. Don’t ask me why; just call it copper’s nose.