A Cold Death in Amsterdam (Lotte Meerman Book 1)

by Jager, Anja de

  When I opened, Hans was waiting on the other side, rubbing his bruised hand, anger showing in his face. ‘You’re not answering your phone, not answering the doorbell?’

  I tried to tidy my hair, which felt as if it was alternately spiked up and flattened like a hedgehog road-kill.

  ‘I was in bed.’ The stink of my own morning breath was embarrassing and the odour of sleep lingered around me.

  ‘In bed?’ He was shouting again.

  I tried to rub away the effects of the last pill I took – this morning? Yesterday? – from the corners of my brain. ‘What day is it?’ My words sounded croaky, my voice unused to speaking.

  ‘Are you OK? Are you ill?’ His anger melted into concern. ‘It’s Monday morning.’

  I coughed and swayed on my feet from the movement. I hadn’t eaten in days. ‘Not ill, just exhausted. I’ve slept for a few days.’ My body had demanded it, but I had been helped by pills. During the last forty-eight hours I’d only got out of bed to use the loo and to fill up my water glass to quench my thirst and swallow more pills. Four pills, two more pills and then two more pills. Two days had disappeared from my life, turned into shadows.

  ‘Days? So you don’t know . . .’

  ‘Know what?’ I hugged my arms around my waist to protect myself against what was coming. I was shivering in my night-clothes.

  ‘Get dressed.’ He said it quietly and it scared me. ‘You get dressed, I’ll make you some coffee. Do you have any food?’

  ‘There’ll be something in the kitchen. I had some bread but it might be stale by now.’ In the bedroom, the door shut, I quickly threw on jeans and a jumper plus thick socks. I heard him rummaging around in the kitchen. Then his footsteps came down the hall and stopped outside the door.

  ‘I telephoned. Then I sent you a text. Yesterday. Didn’t you get it?’

  ‘I was asleep, Hans.’ The telephone had woken me up a couple of times but its shrill voice was in the other room, muffled by closed doors in between, so it had been easy to ignore. I had just pulled the duvet tight around me. When the phone rang again, I’d thought that if it was important enough, they’d leave a message. I’d reached out and taken two more pills, to make more time disappear.

  Now I opened the bedroom door.

  Hans raised his hands in an apology. ‘I’m sorry I shouted. I was just worried.’

  I rested against the doorframe.

  ‘What have you been taking?’ He pushed past me into my bedroom and picked up the amber bottle of pills.

  ‘Prescription. To make me sleep.’

  ‘How many?’ He came up to me, held me by the chin and looked into my eyes, like we did with the druggies we found asleep on park benches. ‘How many?’ he said again when I didn’t reply.

  I shrugged. ‘A few.’

  ‘Coffee,’ he said.

  I went to the kitchen to finish making it. The bread was only good enough for toast. No time for that. There had to be a packet of biscuits somewhere. I opened a few cupboards. He followed me and continued talking. ‘I know how down you’ve been, and now with your suspension . . . I was concerned I would find you – well, you know what I mean,’ he cleared his throat, ‘just a little worse than I actually did find you.’

  I poured the coffee and felt tears well up in my eyes. Partly because I was touched by his concern and partly because I hadn’t eaten in ages. ‘Oh Hans,’ I said. And I followed it with, ‘I’m OK.’ The automatic lie rolled easily off my tongue. ‘I’m OK,’ I repeated, as much to myself as to him. I found a pack of speculaas biscuits and opened them. I hadn’t had time to comb my hair. But I didn’t fix it. I just sat on my sofa, held my coffee and ate two biscuits in quick succession. My stomach cramped at the sudden food and sugar rush.

  Hans looked at me intently, then said, ‘Lotte, I’ve got some bad news.’

  I held my mug so tight I was afraid I’d snap the handle. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Piet Huizen. Your father. He’s—’

  In that second, in that instant, I saw my father dead in the snow, a bullet wound in his left temple, so that when Hans said, ‘He’s been arrested,’ it was almost good news. Of course it wasn’t.

  ‘You phoned me?’ This time my father had really needed me and I didn’t know anything about it. I should have felt it. I should have woken up.

  ‘Of course. Look at your answer machine.’ The display said there were twelve messages. He frowned. ‘These aren’t all from me.’

  ‘What’s he been arrested for? When did this happen?’

  ‘Anton Lantinga’s murder. Yesterday evening.’

  I drained my coffee and poured myself a refill. ‘Did Karin . . .’ My head felt light and airy, as if open to new ideas, devoid of old thoughts, old mental baggage.

  ‘She said she saw him. She said she opened the door.’

  ‘But he never denied that.’

  ‘You’ve also got to see this.’ He showed me the list of the people who’d worked at Petersen Capital, the list I had been going through when I was summoned by the prosecutor. Hans held out the second page of names to me, the one I hadn’t seen before. The familiar name was far down the list, only about ten from the bottom, and as soon as I saw it, it hit me in the stomach. Wouter Vos. Alkmaar’s witness had worked at Petersen Capital.

  ‘He was the head of IT,’ Hans said.

  ‘So that disk, the one that the whistle-blower sent—’

  ‘Could easily have come from him.’

  If only I’d known that when I’d seen my father last. ‘Anton didn’t just call us, he called my father too. Told him he wanted to come clean. My father went, saw the files but Anton told him that I was coming later, so my father left them there for me. But then they disappeared. I told you that. Didn’t I tell you that?’ I drank the coffee in gulps, I was so thirsty.

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘My father told me after I’d already been suspended. Anyway, I didn’t look for the files; the Alkmaar police did. But that could have been much later.’ I finished my cup and filled it up again. My heartbeat bounced through the veins in my neck and even without pressing my fingers to the arteries I could measure my pulse.

  I beckoned to Hans to follow me to my study. ‘Here.’ I pointed at Friday night’s additions, the changes to my drawing, half-hidden under the destructive thick marker pen cross-outs I’d made before I’d taken the first pills. ‘Sorry about the mess – can you still see the writing?’ I waited for Hans’s nod. I then got my pen out and drew a pleasing arc that connected the whistle-blower box to Wouter Vos. ‘What if Otto Petersen wanted to meet the man who had destroyed his company? By saying that he saw Anton Lantinga’s car just before Otto’s murder, Wouter Vos has admitted he was at the scene of the crime.’

  Hans stared at the sheet of paper on the architect’s table. ‘We thought about that, but what about your father?’ he said softly, carefully. ‘When I look at this,’ he pointed at the paper, ‘you knew that he was at Anton’s house and you think he was paid by him.’

  I walked out of the study. My footsteps sounded surer than I felt. I dropped my body on the sofa and drained the rest of my coffee. ‘Not any more. I don’t think that any more.’

  ‘Lotte . . .’ Hans had followed me.

  ‘What are you going to do next?’

  ‘We’ve got Karin coming in for questioning this morning.’

  ‘Great.’ I put my mug on the table and got up again. I paced around the apartment.

  ‘Lotte, slow down. You’re hyper from the coffee.’

  ‘Do we have time to slow down? My father is in prison.’ I walked to the window and saw a group of children throwing snowballs. ‘Can’t believe it’s still not thawing.’

  ‘Lotte, please sit down. You’re making me nervous.’

  I did as he told me.

  ‘So what did your father say when you saw him on Friday?’

  ‘As I said, that he saw Anton. Ronald turned up.’

  ‘Yes, at Anton’s house, we know.’ />
  ‘No, I meant at my father’s place. He took his shoes.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Ronald took my father’s shoes – on Friday when I was there. Said he saw his footsteps going to the shed. The shed with the files.’

  ‘So Ronald knew where the files were?’

  ‘I think so. I think my father told him. I told my father he should be careful. I told him to get a lawyer.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s got one now. You should have let me know he was your father.’

  ‘I had to protect him. You know, he and my mother divorced when I was just little.’

  ‘You didn’t see him later, when you grew up?’

  ‘Yes, a bit, but Mum always made that difficult. So my father and I never really had a chance to get to know each other; it never seemed worth it, the hassle my mother gave me. I thought he didn’t love me, but he did.’

  The words flowed out of my mouth. It was strange how simple it was to admit this. This morning, everything was crystal clear. A wonderful sense of omniscience had taken over. Thoughts tumbled in my mind like somersaulting acrobats. Sentences toppled off my tongue to keep up.

  ‘Lotte, calm down.’

  Hans’s words were less important to me than my own thoughts – the realisation that my mother had tried to make things difficult from the beginning – but I stopped talking.

  ‘Stefanie and I talked on Friday, after you left . . .’ Hans brought me back to the present.

  ‘That bitch. She got me suspended.’

  ‘No. It wasn’t her.’

  ‘So how did he find out?’

  ‘Ronald de Boer. He called the boss.’

  I gasped. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘But that doesn’t make any sense. Why would he—’

  ‘Apparently he thought he had no choice. You were not objective any more. You weren’t seeing things clearly. You were hampering his investigation.’

  He’d said he would protect me, but instead he’d handed both me and my father over to the police. I remembered how friendly he’d been with Wouter Vos, that first time he’d introduced me to him. I remembered that I’d even mentioned it to Stefanie.

  ‘I don’t know what to believe,’ Hans said, ‘but I owe you one for Wendy Leeuwenhoek. You were right and I was wrong, so this time I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.’

  I almost cried at the thought that Hans felt he owed me. In fact, he had no idea what he owed me for.

  In the dark of night, when I felt worst about myself, I wanted to believe that I would not have slept with a murderer if we hadn’t arrested the wrong man.

  Hans said, ‘Stefanie and I have gone through the Petersen Capital files over the last couple of days, and his old business partner Geert-Jan Goosens told the truth: all that money was lost in the market. Otto was covering up, hiding the enormous losses. Maybe that’s why Karin’s already back at work: making sure something like that doesn’t happen again.’

  ‘She’s back? That’s quick.’

  ‘Almost immediately. We’ll question her about those files and ask if somebody else came after your father. Maybe she saw your father leave.’

  ‘And ask about Wouter Vos. That’s key.’ I’d love to see Karin’s face when Hans mentioned Vos. ‘You must let me watch.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. You’re suspended, remember? What do you think you can do?’

  ‘I need to get my father out of prison.’

  Hans stared at me. The high-pitched screams of the playing children drifted in. He pushed his body out of the chair. ‘If you can get in without being seen . . .’ he said.

  ‘Thanks, Hans.’

  He let himself out.

  After the door had slammed shut, I pressed the play button on the voicemail. The first one was from Hans. I deleted it. The second was Hans too. I deleted that as well, I knew what he’d had to say.

  Next was a woman’s voice. ‘Hi, Lotte. This is Maaike.’ I sat down and rested my head in my hands. I knew what my father’s wife was calling about. ‘Sorry to call but I think you should know – but maybe you know already – do you know already? Piet has been arrested. Please call me back. The number is . . .’ She said the digits so quickly, I would have had to play the tape at least three times before I got it, and I couldn’t have listened to that woman’s voice that often. Beep. I pressed delete.

  The next message came fifteen minutes later. It was Maaike again. ‘You haven’t called me back yet. I tried at your work but they told me you weren’t there. Please phone me. Your father needs your help.’

  Beep.

  ‘Hi, Lotte. Maaike again.’ Now her voice sounded less certain, less businesslike. It wobbled and warbled. ‘Could you please call me? I’ve left two messages already and a couple on your mobile too. I can’t imagine you haven’t been getting these, so I must assume you don’t want to speak to me. But please, help me.’

  Beep.

  ‘It’s now three hours since your father was arrested.’ Her voice broke and I could hear her blow her nose. ‘You didn’t do that, did you? He is an old man. He has a weak heart. I know you don’t like me, I know you blame me, but please, your father needs your help. I know you don’t get on, I know you were hurt when he didn’t see you as a child, but that’s no reason to take revenge on an old man. He said . . . he said that you were getting on better. That you were talking again. You know he didn’t kill Anton, you know he didn’t do anything like that, so please let him go.’

  Beep.

  A couple of audible intakes and exhales of breath. ‘Sorry about what I said earlier. I now know you’ve been suspended, so I know you couldn’t have arrested him. But did you say something to Ronald? He wouldn’t have done this otherwise. If you could call me back, that would be great. I arranged for a lawyer hours ago, so I’m not calling about that, but the lawyer said it would really help if you could call him. His number is . . .’ she rattled through another eight-digit number. ‘If you don’t want to talk to me, could you please call him?’

  Beep.

  Beep.

  Beep.

  Beep.

  And a last message that was from Hans again.

  It was almost ten. I might as well walk to the police station, so I’d be there when Karin turned up. I hoped they hadn’t yet cancelled my swipe card. I didn’t want to contact Maaike, but I’d do whatever I needed to, to get my father out.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  My hand trembled as I put my swipe card in the reader. It bleeped green. This had been my sanctuary, the place that had protected me against the harsh outside world. Now the white iron rails of the gate clicked shut behind me like the bars of a prison cell. The courtyard garden was still frozen. Jewelled ice particles glittered on the leaves of a plant in a rare ray of sun; snow covered the roots of shrubs and drips of water fell from melting icicles. I waited in the small white garden for a few visible breaths and enjoyed the feeling of the cold air nibbling at my cheeks. Inside, my ex-colleagues would mill around, chat and look at me. My heartbeat raced in guilty anticipation of detection. I took one more deep breath, then pushed open the door and went in. Nobody stopped me. They probably didn’t even know I was suspended. I wanted to run to the interrogation rooms, but forced my footsteps to be slow and deliberate, to appear as if I still belonged here – as if I still had a job to do. It was five past ten when I ducked into the protective half-dark of the observation area.

  The interview could have only just started, as Hans was still shuffling papers around and the lawyer was whispering something to his client. I got my notepad out and my pen, placed my handbag carefully by my feet and pulled my chair close to the wooden shelf. It was the same interrogation room Ben van Ravensberger had been in two weeks ago. This felt so different: gone was my sense of belonging; gone was my belief that I was at home here, regardless of what I’d done. Today I was an outsider, merely acting the part of a police officer.

  ‘The murder of your husband,’ Stefa
nie said. I could see only the back of her head, the reddish-blonde hair a blunt straight line across her grey suit. She must have thought it looked more professional, this subdued colour, than her usual bright ones. I wished I had something to eat, but it wasn’t worth the risk to go to the canteen. Instead I sank down on my chair, as low as I could get, picked up my pen and doodled on my notepad.

  ‘Which one?’ Karin looked like the woman we had met for the first time at Omega. The scared, defensive creature huddled in the corner of a room had gone and Grace Kelly was back. Her hands rested on the table. She wore a black suit with a round collar and a white blouse with the top two buttons undone. She was with her lawyer, a man about ten years younger than she was.

  ‘That of your first husband. Otto Petersen. Your second husband, Anton, was a suspect in that case.’

  ‘Incorrectly so.’

  ‘So it now seems. There was evidence in that case – paperwork, reports – that went missing.’

  Karin sneered, ‘That was careless of you.’

  ‘And those files were seen in your shed, the night before Anton was killed.’

  ‘So you must have them back then.’ Her hand went up to a triple string of pearls. I moved forward, my nose nearly touching the glass, to get a closer look at them. The necklace was the same one she had been touching compulsively after her husband’s death. The deep lines around her eyes were no longer as deep as they were on that night, but still red.

  ‘They weren’t there any more.’

  ‘You searched the place afterwards. Every centimetre of it, it seemed. If they were there, you must have found them.’ She sighed pointedly. ‘Are you saying you lost them again?’

  Stefanie ignored her needling. ‘Do you know what happened to them, after Anton died?’ I fidgeted on my chair. Yes, those files were important, but could we get to the more crucial part? I wanted to scream through the glass: ‘Please, Karin, tell the truth. Tell Stefanie and Hans that Anton was still alive and well after my father left and that somebody else came to the house later.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘We believe you or Anton were involved in taking those files from the Alkmaar police station under false pretences.’