A Cold Death in Amsterdam (Lotte Meerman Book 1)

by Jager, Anja de

  ‘That was Ronald,’ he said loudly; his voice could carry a much longer distance.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That I should hand myself in.’

  ‘It’s over, Wouter.’ The words came out in a cloud of breath that disappeared long before the reverberations died away. I imagined the sound leaving my mouth and arriving in his ear.

  He stood still on the pavement below and gestured with his chin at the door behind me. ‘Did she talk?’ His hands didn’t leave his pockets.

  ‘She did.’

  ‘Ronald told her not to, but I knew she would. He thought warning her off was a better solution than the one I had in mind.’ Behind him, a woman on a bicycle passed along the canal, a small child on the luggage-carrier behind her.

  I saw his hand move in his pockets. Snow started to fall and cut through the air between us. I was listening out for the door behind me to open, but so far nothing. The seconds stretched. I thought I should say something, but I didn’t know what. Instead I stood there in silence and watched the wind pull at the blond curls at the back of his neck.

  ‘You’ll want the gun,’ he said.

  Actually, I wanted my own gun – so much I could feel the weight of it in my right hand. But it wasn’t here. It was in Chief Inspector Moerdijk’s drawer. So I waited, waited for what was going to happen next. I didn’t say anything. My focus was entirely on his right hand in his pocket. A man on a bicycle pedalled past, followed by a blue car.

  He pulled the gun out.

  ‘Give it to me,’ I said.

  ‘Ronald told you to drop the case,’ he said.

  My hair tickled my jawline, but I didn’t touch it. I stood still, frozen to the spot. I only allowed my lips to move when I said, ‘Otto’s death was unavoidable. Wasn’t it self-defence?’ I remembered the painting on his wall, the vibrant colours of the painter’s dreams. I remembered how Wouter had looked when I’d asked if his dreams were vibrant like this. Instead they must have been as guilt-ridden as mine.

  ‘That’s what I told Ronald,’ he agreed. ‘In a way, it was. Just longer term.’

  He kept the gun pointed to the ground. I forced myself to look him in the eye or to look at his mouth as he was forming the words. Anything but at the metal in his hands.

  ‘Otto didn’t even know how to use a gun,’ he went on. ‘He stood there in his white clothes like some overweight baker, pulling the trigger without taking the safety off. He looked incredibly surprised when nothing happened, started cursing the guy in prison who got him the weapon. It was so easy to take it off him and use it.’ Wouter shook his head sadly. ‘He was going to keep coming at me, and maybe next time he wouldn’t fail. I had to get to him before he could get to me. That’s the only reason I’d agreed to meet him in the first place: to see what he knew.’

  I swallowed the sudden saliva in my mouth. That hadn’t been an act of self-defence: that had been the act of a calculating killer. He’d come here with a gun to get rid of the only person who knew. Now an additional person knew and he wouldn’t hesitate.

  My muscles tensed up in a need to act but I was too far away to tackle him. If I’d still had my gun, I’d have stood a chance. Now all possibility of action was taken away by my suspension, and I observed every centimetre of movement as he lifted the gun higher. Some part of me wanted him to do it – the same part that had wanted Ben van Ravensberger to shoot me two weeks ago. The same part that couldn’t scrub away the feeling of Paul’s fingers on my body and in my hair, however much I wanted to. I knew I wouldn’t get my job back, not after today. What did I have to live for?

  Unlike Ben, Wouter Vos wouldn’t miss. The range was too close and I wouldn’t have time to react. My feet were frozen to the spot, on the freshly wiped top of the steps. Out of the corners of my eyes I checked the street, making sure that no innocent bystanders would get hurt, no playing children, no cycling mothers. I didn’t look at the weapon in his hand; I kept my eyes on Wouter’s face, watched the wind unravel the slicked-back hair, hoped the cold would steam up his glasses. I held my hands out to the side, palms turned towards him.

  ‘I’m not armed,’ I told him. ‘Put the gun away.’ My voice didn’t tremble. I kept telling myself that if I kept my eyes on his, he wouldn’t shoot – but I knew it was a lie.

  He steadied his right hand with his left.

  The door behind me opened with a click, which tore the tension like an exploding bomb. I jolted, but kept looking at Wouter. His eyes swerved away from me but then his shoulders relaxed and he smiled. But he didn’t put his gun down.

  ‘Put the gun away, Wouter.’ From behind me Ronald mumbled a repeat of my words as if he didn’t really want to say them.

  Wouter didn’t react. His gun didn’t move.

  ‘Drop your weapon.’ Ronald said it louder, more securely.

  ‘We can still get away with this.’

  ‘No, we can’t. This is where it ends, Wouter. I’ve covered for you, but it’s gone too far. You lied to me.’

  Wouter moved his feet wider to stabilise his body against the wind.

  ‘You swore that Anton was still alive when you left. You swore you didn’t kill him. I took those files from the shed. I threatened Karin Petersen. I said not to tell anybody you’d been at their house. God, she thought I knew all along. Put the gun down, Wouter, or I will shoot you.’ Ronald’s voice croaked. He coughed.

  Wouter didn’t say anything but clicked the safety off the gun. If I’d still had mine, this was when I’d have had no choice but to shoot him.

  ‘You’re my friend, Wouter, and I don’t want to do this. But I will.’

  ‘This is your fault, Ronald.’ Wouter gestured at me with his gun. ‘You told me you had her under control. You told me you got her suspended. But here she is. That’s not under control.’

  ‘Stop it, Wouter. You’re threatening an unarmed police officer,’ Ronald said. ‘Put the gun down. It’s over.’

  Wouter’s lips worked although no words came out. With his eyes blinking behind the glasses, he signalled the thoughts inside his head. Many snowflakes fell in a few seconds as we stood and waited. The wind caressed my face as if to comfort me. Would the wind’s glancing touch be the last thing I felt? Would the sound of my heartbeat and the distant rumble of the traffic be the last thing I heard? Exhaust fumes the last thing I smelled? Would the sight of Wouter and the frozen canal behind him be the last thing I saw?

  Then there was the sound of sirens, the high and low two-tone getting louder and closer. Wouter moved his finger. I heard the shot. Somebody screamed. A shard of ice crashed in my right shoulder, then radiated out in heat. I dropped to my knees.

  In response, a shot roared out from behind me.

  I saw Wouter fall. I watched his body until my own pain dragged me further down and I lay on the ground, the stones bringing a chill to my face.

  I wasn’t going to die. The black railing of the steps hung against the falling snow. I reached out, grabbed hold of the cold metal and pulled myself up until I was sitting. Pain soared on the movement. I pressed my hand against my shoulder and watched the blood stain the skin red from between my fingers down along the tendons like a henna tattoo. I tore my eyes away from the hypnotic stream and looked at Ronald. His eyes were fixed on the broken body at the bottom of the stairs.

  The sirens came to a halt.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Ronald whispered, his voice drowned in the cacophony of police cars. I knew he wasn’t talking to me.

  Footsteps approached – my colleagues in uniform. I turned my head and saw Ronald hand over his police-standard Walther P5. ‘We need to get you to the hospital,’ said an officer I’d never seen before. I recognised Erik, who had found me by the side of the canal a few days ago.

  My mobile rang: I knew it was the call I’d been waiting for. I kept my left hand pressed against my shoulder. Erik answered the phone and held it to my ear.

  ‘Hi, Lotte, it’s me.’ It was my father. ‘They let me out.’


  ‘That’s good, Dad, that’s good.’

  As I waited for the ambulance, whose tones I could hear in the distance, my father’s voice flowed continuously like a stream of comfort in my ear. He chatted and I said little, until the paramedics walked up the stairs. ‘I’ve got to go now, Dad,’ I said – I didn’t want to worry him too much – ‘but can I come and stay with you for a while?’

  ‘Of course, Lotte. You can stay as long as you like. When will you be here?’

  My pain subsided a bit and at last became bearable. ‘I’ll give you a call tomorrow.’ They’d want to keep me in hospital at least overnight.

  ‘I look forward to it,’ my father said.

  ‘Me too.’ I smiled.

  Acknowledgements

  Many people have given up their time to read all or parts of this novel and I’m grateful to them all, but especially to Alan Buckingham, Caroline Buckingham and Chris Beton. They provided invaluable feedback on the characters and plot, and their positive words kept me going. I’d like to thank my agent Allan Guthrie for all his work on shaping my novel and finding it a good home, and finally Krystyna Green and all at Constable & Robinson for believing in this book.