Absinthe

by Guido Eekhaut

  “Donors? Like an offering in a church?”

  “No, in a general sense. Isn’t that the term used in Belgium too? People and organizations that give money. To a political party, in this case.” She held the sheets in front of him. “To the PDN.”

  “Aha!”

  “Yes, indeed. And if this is what Van Boer stole, a complete list, we’ve found a motive for murder.”

  “A complete list? This isn’t complete?”

  She looked at the papers. “No. Pages eleven and twelve of twelve.”

  “The murderer has the other pages then.”

  She thought about that. “Not necessarily.”

  “The girl.”

  “Exactly. The murderer, if he was worth his money, would have made sure he had the complete list and made equally sure Van Boer hadn’t made copies. But that probably didn’t happen. The girl walked in on him, and somehow she took off with the list.”

  “That sounds plausible,” Eekhaut said, although he felt Dewaal was drawing conclusions much too quickly.

  “You think?”

  “The girl took off with an almost complete list of the contributors to Van Tillo’s party. The killer went after her. We have her name, but we don’t know where she is at this time.”

  “We’ll have to contact her family. Maybe they know something.”

  Eekhaut shook his head. “If she’s smart—and I assume she is—she won’t approach her family. She knows they can easily be found.” He kept looking around the room, searching for leads. Even with the windows open, the place didn’t smell civilized. “Looks like we’re going to have to turn the room inside out after all.”

  “Not something I look forward to.”

  He stood by a bulletin board. Pieces of paper with telephone numbers, Post-its, clippings from local newspapers, three postcards.

  “I’ll get more people in from the team,” Dewaal said. “We need more hands and eyes.”

  “She would want to get away as far as possible,” Eekhaut said.

  “I assume so,” she said. “I would.”

  “Like, for instance, Belgium.”

  “That’s an option. An easy option. Not quite far enough, I suppose, but easy. Same language, for the most part. She wouldn’t stand out in a crowd either.”

  “Leuven, for instance.”

  She frowned. “Why the hell would she go to Leuven?”

  He took a postcard from the board and showed it to her. The picture was of a Gothic building with little turrets and statues. “Leuven City Hall,” he said. “The historic building.”

  “Oh,” she said. “That’s where you come from.”

  “That’s why I recognized it at once.” He flipped the card. “And her sister’s name is Annelies.” He handed the card to Dewaal. “I am not clairvoyant either.”

  On the back of the card was written, in a neat hand: Dear Sis, Greetings from Leuven, Annelies.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. “And she’s getting somewhere as well. It seems I’ll have to return home.”

  28

  “THIS DOESN’T AMOUNT TO much,” Dewaal said.

  Prinsen and Van Gils would, under other circumstances, have agreed with her. They were equally convinced that their investigation into the murder of Breukeling amounted to almost nothing. They knew their boss, however, and judging from experience, they knew they’d have to listen to her opinion on the matter. What she said was more for her own benefit than for theirs.

  “No witnesses, no clues. No rumors circulating as to who made that bomb and why. And the motive? Revenge on a dirty cop? One of our own? Are you sure that’s going to be enough to solve this case?”

  “This was a professional hit,” Van Gils said. “Not many people can make this sort of explosive device. At least not in Holland.” Everything he said Dewaal already knew. So she ignored him.

  “Take apart his private life,” she said. “Piece by piece. Every person he spoke to in the last year, every pub where he had a pint, each and every drunk he had a talk with, everyone we know and don’t trust. Each time he cheated on his wife or she cheated on him. Every time he drove over the speed limit. Did he cheat on his wife, Van Gils?”

  Van Gils pursed his lips and held his head at a slight angle, as if he didn’t want to tell on Breukeling. To him that was, even now, a form of professional courtesy. Part of the tradition of police officers. Dewaal would have to understand. She wouldn’t, he feared. “You know how these things work, Chief,” was all he said.

  “No, Van Gils, I don’t know how these things work at all. Please elaborate. I keep my private life as far removed from work as possible. I’m not concerned about my colleague’s hobbies. I hear things, I hear rumors, but I’m only concerned when and if your private life influences the way that you function on my team. My team, Van Gils. Breukeling is a case in point. He was involved in a number of matters—and long before my time—that he shouldn’t have been involved in. And somebody was pissed off by something he did. You can work that out. The recording of the conversation between Keretsky and Monet has disappeared, and I want to know why. I want to know who fixed that, and I need to know urgently what these two gentlemen talked about. I want to know why Breukeling was killed. Can you live with that? And I want you to work this case yourself, because I don’t really expect much from Internal Affairs.”

  Van Gils nodded. Dewaal looked at Prinsen. “And you, Nick? I’m not hearing all that much from you.”

  Prinsen hesitated. “Why did Breukeling say the prosecutor called?”

  “When was that? Oh, while you were at the Renaissance.”

  “Yes. He could have sent me away just like that, taken the recording, and had it disappear. He could have invented an alibi, something about the equipment malfunctioning.”

  “Under other circumstances, he would have been alone at the Renaissance,” Dewaal said. “He wasn’t expecting you. Maybe he had to improvise. Too little imagination, who knows.”

  “We all know you and the prosecutor—” Van Gils started.

  “Leave the prosecutor out of this,” Dewaal snapped. “We have our differences, and he has little sympathy for this department, mainly because we tend to operate independently. But I don’t think he’s involved.”

  “Keretsky,” Prinsen said, warning her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The prosecutor and Keretsky. Isn’t there a connection? Maybe something less obvious?”

  “There’s no connection we could prove,” Dewaal said. “And I forbid you to delve into it. Don’t go there, Nick. That’s a warning. I don’t want the leadership of the AIVD having this whole investigation carted off to the archives on account of your foolishness. There are other … well, regardless. Try to find out who’s behind the attack. Stick to that.”

  “Looks like we’re going to take a stroll in Amsterdam South,” Van Gils said.

  “It’s a nice neighborhood,” Dewaal said, “with a lot of wealthy people living there. People with the sort of background we always find fascinating. Question is whether they’ll want to talk with you.”

  Van Gils looked at his watch. “It’s still early morning, boss. Some of those boys are having their coffee now. They discuss the weather, women, their next job. Maybe this is the right moment to drop by at their favorite café, shoulder up next to them to enjoy their company, and chat about whatever’s on their mind. The usual, really.”

  “Good,” Dewaal said. “I’m relying on you.”

  “Boss,” Van Gils said, rising. “What about the new guy? The Belgian?”

  “What about him?”

  “The boys here, they wonder why he’s already involved in such an important inquiry as the Keretsky case. You know how they feel. They haven’t had a chance to get to know him. He didn’t join us for a drink. First day at the job, you’d expect—we’ve hardly even seen him. Always out with you. People talk, which you could have expected.”

  “We’ll all get to know o
ne another better once this ongoing and urgent inquiry is behind us, Van Gils. I have more urgent things than a drink on my mind at the moment. But we’ll come to that. I’ll speak to him about buying you all a drink.”

  Van Gils beckoned Prinsen. “Come on, kid. We’ve got work to do.” They went into the parking lot, chose a dark blue Ford Mondeo, and drove off toward the south. “I understand you want to play down your relationship with her,” he said. “But it must be difficult, having your aunt for a boss.”

  “Yes,” Prinsen said.

  “I mean, you meet under other circumstances as well, family matters and so on, and what do you talk about then, eh? ‘How are the kids?’”

  “She has no children,” Prinsen said.

  “She doesn’t? Funny, how little we know about her. Is she married?”

  “No. Not anymore.”

  “Happens a lot among police officers. And you? Any social life at all?”

  “Not very much, no,” Prinsen said.

  “Are you close, as a family? Parents, your aunt, grandparents, that sort of thing?”

  Prinsen shook his head. “We’re from a very traditional milieu. My parents and my aunt don’t speak to each other, haven’t for a long time. She’s younger than my mother. Much younger. She left home to study in Amsterdam. She has almost no connections anymore with the family.”

  Van Gils kept quiet.

  “I assume she … she has more in common with me than with her sisters and brothers. Or with the rest of the family.”

  “Traditional, eh?”

  “Strict religious,” Prinsen said, wondering how much he could tell Van Gils about his family. If Van Gils would at some point use that information.

  “Yeah, I know. I come from the north. Totally different from Amsterdam. But we’ve lived here for thirty years now. You get away from that religious crap after a while. It stops haunting you.”

  “Some people never get rid of that religious crap.”

  “I assume some don’t,” Van Gils said. “Yes, I’ve noticed that. Question is: how does somebody like you, with your background, get into the police? Maybe not that surprising—a strong sense of what’s right and wrong connected with your religious upbringing. Stronger than for other people. See what I mean?”

  “Mmmm.”

  “You don’t like to discuss this. I understand. A man carries the weight of his past. Look at those Russians that live here. Some of them have been here since the sixties or seventies. They’re still Russians. They’re not Dutch. I wonder if their children feel Dutch. Some of them have completely adapted, though. They’ve become Dutch through and through, language and all. Maybe because there’s no great divide between the Dutch and the Russian soul. Maybe not. But make no mistake: a Russian is not a Dutchman.”

  “Do you know many of these Russians?”

  “This is Amsterdam. This is where all sorts of nationalities congregate. Serbians and Albanians—those are the worst criminals, some of them real psychopaths. Seem nice when you happen to run into them, but they’ve been oppressed for so long and have known little else but war and hardship, and when they end up here—the ones that end up here—they’re dangerous beyond belief. Often enough, they’ve been subjected to torture by their own countrymen. Or by their neighbors. And there are the Moroccans, who form a tight, closed society and keep to themselves. The Italians, with their long criminal tradition. And certainly not least the Asians, but you’ll find more of them in Rotterdam, on account of the port.”

  “And we, in the middle of all that … ?”

  “The AIVD occupies a specific terrain, so to speak. We don’t have the resources to investigate all of them, all of these groups, or we’d need at least five times the workforce. So we pick our favorite victims. Today it’s the Russians, because they have loads of cash.”

  “And because they do a lot more than just smuggling drugs or weapons.”

  “Who did you have in mind?”

  “Keretsky. The man doesn’t deal in those things. He deals in money. Buys influence and power. And that’s more dangerous than just a few containers of illegal weapons, I guess. The other things, they leave clear traces.”

  “Well, if you launder money, you can also leave a trace.”

  “It’s not about laundering, Van Gils. The money in Keretsky’s pockets is clean enough. He wants to do something useful with it.”

  “Gas and oil.”

  “Yeah, that too. But he mainly buys power.”

  The Ford came to a stop in a street bordered by trees and with squat brick buildings on either side, no more than four stories high. As far as Prinsen could see, there was nothing else but these buildings, rows and rows of them. Dating from the fifties, or so he presumed, neat buildings in a classical style, with pointed roofs, shops and restaurants on the ground floors. A neat neighborhood, where apartments would cost quite a bit of money.

  “This is it?”

  “Never been here?” Van Gils asked.

  “No. Looks nice enough.”

  “Oh,” Van Gils said, “this is a respectable neighborhood all right. This is where a better class of people lives. No unemployed kids hanging around, no drugs in the streets, no hookers. No pimps and no police cars. All you see here has been developed by the city council. But whatever goes on inside these apartments is for you and me to figure out. Only discreet people live here. Mostly middle-class pensioners. Tidy old people who mind their own business. IKEA furniture or antiques inherited from their grandparents. The younger generation is discovering this area as well. People in their thirties and forties who have money but no wish to live in a villa in the suburbs, on account of the distance to their job.”

  “Why are we here then?”

  “Criminals, specifically those who have done well for themselves, tend to move into these well-to-do neighborhoods. They make sure they have some sort of official income, and they pay their taxes promptly. They stay under the official radar. Respectable citizens, every one of them.”

  “Oh.”

  “And the local amenities are better than average. A number of good restaurants and not too cheap either. People who live here can afford the occasional dinner out in a fancy place.”

  “And then we drop in and talk to some of them.”

  “Of course we do. Isn’t that what we usually do? The main thing we do? Interesting people over here, in this part of Amsterdam. You’ll see. Won’t be too happy to see us, but we’re not supposed to care about their feelings.”

  “You haven’t always worked for AIVD, have you?”

  Van Gils smiled. “You’re a smart kid. I was a regular cop first. In the rougher parts of Amsterdam, learning the ropes. In Warmoesstraat. Infamous area. Not bad for experience with street life. Then I ended up here, another local police station. Civilized people, even the hardened criminals. Talk freely about their family, their dog, the cottage in Zealand, their legal affairs. They’re your best friend, once they get to know you, even if you’re a cop. But if murder is the only way out of a problem, they’ll pay someone to do it for them. That’s the way they operate. If you’re in their way, or you insulted someone, you may end up as a corpse in an incinerator. Under the foundations of a building site. Unless they want your body to be found, as a message to others. And if your body needs to be found, it won’t be a pretty sight. Because the message must always be clear to the ones concerned.”

  “Right. And we’re going to have a chat with that sort of person.”

  “I’ve done it all my life.” Van Gils got out of the car. “And will continue to do it for a while yet.”

  29

  “THIS IS NICK,” VAN Gils said. “Our most junior colleague. He’s from way north but now is a proud Amsterdamer.”

  “You don’t just become an Amsterdamer,” said the bald man at the other side of the table. He was way up in his fifties and had the arms and neck of a professional wrestler. If you wanted the caricature of a bouncer, this would be it. “You’re born in Amsterdam or you’re not.”r />
  “As if you, Carlo, were born in Amsterdam.”

  “No,” Carlo said, “but my children were. I’m Italian. Even better, I’m from Sardinia. I’ve lived here for thirty years. I don’t speak like I’m from here, but I feel at home. My children are as Dutch as they come. Want to see their rooms? Soccer and more soccer. Holland national team. Orange!”

  The proprietor of the café approached them and brought the coffee and cakes Van Gils had ordered. He gave the man a ten-euro note and received some coins in return. Prinsen noticed that it was exactly five two-euro coins. That’s how it went. Nobody the wiser, he assumed. Except for Carlo. Carlo knew the score.

  “And what about the Russians?” Prinsen asked Carlo. “Do they all feel at home here? Or have they remained Russian?”

  Carlo looked Prinsen over. He wasn’t a tall man and hadn’t shaved properly that morning. His eyes were dark and glanced in irritation at the young man, who resisted their implication. “Why would I want to talk about the Russians?” Carlo asked.

  “Because,” Van Gils said, “one of our people is dead, on account of a bomb. A bomb detonated from a distance, in a shopping bag affixed to his front door. He came home and wham! The bomb went off.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? What does it matter, Carlo? What is it we cops do? We investigate crimes. We pursue criminals. Some of them get nervous when we do that. It comes naturally. And then, sometimes, bad things happen. We try to avoid it, but they happen nonetheless.”

  “I am no criminal, Van Gils. You know that. I’m not the one you want.”

  “I’m not implying you’re a criminal, Carlo. That’s not the point. Still, you’ve been involved in a number of shady affairs, some even plainly outside the confines of the law, and that could be interpreted by certain people as—”

  Carlo waved the whole thing away. “Ah, the law! The law says many things. Maybe the law ought to change. Some laws are ridiculous.”

  “Car theft and the unlawful export of funds to certain African countries? And what happened with that truck full of cigarettes we stopped at the border, with you behind the wheel? It wasn’t your truck or your cigarettes. You don’t even smoke.”