by Chris Ewan
“Six thousand! My, that’s an awful lot to carry around. But I’m talking about bail, dear boy.”
“Oh. Enough, probably. Though it might take me some time to get it together.”
“That’s fine. I dare say we should discuss tactics next. Tell me, have you told them much?”
“Only what I just told you. They didn’t care for it.”
“Bloody nuisance,” he said, pressing a chequered handkerchief against his glistening forehead. “Is there more?”
I just looked at him.
“Very well, you don’t have to tell me. You don’t look or sound like a killer—any fool can see that. But not answering their questions, that could create problems.”
“Can’t I take the fifth, or something like it?”
“Of course you can. But you have to ask yourself how that will help your cause. Your aim is to convince them you didn’t slay this American, surely.”
“But if they can’t build a case…”
“Yes, yes, but why antagonise them?” he asked, flapping his hand. “This Burggrave, he’s a real career man. Made his reputation on cases just like this, you know.”
“You’re saying he won’t let go.”
“I’m saying you should think carefully about what you might be able to tell him. And about what you might not have told him so far.”
“Let him interview me again, you mean?”
“Oh you’ll have to do that, young man. He’ll insist on it, in fact. The real issue is what you might be willing to say.”
Not a great deal, as it happened. In my experience, one of the most convenient things about legal advice is that you don’t have to take it. So for a number of hours Rutherford sat rather stiffly beside me in the interview room, making notes on his legal pad with a quite beautiful turquoise fountain pen, and all the while Burggrave tried everything he knew to get me to talk. Threats, lies, promises—they all came my way. And with each question I ignored or each facile response I gave him, his expression became darker, his brow more twisted. Occasionally, Rutherford would interrupt a line of questioning with a timely interjection and Burggrave would clench his right hand into a fist, dig his nails into the flesh of his palm, count to ten (or even tien) and try something else. None of it got him anywhere, though, and the effect this had on him was quite something to behold.
“Tell me the truth,” he demanded at one point, grinding his fist down into the surface of the interview table. “Answer me.”
“I’m not sure what truth you want to hear,” I replied.
He glared at me and I glared back. Then Rutherford suggested that it was about time we took a break. Burggrave paused for long enough to contort his face into an expression of mild loathing, then stood abruptly and left the room without a backward glance. I got up from my chair too and stretched my arms and rolled my shoulders and my neck until it cracked. I wasn’t smelling so great. The sweaty fug that comes from spending the night fully dressed was all about me. I turned to look at Rutherford and found him leaning back in his chair and scratching his temple with the end of his fountain pen.
“How much longer do you think this is going to go on for?” I asked.
“Oh, a while yet. Persistent, isn’t he?”
“You might say.”
“You’re certain you don’t want to tell him the whole story? We could have a statement drawn up and be out of here in an hour.”
“You have a lunch date?”
“Just thinking of you, dear boy.”
“No doubt. How do I get to the men’s room in here?”
It turned out I had to be accompanied by a duty officer. The officer stood uncomfortably, shifting the weight between his feet, as he listened to the splash and flow of my urine, and then he practised his elevator staring-into-space expression as I washed my face and underarms at one of the grubby washbasins. When I got back to the interview room, Burggrave was already in there, glaring at Rutherford over the rim of a plastic coffee cup.
“I hope you didn’t put sugar in mine,” I said, and got a glare of my own.
The coffee was not so bad, considering. I nursed my cup while Burggrave repeated the same questions he’d asked me in the previous session. Why did I really meet Michael Park? What was discussed? What were my exact movements on the night he was killed?
I wanted to yell at him to stop being so bloody stupid. Marieke had told him about the thin man and the wide man herself, so why wasn’t he following that up? Surely my minor criminal record and the small matter of my lying about meeting the American wasn’t enough to distract him from the cold, hard fact that the last two people to be seen with the American had virtually frog-marched him to his apartment? He didn’t know about the monkey figurines, that was fair enough, but he seemed to be wilfully closing his mind to the obvious.
I thought of ways I could bring this up but I couldn’t see how I could do it without making it apparent that I knew more than I was letting on. I could imagine the sequence of questions I’d trigger and the awkward responses I’d have to come up with: How did I know of the two men? Because Marieke told me. Why were you speaking to Marieke and what were you discussing? Life in the twenty first century. Why didn’t you mention the two men before? It only just occurred to me. What is the connection between the two men and Michael Park? Search me.
Soon, the futility of what Burggrave was doing began to affect my concentration and, as I moved into a phase where I blankly ignored everything he said, my mind began to wander to other things and I started thinking about what I would do when I got out. I probably wouldn’t be able to leave Amsterdam right away, I supposed, but where would I go when I did? Italy, was my current thinking. Away from the constant drizzle and the gnawing breeze, into brilliant winter sunshine and grand open spaces and terraced cafes selling fine, dark espresso. Rome was one option I liked. I could see myself strolling around the Coliseum in the afternoons, eating near the Tivoli Fountains in the early evenings. Florence was another contender, and so was Venice. I wasn’t sure about the canals, though—I might have had enough of canals for the time being. And Florence had so much art and culture, so many paintings and artefacts that might very well end up lining my pockets with lira. Or rather euros. But then again, perhaps Italy wasn’t the answer. Perhaps I should open my mind to other possibilities. Perhaps—
The door to the interview room opened, breaking my focus, and a woman in a navy blue trouser suit marched in. Her hair was greying and cut in a functional bob and her jaw was set with determination. She nodded briefly at Rutherford, then leaned towards Burggrave’s ear and whispered something in a no-nonsense way. As she spoke, Burggrave’s expression passed through a spectrum of displeasure, then resolved into a look of aggrieved resignation, at which point he stood and followed the woman out into the corridor.
“You understand what she said to him?” I asked Rutherford.
“Couldn’t hear a thing, I’m afraid.”
“She didn’t look happy. Maybe they’ve caught the real killer.”
“You never know.”
“It’d be nice to stop answering these same questions.”
“I wasn’t aware that you’d answered any.”
“Well, I was thinking about it. If only to make him shut up.”
“I’m not sure that would have the desired effect.”
“Probably not.” I glanced at Rutherford’s legal pad. “You made many notes?”
Rutherford lifted his fountain pen and showed me the top sheet of paper. It was covered in doodles, elaborate swirls and cross-hatching.
“How much am I paying you again?”
“All courtesy of Her Majesty’s Government,” he replied.
We sat in silence for a time and I watched Rutherford add to his collection of doodles. I wouldn’t have minded a pen and a piece of paper myself. Especially a nice pen like Rutherford’s. Perhaps I could draw some doodles and we could get Burggrave to judge our efforts when he returned. Maybe the winning artist would get a fruit lollipop a
nd the chance to go home.
I stood from the table and stretched my legs and my arms, and after that I paced the edge of the room. The room turned out to be square. Twelve paces on each side. I was going to try it with fairy steps next, just to be sure, but the door opened before I had chance and Burggrave and the woman walked back in.
“Mr. Howard,” the woman began, planting her hands on her hips, “I am Detective Inspector Riemer. Miss Van Kleef has just given us a written statement. In it, she has sworn that you were with her at Cafe de Brug on Thursday evening. She says that you were with her there all evening. Is this true?”
Burggrave started to say something but the Detective Inspector cut him off with a wave of her hand. She turned back to me for my answer. I considered it for a moment and then nodded carefully.
“Then you may go,” she said. “The Amsterdam-Amstelland police force wishes to thank you for your co-operation.”
Outside in the car park, Rutherford and I shook hands and made our farewells.
“Just for my own edification,” Rutherford asked, straightening his jacket and tie, “who is Miss Van Kleef?”
“Damned if I know.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry about it,” I told him, patting his shoulder and removing a shred of lint from his jacket. “You did a great job for me in there, Rutherford. A real credit to your profession.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“I do. In fact, I’d like to give you a little something as a token of my appreciation.”
I reached inside my coat pocket and removed the brown envelope the duty officer had returned to me. I pulled the six thousand euros in cash out of the envelope and placed the bundle of notes in his hand.
“Well there’s really no need,” he said, eyeing the cash greedily. “You know, I didn’t do a great deal.”
“Nonsense,” I said, closing his hand around it. “You did more than enough. But if you feel a little queer about it, how about we call it a retainer? I have a feeling I might need to call on your services again.”
Rutherford ran his tongue over his fleshy lips. “Well, I can always use a little extra cash, dear boy. But you must promise to call if you need me. You have my number?”
“I do. You have a good day Rutherford.”
“You too, dear boy. You too.”
THIRTEEN
Since I hadn’t slept at all the previous night, the first thing I did after parting company with Rutherford was to find the nearest tobacco shop and buy a fresh packet of cigarettes. I lit up immediately and smoked first one, and then a second cigarette right down to the filter. After that, I went back inside the newsagents and bought a strip of tram tickets. There was a tram stop right outside the shop and I waited there for just a handful of minutes until a three carriage street tram arrived. I boarded the tram and stamped two of my ticket coupons and then I rode the short distance to Leidseplein. From Leidseplein I walked east, past the crowded tourist bars and restaurants and the canal-side casino, into the entranceway to Vondelpark.
Even though it was a weekday afternoon in winter, the park was still busy. People on rollerblades and rusting bicycles zipped past me, couples strolled along arm-in-arm, groups of backpackers sat together on rucksacks, smoking candy-smelling joints, and the occasional freak show walked by—one girl had her face pierced with countless metal rivets and the man she was with wore nothing more to protect himself from the cold than a pair of fishnet stockings and a leather jockstrap.
I dragged my weary bones as far as the Blue Tea House, where I took an outside table, settled into a rubber-strung chair and ordered a Koffie Verkeerd. I smoked some more of my cigarettes and drank my coffee, letting the caffeine and the nicotine and the icy breeze battle against my fatigue and the sore ache in my eyes. Then I ordered a second coffee and sat there drinking it and smoking another cigarette until finally the chill and the nicotine became too much for me and I buried my hands in my pockets and continued my walk.
I walked right around the perimeter of the park and it took me close to an hour. By that time my toes were feeling the cold too and my nose had started to numb. My mind felt clearer, though, and I seemed about as awake as I was likely to get. So I made my way directly to a side exit from the park and after that another tram stop, where I punched two more coupons on my ticket and rode the tram as close to Cafe de Brug as it would take me.
Marieke didn’t appear surprised to see me. Without uttering a word, she left the bar under the control of a middle aged woman she was working with and led me to her upstairs apartment. Once there, she settled on her wicker couch and lit a hand-rolled cigarette. The cigarette turned out to be a joint. She offered me a hit and when I waved my hand no, she vented a long stream of marijuana smoke towards my face. I blinked it away, inhaling just a little.
She was wearing a pair of low slung jeans with no belt and a hot-pink sweater. Her tanned stomach was exposed and from the way the sweater gripped to the rather lovely contours of her breasts, I could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra. I waited for her to wrap her lips back around the joint and take another draw and once she had a mouthful of the smoke I got down to it.
“You took one hell of a risk with your statement,” I said. “Say I’d already told them the truth?”
“I did not think you would tell them anything,” she said, exhaling halos of blue smoke along with her words. “Like you told me when we found Michael.”
“That was different. It was a spur of the moment thing.”
Marieke watched me for a moment and, even in that short period of time, her pupils seemed to dilate just a shade and her features began to soften.
“So what if it was a risk?” she asked, in a faint drawl. “You did hot kill Michael. I know it.”
“I’m sorry he’s dead.”
She nodded and toked on the joint once more. “He liked you,” she managed, her voice sounding pinched.
“We only had one conversation.”
“Even so,” she went on, croaking. “He told me you were smart.”
“Not smart enough to avoid getting arrested.”
“But you did not tell them about what Michael asked you to do. The stealing?”
I shook my head. “I told them Michael wanted me to write a book about him. That was all.”
“They believed this?”
“No. But then you made your statement and they had to let me go. Burggrave didn’t like it, not one bit.”
She took another hit on the joint. She seemed to be enjoying it. The tension in her face eased yet again and her eyes became unfocused, dreamy even. I wondered how much she’d smoked since Michael had died. I wondered just how together she’d been when she made her statement.
“You told them what, we were smoking weed together?”
“I told them we were lovers,” she said, in a matter-of-fact way, and tapped a fragment of ash into a mug on the coffee table.
“But they knew you were in a relationship with Michael.”
“Yes, but it is not so hard to believe that I might have slept with you too,” she said, straightening her back. “Or that you would not want to tell the police about this.”
I forced my eyes away from her breasts and onto her face.
“I could have told them once he was dead.”
She frowned. “But I told them this yesterday.”
“Yesterday? What time?”
“It was quite late, perhaps eleven o’clock,” she said, pouting. “I came to the police station when the woman called me. Riemer, ja?”
“But Burggrave kept me in until this afternoon,” I said, half to myself. “No wonder she was pissed with him.”
“I did not know.”
“No,” I said, turning back to her, “that’s what he was relying on. I get the impression he doesn’t believe either of us.”
Marieke lowered the joint and searched my face, her movements languid. “But it is over now, yes?”
“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging. “Maybe.
The two men Michael met, do they know about you?”
“No. We were careful.”
“And you really don’t know their names?”
She shook her head, then looked up abruptly. “But you know where they live. You have been there, yes?”
“And?”
“We can tell the police!”
“I don’t see how,” I told her. “Not without it being clear we’ve been lying.”
Marieke took another contemplative drag. Then she nodded, as if to confirm the idea that had formed in her mind.
“We will say that we found some papers, that Michael left their names here where I could find them.”
“But we don’t know their names.”
“Their addresses then.”
“It might work. I’m not sure. You want them caught?”
“Of course.”
“But we don’t know for certain they killed him.”
“Who else could it be?”
“Well,” I said, “now there’s the question.”
I leaned back in my chair and threw up my hands, as if I was open to suggestions. Marieke watched me, her face quite severe. I didn’t shy from her gaze. I just looked back at her, simple as that. From nowhere, she giggled. It just slipped out, as if she’d had no idea it was coming, and a plume of hashish smoke came with it. Wide-eyed, she smothered the laugh, doubled over with her body jiggling. Then she righted herself and took a deep breath and held it and fought to regain her composure. She arched her back and inhaled through her nose and her breasts swelled against the pink sweater in a way I gave up trying to ignore. I looked back to her face, where a druggy smile played around the corners of her mouth, and she looked away from me, towards the corner of the ceiling. She struggled to make her face serious again, one more smile slipping through the net. Then she waved it away, wafting it from her face with both hands, sighed, took her deepest drag so far, ground the joint into the ash tray on the low table between us and stood and crossed the short distance towards me. She paused for just a moment by my feet, and then, as if she’d finally resolved herself to it, she straddled me, lowered her face towards my own and pressed her lips against mine. She parted my mouth with her tongue and exhaled gently and, as we kissed, the reefer smoke floated up around us, catching in her sweet smelling hair and scratching at the back of my throat.