The other detective came striding towards them. Farah could tell he appreciated her presence a lot less than his younger colleague.
‘Those guys are bad enough,’ he said, pointing to the firefighters behind him. ‘So the last thing we need here are sightseers.’ He was staring so blatantly at Farah’s breasts as he said this that she took an instant dislike to him.
‘She was at the Emergency Department when they brought in the hit-and-run boy,’ Joshua said. ‘She reckons this fire might have something to do with—’
He didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence because of the sudden consternation among the firefighters grouped around the wrecked station wagon. He rushed over, with Farah hot on his heels. There she saw something she wished she hadn’t seen: two blackened, contorted bodies coated in white foam in the back of the car.
Overcome by the sight and stench of the two charred corpses, she spun around and, clinging to the nearest tree, threw up the contents of her stomach in a couple of convulsive spasms. Even the smell of her own vomit was refreshing compared to the stench of burnt human flesh now stuck in her nose. With a handkerchief pressed to her mouth, she straightened up again.
Joshua Calvino put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I think you’ve seen enough.’ He sounded the way he was meant to sound in a situation like this. Someone with both authority and compassion. Someone she was prepared to listen to.
‘Here you are.’ He handed her a bottle of water which she drained in a couple of big gulps.
‘Thanks.’
‘I need to get on with things. And you’ve got to get out of here. Will you be okay?’
The almost sensual, dazzlingly white smile that accompanied his words was really quite inappropriate under the circumstances, but Joshua Calvino appeared to have the knack of shaking off the gravity of this kind of ghastly situation. Farah was half expecting to hear a backing track, a cue for Joshua to burst into song and for the firefighters to start dancing in the background, like you see in Bollywood films. She watched him as he walked over to the other detective, who was now venting his spleen on the phone.
When, a little later, she carefully manoeuvred her car on to the paved road, she felt dizzy, and, more than anything, intensely sad. That’s why she opted for the fastest route around the Amstelveense Poel, which would lead her straight to the big house with the thatched roof. Across the pond was the home of TV director and documentary filmmaker David van Rhijn, the man she’d been in a relationship with for the past six months. So far, it seemed to be bearing up despite her impulsive nature.
Earlier that evening David had arrived back from India, where he’d been making a documentary about the history of the national railway network that carried some eighteen million passengers every day. She didn’t know if David was jet lagged and hoped he’d still be up. She thought of calling first, but changed her mind. If he was asleep, she didn’t want to wake him. Instead she’d snuggle up to him, wind down after the day’s events and fall asleep.
She thought of everything she’d been through that evening. The fight at Carré, its outcome, the hospital where the boy was brought in, the little help she’d been able to offer, the doctor who’d been so concerned.
All of a sudden she remembered why she’d gone to the hospital in the first place. Her opponent’s injuries. By the time she could see David’s house in the distance she was convinced that chance was a brilliantly orchestrated series of events. And for that reason alone she was desperate to believe in it.
6
David’s house was infused with a spirit of sanctuary and harmony. As she climbed the wide wooden staircase in the dark, Farah remembered the first time she’d wandered around the place, six months ago. She’d felt like Alice in Wonderland.
This was the home base of a globetrotter who was in the habit of bringing back Asian dragons, African gods of thunder and Mexican skeletons along with Buddhas, Russian icons and pictures of American baseball legends.
When Farah and David first met, he was mourning the love of his life whom he’d just lost to pancreatic cancer. Farah was touched by the sincerity with which he told her about his loss and the remorse he felt when, despite the sudden emptiness, he found something of a new meaning in life – in her. Not once did he try to present himself as a victim, to arouse her pity to get her into his empty bed as a consolation prize. He simply told her about his life as it was now. Farah felt pain without pretence, saw grief without shame, mourning without any ulterior motives.
The key to Farah’s unexpected passion for this stocky man with his head of dark curls and his boundless energy had been his melancholic eyes. They gave her a sense of security she hadn’t known since her early years in Kabul. Two days after their first meeting, she turned up at his house overlooking the pond.
But she wasn’t ready to move in with him yet, although David had said he was happy for her to give the ‘whole freaking mess’ a radical overhaul so it would feel like her home too. As long as David was around, it was his domain and she felt comfortable in it. But as soon as he’d gone off on one of his long trips, the big house suddenly felt crushingly empty.
In his absence she also missed the delicious smells emanating from the kitchen, because despite his rugged exterior David was a sophisticated chef. Out of a desire to please Farah he’d immediately started exploring Afghan cuisine and the first evening she came over for dinner he’d served up her favourite dish, qabili palau. But for now she was keeping her flat on Nieuwmarkt, in the centre of Amsterdam.
Tonight, however, she wanted to be with him more than ever. To feel his ample body, his aromatic breath mingling with hers. His huge hands on her. His embrace. Having reached the first floor, she tiptoed into the bedroom where she could hear his soft, irregular snoring. The bedside lamp was still on and reflected in the bottle of Campbeltown malt whisky which sat on the bedside cabinet among the opened New York Times and sections of the Guardian.
She slipped off her rings, removed her bracelet and necklace and undressed as quietly as possible before sneaking into the bathroom where she selected the massage setting of the shower. Under the wide, hot jet she could feel her body starting to relax and the resistance to her pent-up emotions gradually dissolving. She could stand there for ever, with her arms across her chest, her back slightly stooped.
When she turned around, she saw David in the doorway, naked, with dishevelled hair and somewhere between waking and sleeping, leaning against the doorjamb while absent-mindedly scratching his balls with his left hand.
‘I saw this Idols-type show on an Indian TV channel,’ he said between two yawns. ‘It was called Bathroom Singer and the idea was that the candidates were afraid to sing anywhere other than in the bathroom. It was amazing, it really was. They’ve recreated entire bathrooms in the studio and it’s a huge hit.’ He sleepwalked over to her with a growing erection and in an exaggerated, honeyed Indian accent said, ‘So, welcome to the show, Miss Hafez. What will you sing for us tonight?’ He didn’t notice she was crying until he’d come closer.
‘Are these tears of happiness because you won tonight, or are you just happy to see me again?’ he asked with an uncertain smile. He wrapped her in a tight embrace.
Farah snuggled up against his warm, hairy body and burst into tears.
He lifted her out of the shower cubicle, carried her into the bedroom and covered her wet face with tender, comforting kisses. Then he looked at her long and hard. Biding his time.
‘Let’s not talk,’ she whispered. She pushed him away gently and as he landed on his back with a sigh, she bent over him, splattering his hairy chest with drops from her wet hair and kissing him long and deep.
Leaning over him like this turned her on. David’s large hands grabbed hold of her hips as if to pin her even tighter against himself.
‘Harder,’ she begged when he thrust deeper inside her. It felt as if she was lifted by the force of a mountainous wave and suspended above the bed for several seconds, weightless, screaming with relief. Soo
n after David came inside her with a shudder.
Once she’d softly landed on him again, she could feel her body finally relaxing and her gloominess slowly ebbing away.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been by David’s side. She felt all clammy. The flashing digits on the alarm clock told her it was five past four. She carefully extricated herself from his embrace and, without a sound, stepped past the swaying net curtains in front of the open window and on to the balcony.
Lost in thought, she stared across the pond. Her whole life, she’d been fascinated with things she didn’t understand. Her first such experience had been the moment when, as a five-year-old looking out of her bedroom window, she’d seen her father doing those slow, unfamiliar punching and kicking movements under the apple tree. As if he was doing a non-existant dance to inaudible chords. The notion that he’d gone mad had briefly crossed her young mind. At the same time she’d been so intrigued by his calm, his strength and his control that she’d carried on watching, open-mouthed.
Afterwards, she’d spied on him from her room every morning and she’d soon discovered that he always followed the same pattern of moves. She began imitating him. Day in, day out. Until, one morning, she summoned up enough courage to go and stand under the apple tree and wait for her father to come out. And when he did, she began the first move, graciously, the way she’d seen him do it. When she was done, he was still standing there. Motionless. She looked at him, ready for any punishment she might get. But instead he folded his hands and, without a word, bowed to her. It was a magical moment she’d never forgotten. It marked the beginning of their soul connection, which transcended his earthly demise four years later.
Now that the wind had turned, the roar of the A9 tore the illusion of natural harmony to shreds. Farah walked back into the room and looked at David, who was fast asleep. She smiled. He’d be capable of vigorous sex even during his REM sleep. But the promise she’d made earlier that evening kept echoing through her mind, ‘Buru khauw sho. Waqte ke bedar shodi mar peshet mebashom.’ Go to sleep now. When you wake up, I’ll be here again.
In the walk-in wardrobe she found a pair of jeans, which she teamed with a plain white silk shirt. As she slipped into a pair of trainers, she took out her mobile phone and called the WMC. The operation was still underway. So far, nobody had inquired about the boy.
She walked back to the bed, leaned over David, pressed a kiss on his sweaty forehead and snuck out of the bedroom.
7
When Detective Marouan Diba left the Amsterdamse Bos around 4 a.m., en route to the police station, he was exhausted. He stunk of cigarettes and was sweating like a pig. Given his state, he hated that his youthful colleague Joshua Calvino, seated beside him in the decrepit Toyota Corolla, looked fresh as could be and was so revved up it seemed like their round of duty had only just begun.
‘Didn’t I tell you? Too many carbs, junk food and fatty meats,’ Calvino scoffed as Marouan’s intestines loudly rumbled. He mocked him further by demonstratively rolling down his window.
Marouan knew his well-groomed colleague was right. During tonight’s shift he’d stopped three times to stuff his face with greasy kebabs drowning in sauces. Calvino had joined him once, but only snacked on some pathetic-looking lettuce leaves.
‘But let me console you,’ Calvino grinned as he gazed at his mobile phone display, ‘it’s going to be another gorgeous day, maximum temperature of 32°C with winds averaging force three on the Beaufort Scale, so that means …’
‘You won’t have any reasons to hassle me,’ Marouan interrupted as he stepped on the accelerator and took the turns as fast as possible to get to a toilet as quickly as he could. Testing Marouan’s patience even further, Calvino started singing ‘Feeling Good’, his favourite song, at the top of his lungs.
‘You’re a half-baked wiseguy, y’know,’ Marouan retorted raising his voice, ‘in need of serious help. You’re suffering from a chronic case of confidence: like the Big C!’
‘You’re one to talk,’ Calvino replied laughing, ‘the man whose last name begins with the D for depressing.’
This constant bickering was a communication style the two men had developed over time, to make their collaboration tolerable. Calvino was in a position Marouan could only envy. It had been Marouan and the other young minority cops of his era who’d fought the barriers and prejudice in the police force in the 1980s to create opportunities for the next generation. Thanks to their lead, new youngsters like Calvino, right out of police training academy, could move up the ladder more easily. Being a detective meant the beginning of a promising career for Calvino, while years ago becoming a detective seemed impossible to Marouan, even as a final goal. The idea that he would never really profit from his groundbreaking efforts was somehow still unbearable to Marouan. But there were other unbearable things in his life, and he’d learnt to live with those too.
A heat wave in August … it had already lasted three days and during this stint on duty – which began yesterday at 10 p.m. and would officially end today at 6 a.m. – had led to a record number of calls. Okay, no serial killings, no bank robberies or terrorist attacks, but quarrels among neighbours, common brawls and domestic rows that followed in such alarming succession that Marouan had the feeling the masses were on the verge of total insanity.
When the call arrived just after midnight about a kid being run down in the Amsterdamse Bos, it felt as if the world stood still for a moment. The notion that a child could be left for dead on a deserted road in the woods turned Marouan into a vengeful racing driver pulling out all the stops, so he’d almost crashed head on into the ambulance blocking the road. He often thought he’d seen everything there was to see, that it couldn’t get any worse, that he was used to it all, but there were still situations that tore him up. And this was one of them.
When he saw that child lying on the wet tarmac, close to death, with the blonde doctor who’d arrived at the scene performing an intubation, he got more than upset. But obviously nobody around him was the least bit in the mood for his cursing. He also understood the annoyance of the doctor, who demanded more space, because he was just staring at her and not helping matters at all. But what he couldn’t understand was how his colleague Calvino managed to steal the show by simply opening his umbrella and shining his magic torch on the doctor’s work. What gave this guy the presence of mind to take the initiative with such a subtle flair?
It had been an evening full of surprises. First the seriously injured Middle-Eastern-looking girl turned out to be a seriously injured Middle Eastern boy. This was immediately followed by a kind of explosion, not very far from them. The first thought that crossed his mind was an accident on the nearby motorway. But minutes later, when the ambulance carrying the boy had sped away, a call arrived about a burning car three kilometres up the road.
Marouan had instructed the two officers at the scene of the hit-and-run to cordon off the area and wait for the forensics team to arrive. Then he drove as fast as he could to the clearing in the woods where he and Calvino were the first to witness a station wagon going up in an inferno of flames.
Due to the excessive heat, they could only stand by and watch as one tree after another in proximity of the soaring blaze lit up like a candle. The fire brigade arrived with their entire arsenal. And what Marouan had feared also happened: in a matter of seconds the helmeted firefighters in their fluorescent uniforms turned the crime scene into a sea of white foam, this way destroying any possible footprints or other evidence. Protesting loudly he navigated the hose-happy bunch in search of the man in charge. When he found their commander, who tried to dismiss him with the lame excuse that they were only doing their job, he just about lost it. Marouan told him, in no uncertain terms, that by doing so they’d made it impossible for him to do his job.
In the meantime, Calvino was chatting up a soaking wet, sultry beauty who seemed to have fallen from the sky. And at this absurd hour of the night, when nothing seemed to be what it was, sure enough, Mi
ss Wet T-shirt with her splendid breasts turned out to be a journalist. She was rather keen on connecting the boy who’d been run down to the burning car. But when the fire was extinguished and two charred bodies were discovered under the foam in the rear of the station wagon, she backed down a bit.
But Marouan shared her suspicions: his gut feeling told him that the two incidents had to be related. The locations were too close together and the station wagon was set ablaze less than twenty minutes after the hit-and-run was reported.
After the gruesome discovery he immediately rang police headquarters. The simple report of a car set on fire was updated with the info that a double homicide had taken place. Undoubtedly some kind of criminal retaliation. Then he called and woke up Chief Inspector Tomasoa. A few words sufficed: tomorrow, in consultation with the Public Prosecutor, Tomasoa would decide if the case of the gutted vehicle should be upgraded to MIT level. This meant an entire murder investigation team would get to work on it. Marouan hoped that his upcoming holiday – the yearly three-week visit to his native country and relatives – wouldn’t have to be rescheduled because of this. His wife was already busy packing. Their flight was leaving the day after tomorrow.
Almost at the police station, Marouan, with his face contorted, was trying to keep his upset bowels under control. Deep in concentration behind the wheel, his thoughts wandered back to the journalist. She’d disappeared as quickly as she’d appeared.
Farah Hafez worked for the AND. Marouan was familiar with the newspaper but dismissed it as a periodical for students and left-wing intellectuals. He preferred De Nederlander – considered by some to be a tits-and-ass tabloid, a gossip rag at best, it still had Marouan’s personal stamp of approval as a quality newspaper. No doubt this Hafez woman would change into a dry T-shirt and hurl herself into the case and report on everything in her own provocative and anti-authoritarian way. That was the AND’s style. And his colleague Calvino would undoubtedly stand there grinning in his own idiotic vegan way.
Butterfly on the Storm Page 3