After the Silence: Inspector Rykel Book 1 (Amsterdam Quartet)

by Jake Woodhouse

  ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea.’

  Her head went back down.

  ‘The funeral’s set for Friday morning. I can’t believe he’s gone,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t believe he’s gone.’

  Jaap sat in the night’s stillness.

  He’d learnt how in Kyoto. It had seemed impossible at first. Just sit, his teacher had told him, but when he did the very thoughts he was trying to escape kept churning, multiplying like cockroaches. It nearly drove him crazy. Until, a few months in, they’d started to fade, the images went from Technicolor to sepia to black-and-white. And sometimes, for just a brief few moments which nevertheless seemed almost timeless, a stillness, a vast empty space filled his mind. At those moments he was free.

  After leaving Saskia he’d gone back to his houseboat, and although exhausted was unable to sleep. He’d got up, gone through to the main living area, and settled on the mat and cushion he kept in the corner furthest from the door which led up on to the deck.

  He focused on the breath as it entered his body then left it, again and again, feeling the cold air’s sharpness against his nostrils on the in-breath, its softer warmth on the out.

  Gradually the torrent of thoughts receded from his mind’s foreground. They were still there, forming, trying to hook his attention, demanding that he engage with them, but he kept his focus on the sensations caused by the movement of air, until he felt almost as still as the world around him.

  These were the moments when everything was different, when he couldn’t tell where he ended and the world began, when he felt connected.

  There was no he and nothing to be connected to.

  Time was irrelevant, time didn’t exist.

  When he finally opened his eyes hazy moonlight was pooling on the floor in front of him.

  He rose, his legs stiff and his back sore, and he got the feeling there was something he’d missed during the day. Something that he should have checked, something important.

  But, as he climbed back into bed, pulling the cover up over him against the cold, he just couldn’t think what it was.

  17

  Monday, 2 January

  21.42

  As the plane lifted off the ground Jan Zwartberg settled back into his seat and closed his eyes, the dimmed cabin lights making it difficult to read. He could have reached up and activated the little spotlight above his head, but when it came to it his arms just wouldn’t obey the command issued by his brain.

  He was exhausted – the last few days had rushed past quickly: he’d managed to achieve what he’d set out to do, had got a few more contacts, interested parties who liked the look of the unique service he offered – and as the plane steadily rose he sank down into sleep, contrary motion.

  The feral smell of the on-board meal woke him, the fold-down tray loaded with a baking hot plastic container. Peeling back the lid he saw what looked like a prop for a cheap slasher movie and, revolted, pushed it away.

  No use trying to get back to sleep now. He’d picked up a late edition of De Telegraaf at the departure lounge and he reached into the seat pocket where he’d jammed it as he boarded, the air-con nozzle shooting a cold stream down his neck as he did so.

  A stewardess came round and offered drinks; he took a whisky, just to help him relax a bit, unwind, help work out the kinks in his neck and shoulders, and to celebrate, treat himself. He opened the paper, the ink already staining his fingers – and why couldn’t they invent an ink which didn’t do that, and whilst they were at it what about making newspapers smaller, so that you didn’t end up having to fight with them, especially if you were in a small space?

  He started reading. Enjoying the earthy tang of the drink he scanned the front page and then moved on to the next, where, as he saw the headline, the latest mouthful of whisky he’d taken sprayed out of his nose, searing the delicate mucus membranes, making them feel like he was breathing fire. The paper was dappled with tiny spots of single malt.

  The title, ‘Amsterdam Diamond Merchant Murdered’, had got his attention. He scanned the article at speed but there was no mention of a name, the journalist clearly having very little real information. But it did say the victim had been discovered at their house on Herengracht.

  He placed the plastic cup back down on the tray table, his hand shaking so badly that the remaining whisky slopped over the edges, creating little pools of golden liquid which glinted in the half-light. Everything was racing now, mind, heart, bowels, and he felt claustrophobic, like he needed to smash open the window and breathe some real air.

  Eventually – by the time the captain had come on the speaker, heralded by angelic soft ascending bells, and told them all to buckle up as they were starting their descent, and would the cabin crew mind preparing for landing? – he’d managed to calm himself down and convince himself that he was jumping to conclusions. There were countless diamond merchants in Amsterdam, and many of them probably lived on Herengracht. After all, what was the point in making money if you couldn’t enjoy it? So there was no reason to panic just yet.

  As soon as they landed he pulled out a clamshell phone and placed a call.

  The phone rang out, his hand sweating against the cheap plastic.

  He pocketed it again, and told himself that he’d find that everything was okay, that it was someone else, just a coincidence.

  And it was this thought which sustained him through the landing, through passport control at Schiphol, sustained him all the way through the cab ride back into town, sustained him right up to the moment when he closed his front door behind him, and slid across the two deadbolts, each locking into place with a loud clang.

  DAY TWO

  18

  Tuesday, 3 January

  07.56

  De Waart was trying to pick something out of his teeth with the corner of a tram ticket.

  Earlier Jaap had seen him bringing in an arrest and he’d reluctantly agreed to meet in the canteen. When they’d sat down De Waart had un-holstered, putting his gun on the table by the small jar filled with packets of mustard.

  ‘Damn thing’s giving me a rash,’ he said scratching the side of his chest. ‘The doctor said it might be nickel, but no one can tell me if these things have even got nickel in them or not.’

  ‘Can’t help you with that,’ said Jaap, turning to check the clock on the wall. ‘You wanted to talk to me?’

  ‘Yeah. So this gang, the Black Tulips,’ De Waart said as he pulled the ticket out and inspected a grey blob on the corner, ‘you and Andreas were after them because …?’

  Jaap was feeling impatient, he wanted to get on, but Smit had insisted he brief De Waart. And if he didn’t he knew where De Waart would be heading to complain.

  Everything’s linked, he thought.

  He’d tried to empty his mind before heading out earlier, hoping whatever he’d glimpsed during his session last night might appear again.

  But it hadn’t worked, his thoughts untamable, and he’d found himself turning to the I Ching. Yuzuki Roshi came from the Obaku sect, and had made a lifetime study of the Book of Changes, even though his fellow monks saw it as little better than Chinese superstition, not a fit subject for a Japanese Zen master. He’d taught Jaap how to read the hexagrams and whilst Jaap had not initially seen the attraction, he’d gradually found himself using it more and more, drawn to it in a way he couldn’t explain.

  This morning he’d thrown the coins and formed the hexagram for Fire and Thunder.

  ‘Quiet withdrawal overcomes obstacle to truth.’

  He’d never felt less like quietly withdrawing in his life. But he’d been doing this long enough to know that he shouldn’t dismiss it totally.

  ‘I thought you were in a hurry?’ asked De Waart.

  ‘Yeah, sorry,’ said Jaap.

  He could smell something cooking, something greasy, something being fried in oil used a thousand times already. His stomach turned.

  ‘I was just thinking … there was a homicide up at the dock
s. We knew the Black Tulips were responsible. They smuggle in drugs, arms, women for the sex trade, whatever they can make some money at. The problem was we couldn’t get close to them, they’re a tight group and we hit a brick wall.’

  ‘And you think that Andreas had got somewhere, found something out which might have helped.’

  This was what Jaap had been waiting for. He’d been turning it over in his mind, should he tell De Waart or not? The problem was he didn’t trust him. De Waart was a player, he’d worked his way up not by being a great detective – he wasn’t even a good one in Jaap’s eyes – but by sucking up to the right people at the right time. He had a knack for it, like it was hardwired into him, always looking for the angle when he should have been doing his job. Jaap had watched him over the years, deftly manoeuvring himself, using people.

  If I tell him about Friedman, he thought, I’ll get taken off the case.

  ‘It’s just a feeling I have, maybe I’m just being paranoid, but the same night he was killed my houseboat was broken into –’

  ‘I heard, and they didn’t steal anything, right?’

  ‘Right.’ Jaap checked the clock again. ‘Look, I’ve got a case on where we’re pretty sure the killer is going after some other people so if –’

  ‘Did Andreas call you over the weekend? Maybe he’d found something out?’

  ‘He tried a couple of times, I missed his calls. I did try to reach him later, but I couldn’t get through,’ he said as he stood up. He figured he should mention the number he’d got from Andreas’ home computer, but that would complicate things too much. ‘Look, I’m sorry but I really need to get on.’

  De Waart stood as well, and offered his hand. Jaap was surprised but took it anyway.

  ‘Smit is keen for me to run this one, so if there is anything else you will let me know?’ asked De Waart.

  Jaap hoped his palm wasn’t about to start perspiring.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘anything comes up, you’ll be the first to know.’

  De Waart thanked him and turned to leave.

  ‘Hey,’ said Jaap handing him his gun. ‘Not sure you should leave this lying around.’

  ‘Shit, you’re right. Mind you,’ he said as he holstered it, ‘if I can’t stop the damn thing making me itch I may have to do without.’

  Once De Waart had left the canteen, Jaap dashed up the stairs, and went to his desk. He fired up the database and got Ludo Haak’s record. Under known associates there was a name he recognized, Coenraad Akster.

  He’d come across him in a case a few years back, and Coenraad had agreed, if Jaap didn’t bust him for possession, to pass certain information back. Jaap had felt slightly bad about it – the possession charge would never have stuck in any case – but when Akster consistently came up with nothing he rapidly forgot about him.

  Jaap looked for his current address, expecting it to be, like Haak’s, unknown. But there was an address, out in the tenements. He wrote it down.

  Then he unlocked his drawer, took out his gun and fitted the shoulder holster.

  He’d sworn he’d never carry one again.

  But that was before Andreas had been killed.

  And the break-in.

  I’m going to have to get used to it, he thought as he went to meet Kees in the cafe opposite the station.

  On the short walk over he called the phone company, giving them the number in Friesland and asking for full details. They’d get back to him, they said.

  I’m going to need to check Sergeant van der Mark’s still coming today, he thought as he hung up.

  When he arrived, Kees was sitting at a table towards the back, cup in hand, looking like he’d been up all night. The bruise on his face had darkened since yesterday.

  Jaap slid into the seat opposite him, having placed his order with the waitress.

  ‘We need to work out who owns these phones, any ideas?’

  ‘We don’t even know why Friedman was killed. We could just call them, explain they’re in danger?’

  Jaap shook his head.

  ‘Normally I’d agree, but they were clearly hiding something, Friedman was running something illegal. It had to be high stakes for them to have gone to this much trouble with the phones. If we call them they’re just going to disappear.’

  The waitress brought his order, matcha from Japan that he’d had to sweet talk the cafe into buying for him, and Jaap watched Kees’ eyes linger on her slim figure.

  He pulled out a sheet with the numbers on and drew a diagram, the first unknown number at the top with an arrow down to Friedman’s number, then two more branching from Friedman to the remaining two unknowns.

  ‘It’s clear from the logs that whoever owns the first number is the one really in charge, Friedman answered to him, then issued orders to the other two. That’s the one we really need to focus on.’

  Kees pulled out his phone and started tapping keys.

  ‘Important?’ asked Jaap. ‘I wouldn’t want to get in the way or anything.’

  Kees put his phone away and Jaap continued.

  ‘Have you shown the numbers to the manager at Friedman’s business? Van Zandt, was it?’

  ‘No, I’ll ask her if she recognizes any.’

  Jaap took a sip of the dark green, foamy matcha. He could tell Kees was wondering what it was.

  ‘Right,’ he said putting down the cup, ‘we need to talk to this guy Rint Korssen. I want to go over to the business on Nieuwstraat, and we should set up a meet with this charity Friedman visited on Sunday. As it stands whoever met him there was the last person to see him, they might be able to tell us something. Friedman’s lawyer is going to make the ID official at the morgue today?’

  ‘Yeah, he’ll be there at ten a.m.’

  ‘Okay, I want to be there for that. Did you get a TOD from the pathologist?’

  ‘She didn’t really want to commit, she still hasn’t done the autopsy, but from the temperature she said any time between eight on Sunday evening and about one in the morning.’

  Jaap swirled his cup, took a final sip, stood up.

  ‘Okay, let’s go see Rint Korssen, you can call Van Zandt on the way.’

  His phone buzzed and he answered. The phone company, with the name the number was registered to, Van Delft.

  The question is, he thought as they got into the car, what did Andreas want with whoever Van Delft is? And why was he looking up Haak?

  19

  Tuesday, 3 January

  08.15

  Chief Inspector Henk Smit peered into the room through the glass pane set high in the door. It was full – every journalist in the Amsterdam area had answered the call, a story like this was irresistible – and he felt the familiar anticipation of public address.

  Rats to a sewer, he thought as he took a deep breath and pushed the door open, strode to the table set with a glass of water and a microphone and sat down, the bustle which his entrance had caused – cameras being readied, notebooks flipped open, throats cleared for the shouting of questions – dying back as he did so.

  The lights were blinding, and he shifted his head, trying to find an angle where he didn’t have to squint.

  Expectation bristled.

  He pulled the microphone closer, a vicious whine cutting the air, and he flinched, along with everyone else in the room.

  The news that Inspector Andreas Hansen had been found dead, in inexplicable circumstances, had reached him yesterday morning, and had leaked out within the hour. Journalists jammed the phone lines and his decision to put the press conference off until today was to give the investigation a chance to get somewhere.

  It would have looked great if I’d been able to hold a conference to say the crime was already solved, he thought.

  But now that didn’t look like it was going to happen he couldn’t hold off any longer. In his experience, built over years of handling the media, the longer they were kept waiting the bigger the turn-out.

  He wouldn’t be surprised to see himself on the midday ne
ws.

  He wouldn’t be displeased either.

  ‘Thank you all for coming along today,’ he started, before pausing and waving a hand in the air. ‘Can we get some of these moved?’

  People sprang around moving spotlights, no one wanting to be responsible for any delay, until he signalled that he was comfortable, and he took a moment to look round at his congregation before going back to the mic.

  The speech he’d written yesterday evening, and spent the last fifteen minutes rehearsing so he could deliver it without notes, began with a brief reaction, shock of course, to the murder of a colleague, and quickly moved on to how they were going to deal with an attack on a trusted public servant. The words flowed, and the audience were attentive, some scribbling quickly into notebooks, some holding recording devices, and the red lights on the TV cameras along the back gave him hope that he would make the midday.

  He wrapped up, then threw it open for questions, picking out some favourite journalists, those who, in exchange for early access to certain cases, tended to show the department in a positive light.

  ‘Can you tell us what your theories are?’ asked a petite woman in the front row who Smit knew as the chief crime reporter for De Telegraaf.

  ‘We’re dealing with a fluid situation here’ – he gestured with his hands – ‘and at this stage all I can tell you is that we’re pursuing several, potentially interesting, leads.’

  ‘Is there any indication that this is terrorist linked?’ queried a thin man with a pencil moustache and a nervous tic, sitting three rows back. Smit had only seen him a few times before and didn’t know which paper he worked for.

  ‘Well, at this stage –’

  ‘Wasn’t he into child porn?’ a voice shouted from the back.

  Silence crushed the room.

  Smit squinted to try and see who it was, but the figure was standing right next to a spotlight aimed in his direction, and it was impossible to make out his face.