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

by Jake Woodhouse

  ‘I don’t know who you m-m-mean,’ he whispered as he adjusted to accommodate the animal whilst still looking at the floor. Then he giggled.

  ‘You think this is funny?’ roared Kees. He jolted, the cat hissed.

  ‘I-I-is she in trouble?’

  He was stroking the cat’s head, each pass of the hand pulled the cat’s lip up exposing sharp canines.

  ‘Yeah, she is. And I need to speak to her right now. So where is she?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know,’ he said shaking his head from side to side like he was trying to dislodge something, and it seemed to work, at least on his stutter. ‘I don’t know, I don’t kn—’

  Kees was watching him, the weird rhythmic stroking of the cat and the way he was still clutching the parcel.

  ‘What’s in that parcel?’

  His hand stopped stroking the cat and gripped the parcel even tighter.

  ‘N-n-nothing.’

  ‘Show me.’

  ‘It’s just a present, for … for …’

  Kees strode forward and grabbed it. The old man tried to hold on to it but Kees pushed him back roughly.

  The cat sprang up and scratched him across the back of the hand, three welts which bled instantly, before disappearing like a black flash.

  Cursing he ripped the parcel open, through the wrapper and the cardboard box inside, stuffed with clouds of cotton wool. He up-ended it and a collection of small marbles clattered out on to the scratched wooden floor, and rolled away in every direction. The old man shrank into himself on the sofa, shoulders raised, his head rocking gently.

  Fucking creature, Kees was thinking to himself, I’ll probably have to get a rabies jab. Or is it tetanus?

  Back outside, heading back to the station on foot, he felt bad about scaring the old man, he clearly wasn’t with it.

  Probably had dementia or something.

  Kees had searched the house and had found a second bedroom with some women’s clothes in the cupboard, but it didn’t look like she’d been there for a while. He did, however, find a letter, stuffed into one of the drawers in the dressing table, which gave her full name, Helma Martens.

  He thought about what he’d done to the old man, who must have been her father. There’d been something about his posture, the way he held himself, which had just made him want to hit him.

  And that was not something he could avoid, that feeling, unworthy though it was. But he should have been able to stop himself acting on it, hold back, stop the anger, or at least control it. Anyway, it wasn’t the coke that was bringing this anger to the fore, in fact maybe it was that he needed some more right now. That might have helped.

  Maybe I should wait a bit, a voice in his head advised, just as another, more sinuous, counselled the opposite.

  He thought back to the previous New Year. He and Marinette had gone to Maastricht to stay with a couple of friends – her friends – and they’d ended up in a club where he’d first snorted coke.

  It had been an eye-opener.

  He’d smoked dope in his teenage years, still did some weekends, especially when Marinette and he first got together, but coke was not something which had ever appealed to him, and his choice of career had always made him refuse.

  But he’d just heard a few days before that his application had been successful and that later on in the year they’d be able to move to Amsterdam, a move which had taken on a dreamlike status for them both.

  And maybe, now that he thought about it, the problem between them had been there even then, maybe all their planning, their projections of what life would be like, how much better it would be once they moved, were really a symptom, covering the present by living in the future.

  In any case, the people they were with knew some other people, and just after midnight Kees found himself bending over a mirrored table in the deepest corner of the club – no air, just pounding, rhythmic music filling the void – with a rolled-up hundred-euro note just by his nostril, the white line stretching out in front of him like a forbidden road.

  It hadn’t been like he was expecting. The rush was different to anything he’d ever felt before. And even though the next day, when he woke – sprawled over the bed in his clothes, his head throbbing in an echo of the pounding music – he swore he’d never do it again, he knew he was lying to himself.

  The next weekend, when they were back home, he’d suggested they go out again.

  Marinette looked at him but agreed.

  They hadn’t talked about it – he knew that she disapproved of people taking coke, hell, he disapproved, he was a police Inspector on the up – and they didn’t talk about it till two months later, when she sat him down and told him that if he didn’t stop she’d leave him.

  He was contrition itself, and he promised that it was just a temporary lapse, nothing more, and that he’d never take it again.

  The next night he called her to say he was at a crime scene and that he’d not be back till early in the morning. Within half an hour he was snorting in the back of his patrol car having picked some up at a known drug spot. When he crashed the car into a ditch an hour later, seconds before his head hit the steering wheel, he knew he was in trouble.

  And he stopped.

  Just like that.

  Took control and refused to let the craving take over. He’d had a lucky call, he claimed the car had been stolen whilst he was picking up some food, his head injury occurring when he caught the thieves at it, one of them slamming his head against the nearest wall.

  He wasn’t sure if his colleagues actually believed his story or not – car-jacking a police vehicle might happen in some hellish American inner city but it sure as hell didn’t happen in Zeeland, the Netherlands – but there was no serious investigation into the incident, and the two perps were never found. Case closed.

  But just three months ago he’d felt something, a slight tingle, somewhere deep in his brain. At first he thought it was to do with his relationship with Marinette, her descent into a person he didn’t recognize.

  She’d always been a bit dark, a bit prone to silence, but he’d figured that was because her job, teaching primary school kids, required so much energy and enthusiasm during the day that by the evening she’d want to be quieter, more reflective.

  And he’d liked that about her.

  Now, though, he didn’t like it.

  It had got worse, he could see that, and he knew she should be working, that staying at home all day would drive anyone crazy.

  He’d tried to talk to her about it, gently at first, but he’d been rebuffed each time. That was when he realized that the tingle wasn’t anything to do with her. He’d tried to ignore it, pretend that it wasn’t there, tell himself that it was just a passing urge, even though he knew it wasn’t, knew that it was only a matter of time before he succumbed again.

  As he reached the station, he saw Smit’s silhouette standing at his office window two floors up, talking on the phone.

  I’ve got to get a grip, he forced himself to think, get on with this.

  74

  Thursday, 5 January

  20.32

  ‘There’s been a lot of kicking today,’ said Saskia, resting a hand on her stomach.

  Jaap had been leaning forward, staring at the floor, the weight of his head driving down through his hands to his elbows, and then knees. He shifted upright, arching his back, and looked at Saskia, propped up on the bed. She had three pillows behind her back, and the television was on, flickering light across her face, the sound muted.

  They’d been talking about the funeral tomorrow and it had made Saskia cry again.

  He was running late; he needed to get back to Tanya, decide on their strategy for when they questioned Haak, after his lawyer’d been. And then see Karin. He’d spoken to her half an hour ago, and they’d agreed to meet just past eleven. He wanted to know what it was she was going to tell him, but she’d not given anything away, saying it would be better in person.

  But he coul
dn’t leave Saskia on her own.

  ‘Andreas was so happy when I told him. It was like something changed inside him … did you notice?’

  Jaap nodded. He had noticed. He remembered the day Andreas had told him. He’d not been able to place exactly how Andreas was different over the coming months, but there was definitely something, a shift, albeit a subtle one. So subtle that Jaap had wondered if he was imagining it, and had tried to dismiss it. But he couldn’t get rid of the sense that things weren’t going to be the same, once the baby came.

  Was it jealousy? Jaap wondered. Was I scared of losing him as a friend?

  ‘I think he was more excited than I was, at least at first,’ said Saskia when Jaap didn’t say anything. ‘He was so pleased he was going to be a father.’

  Jaap glanced at Saskia then back at the floor, imagining the baby swelling and growing inside her. The baby which would now be growing up without a father.

  And all he could think about was what he’d seen at the loft, how, in the end, some children’s lives turned into hell.

  75

  Thursday, 5 January

  21.54

  ‘This is it,’ said Tanya as they slowly walked towards a small house with a broken hotel sign nailed to the front door.

  ‘Not exactly the Dylan, is it?’ Jaap said.

  They’d been going over what they had prior to Haak’s lawyer arriving the next morning. The frustration that they couldn’t just get on with it was hitting them both when they’d decided to call it a night, and Jaap had offered to walk her back.

  The street was dark, the nearest street light not working, and the road was quiet. She turned to him, about to wish him goodnight, and their eyes connected.

  He moved his head forward and she could feel her heart start to hammer.

  Their lips touched.

  Jaap’s phone went off in his pocket.

  76

  Thursday, 5 January

  21.55

  Jaap groaned and reached for his phone. Pulling away from Tanya, he could sense her scent lingering.

  He answered and a woman’s voice came on the line. It took him a few seconds to recognize it as his sister’s.

  ‘Jaap … I really …’ He could hear her gasping for breath. ‘… help … your place …’

  77

  Thursday, 5 January

  22.07

  Air was shredding his lungs as he sprinted along the last stretch of canal.

  He could see his houseboat ahead of him, twenty metres at most.

  His mind was jammed with questions. What was wrong? What was she doing there? Why wasn’t she answering her phone?

  The front door was half open, and there were no lights on inside. He stormed in, calling her name.

  Then he stopped dead.

  He could see her, slumped on the floor.

  His nihonto, the handle quivering in a streak of moonlight, was plunged into her stomach.

  78

  Thursday, 5 January

  22.28

  De Waart was first.

  Jaap had stayed at the houseboat. He’d sat and looked at Karin’s body, each breath feeling like a lifetime.

  De Waart stood awkwardly before reaching out and putting his arm on Jaap’s shoulder.

  Jaap could feel warm trickles on each cheek.

  ‘We’ll get them,’ De Waart said. ‘I swear to you we’ll get them.’

  DAY FIVE

  79

  Friday, 6 January

  08.30

  A gull, its cry plaintive, circled overhead.

  The sky was hammered lead.

  Brown earth, excavated yesterday, glinted with frost.

  The rage which had burned inside Jaap last night had by morning forged something cold and hard and he was surprised at how calm he was now.

  Whoever killed Karin had been waiting for him. She must have gone round and let herself in, something she used to do before she went away. Which meant she’d been getting better.

  Is that what she’d wanted to talk to me about?

  He realized he’d never know.

  Perched on a gravestone, a crow gave out a throaty rasp.

  The fact that someone had been waiting for him meant that whoever was behind Andreas’ death was scared he was getting somewhere.

  He looked across to where four men were bringing the coffin just as he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He took it out, saw it was Roemers, and moved away from the hole in the ground.

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘I worked on this thing all night, just wanted you to know.’

  And I’ve been up all night trying to figure out who killed my sister.

  ‘But have you got something?’ said Jaap, swallowing his thought.

  ‘Yeah, I think I have. Like I said, it was all hosted abroad, multiple locations, impossible to trace, but there was one slip-up. Basically I was able to find a back way into one of the servers and –’

  ‘Just tell me what it is.’

  ‘A computer here in Amsterdam is connected. And it looks like it has been for several days now.’

  ‘Can you locate it?’

  ‘I’m trying right now.’

  ‘Call me as soon as you’ve got it.’

  He snapped his phone shut, the noise too loud for the occasion, and rejoined the small group.

  Saskia was standing next to him. He hadn’t even told her about Karin. He figured she didn’t need to know when she was burying Andreas.

  A sharp wind started up, nosing round the gravestones, pushing into their faces like a malevolent force. The pallbearers were making their way towards them, towards the hole in the ground around which a few of Andreas’ colleagues were standing. There would have been more, but the allegations were too much for most – it had been all over the papers again this morning – and they’d chosen to take the safe line, not be involved in any way.

  Andreas’ parents weren’t there; his mother had died years ago, and Jaap remembered dropping Andreas off at a nursing home out by Haarlem whilst they were working a case there. Andreas had said his father had Alzheimer’s. Jaap had stayed in the car whilst Andreas visited, coming back out only a few minutes later, looking tired.

  By the time the pastor had finished his service – some crap about eternal life which Jaap had tuned out almost as soon as his drone-like voice had started up – the wind had died down, leaving a preternatural stillness.

  Jaap stepped forward and, scooping up a handful of earth, tiny pellets frozen solid, held his hand out over the hole before releasing his fingers, the thin stream scattering on the polished surface with a noise like gunfire.

  It seemed a ridiculous, melodramatic act, seen a million times onscreen, only this time without the stirring orchestral score or the sweeping camera work and he’d felt self-conscious, and then he felt guilty for feeling that.

  He could smell somebody’s perfume – who wore perfume to a funeral? – heavy and cloying, and it was then, as if the scent were a trigger, that the tears came.

  Jaap turned and started walking. It had started to snow, tiny flakes at first, then larger, floating down like feathers.

  He’d stared at the hexagram this morning on his table, Earth and Fire.

  Darkness, maintain light.

  Then he’d swept the coins off the table so fast they’d shot across the room and hit the wall.

  80

  Friday, 6 January

  08.45

  Tanya had got to the station first thing, just in time to see Haak’s lawyer turn up. She’d paced around, glancing at the clock every few seconds, working herself up, her whole body wired. Eventually the desk sergeant told her she should go and get some breakfast and he’d call her the moment Haak’s lawyer was out.

  So here she was, sitting a table with a dog staring up at her, jaws open, eyes like polished ebony. She could smell its hot, foetid breath, wheezing out in short bursts like it needed an asthma inhaler. After a few moments, when it became clear that she wasn’t going to share h
er bagel – the egg mayonnaise smelling as bad as the dog’s ragged exhalations – it waddled round 180 degrees, small steps, and padded away to another table to try the same trick.

  The rear view, two legs jostling two tight, furry balls back and forth, was even less attractive than the front.

  She’d watched it do the same routine at four separate tables before it got to her, and only at one had the tactic paid off in the form of what looked to be a leftover slice of apple strudel. She had to admire its tenacity though, the way it cut its losses with seemingly no ill-will, just moved on to the next table in the hope that food might find a way down to its level.

  Her foster parents had had the same breed, and really anyone who wanted such an ugly dog, well, there had to be something wrong with them, didn’t there?

  Last night, as she’d lain in bed in her cold hotel room, listening to the rattling screech of the trams, feeling their vibration rocking her bed frame, the frayed cotton duvet cover rough against her skin, she’d thought about what had happened with Jaap.

  How they’d kissed, briefly.

  And whilst she’d initially felt elated, even after he’d had to rush away, the feeling had worn off and memories crowded in, as if trying to take control, stopping her enjoyment.

  She’d spent years trying to hide from her past, she could see that now, as if human memory could be erased so easily, and not burrow down into the very fabric of her being, like poison slowly seeping though her, shutting down vital systems one by one.

  All of her relationships had failed because at some level she didn’t trust, couldn’t trust, any man, even though she was drawn to them. All that energy spent pushing down the pain and anger, and a million other feelings which didn’t even have names she could articulate – and maybe it would have helped if she’d been able to name them, maybe they would have lost some of their power? – had somehow meant she’d eventually driven all the men she’d met away from her.