DeKok and Murder on Blood Mountain

by A. C. Baantjer

  The short walk banished the last remnants of sleep. Happily humming a Christmas carol, he almost danced up the stairs to the detective room.

  Vledder was already behind his desk, his fingers flying over the keyboard of his computer. DeKok hung his hat and coat on the peg and walked over to Vledder’s desk.

  “You look busy,” he said casually.

  Vledder looked up.

  “I have no choice,” he said somberly. “Commissaris Buitendam was waiting for me this morning. He thought our report about the funeral was too brief. He wants a complete and detailed report.”

  DeKok grinned.

  “With a black mourning border, no doubt.”

  Vledder looked stony.

  “You and your condolence register.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Vledder gesticulated at his computer.

  “The commissaris,” he said heatedly, “now wants us to do a complete background check on all the people who signed the register.”

  DeKok sat down behind his own desk.

  “Why?” he asked.

  Vledder made a helpless gesture.

  “I think he just wants to make an impression on our Belgian colleagues. He said the Antwerp police were entitled to a full and complete report; we should give them all the facts we can discover.”

  DeKok grinned wryly.

  “He’s mad,” he said after a while. “There must be forty to fifty names in that register. It will take forever to run a full background check on everyone.” He spread his hands. “And to what purpose?”

  Vledder pushed his keyboard aside.

  “In retrospect,” he said sourly, “we’d have been better off if you had never asked for that book.”

  DeKok acted surprised.

  “That’s nonsense. It’s a Belgian murder. The investigation is in the hands of the Antwerp police. But if I had been assigned the investigation, I would have wanted to know who was interested in the victim’s funeral.”

  Vledder nodded agreement.

  “But you had not figured we would be ordered to do the background checks.”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “It’s unusual, ridiculous. Should our Belgian colleagues find a name that interests them, then we can check out the particular man, or woman. But to check out everybody in the register, without definite suspicion, that is…” Words failed him, and he paused. Then he began again, on a different tack. “Did you tell the commissaris about Kruisberg Senior?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  Vledder turned his head away from his partner.

  “He didn’t believe it.”

  “Didn’t believe what?”

  Vledder turned back and pointed at his computer.

  “He didn’t accept your seeing a dead Ronald Kruisberg at the funeral of Assumburg. He looked at me sort of funny, then said he didn’t want to hear about any such fantasies.”

  DeKok swallowed.

  “Didn’t want to know about fantasies?” he asked angrily.

  Vledder nodded.

  “When I told him that you were absolutely convinced…that you even ran after him, he said that it wasn’t unusual for people your age to suffer from diminished eyesight.”

  DeKok pressed his lips together. He felt the berserker rage building inside him and the blood rushed to his head. He rose from behind his desk and stormed out of the room.

  Vledder followed as quickly as possible. He knew DeKok’s confrontation with the commissaris was going to be the same as always: DeKok shooting his mouth off, Buitendam’s veins visibly throbbing, ending with a resounding “Out!” and DeKok slamming the door.

  Vledder gave his old colleague a chiding look.

  “You never learn,” he reprimanded. “The police department is a semimilitaristic organization with strict chains of command. In this hierarchical setup, you are subordinate to the commissaris; it is your duty to follow his orders and directives. And that’s the way it is.”

  DeKok nodded with a stubborn face.

  “Fine,” he growled. “But as far as I know, Buitendam has not been appointed as house physician.”

  Vledder laughed.

  “Is it possible, if only in this instance, you could allow the commissaris to doubt your observations?” he asked innocently. “Let me add, I too have moments of great difficulty accepting them.”

  For several seconds DeKok stared evenly at Vledder. Then he pointed a finger at the young man.

  “In a little while you go to Town Hall and check out the death records.” It sounded curt and authoritative. “I also want a copy of the death certificate and the results of any autopsy. Above all, I want the name, or names, of the doctors involved.”

  Vledder nodded.

  “Should I also check our own files?”

  “What for?”

  “Fingerprints, photos?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “We have none,” he said soberly. “We never got that far. If the judge advocate had not…” He did not complete the sentence, but walked over to the peg where he kept his hat and coat. He was already on his way to the door, struggling into his heavy coat, when Vledder caught up with him.

  “Where are you going?”

  DeKok turned half around.

  “I’m going to ask the widow Kruisberg if she has seen any ghosts.”

  DeKok left the city in the direction of Diemen, via Hartveld Bridge. It had taken a bit of doing to discover Mrs. Kruisberg’s whereabouts. She had changed addresses often in the last few years. According to the latest information, her most recent move was to Polderland, south of Diemen.

  By his own admission, DeKok was the worst driver in the Netherlands. He was usually driving in the wrong gear, and when he did change gears the old VW groaned and screeched in protest. When he reached Diemen he had to stop several times to get closer directions, but after a meandering trip through several streets and two near misses with other motorists, he reached Polderland. It turned out to be a new, intimate neighborhood of one- and two-story houses built with yellow bricks. The houses gave a friendly impression.

  DeKok parked the VW, crooked and partly on the curb, and ambled along the street to number 723.

  When he reached the door, he noticed that there was no nameplate next to the doorbell. He hesitated a moment and then rang the bell. The door was opened by a tall, distinguished woman in a tight black dress. The gray sleuth estimated her to be in her late forties. Sharp lines and wrinkles showed on her somewhat square face. There was a lot of gray in her dark hair. In response to the questioning look, DeKok bowed slightly.

  “My name is DeKok,” he said in a friendly tone of voice, “with a kay-oh-kay. I’m an inspector attached to Warmoes Street station in Amsterdam. About twelve years ago I was investigating a fraud case involving your husband.”

  She reacted in a contentious manner.

  “My husband is dead,” she said curtly, and attempted to close the front door.

  DeKok extended an arm and prevented her from closing the door. He nodded calmly.

  “I have heard your husband is deceased. I just wanted to talk with you for a moment.”

  Mrs. Kruisberg shook her head.

  “I have no need to speak with anyone,” she said icily, “and that includes you.”

  DeKok gave her a sharp look.

  “About your son.”

  The expression on her face changed.

  “What’s the matter with my son?”

  “He came to visit me.”

  “Why?”

  “He wanted to talk to me about a strange man who’s constantly following him, keeping him under surveillance.”

  Mrs. Kruisberg gave him a long, searching look. After a slight hesitation she opened the door farther, indicating to DeKok he could enter.

  The living room was cozily furnished. Around a round table were four light blue easy chairs with white lace antimacassars on the backs. A sideboard was tastefully decorated with fine vases and glasswork. Su
nny landscapes in light colors decorated the walls.

  DeKok looked around, pleasantly surprised. The warm, friendly interior was in marked contrast to the cool attitude of his hostess. He sank down in one of the easy chairs and placed his hat on the carpet next to him.

  “You’ve moved a good deal,” he began with surprise in his voice.

  Mrs. Kruisberg sat down across from him. There was a bitter smile around her mouth.

  “It was flight…a constant flight from the ghosts of the past.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You must know my husband had a past. I did not know what kind of business he did when I married him. I thought I had chosen a respectable businessman for a husband…he turned out to be a swindler.”

  DeKok looked her in the eyes.

  “That sounds bitter.”

  Mrs. Kruisberg nodded her agreement.

  “It was a bitter disappointment. Perhaps it would have been better if I had divorced him as soon as I found out about his crooked practices. But I lacked the courage.”

  “So you stayed with him.”

  She lowered her head somewhat.

  “We had just celebrated our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Then, perhaps in part because of you, the ground became too hot under his feet. He fled abroad.” She sighed deeply. “Me he left with a mountain of debt and a difficult son.”

  “That would be Ronald?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you never heard from your husband?”

  “We saw neither hide nor hair. At first I was afraid to move, thinking if things calm down, he’ll be back and need to know where to find us. But the years went by and the pressure of the creditors increased until it became unbearable. People thought I was an accomplice in the swindles and that I was still in contact with him. They wanted me to pay.” She made a helpless gesture. “Pay with what? I had nothing! I was too frightened to approach the welfare administration. But we had to live. To provide for my son and myself, I took a job as the secretary for a ship chandler. Once I became employed, I moved several times to shake the many creditors.”

  DeKok nodded.

  “When did you hear from your husband again?”

  “About five years ago.”

  DeKok spread out both hands.

  “That must have been hard. I mean, with that many changes of address, it must have been difficult for him to find you.”

  She shook her head.

  “He did not find me.”

  DeKok looked startled.

  “He did not find you?” he asked.

  Again the bitter smile.

  “I heard he was still alive.”

  “How?”

  She did not answer at once. She moved uneasily in her chair.

  “My youngest sister, Evelyn, met a man during a ski vacation in St. Moritz, Switzerland. He was apparently financially secure, a businessman. Although the man was almost twenty years older than my sister, she was attracted to him and they married within six months after they met.”

  DeKok looked up at her.

  “Hendrik-Jan Assumburg?”

  She nodded.

  “Henry.”

  “The man who was buried yesterday?”

  “Indeed.”

  DeKok rubbed his chin.

  “And that was the man who said that Ronald was still alive?”

  Mrs. Kruisberg nodded again.

  “They were married in Switzerland. After the honey-moon, Evelyn came to see me, to introduce Henry. At the time Henry said he knew a Ronald Kruisberg. He, Henry, had met the man in Antwerp, a member of some kind of religious sect, or cult.” She paused. “The news didn’t affect me much. The name Kruisberg is not unusual. Besides, the idea of my husband as a member of some kind of cult seemed unbelievable. To make sure, though, I showed him a photograph of Ronald.”

  “And?”

  “According to Henry there was no doubt the man he met in Antwerp was the same man who had left me seven years before.”

  “Then you traveled to Antwerp?”

  She slowly shook her head.

  “I did not want to go,” she said resignedly. “After all those years I had not the least desire to pick up where we had left off. The mere thought of living with that man again was…was…abhorrent to me. So I took no steps to contact him.” She gripped her head with both hands and sighed deeply. “Two years ago, I heard from Belgium that he had died in a car accident. It was liberating. I felt a load had been lifted off my shoulders.”

  “Where was Ronald buried?”

  “It was his wish to be buried at Sorrow Field in Amsterdam.”

  “Near where Hendrik-Jan Assumburg is buried?”

  She made a languid gesture.

  “The graves,” she said softly, “are barely a hundred feet apart.”

  DeKok leaned his head in the palm of his hand and thought.

  “Who was the charming gentleman who gave your sister so much, eh, support during the funeral?”

  “A friend.”

  “Whose friend?”

  “Evelyn and Henry’s.”

  “A close friend?”

  “More or less.”

  DeKok did not ask anything for a long period. Both he and his hostess remained silent.

  A pendulum clock on the chimney mantel ticked away the minutes. Outside, in the garden, a pair of chickadees fluttered around a seed ball hanging from a thread.

  Suddenly DeKok leaned forward.

  “Mrs. Kruisberg,” he whispered, “do you ever see ghosts?”

  With a shock she looked up.

  “Ghosts?” she repeated.

  DeKok nodded seriously.

  “Ghosts, specters, spirits, apparitions—as if someone who’s been dead for years has suddenly arisen from the dead.”

  Mrs. Kruisberg acted confused. Her lower lip began to quiver.

  “Who…who has arisen?”

  DeKok cocked his head and carefully noted every movement of her skin, eyes, and mouth.

  “Ronald Kruisberg…your husband.”

  She looked at him with large frightened eyes. Suddenly her entire body shook, intensely, out of control.

  Waving both arms over her head she began to scream.

  “I don’t want it! I don’t want him to live…I don’t want him to live…I don’t want…”

  She repeated it like an echo.

  6

  Vledder looked at DeKok with surprise.

  “That’s what she said?

  The gray sleuth nodded.

  “‘I don’t want him to live.’ She kept repeating it. When she finally fell silent she was so confused, completely exhausted, I couldn’t get any sense out of her. She was hysterical, no longer accessible to me.”

  “Then you left?”

  DeKok shrugged.

  “I could not calm her down. And I didn’t want to leave her alone in that condition. I thought that was a bit dangerous. I finally got the name of her house doctor. I called him and as soon as he was there, I sneaked out of the house.”

  “Like a thief in the night.”

  “Something like that—I wasn’t proud of it.”

  “And what do you make of her behavior?”

  DeKok shrugged again.

  “It was so intense, so very insistent. A scream of intense desire, you understand? She wanted him dead. But all the time, I feel, she knew in her heart of hearts Ronald Kruisberg never really died.”

  “How?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How does she know he’s still alive?”

  DeKok spread wide both of his hands.

  “I think, like me, she saw him at the cemetery. She may have had earlier indications he was alive.” He sighed. “I wanted to ask her all that, but, as I said, I never had the chance.”

  Vledder shook his head, deep in thought.

  “Isn’t it strange,” he said slowly, “Henry Assumburg knew Ronald Kruisberg when he was alive.” He looked up at DeKok. “Do you think it’s why Kruisberg came to Sorrow
Field?”

  “To attend the funeral, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  DeKok scratched the back of his neck.

  “That would indicate,” he said hesitatingly, “some sort of emotional bond between the two men…some sort of relationship. You have to keep in mind Kruisberg ran a great risk by appearing in person.”

  Vledder nodded agreement.

  “You’re saying that Assumburg and Kruisberg Senior knew each other well. That is to say, there were closer connections than just a chance meeting.”

  DeKok slapped the top of his desk with a flat hand.

  “It’s all just too far-fetched,” he said crossly. “Evelyn, Mrs. Kruisberg’s younger sister, just happens to be in Switzerland. There she meets a man, who just happens to know the long-disappeared, meanwhile-deceased Kruisberg. The same Kruisberg just happens to arise from the dead to attend the funeral of Assumburg. Of course nobody recognizes him…except me.”

  Vledder laughed.

  “Now do you understand why the commissaris calls it nonsense?”

  DeKok growled.

  “That’s just an easy escape.”

  “An escape?” repeated Vledder.

  DeKok nodded, still angry.

  “An escape for the dim-witted—labeling something ‘nonsense’ is easy. There’s no longer any need to try to understand.” He looked up. “Have you checked out the central register?”

  “Yes.”

  “And? Come on, tell me.”

  Vledder opened his notebook.

  “You were right, Ronald Kruisberg is officially listed as deceased.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Vehicular. It seems he ran a fast car into a concrete wall in Antwerp.”

  DeKok was surprised.

  “In Antwerp?”

  “According to the record.”

  DeKok grinned sardonically.

  “Rickie of Apache Alia died in Antwerp. Hendrik-Jan Assumburg died in Antwerp. Now, it seems, Ronald Kruisberg also died in Antwerp.” DeKok shook his head. “Dying in Antwerp…it looks like an epidemic.”

  Vledder looked up from his notebook.

  “That’s true,” he agreed. “But with one distinct difference: Assumburg and Rickie were both fished out of the water, already dead. Kruisberg died accidentally. He was burned to death.”