DeKok narrowed his eyes.
“Was he?”
Vledder became a bit agitated.
“That’s what it states in the record.” He took a deep breath and visibly calmed down. “But I understand, DeKok,” he said with a twinge of regret, “everything stands or falls with your observation at the cemetery.”
“And you still doubt that?”
Vledder did not answer. He was deep in thought. After a long pause he nodded to himself.
“We have to go to Antwerp,” he said.
Adjutant Kamphuis, in his usual hurry, bustled into the detective room and approached DeKok. He dropped a fax on his desk with an insistent gesture.
“Actually, Buitendam should have given you this order,” he apologized. “But the commissaris is on leave for a few days.”
DeKok looked up.
“Is that possible?”
“What?”
“The commissaris on leave. I thought nobody could get on without him around here, even for a day.”
Kamphuis grinned.
“That’s why the order comes through me.”
“What kind of order?”
The adjutant pointed at the fax.
“To attend a funeral.”
DeKok grimaced.
“Can’t you find someone else to do it? Vledder and I are still struggling with the aftermath of a similar assignment.”
“Attending a funeral?”
“Exactly.”
Kamphuis nodded calmly.
“Well, you see…you two have experience.”
He turned around and walked away.
DeKok reluctantly picked up the fax.
“You are requested,” he read out loud, “to attend the burial of Richard Strijdbaar at 11:00, this coming Wednesday. Services will be held at Sorrow Field Cemetery in Amsterdam. Richard Strijdbaar is the victim of a murder, and his body was found in the waters beneath Bonaparte Dock near Aldegonde Quay in Antwerp. Please forward any pertinent details to H. J. M. Opdenbroecke, Chief Commissaris of the Judicial Police, Antwerp.” He placed the notice in a drawer of his desk. “It is signed by J. A. E. M. Mannekes, King’s Prosecutor.”
Vledder frowned.
“Who is Richard Strijdbaar?”
DeKok smiled.
“It’s the real name of Rickie from Apache Alia.”
Vledder maneuvered the VW through Old Bridge Alley toward Damrak with difficulty. He shifted smoothly, without any undue noise, but he could tell DeKok had recently driven the much-abused vehicle. Near Mint Square they got stuck in a traffic backup.
Vledder put the vehicle in neutral, keeping his foot on the gas pedal while fiddling with the inadequate heating controls. He hoped against hope the increased RPMs would increase the heat delivered by the air-cooled engine.
DeKok rubbed his cold hands together.
“You think there will be an Eleven-City Race this year?”
Vledder honked the horn several times. He was always irritated in traffic jams.
“Who knows,” he snarled, “maybe it’ll freeze and maybe it’ll thaw.” He looked aside. “Why do you want to visit the minister?”
DeKok made a negligent gesture.
“I have questions about his sermon.”
“The one in the chapel, or the one at the gravesite?”
“It’s about the sermon in the chapel. De mortuis nil nisi bene,” said DeKok with an atrocious accent. “About the dead, nothing but good, or rather, speak no ill of the dead. You see, it wasn’t so much what he said that caught my attention but the meaning I seemed to hear in his words. I just couldn’t get rid of the idea he wanted to make something specifically clear.”
Vledder shook his head in disapproval.
“Surely you don’t want to get involved in that Belgian murder?”
DeKok looked surprised.
“I certainly do. You do too, remember? You said yourself we had to go to Antwerp. Besides, like it or not, I think we’re already into this case pretty deep.”
Vledder took a deep breath.
“Yes, I did say we needed to go to Antwerp for Ronald Kruisberg…because I want to know for sure whether or not the guy is alive. I couldn’t care less about Assumburg,” he said vehemently. “Or Rickie,” he continued. “I’m furious we have to go to his funeral as well. Why don’t we just let the Belgians take care of their own business? They’re certainly capable. Hercule Poirot was a Belgian, after all.”
DeKok laughed out loud.
“Yes, he was,” he admitted. “He was better than you and I together.”
Whatever had been blocking traffic must have moved, because the backup slowly started to move. With a sigh of relief, Vledder engaged first gear. They made good progress as they proceeded to Amsterdam-South. On Crib Street they stopped and exited the car. They crossed a wide sidewalk and approached a brown lacquered door with glass-in-lead insets. There was a discreet white enamel sign with black letters to the left of the door.
“Vicarage,” read DeKok, “of the Freethinking Dutch Reformed Protestant Church.” He pressed the bell.
“My, my,” said DeKok while they waited, and he read the sign again, “these folks are against everyone, aren’t they? ‘Freethinking’ must mean they’re prepared to reject any idea. ‘Dutch’ must exclude all foreign churches. Then ‘reformed’ seems to say they’re different from the Protestants, who are protesters by definition; the Protestants protested against the Catholic Church.”
“Don’t be so naive,” countered Vledder. “This is one of the largest denominations in the Netherlands, something like the Unitarian Church in the United States. They worship God, but are against the traditional rituals and the strict hierarchy in other churches. It could be your church, very understanding of your rebellious nature.”
“I know, but I’ve always wanted to make that remark about this church. It’s the devil in me, I suppose.”
In the door opening, dressed in faded jeans and a gray sweater, the reverend looked a lot less distinguished than in the formal black suit he’d worn at the funeral.
He looked from DeKok to Vledder and back again.
“How can I help you, gentlemen?”
His voice sounded unsure.
The gray sleuth smiled.
“My name is DeKok,” he said amiably, “with a kay-oh-kay.” He pointed at Vledder. “This is my colleague, Vledder. We’re inspectors.”
“Police?”
DeKok nodded with conviction.
“We would like to talk to you about the many facets of your profession.”
The man visibly dropped his uncertainty. He straightened up and stuck out his chin.
“The ministry is not a profession,” he said severely. “It is a calling. One is called to the ministry.” He paused and evaluated the two men. “You’re here for spiritual guidance?”
It sounded like a joke.
DeKok shook his head.
“I’m afraid,” he said sadly, “your spiritual guidance would be wasted on us. You see, we’re children of Satan.”
The minister smiled indulgently.
“It’s that bad?”
DeKok made a melancholy gesture.
“The moment a person becomes part of the police, he pawns his soul to the Devil.”
The minister showed surprise.
“But I always thought that the police were there to make sure people honor God’s commandments?”
DeKok nodded.
“And that creates the difficulty, the dichotomy,” he said somberly. “If Satan didn’t entice people to follow a path of mischief, we would be out of a job.” He made an apologetic gesture. “It is an unhappy observation, but we owe our existence to the Devil.”
Vledder grinned.
“He who pays the piper calls the tune.”
The eyes of the minister lit up with pleasure. He showed a real appreciation for the banter of the two men.
“Our points of view are thus predetermined,” he laughed. “I speak for God and you two spea
k for the Devil.” He stepped aside and beckoned. “Although one doesn’t lightly invite the Devil into one’s house, come in.”
The minister led the way to a comfortable office with a rolltop desk, walls covered with books, and a set of leather Empire armchairs. He waved an invitation.
Once Vledder and DeKok were seated, he took a seat opposite them.
“I have not yet introduced myself,” he said in a friendly tone of voice. “My name is Wiebe Sijbertsma, but I assume you already knew that. I also assume, in contrast to our amusing exchange at the front door, your visit has a more serious purpose.” He narrowed his eyes slightly. “If I remember correctly, I have seen you gentlemen at Sorrow Field Cemetery. Did you not attend the funeral of, ah, Mr. Assumburg?”
DeKok nodded agreement.
“That is correct. The Antwerp police asked us to attend the funeral. Assumburg was murdered in Antwerp, you see. It was a routine matter—we did not expect any surprises.”
“But there were surprises?”
DeKok pulled out his lower lip and let it plop back. When he saw the minister grimace, he desisted.
“Yes,” he said. “Near the gravesite I saw a man who has been dead for two years.”
“Remarkable.”
“To be sure.”
Sijbertsma pursed his lips.
“You did create a little commotion when you suddenly pursued him.”
DeKok lowered his head.
“Please accept my apologies. I had no intention of disturbing the ceremony.” He looked up. His sharp eyes kept the face of the minister trapped. “However I was struck by your sermon at the chapel, more than I was by the sudden confrontation with the living dead.”
“Why so?”
“Much to my surprise you clearly indicated the life of the deceased…how shall I say it? You said Assumburg’s lifestyle raised some questions.”
“You are correct.”
DeKok smiled.
“I presume that you weighed your words carefully. I don’t want to accept the view that your remarks about Assumburg’s life and deeds were prompted by ill will.”
Minister Sijbertsma steepled his hands in front of his chest.
“You are again correct,” he said pensively. “My sermon, my eulogy if you will, deviated from the usual. The fact is, someone requested it be that way.”
For a moment DeKok seemed stunned.
“It was by request?”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
“Mr. Assumburg.”
“What?”
Minister Sijbertsma spread his hands and nodded.
“Exactly fourteen days before his death, he visited me, here at the vicarage. He was sitting there, in the same chair you’re sitting in. He asked me if I was prepared to adorn his eulogy.”
DeKok’s mouth fell open.
“Meaning embellish?”
The minister nodded, outwardly unmoved.
“He used the word adorn.”
7
For several seconds, DeKok merely stared at the Reverend Sijbertsma. The old inspector’s face was expressionless.
“How did you respond? At the very least it was an unusual request.”
The minister leaned back in his chair and nodded.
“It was. My first reaction was confusion, and I asked him if he wanted to use me for some kind of practical joke. But Mr. Assumburg assured me sincerely that although his choice of words might be construed as frivolous, his request was made in good faith.”
DeKok, for the first time, looked at Vledder. The young man was studiously and unobtrusively writing in his notebook. DeKok was pleased. No doubt the information would find its way into Vledder’s computer, but long ago DeKok had impressed on his protégée the importance of careful notes, at all times.
He returned his attention to their host.
“What was his motivation?”
“In my opinion his motive was abundantly clear. Otherwise I would not have agreed to his suggestion.”
DeKok still showed no expression.
“How much did he pay you?”
Sijbertsma became angry.
“That is an improper remark,” he said furiously. “I’m not for sale.”
DeKok was unmoved by the outburst.
“How much money did he give you?”
Sijbertsma lowered his gaze.
“Financially, our congregation is in bad shape,” he said somberly. “Everywhere, including here, the church seems to take a less important place in people’s lives. And that means a reduction of income.” He sighed. “Mr. Assumburg did, indeed, pay me a sum of money.” His tone changed, became more emotional. “But that was not the reason I agreed to his request.”
“What was the reason?”
“As I said, it was his motivation. He confessed contritely to living a less than blameless life. On the contrary, his life’s history contained many black pages. He had, he said, cheated his fellow man and had used many dishonest, underhanded tactics to separate them from their wealth.”
“Just an ordinary grifter.”
“I’m not familiar with your terminology.”
DeKok ignored the remark.
“How did he swindle people? What kind of methods did he use?”
Sijbertsma shrugged his shoulders.
“I did not discuss details with him.”
“Why not?”
“They didn’t interest me.”
DeKok grinned.
“His many victims were of no concern to you?”
Again the minister bowed his head.
“I have to confess that I did not think about possible victims at that moment. I was primarily interested in a person who wanted to confess his sins.”
“And Assumburg wanted to do that?”
He nodded emphatically.
“Absolutely. I sensed in him a clear need to sacrifice. For a worldly judge, he said, it was too late. I have not that much time left. The only thing left for me, he said, is to petition God.”
“To ask God’s forgiveness?”
“Exactly.”
“With you as go-between?”
“Yes.”
“Why did he come to you? Why didn’t he visit a priest? The Roman Catholic Church is in the business of hearing confessions and giving absolution—you
are not.”
“We recognize testimony before God. As to why he came to me, I do not know; perhaps he had not grown up as a Roman Catholic. I just don’t know why he came to me.”
DeKok rubbed the bridge of his nose with his little finger.
“How did Assumburg know that he had little time left?”
“I asked him that.”
“And?”
“He wasn’t very clear. He said he’d had certain indications his life was going to be cut short.”
DeKok shook his head in bewilderment.
“Did he know his murderer?”
Sijbertsma shook his head.
“He knew the hour of his death.”
“Did he tell you that?”
The Reverend Sijbertsma did not answer at once. He suddenly turned as pale as a ghost and his hands shook.
“No,” he said finally, “Assumburg told me the exact date of his burial.”
From the vicarage they drove back to Warmoes Street. The minister’s words echoed in their heads, slowing their thought processes. It was too fantastic, too absurd, too strange for an intellectual approach. Vledder was the first to break the silence.
“What sort of man,” he said fervently, “orders a minister to alter his own eulogy?”
DeKok grinned.
“That’s easy,” he said. “You heard it yourself, an Assumburg kind of man.”
Vledder slapped the steering wheel of the VW.
“Perhaps the minister was right, after all. Perhaps it was the man’s idea of a practical joke.”
DeKok grunted.
“You can hardly call murder a joke, not even a practical joke.”
Vl
edder gesticulated with one hand.
“Look, if I knew I was going to be murdered, right down to the exact time, I’d take steps, wouldn’t you? I’d alert the police…leave for another country—something!”
DeKok shrugged.
“Perhaps Assumburg was reconciled to his fate. He might have felt his death was inevitable.”
Vledder shook his head.
“I don’t believe that,” he said stubbornly. “Every person clings to life…holds on to life with his, or her, last breath. Why should Assumburg be an exception?”
DeKok lowered himself in the seat.
“What do we really know about the man?” he asked calmly. “We do not know any of the circumstances of his life. Perhaps some of his many victims had condemned him to death and he knew the verdict.”
Despite his irritation, Vledder smiled.
“And he went as a sheep to the slaughter?”
DeKok ignored the mocking undertone.
“Perhaps he was just tired of living,” he philosophized. “Who knows, he could have had an incurable disease, in which case he would have looked upon death as a solution.”
Vledder suddenly sat a bit straighter behind the wheel.
“That’s it,” he exclaimed enthusiastically.
“What?”
“Death as a solution—no, death as liberation. That is the right answer, DeKok. It explains everything. It wasn’t murder, but suicide. Don’t you see? Assumburg could control everything by killing himself. He could, indeed, determine the time of his death and arrange his funeral.”
DeKok looked at his younger colleague.
“Very nice, very ingenious,” he said with admiration. “Suicide does answer many questions. It even explains the need to confess, as the Reverend Sijbertsma told us.” He paused and his voice became more somber. “It’s just too bad that the Antwerp police insist it was murder, hence the request to attend the funeral.”
“Perhaps the circumstances surrounding the dis-covery were not very clear. So they figured, better call it a murder rather than regret it later. It was a means to cover all the bases.”
DeKok did not respond. They were almost back to the station house before he spoke again.
DeKok and Murder on Blood Mountain Page 5