DeKok grinned to himself. It was an expression of sad self-mockery. Like a rookie, he had fallen into the trap. He’d accused young Kruisberg practically without thought.
In an expression of barely suppressed temper, he kicked the wreck of an old bicycle that was leaning against a pole. Why not throw the wreck in a canal like everybody else? he thought petulantly.
The crux of the matter was he still understood too little, almost nothing. What had been dead Kruisberg’s motives? Why after his official death had he manifested himself so clearly to his wife and son? Did he want to return to his former life or some other life? Who else knew he had not died in Antwerp? Was it one of the people he had defrauded in the past?
He reached Warmoes Street via the Damrak and Old Bridge Alley. Still deep in thought, without greeting the watch commander he climbed the stairs. When he entered the detective room, Vledder hastily walked over to meet him.
“He’s crying.”
“Who?”
Vledder pointed at the floor.
“Kruisberg’s son—I really feel sorry for him. He came along, meek as a lamb to the slaughter. He acted as if we’d already reached a verdict.” Vledder paused and grimaced. “It’s a pitiful sight to see a big, strong man softly sobbing in his cell.”
DeKok looked closely at Vledder.
“Did you say anything to him?”
“About the murder?”
“Yes.”
Vledder shook his head.
“No. I intentionally didn’t ask him any questions, either. I’d rather leave the interrogation to you.”
DeKok nodded. He threw his decrepit old hat at the peg on the wall and missed. With a groan he bent over and retrieved it. Then he took off his overcoat. He walked over to his desk and sat down behind it. He shook out the contents from the plastic bag before him.
Suddenly, with a face distorted by pain, he pushed back his chair and gripped his calves with both hands.
Vledder looked worried.
“Tired feet?”
DeKok sighed deeply and nodded.
“It’s happening again,” he complained. “I felt it start as I was walking back. It’s a hellish pain. Nothing can be done about it; according to the doctors it is psychosomatic.”
Vledder smiled.
“I’m not at all surprised.”
“What?”
“Your tired feet.”
Still nursing his calves, DeKok looked up.
“You mean there’s something wrong with my mind?” There was a hint of suspicion in his voice.
Vledder bit his lower lip.
“No, but it always happens when you’re up against it. Whenever you feel there is no solution in sight, your legs start hurting.”
“Hmpf,” growled DeKok.
“Do you really think that Kruisberg Junior killed his father?”
DeKok did not answer. He stopped his rubbing, lowered the legs of his trousers, and pushed his chair closer to the desk. As the pained look subsided from his face, he picked up the leather wallet and opened it.
The coroner had been correct. Only the edges of the papers in the wallet had been dampened by the canal water. Carefully, DeKok separated and unfolded the papers and spread them over his desk.
“Jan Vries,” he read out loud.
Vledder studied DeKok’s face. He wondered if his remarks had offended the older man. But DeKok’s face was already becoming more cheerful. With a relieved sigh, Vledder grabbed a chair, pushed it closer to DeKok’s desk, and sat down backwards, his arms on the back of the chair.
“Jan Vries?” he asked.
DeKok nodded.
“That’s the name on his papers.”
Vledder grinned.
“A nice alias. About half of Holland is called Jan Vries.”
DeKok read on.
“This Jan Vries was born in Kerkrade, Limburg. No fixed address. Established residence is at the Heaven’s Gate Temple, Burchtgracht, Antwerp.”
With a shock Vledder sat up straight.
“Heaven’s Gate?” he asked hoarsely. “That’s the headquarters of the Holy Pact for the Dying.”
14
Young Ronald Kruisberg looked disheveled. His blond hair stuck out every which way. His eyes were dull. There were dark circles under his eyes. Unshaven stubble draped his face in a veil. He shook his head constantly with short, jerky movements.
“It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t…”
He repeated the litany over and over.
DeKok stared at him, outwardly unmoved.
“I’ve never met a perpetrator,” he said calmly, “who immediately, cheerfully confessed.”
Ronald Kruisberg looked up. His eyes were filled with tears.
“I know you think I’m lying,” he said apathetically. “You have every reason to think that way. I don’t blame you for it. But it wasn’t me. I did not kill him. God knows I—I would not have been able to do it.”
“But you threatened it.”
The young man nodded.
“I did. I wished him dead. From the bottom of my heart I wished him dead. Alive he could again drown my mother and myself in misery.”
“And that’s why you wished him dead?”
The young man lowered his head.
“Yes. I wanted him dead…again.” He covered his face with his hands. “It was a shock, a terrible experience. When I saw him floating in the canal this morning, I couldn’t believe it. I kept telling myself it was a dream, a nightmare.”
“But it was real.”
The young man sighed deeply.
“It was all too real,” he said softly. “Slowly I became aware of the reality. It went through me like a punishment. Perhaps I deserved heavenly punishment for the terrible desire I had for that man’s death. I think I must have stared at his body for hours, unable to move.”
“Then you called the police?”
Kruisberg shook his head.
“No, Jenny did that.”
DeKok narrowed his eyes.
“Jenny?”
“Yes. She became worried because I was gone so long. She saw me from our window, standing at the side of the canal. She figured there was something the matter because I wasn’t moving. She came down in her dressing gown. She saw him, but said nothing. Together we watched. Then she said she was going to call the police.”
DeKok had listened intently to the tone and the choice of words.
“Why were you standing there?”
The young man looked up, a question in his eyes.
“Why was I standing there?”
“Yes, how did you come to be there, at the side of the canal?”
“I was letting the dog out. I enjoy the dog, but I don’t want to bother others with him. I don’t want him to do his business on the sidewalk or the road. Therefore I always walk him along the side of the canal. Plenty of trees, dirt, and even some grass…in the summer,
you see.”
DeKok nodded, satisfied with the answer. He did the same thing. If he didn’t walk the dog in his backyard, he always walked his own dog at the side of the canals, or places where people and children were not likely to come. And he always carried a plastic bag with him in case an accident happened on the pavement.
“When did you first learn that your father was still alive?”
“About a month ago. I was visiting my mother—I found her depressed and upset. She told me my father was alive, she told me she had seen him.”
“Then what?”
“At first I didn’t believe her. I told her she must have been mistaken, told her he was dead. But she insisted she had seen him in the city, along Kalver Street. She had seen his reflection in a shop window. It scared her so that she dropped her purse. When she picked it up, he was gone.”
“It was not a mistake?”
Kruisberg shook his head.
“I suggested that she go back to the city, the same area, at about the same time. She persisted for days. One day she saw him from the bac
k. It was a back, she said, she would recognize out of a thousand. She followed him, followed the back of the man she had seen. Suddenly, as if by intuition, my father turned around—”
“Go on,” prompted DeKok. “Did he recognize her?”
“Yes. He walked toward her, and Mother fled in panic, as if pursued by devils. She ran down Kalver Street and ran into a department store. There she lost him.” The young man raked his hair with both hands. “From then on I almost never left her alone. I felt I had to protect her. But I was curious as well. I asked how he looked, if he had changed much.”
“When did you see him for the first time?”
Kruisberg looked at DeKok. A hint of a smile played around his lips, but not his eyes.
“At the same time you did. It was at Sorrow Field, during the funeral of Uncle Henry. I wanted to know why you chased him. That’s why I came to your office, and I knew you lied when you told me about the pickpocket.”
DeKok bent his head, but he could not suppress a satisfied grin. He quickly wiped the grin off his face before he looked up again.
“Had there been a renewed contact between your father and mother?”
“No.”
The answer was unequivocal. It sounded so cold that DeKok’s eyes widened in surprise.
“What about between you and your father?”
Kruisberg did not answer at once. He pressed both hands together until his knuckles turned white. He took several deep breaths.
“I just talked to him one time,” he finally said, softly and pensively. “Late one evening, I was on my way home when he suddenly stepped out of a dark doorway. I don’t know how he found out where I live. He must have followed me at one time or another. He must have followed Jenny as well, according to her, one day—”
DeKok stopped him.
“What did he say?”
“You mean the one time I spoke to him?”
“Yes, of course.”
The young man closed his eyes, as if to recall the incident precisely.
“Although I recognized him at once, I asked who he was. I even managed to get some surprise in my voice. He said, ‘I’m your father, and I want to remain your father.’ And I answered that we, both me and Mother, didn’t want him to be alive.”
“And that’s the truth?”
“Yes,” nodded Kruisberg, “that’s it. Mother and I had decided to completely ignore him, as if he were, in truth, dead. We did not want any changes in our lives.”
DeKok’s face became deadly serious.
“You two would prefer a dead husband and father?”
The suspect looked intently at DeKok, weighing the sarcasm he had heard in his voice.
“A dead husband and a dead father,” he nodded, self-satisfied. “Yes, indeed. We wanted to maintain our lives, our status quo, if you will. I realize it sounds heartless…for an outsider almost incomprehensible. However it was a well-considered decision.”
“How did he react?”
“He became sentimental. He said he had come back to correct, make good, his errors of the past. He said he only now realized how good my mother had been for him. He said he knew how much she had suffered. I told him that certain scars could never be healed. There were thoughts and memories, bitter memories, that could never be wiped out. I asked him to do us both a favor and disappear…as he had done years ago.”
“Cold.”
“Yes, it was,” agreed Ronny Kruisberg. “And apparently he could not accept it. ‘Disappear,’ he asked, ‘die all over again?’ I shrugged my shoulders and made it clear his further existence was of no interest to me. Then he changed his tone and said he planned to pick up his life again where he had left off. He also said we, Mother and I, were part of that. He sounded very determined.”
DeKok watched him intently.
“What happened then?”
Ronny closed his eyes. His face was pale and the black circles under his eyes seemed to get deeper. There was an inflexible expression on his face.
“I became furious. I felt the blood rise and my temples throb. I felt like I was going to explode. I yelled at him, screamed, told him I was going to call the police if he didn’t disappear. He suddenly grinned, a truly evil grin. He said…he said, eh, ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you, my son.’”
DeKok was fascinated by the strange conversation. He leaned forward. The tips of his fingers tingled.
“Did he say why you shouldn’t inform the police?”
The young man took a deep breath and nodded.
“Yes. When I asked why I shouldn’t call the police, he said, ‘After me, others, many others, will rise from the dead.’ Those were his exact words.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“What next?”
The young man shook his head, clearly exhausted.
“Nothing next; he disappeared in the darkness.”
The inspectors met in front of the newly renovated North-South Holland Coffee House. They walked across Station Square and entered the large hall of Central Station. It was busy. Long queues of people waited in front of the ticket windows. Crowds of travelers streamed toward the exits.
DeKok looked around. He knew he was standing in the most crime-ridden part of Amsterdam. Here operated pickpockets whose techniques were as diverse as their nationalities. Robbers, muggers, and other thieves rented luggage lockers to stash stolen loot to show to fences. A lively trade in heroin, cocaine, and other drugs thrived here. Stolen or fake checks went from hand to hand. Addicted prostitutes searched for business. And for those who were tired of it all, upstairs on the platform there was always an onrushing train for a quick getaway.
The gray sleuth made sure his wallet was in a buttoned inner coat pocket. Then he looked at Vledder.
“You have the tickets and the travel order?”
“Yes.”
“Where are we going?”
“Platform five.”
“Did you let Ronny go last night?”
“Indeed,” said Vledder curtly.
“Had a bad night?”
Vledder did not answer. He mounted the escalator in front of DeKok. Searching along the platform, he found an empty compartment in the Paris Express. The train would go to Paris via Antwerp and Brussels.
DeKok waddled after him and took a seat. Trains had fascinated him since he was a five-year-old boy. He had visited a railway station with his father just to look at the trains. Totally enchanted, he had walked up and down the various platforms looking up at the massive steam locomotives.
“Help remind me that we have to stop by Eisenhower Street this week.”
Vledder took out his notebook and made a notation.
“Who are we going to see there?”
“Not who, but what.”
“All right, what are we going to do there?”
“I need to go to The Train House.”
“The Train House?”
DeKok nodded casually.
“They have an engine on order for me.”
“What do you want with an engine?”
“Not just an engine, it’s a special locomotive. They didn’t have any in stock, so they promised to order it for me.”
With an expression of disgust, Vledder replaced his notebook in his jacket.
“You play with model trains?”
DeKok made an apologetic gesture.
“I began recently. It has always been a secret desire. Last week my wife told me I needed a new suit. When she told me it would cost 400 to 500 euros, I told her to give me the money.”
Vledder looked amused.
“And you bought model trains with the money,” he concluded. “What did your wife say when you came home?”
“She asked me if I’d gone crazy.”
“And?”
DeKok grinned.
“I said yes.”
The train started to move under the glass roof. DeKok looked out the window and decided his beloved Amsterdam looked less enchanting from a
train. They passed decaying warehouses and neglected neighborhoods—there was a lot of garbage all along the track. Suddenly he was reminded of the purpose of their trip.
“Did he have anything to say?”
“Who?”
“Ronny Kruisberg.”
Vledder shook his head.
“He was glad to be let go and said only that he would give us his full cooperation to help find his father’s murderer.”
“Did he offer any suggestion as to the direction we should take?”
“No, but he did offer an opinion about his Uncle Henry’s murderer.”
“Oh, yes?”
Vledder nodded.
“According to Ronny, the distinguished Mr. van Ravenswood killed his Uncle Henry. It seems Robert Antoine van Ravenswood had a lengthy, intimate relationship with his Aunt Evelyn. He wanted to marry her.”
15
With a final screech the train came to a smooth stop at Antwerp Central Station. DeKok and Vledder stiffly made their way to the platform. Vledder looked around.
“Is nobody waiting for us?”
DeKok shook his head.
“I told them not to bother.”
“Why?”
“It seemed better to check out the lay of the land by ourselves, for starters. This afternoon, at three, we have an appointment with the chief commissaris of the judicial police.” He smiled. “That’s when we’ll present our credentials.”
“Where is that?”
“At the Palace of Justice.”
“You know where that is?”
DeKok shrugged.
“I’ve never been to Antwerp. To my shame I have to admit that this is the first time I’ve been outside of Holland.”
Vledder grinned dubiously.
“You’ve never been to the bird market? You’ve never had a bolleke?”
DeKok reacted with sadness in his voice.
“For me, the need to travel is practically nonexistent. If the trail in this case had less clearly pointed toward Antwerp, then I would have stayed in my familiar Amsterdam.” He paused. “What’s a bolleke?” he asked.
DeKok and Murder on Blood Mountain Page 10