Vledder also knew the symptoms and looked concerned.
“Tired feet?” he asked anxiously. Although the pain spread through the entire legs, DeKok always referred to it as “tired feet.”
DeKok nodded agreement.
“Yes, I would like to have Jan Veldstra here right now.”
“Who’s Veldstra?”
“My doctor. He doesn’t believe me about the leg pain. Just imagination, he claims.”
Vledder looked doubtful.
“And what does the doctor say when somebody has died?”
DeKok gave a crooked grin.
“Yes, he probably tells the patient, ‘don’t worry, it’s all in your head!’”
Suddenly he laughed out loud. It was a reaction to his own cynicism. Then the pain drained away as suddenly as it had appeared. With renewed energy he pulled down his pants legs and started to pace up and down the busy detective room. The cadence helped him to order his thoughts.
There had to be a way to bring order out of the chaos. For one thing how did Alex Waardenburg, the music teacher, and his son, Kiliaan, fit into the picture? Were they involved in the murders of the two boys, or were they just on the periphery? Why did Ramon disappear? Why were Pa Bavel and his pricey lawyer so intent on impeding the murder investigation? Was Bavel motivated by fear? Fear for the guilt of his son?
The next puzzle piece was the involvement of Jaap Santen and Jan Rouwen, the punks from Utrecht. Did they act on their own initiative, or were they used by someone? Perhaps Willy Haarveld, the eccentric, self-proclaimed impresario had manipulated them?
DeKok pondered whether those were the only players in this sinister game of death? Or were there others yet undiscovered? Were there any more targets out there? Above all what drove this murderer?
Who would want the two boys dead—who would profit? Not to mention what was the commonality with, of all people, Mina Lyons?
He continued to pace. Were these the only questions? If he had the answers, could he solve the cases? Even though he could be dealing with three separate motives, he felt there was more to understand about the boardinghouse keeper and her boarders.
In a subconscious reaction he avoided Adjutant Jong as he entered the room. He approached Vledder’s desk, just as another officer handed his partner a flimsy piece of paper. It was a fax message. DeKok couldn’t help giving in to his curiosity. He moved to Vledder’s side.
“Something special?”
Vledder looked up from the message.
“Jaap Santen has been arrested.”
“Where?”
“In Antwerp, with six pounds of heroin.”
15
Vledder pushed the keyboard of his computer aside.
“You want me to go to Antwerp?”
“To do what?”
“I could interrogate Santen. I’m sure a colleague from narcotics will be glad to come as well. The Belgian police will cooperate. I know that.”
DeKok thought for a moment.
“You’ll need permission from the judge-advocate to cross the border. And will he give it? I don’t know. The only thing we got on Santen is vandalism. I just don’t think they will allow the funds for a trip to Belgium on something as flimsy as that.”
Vledder leaned forward.
“I checked with narcotics. They’ve had Santen under observation for months. It seems Long Jack is a smuggler. He gets most of the coke and H that is consumed in and around Utrecht into the country.”
“So, how did he come to be arrested?”
“Headquarters received an anonymous tip that Long Jack had left for Antwerp by car. He was supposed to meet a ship and receive a quantity of drugs. The tipster described the auto, right down to the color, make, model, tag number, and year. Get this—the car had been stolen in Utrecht. The cop at headquarters, Jagerman, signaled Antwerp to alert them. Two Belgian cops were waiting for Long Jack when he came off the ship.”
“Jagerman … is that Ed Jagerman?”
“Yes.”
“I know him. Is he aware of our interest?”
“Well, of course, he knew we were working on a couple of murders. He knew we had asked for the location of Santen and Rouwen. That’s why he forwarded the message from Antwerp.”
DeKok nodded to himself.
“Does Jagerman know about any connection between Santen and Erik Bavel … perhaps in combination with Jean-Paul?”
Vledder shook his head.
“No, I mentioned the names. But Jagerman only knows them as users. That’s all. Mina Lyons was a complete unknown to him. He’d never heard her name in connection with the drug trade.”
“Who was going to take care of the distribution?”
“What distribution?”
“Oh, come on,” said DeKok impatiently. “Who distributed the drugs Santen brought in?”
“I didn’t ask.”
DeKok grinned.
“It would be best to do so. We’re much too parochial in our approach to crime. Other divisions may very well have information we can use. We need to know everything narcotics can tell us. “I worry,” he added reflectively, “we all focus on our own problems. There isn’t enough reciprocation between departments.”
“The computer network is supposed to take care of that,” said Vledder.
“Computers,” said DeKok. He said it as if it were a dirty word. “Anyway, check up on the possible distributor, although I have a good idea whose name will pop up.”
Vledder was going to defend the computers some more, when his face suddenly lit up.
“Of course,” he exclaimed, “Willy … Willy Haarveld! He lives close to Utrecht. He’s connected in the performing arts. He knows performers, promoters, producers, the television stations in Hilversum, you name it. God! It’s as clear as Erik Bavel’s eyes.”
DeKok laughed.
“And who do you think might have been the anonymous caller?”
“Jagerman’s snitch?”
“Who else?”
Vledder hesitated.
“Haarveld again?” he tried cautiously.
DeKok nodded approval.
“It wouldn’t be a surprise. Whoever it was had unusual details: the location of the transaction, the exact description of the car. Few people in Santen’s environment would be in a position to know all that.”
“Say it was Willy. Why would he want to destroy his own supply line?”
DeKok waved that away with a nonchalant gesture.
“It’s not a matter of destroying a source, that can be reconstructed. The purpose is to destroy Long Jack.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I think, after our visit to Santen’s place, Jan Rouwen contacted Haarveld immediately. Our slick friend drew his own conclusions. Our interest in Long Jack would have worried him.”
“And Santen became excess baggage?”
“Why else?”
“Santen would divert us?”
“Certainly. Look at it from Haarveld’s point of view. He has no idea where our investigations have led us … he has no idea if we know anything about his drug dealing. Jaap Santen could be an embarrassing witness.” he grinned maliciously. “Much better to have him picked up in Antwerp. He’d be convicted there, probably would do jail time.”
“But Santen could decide to talk at any time.”
“Not so easy from a Belgian jail,” smiled DeKok. “It’s speculative, I admit. Perhaps Willy Haarveld didn’t think it all the way through. If he was feeling the heat he might have just wanted to get his courier out of the way for a time.” He narrowed his eyes. “What if Ed Jagerman had followed a different tactic?”
“What different tactic?”
“Instead of alerting the Belgian police he could have let Santen come home. He could have followed him until Santen delivered the goods.”
Vledder slapped his hand on the desk.
“Haarveld would have been in deep trouble.”
DeKok pointed a finger at his friend.
“You see? That’s why
the tip was so complete. Narcotics had to react. The bait was so enticing.”
Vledder sank back in his chair and scratched the back of his neck. DeKok’s theories washed over him. It seemed like a long time before he spoke again.
“So, Mina Lyons could have been right,” he opined. “Long Jack and Rouwen could have been looking for dope. The murder of both boys could be tracked to people in the drug trade.”
DeKok did not answer at once. He felt exhausted all of a sudden. He sighed.
“And why was Mina Lyons killed?” he asked wanly. “It wasn’t what she did, it was what she knew. Someone wanted to silence her. She was a liability for the same reason Santen was a liability to Haarveld.”
“And who could have committed her murder?” asked Vledder. Then he answered his own question: “Jan Rouwen.”
The club Little Lowee liked to call his “establishment” was near the corner of Barn Alley and Rear Fort Canal. DeKok stepped through the curtains in the entryway. The intimate bar was always poorly lit.
At a small table in a corner two old ladies were seated, drinking their schnapps. The retired prostitutes looked like anyone’s vision of the perfect grandmother. They turned and raised their glasses in greeting. Nobody was seated at the bar.
DeKok ambled to the bar and hoisted himself on the far stool, his back against the wall.
Little Lowee wiped his hands on his greasy vest and greeted DeKok with a broad smile.
“I never seen you this early before,” he said cheerfully “Nuttinn doin at your place, eh?” He dived under the bar and held up a bottle of cognac. “Too early?”
DeKok shook his head.
“No,” he said, “it’ll be good medicine. I can’t shake the blues.”
Little Lowee looked concerned.
“Ain’t gettin anywheres?”
DeKok shook his head as he watched Lowee pour.
“It’s crazy,” he admitted, “but I seem to be just as far as in the beginning. Nowhere.”
“I heard they done in Mina too.”
DeKok sighed deeply.
“Just as I was getting hopeful about solving the two murders, a boarder finds Mina dead. It changed everything—takes me back to square one. What a mess.”
Lowee pushed the glass closer to the detective. For himself he poured a cup of coffee, although, with a generous measure of cognac.
“Gotta watch it,” he said apologetically. “Can’t start too early, or I goes to da floor before closing time. Where’s your mate, then?”
“My mate,” he smiled, “took the train for Antwerp this morning. They arrested someone there who is a person of interest in the murders.”
“I knows ’im?”
“Are you curious?”
The small barkeeper spread his hands.
“Maybe I can sorta help you. You never knows. I gotta a contact here and there.”
“Jaap Santen.”
Lowee snorted.
“Knows ’im as Skinny Jack. He’s a filthy little rat—wouldn’t stop at nuttin.”
“Do you think he’d be capable of murder?”
Lowee nodded with emphasis.
“Yep, yessir. He had a sorta pal. Jan van Utrecht, another loser.”
“Jan van Utrecht?”
“Yep that’s what they calls him, ’cause he’s from Utrecht. His real moniker is Rouwen.”
DeKok took a careful sip from the cognac. He did not seem to savor it as he usually did. It was just a sip. It could have been water.
“Are you good at music?”
Lowee did not understand the question.
“Music … whadda youse mean?”
DeKok replaced his glass on the counter and leaned closer.
“Last time you told me that Jean-Paul Stappert—Mr. Melody to you—played music on half filled glasses.”
“Yep.”
“I had the idea he only did that once.”
Lowee shook his head.
“Nah, it turned into a sorta game. In da end, I kept them glasses the way he done filled ’em on da shelf. Good for business.”
“I don’t understand that.”
Lowee’s small face beamed.
“There was lotsa people in the joint. He plays somethin’ on them glasses. Lotsa people like it and stay. Then they orders some more and listen some more, youse know.”
“And he always played something different?”
Lowee nodded.
“Yep, always new stuff, too.”
“Do you remember any melodies?”
Lowee thought hard.
“Nah,” he said finally, “they ain’t in my head. Yeah …
if I hears ‘em again, then …” He did not complete the sentence. “Nevermind—lotsa people come back all atime ‘cause he’s gonna play. They was real fans, you knows.”
DeKok lifted his glass again and drank in silence.
“Can you give me a list?” he asked as he drained his glass.
“What sorta list?”
“A list of names, names of people who came to hear Mr. Melody’s music. The fans.”
Lowee looked suspicious.
“Whadda want wid ‘em? I don’t wanna lose customers to the cops.”
DeKok made a helpless gesture.
“You won’t. I’m not sure yet why I want the list … really I don’t, Lowee. But I promise that I won’t use the list until I talk to you first.”
The barkeeper hesitated a moment longer.
“Okay then,” he said. He pointed at the glass and asked: “Want another one?”
DeKok shook his head.
“No, Lowee, you were right, it is too early. But the first did its work. It got rid of the cobwebs.”
“How’s about a cuppa coffee, then?”
“That would be welcome … but without the improvements.”
“Nah, those is only for barkeeps.”
He poured the coffee and placed the cup in front of DeKok as he removed the empty glass.
“How long has Willy Haarveld been dealing drugs?” asked DeKok casually.
Little Lowee gave him a blank stare.
“How long he do wha’?”
DeKok laughed out loud.
“You don’t know?”
Lowee raised his hands over his head.
“Lissen, DeKok,” he said seriously. “I don’t mind picking up something now and again. A stand up guy comes in here and has intel, I wanna make a buck, just like the next guy. But some street scum comes in here talkin’ coke, big H … nossir, I don’t want to know.”
DeKok gave him a friendly nod.
“If you did I would never darken your door again.”
“Well that proves it, then. I wouldn’t wanna loose my best customer.”
DeKok sipped his coffee, while Lowee rinsed some glasses. Then he came back to where DeKok was sitting.
“You knows who was here this week?”
“Well?”
“Handie Henkie.”
“What did Handie have to say for himself?”
Lowee nodded slowly.
“He just say he were sorry.”
DeKok drained his coffee cup and looked at the small barkeeper with a thoughtful look. He slid off the stool and left the bar with a smile on his lips.
16
By his own admission, DeKok was the worst driver in all the Netherlands, possibly all of Europe. But with Vledder in Antwerp, he had no choice. That is why he was on the road to Amersfoort, which is situated just west of Utrecht. The dented, much abused, VW Beetle assigned to the Warmoes Street Homicide team groaned under the torture of DeKok’s lead foot, abrupt clutching, and gear popping.
It was a stretch to call this driving. He was unfamiliar with the route, but impatient. It was more man versus machine, as DeKok prodded the recalcitrant bug. Once again, he reflected briefly on the disadvantages of driving oneself. It was too distracting, he thought. He liked to sit back and view the scenery while he let his thoughts roam. Now he had to pay constant attention to what he was doing
and he considered it an annoying imposition. He longed for the times when traffic moved behind a horse-drawn coach or canal barge.
He held the steering wheel in a death grip while his eyes stayed on the road ahead. He could not relax, didn’t dare let his eyes wander to the mirrors, or anywhere outside his lane of traffic. With this narrow-angle vision he was constantly surprised by passing traffic. He’d never quite learned the trick of keeping an intermittent eye on the rearview mirror.
“Why did you change your mind?” he asked Henkie, without taking his eyes off the road.
“Not because of you,” answered Handie Henkie. He held on to the strap over his head with one hand and braced himself against the dashboard with the other.
“Oh,” replied DeKok, “I thought it was because of our long acquaintance.”
“You’re the one who convinced me, years ago, to give up my life of crime,” said Henkie heatedly. “It wasn’t bad advice. I’m much better off now. I make more money than as a burglar. But I’ve grown proud of being a solid citizen. I’ve obeyed the law, except for the times you’ve asked me to bend it—like now. It doesn’t set well.”
“It’s in the interest of justice, never for gain,” said DeKok as reasonably as possible between clenched teeth. “You know it isn’t about money or vengeance.”
Handie Hankie shifted his grip slightly.
“Your justice ain’t necessarily mine. I mean, it’s your job. You’re being paid to take certain risks because of what you call justice. I don’t.”
“Fair enough. But I still don’t know why you changed your mind.”
“Because of Mina.”
DeKok almost dared give Henkie a surprised look, but then thought better of it. He kept his eyes on the road.
“Mina Lyons?”
“Yes. When I read in the paper that they had killed her, I went to see Little Lowee to get the details. Lowee always knows everything. He for sure knows a lot more than you read in the paper. He told me Mina’s death was connected somehow with the other two murders and that’s when I decided to help you.”
“Because of Mina?”
Henkie lowered his head, but DeKok did not see it.
DeKok and Murder by Melody Page 12