DeKok and Murder by Melody

by A. C. Baantjer

  “I’ve known her since forever. She used to help me when I was still working in my former … eh, profession. She never minded hiding loot for a few days, or a few months, if necessary. I could use her place as a hideout anytime, if the police was a little close on my heels.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “Why should I? It was between Mina and me. Please understand. There was never anything between us, no romance. She had her johns and, later, a husband. She was just a great friend with a heart to help.” He sighed deeply. “The bastard who strangled her needs to choke to death.” He paused. “Well, I mean … sentenced to hang. It galls me to think of him free to live his life.”

  DeKok smiled.

  “So, my justice, after all.”

  “Forget you,” said Henkie and then he added: “Better yet, why don’t you pull over and let me drive. We’d have a shot at arriving in one piece.”

  “It’s a police car,” said DeKok.

  “So what. It’s unmarked and it would be safer.”

  With a grateful sigh, DeKok aimed the much abused vehicle to the side of the road. They changed seats and as DeKok sank down in the passenger seat, Handie Henkie smoothly shifted up and resumed their journey.

  Soon they reached “het Gooi,” a picturesque strip of heather and pine forests. It lies between Amsterdam and Utrecht. The Dutch radio and television industry is located there, in the city of Hilversum. Holland is so small, all the transmitters located around Hilversum easily cover Holland, as well as large areas of Belgium, Germany, and the coastal regions of England. After the strip between The Hague and Haarlem, which includes the cities of Wassenaar and Heemstede/Aerdenhout, “het Gooi” is the second most prosperous part of the country.

  Before reaching Amersfoort, they turned off toward Laren. The city was asleep. Soon they reached Zevender Drift, a well kempt lane, bordered by wide grass strips and stately old trees. The gardens overflowed with rhododendrons.

  “This it?” asked Henkie.

  “Yes,” answered DeKok. “Just a few more houses, on the right.”

  Henkie passed the house and parked the Beetle under some trees.

  They exited the car and Henkie locked it, after taking a bag from the back seat. Then he gave the keys back to DeKok. Silently they walked back on the grass.

  They stopped in front of a wide driveway, marked by two antique streetlights. Henkie pointed at the house.

  “Anybody home?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “The owner is Willy Haarveld. He’s a music producer—calls himself an impresario. The orchestra he has under contract is giving a farewell performance in Arnhem, Afterwards there’s a party. He won’t be back before at least two in the morning.”

  Handie Henkie glanced at his watch.

  “That gives us just three quarters of an hour.”

  DeKok grinned boyishly.

  “It’s plenty of time for someone with your skills.”

  They approached the house.

  “What are we after?” whispered Henkie.

  DeKok shrugged in the darkness.

  “I don’t know … not exactly … a motive for the killing of two boys … and Mina.”

  “Brought to you by the Department of Planning,” sputtered Henkie. “With this strategy I could be a three-time loser and you could be without a badge.”

  They walked around the villa. In the back Henkie pointed at a window, partly ajar.

  “Bingo,” he whispered. “This won’t take long. Go to the front door and I’ll let you in as if you were announced.”

  DeKok ambled away and sniffed the air. It was a sultry night and the aroma of flowers was invigorating. He was completely at ease, no qualms. Instead he felt a sort of resigned acceptance. He smiled thinking what might have been had fate dealt him a different hand. He and Henkie would have made a terrific criminal duo. The idea amused him.

  When he arrived at the front door, the ex-burglar was waiting for him with an inviting gesture.

  “I don’t think you need me,” said Henkie in a normal tone of voice. “I haven’t seen a safe yet.”

  “Perhaps it’s a wall safe, hidden behind a painting.”

  “Paintings,” snorted Henkie. “This guy has some weird taste. The white and purple walls are bare. Everything is white or purple, even the canopy bed in the bedroom.”

  “You’ve been there already?”

  “Sure, that’s where I entered.”

  DeKok moved the beam of his flashlight around the entrance hall.

  “There must be an office.”

  The ex-burglar nodded in agreement.

  “But that will probably be in the front of the house. The living room and bedroom open up to the rear garden.”

  DeKok looked concerned for a moment.

  “Did you leave any traces?” he asked anxiously.

  Henkie shook his head.

  “You had to ask? No way. After we’re finished we leave by the front door and use your little gimmick to lock it nice and tight. Nobody will be the wiser.”

  “Did you wipe your feet?”

  Handie Henkie looked hurt.

  “How do you think I got my nickname?” he asked indignantly. “I don’t leave no traces. Never have. When you nicked me, it was because of the loot, never because of what you found at the scene. I knew what I was doing and I haven’t lost it yet.”

  DeKok made a soothing sound.

  Henkie opened a door to the right of the hall and used his own flashlight. A white painted desk stood in front of a light purple wall. The ex-burglar grinned.

  “You see, purple and white … white and purple.”

  DeKok entered the room. He tested the drawers of the desk. They were not locked. He opened the upper right hand drawer and rummaged among the papers. Suddenly he spotted a folder with “Jean-Paul Stappert” written on it. His hands shook when he opened the folder.

  Henkie looked over his shoulder.

  “Got something?”

  DeKok took a deep breath.

  “Graph paper.”

  “How was Manneke Pis?”

  Vledder shook his head.

  “You should get more familiar with our southern neighbors,” he said. “Manneke Pis is in Brussels. I was in Antwerp.”

  DeKok spread his arms wide.

  “I thought you would have taken the opportunity to visit Brussels to have a look at the famous statue.”

  DeKok was referring to the statue of a urinating urchin, the symbol of Brussels. Although the statue is nude, the city has provided hundreds of different uniforms and outfits for the little boy. The statue is dressed appropriately for certain festivals and celebrations and on some days the statue will “urinate” wine for all comers.

  “As you know,” said Vledder, “I did get a travel voucher for Antwerp only. No side trips allowed. Aren’t you the one always reminds me about the lack of deep pockets in the police department? I know I’m not paying for diversion.”

  DeKok laughed. He knew full well that Dutch police personnel abroad often had to dig in their own pockets, or had to rely on the hospitality of the foreign colleagues, to avoid hunger and thirst.

  “So, tell me about Long Jack.”

  “He’s not feeling too good. He’s looking at many years of hard time. We surround every criminal with love and concern by comparison to Belgium. They don’t think like the Dutch. Belgian officials look at their primary function as punishment, not rehabilitation.”

  “But what did he say?”

  Vledder grinned.

  “His first instinct was to clam up. Steven Visser, the narcotics guy, tried, but Long Jack wasn’t talking. Narcotics wanted Santen to roll over. They hoped to bust a complete distribution line.”

  “But he wasn’t selling out?”

  “Well he wasn’t about to be used. Steven tried to lure him, you know. He was pretending to know more than he knew. He speculated aloud the trail might very well end in Laren. But Long Jack didn’t bite.”

  “D
id you have the feeling that he knew what Visser was talking about?”

  “For sure. He smirked, but refused to give a verbal response. He didn’t even give up his contact on the ship. The Belgian police are interrogating the whole crew, but it’s shooting fish in a barrel. Santen’s contact will probably sail in a few days, with no one the wiser.” He paused and consulted his computer screen. Vledder always transcribed his notes to the computer as soon as possible. “Yes,” he continued, “Visser kept insisting and then Santen finally lost his cool, in a way. He told Visser he should be glad to have confiscated the drugs and to quit nagging him. ‘As long as farmers starve and poppies flower,’ he said, ‘you have a job.’ And then he started to stare at the ceiling, ignoring Visser completely.”

  “Did Steven get angry?”

  Vledder shook his head.

  “I don’t think the guy has a temper. Once he realized Santen wasn’t playing, he walked away from the interrogation. As he left, he shook hands with Long Jack, like one diplomat to another. He actually thanked him for his cooperation and said he looked forward to seeing him again, soon. Long Jack played the part well. He bowed and said that it had been his pleasure.”

  DeKok smiled. He knew the laconic Visser well. Before he had transferred to narcotics, Visser had worked with DeKok at Warmoes Street Station for a number of years.

  “How did you do? Did you get anything?”

  Vledder shook his head and touched a few keys on his keyboard.

  “The pickings were slim. To start I got about as far as Steven. He kept his mouth shut, except to admit knowing Jan Rouwen … a boy he sometimes met in Utrecht. According to him that was it. He admitted to lending Rouwen his apartment for a few days. Said it was only to give the boy an opportunity to meet a woman. His mother apparently objected to the girl and would not let her in the house. Rouwen had to take her somewhere, didn’t he?”

  “How sweet.”

  Vledder ignored that.

  “Santen’s shell started to crack, when I told him we lifted his prints from Erik Bavel’s room. He must have realized there was no way he could deny having been there. Of course, I asked him what they had been looking for.”

  “Aha … and?”

  “He looked at me for a long time … like he wanted to tell me. Then he said he couldn’t—he’d promised someone he would not tell.”

  “Did he at least tell you whom he had promised?”

  “No, he didn’t want to tell me that, either. So I asked him whether he searched the rooms on his own initiative, or on orders from someone.”

  “And it was on orders from someone.”

  “Yes, but he refused to identify the principal. Then I thought about your feeling Santen had been the victim of Haarveld’s betrayal.”

  “And you pursued it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any good?”

  “He looked shocked. He thought for a while. Then he made a proposal.”

  “What kind of proposal?”

  “If we were able to make a deal with the prosecutor in Belgium that would allow him to do his time in Holland, rather than Belgium, he would—”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” interrupted DeKok impatiently.

  “He would deliver the killer of Jean-Paul Stappert and Erik Bavel.”

  17

  DeKok was restless again. Reports were piling up on his desk waiting for him to sign off so Vledder could submit them to the commissaris. Sitting untouched was a report to the judge-advocate he was to have approved over a month before. Little of the information on his desk had anything to do with the current case. The bulk of the cases were already closed for all practical purposes. As usual, DeKok was late with the paperwork. His only consolation was in knowing Vledder had already filed all the preliminary reports. Vledder was as trusty as his computer. In some cases he had only to record the verdict to close the file.

  DeKok wasn’t meant to be a bureaucrat, to him it was pointless concentrating on stale material. He was singularly focused on the current case, now more than a month old.

  He could not remember a case lasting this long. Murders were supposed to be solved rapidly. In Holland they were. There simply were not many murders, compared to other countries. The homicide detail for the entire city of Amsterdam was smaller than that in a single New York police station. Homicide detectives were spread out. He and Vledder were the only homicide detectives in Warmoes Street Station. Other one- and two-person teams were spread out over half the remaining station houses in the city. There was also a relatively large detail at headquarters—individual teams could call on the group at headquarters for support. The rest, such as CSI, pathology, and the crime lab had to be shared with all the branches, from narcotics to the traffic police.

  Therefore, individual cases fell heavily on the small homicide squads in stations where they were assigned. Most seasoned officers considered it a haphazard system. DeKok reflected how well it had worked until now. Until the present, he and his colleagues at Warmoes Street had handled a relatively light caseload.

  But these “boardinghouse murders,” as the newspapers called them, were an enigma. They could end up in the cold case files, simply, for lack of evidence. A month had passed and all he had was vague conjecture. There was no clear motive—nothing pointed to a specific suspect. He had no sense of direction.

  Even if he regained his sense of direction, how would he get enough evidence for an arrest, let alone, legal grounds for a conviction?

  With a grunt of disgust he swept the paper work in a drawer and stood up. He started to pace up and down the large detective room.

  He had to go back all the way to the night in question, now more than a month ago. He remembered how his mind seemed to be pushed in different directions at that time. He’d put aside the unsettling sense someone had tried to telepathically communicate with him. He was certain of one thing—he’d had a temporary window into the soul of the strangler.

  He stopped in front of the window and rocked slightly up and down on the balls of his feet. Across the street he looked into the alley where Moshe, the herring man, kept his cart. The alley was empty, but in his mind’s eye he could see Moshe clearly. How often, he thought, have I stood here? It was generally when a crime had been insoluble at first sight. Somehow the view of the rooftops and the narrow, smelly streets never failed to inspire him. He needed one of those brilliant insights now.

  He could never convince his colleagues he’d experienced some psychic phenomenon the night the boys were found strangled. Dick Vledder would laugh at him—who wouldn’t. He was certain Jean-Paul Stappert had communicated a kind of distress signal. When Alex Waardenburg hinted at the same experience, he validated DeKok’s recollection.

  No judge-advocate would act on his gut instinct. He needed solid motive, opportunity, and, at the very least, circumstantial evidence. Anything less would result in a defense attorney humiliating him at the opening and shredding the case. He hadn’t even enough to detain a suspect for interrogation.

  He pushed his chin out and lifted his head. By force of will he put those ideas aside. He would have to keep both feet firmly planted on the ground and re-examine the facts. It was his only hope—he still had a window of opportunity. He’d make it suffice.

  The phone on his desk rang. Vledder reached over to pick it up. After a few seconds he replaced the receiver, stood up, and tapped DeKok on the shoulder.

  “Commissaris Buitendam wants to talk to you.” He raised a finger in the air and smiled. “Be nice to the man. He cannot take too many shocks. He is recovering from the flu.”

  The commissaris was pale. His skin seemed even more transparent and his eyes were dull. The flu had hit him hard.

  DeKok noticed it and, much to his own surprise, felt a wave of pity for his boss.

  Buitendam waved toward a heavy-set man in one of the chairs.

  “I don’t have to introduce Mr. Van Mechelen to you.”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “It has been a mixed pleas
ure,” he said blandly, “to have met the learned counsel on a few occasions.”

  The commissaris was probably still too ill to react. He ignored the remark.

  “Mr. Van Mechelen,” said Buitendam tiredly, “has made contact with his client, Ramon Bavel, or vice versa. The young man has acquainted his family with his whereabouts.”

  “What a relief,” interrupted DeKok.

  Buitendam closed his eyes and then opened them again.

  “Indeed,” he agreed. “His family is quite relieved. Ramon would like to return home and hearth, but he still fears an arrest. After consulting with the judge-advocate, attorney Van Mechelen asks us to guarantee Ramon Bavel will not be arrested upon his return to the Netherlands … not in connection with the boardinghouse murders.”

  “So, Ramon is abroad?”

  The lawyer slowly rose from his chair. He apparently had some trouble moving his bulk.

  “Of course I cannot confirm his exact whereabouts,” he said slowly, gathering his breath. “Attorney-client privilege prevents me from revealing our conversation. Early on we assumed your investigation would be rapidly concluded. You have a certain reputation in these matters,” he added with grudging admiration in his voice. “That is why I advised Ramon to stay away for a time. The idea was for him to return as soon as the air cleared, you understand? We hoped by now you’d have the real murderer in custody.”

  DeKok smiled.

  “And now that results have eluded us and the investigation continues, Ramon is getting impatient.”

  “Exactly,” nodded the lawyer. “You must know it is very frustrating to be innocent and still be banished.”

  DeKok gave the lawyer a penetrating look.

  “He imposed the banishment upon himself. Nobody forced him. But,” he added slowly, “you might consider the possible connection between the poor results of the ongoing investigation and the fact that Ramon is out of my reach.”

  Van Mechelen started to get agitated.

  “Ramon is innocent,” he exclaimed.

  “How do you know?”

  “He told me so.”