‘I’m sorry, Chief Inspector. I’m in a hurry. I’ve got an appointment at an auctioneer’s. I’m selling Dad’s art collection. He had some absolute beauties – worth a small fortune. I desperately need the money to finish this building work. You can’t sell a house half-renovated.’
After the time Van den Bergen had had, being hauled over the coals by Minks for roping Abadi into an unsanctioned interrogation of Den Bosch’s tenants, a move that had resulted in the doctor’s suicide, he couldn’t bear the thought that his day might end like this – being thwarted by Cornelia Verhagen at a point where the case needed desperately to be cracked wide open. Suspended, pending investigation. Words he’d never hoped to hear, and yet they were ringing in his ears. His career was over. Unless he could finish what he’d started.
‘Ms Verhagen. Please. I’ve just seen your father’s family doctor leap in front of a tram at the mention of someone implicated in a trafficking case. I’ve got a truckload of dead and dying Syrian refugees and four murdered old men. The common denominator is whoever Abadi was trying to escape through death. Call it a policeman’s intuition, but I feel sure there’s a people-smuggling killer out there, and I need to find him or her and put a stop to them.’
A neighbour poked her head out of her doorway, shooting a glance at them both, neck craned and ears almost visibly pricked, like some overweight meerkat. She began to sweep her already spotless step.
‘Can we go inside?’ Van den Bergen asked. ‘I’m sure you can reschedule with the auctioneer. If there’s good money to be made, they’ll be bending over backwards to please you.’
He could see Cornelia Verhagen’s resolve crumbling as she removed her coat and held the door open, beckoning him inside.
Over milky coffee and stroopwafels that would cause a veritable fountain of stomach acid later, Van den Bergen started to quiz her.
‘I need to know more about Hendrik van Eden. Arnold van Blanken’s children knew everything about their father, even down to what he had for dinner the night before he died. They were a very close-knit family. Brechtus Bruin’s son, Eric, let us rummage through all his dad’s belongings in the garage. His life story seems straightforward and well documented. But there are two I know little about. Ed, your father’s cousin, for one…’
Cornelia Verhagen ran her finger around the rim of the coffee cup, eyes flitting to the clock on the wall. ‘I never knew Ed. He and Dad were like brothers, but he went missing suddenly during the war. I already told you this. The SS were shooting suspected resistance members. Dad and the others just assumed Ed had been unlucky.’
‘But his body was never found.’
‘No.’ Her eyes moved to the clock yet again. Clearly, her thoughts were on the auctioneer and not the case.
Van den Bergen was tempted to slap his hand on the rough oak table to get her attention. But then he remembered how he’d struggled for money when his own father had died. The old man had left a string of unpaid bills and eye-watering debt for a Dutchman. Clearly hadn’t got the memo: ‘Zuinigheid is een deugd’ – No. Sadly, the old Dutch insistence that ‘Thriftiness is a virtue’ had meant nothing to Van den Bergen senior. Profligate old sod.
‘Look, I know it’s tough when a parent dies and leaves you in the lurch financially. But please, try to remember everything you can. Dr Abadi threw himself in front of a tram because he was scared to death – literally. Maybe he was frightened of whoever killed the Force of Five. Can you think of anything odd about your father around the time of his death? Anyone he was being intimidated by, or who cropped up just once too often in his life?’
Sighing, Cornelia picked up another stroopwafel and bent the syrupy cookie until it broke in two. She pointed a fragment of it at Van den Bergen.
‘Dad became obsessive about something just before he died. He was…’ She frowned, searching for the right words. ‘Furtive. Excitable.’
‘Oh?’ Van den Bergen sat up straighter.
‘He said he was involved in “historical research”. That’s what he called it. I thought it was something to do with his art collection. But whenever I tried to quiz him on it, he clammed up. Honestly, I’ve never known him so tight-lipped. Arnold and Brechtus came round and I could hear them talking in low whispers. They shooed me out of the living room as though it was top secret! Or maybe Dad was getting dementia.’ She shrugged and raised an eyebrow. ‘Maybe they all were. At that age, they’re forgetful at the best of times, though my dad kept his marbles until he got into his early nineties. But you know, a few years makes a lot of difference when you’re heading for one hundred. They start talking gibberish sometimes, especially if they’re ill. Dad was often rough after his chemo, of course. It leaves them very susceptible to infection.’
‘I know.’ Memories flickered in Van den Bergen’s mind of the times he’d rushed his father to hospital in the car, because it had been quicker than calling an ambulance. His old man with a raging temperature in the passenger seat. He’d spent sixteen months living in the shadow of death, preparing for the end on an almost fortnightly basis. In the hospital. Out of the hospital. All those memories were coming back.
This case was killing him. But it had also lit a fire within him that wasn’t just down to his hiatus hernia.
‘So, your father gets a bee in his bonnet about something historical. Possibly something in his past?’
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that. Yes. Maybe.’
‘Okay.’ Van den Bergen started to scribble notes into his notebook, beneath the sketch of George he’d been doing from memory. Disconcerting. He’d forgotten the line of her lips and she’d only been gone a couple of days. ‘Now. Hendrik. He’s the one I just can’t find out anything of substance about. No wife, no siblings, no children – though I’ve had one person say he had a son and one person mention a grandson. I thought you, of all people, would be the most clued up, since your father’s house acted as a hub for the friends.’
He looked around the kitchen, through the doorway of the dining room to the hall beyond, visualising the room within the rooms and wondering what George had found out from Rivka Zemel’s diaries. Surely she would have been in touch if she had happened upon a significant detail. Thinking wistfully of her, he drank in the smell of unfinished timber studwork and the mustiness of exposed bricks. He imagined the old men sitting around the little kitchen table mid building work, chewing over nine decades of secrets with false teeth.
‘Funnily enough, Hendrik didn’t come round when Dad had Brechtus and Arnold over. I don’t think he was privy to Dad’s “historic research”. But then, if it was about the art collection, Hendrik just wasn’t that kind of guy. He was brusque and practical.’ She smiled. ‘Very dry. Everyone had him down as a rare wit and charismatic. But Hendrik always scared me a bit, if I’m honest. A very private man. The rest lived in each other’s pockets for as long as I can remember, I guess because they’d socialised as families once wives and children came onto the scene. Hendrik dipped in and out. I don’t think he ever got over losing Anna Groen.’
‘What happened there?’ Van den Bergen asked. His coffee had gone cold and so had this line of enquiry, it seemed.
‘She ran off with another man. That’s all I know.’
‘And Rivka Zemel. Did she die?’
Cornelia looked blankly at Van den Bergen. ‘I have no idea if she’s living or dead.’ Her expression was suddenly stony. ‘You snatched those diaries off me. You should know. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got paintings to sell.’
Advancing down the cold hallway, Van den Bergen caught a glimpse of large paintings in ornate gilt frames, stacked in the living room against the wall. A room he hadn’t been in before. On the walls themselves hung breathtakingly beautiful oil portraits. One depicted a rabbi, carrying the sacred Torah scrolls of the Jews. Without waiting to be invited, he entered to get a closer look.
‘The door’s this way, Chief Inspector.’ Cornelia Verhagen’s tone was no longer one of patient indulgence.
/> Van den Bergen took a sharp intake of breath as he examined an impressionist painting behind the door. ‘Is this a Monet?’ He stared at the signature in disbelief.
‘Well, I might find out if you go.’
‘But these are exquisite.’ Leafing through the stack, he was certain he spotted a Kandinsky. Turned back to the portrait of the rabbi. ‘Is this an Isidor Kaufmann?’
‘Goodbye, Chief Inspector.’
Her phone rang. She answered the call, holding the door open for Van den Bergen. ‘Dr Verhagen speaking. Yes. I’m on my way.’ She shooed him off the step and slammed the door behind him.
Doctor. Van den Bergen had called her Ms, and she hadn’t corrected him this time. As he made his way back to his car, he toyed with a theory that caused more of a dyspeptic eruption than the stroopwafels. He texted George.
‘Please come back. I miss your lips. Also, think Kaars Verhagen stole art from the Jews in the war. Could Cornelia Verhagen be our murderer? Must check wills again. Px’
CHAPTER 27
South East London, Aunty Sharon’s house, 21 October
2 March 1943
The last few weeks have been intolerable. Word has come through to us that the SS are shooting any freedom fighters they find. Every member of the Force of Five is really worried that their subterfuge will be discovered. Brechtus and Arnold were particularly agitated when they came to the Verhagen house last night. Shmuel has an infection and is struggling to breathe, so the boys didn’t come into our little secret room – Papa insisted everyone keep away. I did, however, listen through the wall to their conversation. It was tricky, as Kaars’s father had the secret partitions constructed of almost soundproof material, but when I cracked the door a little, I heard enough.
Brechtus and Arnold had been arrested earlier in the week and questioned by the SS. They complained that they’d been beaten and held in cells. The SS had somehow got wind that they had constructed some kind of radio device and were contacting the British (which of course, they had). I suspect the boys have been doing this not only to pass on information about our dreaded German invaders but also to make contact with willing people in England who will help smuggle Jews out of the country.
Ed has begged me to accept his offer of a safe passage to England or America, but Papa insists Shmuel is absolutely too sick to move. The stifling, stuffy air in this beastly little room doesn’t help. I’m the lucky one. I can still sneak out at night with my falsified papers. I pressed Hendrik on where he got hold of them, but he merely tapped the side of his nose and winked. Perhaps Anna’s singing engagements in the restaurants frequented by the Nazi officers have paved the way for a deal with someone in administration. The Nazis can’t all be bad. There must be one or more among them who aren’t happy with the way the Jews are being carted off to labour camps on cramped trains. I think there’s hardly a Jew left in the city!
Anyway, Brechtus and Arnold were eventually released when their family homes were searched and the transmitting equipment couldn’t be found. Fortunately, both of their fathers are wealthy business owners. Brechtus’s owns a printing company that the Nazis use to print their propaganda (what irony that Brechtus tears those posters down!) and Arnold’s has been co-opted into manufacturing parachutes for the German army. No business owner has wanted to say no to the Germans – even if they were able to – because there’s a fortune to be made from the war. I’m sure Papa’s old business partner is sitting on a mountain of Nazi gold now!
Anyway, I have no doubt it would have caused problems if the SS had simply flung the boys into prison on an unproven suspicion. Money talks, now more than ever. I have no doubt that the Jewish families that are making good their escape to America are wealthy. There are many diamond merchants in Amsterdam, after all…
Papa doesn’t seem to realise that we’re fortunate to have a little band of heroic fellows who are willing to whisk us to safety for absolutely nothing at all. (Just as well, for our family now has absolutely nothing at all, apart from my parents’ wedding rings and a pinkie ring that Papa has allowed me to give to Ed as a betrothal of sorts. Ed has given me a tiny diamond ring in return.)
Though Shmuel is sick and we’re uncomfortable here – Mama cries herself to sleep at night thanks to her back pain and the feverish torment of being cooped up in a cramped space – we rely on the loyalty and discretion of the Force of Five to stay safe and alive. I can’t imagine if one of the boys or one of the Verhagen household…
George sneezed, putting her compelling read down. Memories of the previous day flooded back: the deafening bang that had shaken the whole house; haring downstairs to find that a brick that had been lobbed through Aunty Sharon’s living room window, only narrowly missed hitting Papa; calling the council’s emergency board-up service. Had the van driver from the ferry tracked her down? Had the brick been his warning for her to keep her big mouth shut, or simply some kids cutting their teeth on a life of urban terrorism and gangsta-grime? George had to assume the latter, since no violent encore had followed, thankfully. Now, Rivka Zemel’s words sucked George back into the wartime world of the diary. Her own woes seemed like child’s play compared to the peril that the young Jewish maid had had to endure.
Blowing her nose, she skipped ahead to the following entry. Here was some drama that surpassed all the vandalism and people traffickers that South East London could throw at George, as the Verhagen house was searched by the Nazis…
I have never been so terrified in all my life. Through the walls, we could hear them shouting at Mr Verhagen and Kaars, though we couldn’t make out what was being said. A shot was fired! Had somebody been killed? We held our breath as long as we could, but Shmuel started to cough uncontrollably. Surely the Nazis would be able to hear that. Had I left the door cracked to let in a little air?
Biting her lip, George found she was holding her own breath. But though she desperately wanted to carry on reading, the sudden cacophony of angry voices coming from the hallway forced her to abandon Rivka’s diary and throw off the sweaty bedclothes.
‘Jesus. Here we go,’ she muttered.
Below, Letitia’s dulcet tones almost made the windows rattle in their frames.
‘Hey. Don’t you be defending him, for fuck’s sake! He drove like a nutcase, innit? Them taxi drivers get their licences out of a lucky bag. Know what I mean?’
Aunty Sharon: ‘You’re a tight bastard, Letitia. All you had to do was tip him fifty pence. Fifty bleeding pence, yeah? That’s the difference between you being a greedy cow and a good person.’
Now, Letitia’s voice ascended an octave, and George paused before opening Tinesha’s bedroom door, lest her eardrums burst or dogs come running from the neighbouring two streets.
‘I’m a greedy cow? Is that so? Is that fucking so? Hey. Don’t you be lecturing me about being a good person, when you got a job and money coming out of your fat arse, lady love! I paid for the cab, didn’t I? Eh?’
‘I paid the one going. You want a medal for paying your way? Who bought that rum for the room?’
Patrice’s low voice sounded once, almost certainly in a bid to intervene in this sisterly set-to. But he was dismissed.
‘Less interfering, bwoy,’ Aunty Sharon said. ‘This ain’t your beef. Go and get the kettle on.’
George stood at the top of the landing, staring at the two overweight, middle-aged black women on the brink of fisticuffs in a narrow hallway that could barely accommodate them. Pointing. Pointing. Hands on hips. Hands waving aggressively as though they added more weight to whatever bullshit argument her mother was coming out with for failing to bung the driver a tip.
‘You better watch it, Letitia, or you’ll be poking Aunty Shaz’s eye out with those nails.’
Suddenly, her aunty was all smiles with outstretched arms. Letitia made do with a grimace that could have stripped paint.
‘How are you, my favourite niece? Come and have a cup of tea and we’ll tell you all about our holiday, won’t we, Letitia?’
/> ‘Why you here?’ Her mother was less enthusiastic, glowering at George’s fluffy slippers.
George bumped fists with Patrice and hugged Tinesha. Ignored her mother. Silly cow. Mustered all the strength she could to drag her fluey body into the kitchen behind them all.
They sat around Aunty Sharon’s kitchen table, sipping tea, with her father and Patrice leaning against the kitchen worktop, saying as little as possible, and Tinesha already texting her boyfriend and mates on Snapchat, in a world of her own. George allowed herself to be regaled with tales of how Letitia had started an argument with the maître d’ in the hotel dining room because they kept serving up ‘well shitty fruit for afters’, and how Letitia had given ‘them fucking presuming German bastards what-for for nicking my sun lounger at 5 a.m.’. Aunty Sharon corroborated that Letitia, much to the party’s minor embarrassment and chagrin, had on three occasions lifted the towel, lilo, dry clothing and beach bag off the purloined sunbeds and tipped them into the pool.
‘That’s right!’ Letitia the Dragon proclaimed, waving her cigarette hand around in an almost perfect figure of eight so that she was surrounded by her own cloud of blue smoke. ‘I showed ’em how it be done in the UK, yeah? I says to this fella in Speedos with a gut the size of Deptford hanging over this tiny cock… I says, “Listen, waga waga German wanker! I suh mi duh mi ting.”’ She stood with hands on hips, reconstructing the scene like a Kingstonian Crimewatch, where the victim always wins with a killer put-down to rival any bullet. ‘Like it or lump it, man. We didn’t win no World War Two for nuffink. Didn’t I say that, Shaz?’
‘Yeah, George.’ A reluctant-sounding titter turned into a hearty guffaw, as though sibling rivalry wasn’t even a baby elephant in that small, well-scrubbed room. ‘She definitely did. That pimple-dicked German geezer and his Hausfrau didn’t know what hit them when we landed.’ Aunty Shaz turned serious. ‘But in fairness, they had shoved Patrice’s towel off in the first place, ’cos he put one across five beds for us when he came back from the club with Tin at 4.30 a.m. First come, first served, right?’
The Girl Who Got Revenge Page 19