Also by Anja de Jager
A Cold Death in Amsterdam
A Cold Case in Amsterdam Central
CONSTABLE
First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Constable
Copyright © Anja de Jager, 2017
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-47212-624-5
Constable
An imprint of
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
An Hachette UK Company
www.hachette.co.uk
www.littlebrown.co.uk
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Even the most meticulously planned operation could go wrong. I had surveyed the area previously to identify the optimal position and had found a location that would allow me plenty of warning. As I cycled there across the wide tarmac bridge with two lanes of cars shooting past, I could feel the nerves jangling at my fingers.
According to the calendar it had been summer for five weeks, but only today had the weather in Amsterdam woken up to this fact. Following a miserable couple of months, with limited sunshine, now people could finally sit outside in T-shirts and jeans and be pleasantly warm even though it was coming up to half past seven in the evening. I chained my bike to a lamp post and thought the weather was a mixed blessing. On the one hand I could be situated at my selected spot without attracting any attention – had it rained I would have had to abandon the plan – but on the other hand more people were still outside and the place might be occupied. I walked quickly because a few seconds could make all the difference.
I wanted one of only six tables on a tiny terrace where the city had forgone three parking spaces. The one I preferred was right at the canal’s edge and only protected from falling into the water by a shin-high rusty-red metal railing.
It was still vacant.
I jogged the last couple of steps and sat down quickly with the bridge to my back so that I faced the direction he would be arriving from. My breathing was faster than the little run warranted. I’d managed to stop myself from checking my watch until now. Maybe he wasn’t going to turn up. Maybe this time he wasn’t going to come.
The waitress crossed the narrow one-way street that separated the bar from the terrace. A different woman had served me yesterday. I ordered a glass of rosé and said that it was surely the perfect way to celebrate the arrival of summer. It barely drew a smile. The bar’s door was open and Ricky Martin’s music drifted out to mingle with the hum of traffic behind me and the quacking of a pair of ducks to my right. Everything was in place. A sultry breeze tickled my bare neck where I’d had my hair cut that afternoon. He should get here soon.
My mouth was dry and I took a sip of my drink. This wasn’t a bad place to be. It was the height of tourist season but here you wouldn’t know it. Amsterdam’s canals formed concentric half-circles and, like year rings on a tree, the further away from Centraal Station they were, the more recently they’d been dug. But also the further away from the centre you were, the fewer tourists you found. Here, about ten canals out, Amsterdam was a different city. I threw a quick glance at the menu. They served decent food. If he wasn’t going to turn up, I would finish this glass of wine and order something to eat.
Then I saw his tall shape. He was walking slowly with his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t looking my way. During the minutes that I monitored Mark Visser strolling along the canal, my heart must have thumped a thousand times. I got ready to act.
‘Mark,’ I shouted when he was close to the bar. I waved at him. ‘What a surprise. Good to see you.’ I fought to keep the smile on my face in this instant when failure and success were balanced on a knife-edge.
He hesitated but came over. ‘Hi, Lotte, how are you?’
I stood up and we kissed three times on the cheek like old friends. ‘Have a seat.’ I pointed at the vacant chair on the other side of the table. ‘It’s such a nice evening. Join me for a drink.’
He didn’t refuse. He looked at his watch but then drew out the chair.
‘How are you?’ Now my smile was real.
‘I’m well.’ He sat down opposite me. He stretched out one of his long legs and it touched the inside of mine. For that second, the world shrank until all that mattered was us in this moment. It wasn’t that I didn’t see the street; it just didn’t signify any more.
‘Sorry,’ he said, and pulled his leg back.
I looked down. The tables had been reclaimed from an old school building. I could imagine lifting up the lid and finding space for pens and books. Even the chairs were not that dissimilar to those we had, only bigger. It seemed appropriate, as Mark and I had first met at primary school before losing contact for over thirty-five years.
There was grey in the stubble hugging his jaw, more than there was in his dark hair, and the lines around his eyes were noticeable even behind his round glasses.
‘What’s with the stubble?’ I said.
‘I had to rush out this morning.’ His long fingers rubbed his face. ‘Doesn’t it make me look strong and capable? That’s what I was going for.’
‘Smooth as sandpaper.’ I broke off a piece of wax from the outside of the candle, held the long strip over the flame and watched the molten drips return to their source. ‘Let me get you a drink.’ I gestured at the waitress to come over and ordered Mark a beer.
‘I’ve nearly finished the house,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to put it on the market in a few weeks.’ He pushed his glasses higher up his nose. ‘I still won’t get what I’d hoped for.’
When I had first gone there, three months ago, it had been a building site with just two rooms habitable: Mark’s office and a bedroom. My mind flooded with memories of that time. Of us together.
Before.
‘House prices have dropped again,’ he said.
A large moth buzzed over our table. I shooed it away from the candle. It should sup from the red hollyhocks flowering along the bar’s wall, not burn its wings in the flame. Then the creature’s hum was drowned out by the unusual sound of a car turning off the main drag over the bridge. An Audi drove past and parked further down the canal, partially shielded from view by the heart-shaped leaves of the plants crawling over a trellis. Two men and two women got out. One of the women went into a side street, probably to pay for parking, and the others took the table next to us. They were about our age, maybe a little younger, and smartly dressed.
A moment later, the other woman joined them. She carried a beautiful orange handbag with a large silver clasp. She put it down on the floor and I could imagine the leather complaining about having to touch the dirty pavement. You could fit a slim laptop in there. It was exactly the kind of bag that I’d been looking for. It would probably be way outside my budget. Also it might not be wide enough to hold a gun. She jolted their table as she sat down and moved her chair forward. ‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘No need to apologise,’ one of the guys said loudly in accented English. He had bronzed skin and his beard was so neat it looked as if he’d laid a ruler along his cheek to decide where to stop shaving. The hairline on the back of his head was equally straight, but hair was creeping up from the collar of his shirt where it escaped upwards from his back. ‘You always do that. For everything. I guess you’re just more empathetic, you … you women types.’
‘Women types?’ I mouthed at Mark with raised eyebrows.
He smiled and shook his head. He enjoyed listening to other people’s conversations as much as I did.
The Beard insisted on ordering a pitcher of cocktails. ‘Moscow mules,’ he said to the waitress. ‘They sound great.’
The women, sitting opposite each other, started talking in Dutch and excluded the men from their conversation.
‘Don’t go,’ the Beard shouted loudly after the waitress. ‘We want to get food as well.’
The woman who had jolted the table translated the menu. At this bar, the menus were in Dutch, as mainly locals frequented it. The outdoor seating area was too small to get the place featured in any guidebooks. The Beard ordered for everybody. When the woman complained in a soft voice that it was far too much food, he ignored her and added another dish. He must be the one picking up the tab at the end of the evening.
‘Is excess food a new way to impress?’ Mark said.
‘It’s never done it for me,’ I said. I stopped watching the table next to us. ‘Do you want to eat something?’
Mark didn’t answer.
‘Did you hear the news this morning?’ he said. ‘That guy got eighteen months.’
I lifted my wineglass and washed down the lump that had suddenly appeared at the back of my throat.
‘The cop who fired at that getaway car and hit the passenger,’ he said.
As if I hadn’t known who he was talking about. I pulled my hair away from my face. I still felt so guilty. And not just about the man I’d shot. It didn’t matter that it had been self-defence. ‘I was cleared.’
He rubbed his forehead. ‘I know. You had no choice. You had camera footage to back everything up. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.’
So why did you, I wanted to say, but I hadn’t planned this evening only to get into an argument. Talking about guilt wasn’t making either of us feel any better. ‘Do you want another drink?’
‘Sure. Same again.’
I could have ordered from the waitress, but I was keen to get up. Mark probably wouldn’t leave while I was buying another round, but if he wanted to I would allow him an easy escape. I carried our glasses inside.
The café was dark and half empty apart from a group of men in yellow T-shirts and a young couple at a table by the window who were deep in conversation. Their voices were little more than a murmur floating above the sound from the speakers. The music had changed to Abba. The woman wore a flowery sleeveless summer dress; she had matched it with a denim jacket that now hung over the back of her chair. Her dark hair was pulled back into a small ponytail and she had a muscular solidity that reminded me of one of the nurses who’d looked after me in hospital. The kind of girl who would have been the goalie in the school hockey team.
The man stared at her like a sniper focusing on a target. It went with his khaki-green T-shirt. Only his white jeans were incongruous. The woman reached behind her and fished a piece of paper out of the pocket of her jacket. Her shoulders were tense as she pushed it abruptly across the table. I craned my neck but I still couldn’t see what it was. Maybe a photo. It was the right size. The man looked down and smiled. He was in his early thirties, but his wide grin transformed his face and gave him a quirky, boyish charm.
The woman’s shoulders didn’t relax and she didn’t return the smile.
Then the Beard arrived next to me with the waitress at his side. ‘No, no, I’ll choose one myself,’ he said. Moscow mules hadn’t kept him happy for long. He got behind the bar and made a show of studying every whisky bottle on the shelf. The barman exchanged a look with the waitress, who gave a helpless shrug. The Beard finally found one he liked and handed the bottle to the waitress. ‘This one. Large measure.’ She poured.
The barman came to take my order.
‘A rosé and a beer, please.’
‘Sure.’ He pulled the pint and then unscrewed the top of a bottle of unknown origin. I didn’t care enough to study bottles. Holding both glasses, I walked back to our table.
My arm brushed Mark’s as I put his beer down. That he didn’t flinch was a victory.
The evening sun turned the sky the colour of my wine and it would have been absolutely perfect if only the people next to us had left. I tried and failed to tune out their conversation, which revolved around pharmaceuticals of varying kinds. Then the Beard asked his companion how he’d go about scoring some drugs around here. The other man told him to shut up and stop being stupid. I looked over because it annoyed me when people came to Amsterdam for just one reason. I didn’t even try to be subtle about it. The woman who’d earlier apologised for jolting the table now mouthed ‘sorry’ to me. She called the waitress over and managed to bring the focus back to alcohol.
Mark and I chatted about uncontentious topics and ordered some snacks from the waitress. He seemed better than me at blocking out the Beard, who went into the bar a few more times, once accompanied by the woman. I thought Mark enjoyed the evening and maybe even my company.
My glass was almost empty when the couple who had been inside the bar came out and walked along the canal, away from the bridge, turning left into the first sideroad, towards the houses. Stars started to appear in the evening sky and the fat candle in the middle of the table threw shadows on to Mark’s cheekbones.
‘It’s good to see you,’ I said.
My heart pounded as I waited for him to respond that it had been good to see me too.
But before he could say anything, a shout pierced the evening. It was a man’s voice. It took me a few seconds before I identified the source of the sound: a young black man, a Surinamer, with dark-rimmed glasses. He came running out of the side street. ‘Help!’ he screamed. ‘Help!’ He waved his arms above his head but he already had my attention.
Nobody knew I was a police detective apart from Mark. This evening that I’d planned so carefully was going as well as I could have hoped for. Why spoil it by getting up and offering assistance when I could stay here and have another drink? I could just not get involved.
‘Someone’s been stabbed,’ the young Surinamer shouted. ‘Just here.’ He pointed down the side street.
Instead of doing what was sensible, I pushed my chair back. The metal legs screeched a complaint on the paving stones. I got up. ‘You stay here,’ I said to Mark.
He opened his mouth to object but I held the palm of my hand in his direction and silenced him. I needed
to concentrate and Mark would get in the way. If there was still a fight going on, he could get hurt. My walk turned into a jog. I automatically checked my watch whilst running. It was 10.21 p.m.
I would have felt better if I’d had my gun with me.
A half-bald elderly man with large facial features and wearing a yellow T-shirt followed me. Nobody else even thought of interfering, and that was a good thing.
I turned the corner and saw a man lying on the ground. He was on his side. I recognised him: it was the intense man in the white jeans. Blood stained his khaki T-shirt a muddled brown. I scanned the street, but it was dead quiet. Cars were parked on one side, with thin white lines marking out each space, but I couldn’t hear any engines running and nothing moved. There was no sign of an attacker. Most flats were dark, with the curtains closed and the lights off. How long ago had this man left the bar? Ten minutes at most.
The elderly man nearly overtook me and I grabbed his arm to stop him.
‘I’m a doctor,’ he said.
I let him through. ‘I’m police.’
The doctor knelt at the man’s side, felt his pulse then started CPR. I dialled 112. The man’s eyes were closed and he was losing blood fast. It was obvious where the wound was. Wounds. Three cuts in the front of his T-shirt. The young Surinamer stood a few metres away. He had taken off his glasses and kept saying, ‘Oh my God, oh my God,’ over and over again.
‘What’s your name?’ I said.
‘Nathan,’ he said. ‘Nathan Derez.’
‘Come over here and help me,’ the doctor shouted. He ripped off his yellow T-shirt, baring a wrinkled torso, and held the garment out.
Nathan didn’t move.
‘Hold this, Nathan.’ Using his name would get him out of his state of paralysis. I handed him my phone, grabbed the T-shirt, knelt down by the young man and pressed the cloth against the wound on his stomach as the doctor indicated. Blood had pooled onto the victim’s skin and now flowed thick and warm over my hands where the T-shirt couldn’t absorb it all. It congealed between my fingers until I felt I was glued to this man. As I heard Nathan telling the ambulance crew our address, the evening became so thick with the metallic smell of blood that I could taste it. What had been a pleasant warmth was now oppressive.
Death on the Canal Page 1