“Van Basten?” he repeated, eyeing the picture Van Gils held in front of him, over the counter. Harry was seventy, he was eighty, nobody really knew. His face had stopped telling the story of his age.
“Basten,” Van Gils said, again. “Not related to the soccer player. Thirty. Works for a company on the Westerkade. No family, as far as we know. Lives over the shop of Douwer. Had something to do with providing secretarial services to wealthy foreigners. Diplomats and business people and the like. Big money.”
“Sort of thing I hear now and then,” Harry said. Harry had no problem with foreigners, not after working at sea for so long and judging them for their qualities, not the color of their skin or the place they happened to be born. “Basten. Seem to remember him. Comes in here on occasion. Drinks the occasional pint with other customers. Called him Addy. Didn’t really belong here, but fitted in anyway. Kind of kid that had gone to college. You could see that right away.”
“Was he, like, slumming?”
“You and I would not call this a slum, Van Gils,” Harry said, reproachful. Harry stroked his famous but unnatural black mustache, his only claim to vanity. “Didn’t boast about anything, though. You could hear he came from Zeeland.”
“And then he disappeared? Just like that?”
“People said, long time since we saw Addy. Didn’t turn up anymore. But people do that, Van Gils. Disappear. Maybe he moved. I don’t keep records on people.”
“But people keep an eye on each other in the area, don’t they? The pimps keep the pickpockets out, and the police keep the heroin dealers out, at least those not associated with the Russians. The shopkeepers keep an eye on whoever walks in. Older people . . . There’s a lot of social control.”
“I heard there had been a problem with his boss, or whatever.”
“His boss?”
“He often complained ’bout his boss. Probably his own fault. Admitted he often mouthed off, you know how it is with the younger generation. Bosses don’t like being contradicted. And things happened, with money, and he wanted to consult an accountant himself to sort things out. I don’t know. Rumors.”
“That’s what Basten said to people here?”
“Not to me. Never spoke to me about these things. I heard it mentioned, is all. Maybe he was in trouble at his job. I mean, disappearing like that, after having been in trouble with his boss . . .”
“He discovered fraudulent behavior, maybe?”
“Fraudulent behavior? You’ve been away from here for too long, Van Gils. Watch your language.”
“I mean . . .”
“I don’t know,” Harry said, impatient. “It was just a word here, a sentence there. Something fishy, but what corporate business is not crooked these days, one way or another? More crime in corporate boardrooms than in the streets these days.”
“Won’t disagree with that,” Van Gils said.
“You should know, with the line of work you’re in.”
“Any people he saw regularly? People I should see?”
“Kept to himself, except for the chat over beer. Lately he looked more . . . how would you say . . . depressed?”
“And then he disappeared.”
“Happens to people. That’s what Amsterdam can do to you if you’re not strong enough. Cruel city, it is, Van Gils. People think it’s nice, come here to see the museums and the parks and the little shops and the canals. Nice city for visitors. We live here. You live here. You know what I mean.”
“You mean he couldn’t bear it, in the end?”
“I see hundreds of people here, day in day out. They either fit in or they don’t. Sometimes they’re losers, sometimes they’re winners. You can’t choose. It happens to you. Addy? I don’t know. I wouldn’t fit him in with the winners. And you know what?”
“What?”
“I think he meddled with things he couldn’t understand. Things too big for him. And the wrong kind of people.”
* Literally, Old South.
19
EEKHAUT’S PHONE BUZZED INSISTENTLY, as if it had a character of its own—a malign character at that. It told him he’d better react at once or be visited by digital furies. He dutifully answered the call.
“Chief Inspector Eekhaut?” The voice of an unknown young woman, quite pleasant in a husky kind of way. “Are you the police officer who was here earlier?”
“What’s here?” he inquired.
“InfoDuct, with Ms. Bunting. My name is Annick. I brought you coffee, remember. When you were visiting Ms. Bunting?”
He remembered. “Yes. A nice cup of coffee, by the way.” The nice girl with the slender hands. He remembered. He had noticed her hands. Hands usually had stories to tell. Hold on, Eekhaut. This was a young girl. He would be, what? Thirty years older than she? Don’t go running after young girls, Eekhaut, he told himself.
“I’m not calling because of the coffee,” she said, sounding a bit impatient. “I do more than serve coffee, in case you wondered. But that’s what the old hag has me do when she has visitors. As if she has a personal assistant all to herself.”
So she doesn’t like her boss. But that isn’t why she called. “So you’re not only serving coffee. Good for you. And you’re also not calling me because you dislike the old hag.”
“No. I’m calling because of Adriaan.”
“Adriaan Basten?”
“Yes. Who else? I assume she had nothing to tell about him?”
“It was a rather disappointing session,” he said, carefully. He was not going to discuss the finer points of an ongoing criminal investigation with her. She was not involved. And why did she phone in the first place?
“She hasn’t told you anything meaningful about Adriaan because she knows nothing about him.”
She sounded frustrated and angry. And hurt. All right, he thought. She’s in the right mood to tell tales on her boss. He was willing to lend a sympathetic ear. “And I guess you know a lot more about Adriaan,” he said.
“I do. I knew him quite well. And I am sure something terrible has happened to him, or you wouldn’t have dropped by. Am I right?”
“I want to hear what you have to say,” he said, avoiding her question.
“Not over the phone,” she said.
Another one that’s seen too many spy movies.
“We can meet,” he suggested.
“We can. Right now? I’ll be finished at work in half an hour.”
He glanced at his watch. It was four thirty. He needed a Leffe anyway. “Where do we meet?”
“There’s a pub next door at the Design Center in Leidsestraat. It’s easy to find. It’s the pink modern building.”
“I’ll be there.”
The place didn’t resemble any of the usual pubs in Amsterdam, or at least not the traditional pubs, but that could be expected of a watering hole connected to a design center. It seemed fashioned with a younger clientele in mind, the urban digital nomads that needed latte, internet, and music in equal amounts for their daily professional routine. These nomads wouldn’t think about investing in something as senseless as a proper office, although they needed large and cosmopolitan cities as a backdrop for their creative endeavors.
More of these Starbucks clones were emerging in cities all over the world. Eekhaut had read about them, seen the glossy pictures of a worldwide culture, with the same sort of hangouts in Ho Chi Min City, Paris, Vancouver, and Los Angeles. The lighting here was indirect, the walls bare brick, the floor concrete. The furniture looked like it had been salvaged from a dump, and minimally restored chairs and tables were intentionally mismatched.
He felt almost at home.
The girl sat in the back, glancing up when he entered. He sat down at her table and ordered two coffees. She looked vulnerable, her pale skin matching her natural blond hair.
He was probably, and with some margin, the oldest person in the place.
“Is this some sort of secret meeting?” he asked, more or less as a joke. It was meant to put her at ease. �
��Something just between the two of us? Not to be mentioned in any official report, certainly not one of mine?”
“Keep me out of everything,” she warned him. “I don’t want anyone to know we’ve been talking. I stole your card from Bunting’s office. She wasn’t going to use it anyway. You don’t even exist, as far as she’s concerned. Which tells you everything about the way things are run there. Oh, they’re very social and empathetic and all, to the outside world. But they treat us like dirt.”
“And she doesn’t care about Adriaan.”
She glanced outside for a second before answering. “Exactly. She’s not interested in the people working there. But I care.”
“He shared things with you? Basten?”
“He did. We were, well, friends. Just friends. But that meant a lot to him, I guess. He wasn’t the sort of person to make friends easily. What happened to him? Is he—?”
“I’m afraid he’s dead,” he admitted, not wanting to keep her in the dark about Basten’s fate. “But I can’t tell you more. The investigation is ongoing.” He wouldn’t share with her the gruesome details of his death. Not with his parents or other family either. What would be the point? It wouldn’t change anything if they knew how he died.
“I am sorry,” he said.
She focused on her coffee.
“There’s not much I can do anymore,” he continued. “Not for Adriaan. But I can catch the people responsible for his death. Is there any reason to suspect anybody within the company?”
She looked puzzled. “Someone from the company? A murderer? I don’t think so. Why would anybody want to kill Adriaan? Management exploited all of us equally. And he was in a dead-end career. Nobody would want his position. He knew his activities would be outsourced within the year.”
“Were you close to him? I mean, in a relationship?”
She looked up, smiling bitterly. “We were friends, Inspector. To Adriaan this had a special meaning, I guess. No, I’m sure it did. Most people found him strange. I didn’t. He was a spiritual sort of person. That may sound corny, these days, I know. He adhered to some church, some religion, I never found out what. He never talked about that, not even to me. There was a side to Adriaan that was always hidden to other people.”
Things were becoming clearer to Eekhaut. A church. A spiritual side.
“You really don’t know what church?”
“I’m not religious myself,” Annick said.
“But not any official religion? Protestant, Catholic?”
“I think not. He didn’t have much patience for that sort of organized religion. Once he told me something strange, though. About knowing what would be the fate of humanity. That sounded . . . ominous to me.”
“Apocalyptic.”
“Yes, that too,” she quietly said, playing with her empty cup. “But he didn’t use that term. He said I was pure at heart and would probably be saved. And that struck me as weird, Adriaan talking about redemption and so on. Him being spiritual, I could understand, but salvation and all that? Rather strange. I didn’t insist. And I’m sure he wouldn’t have told me more.”
She glanced up at him, wiping a tear away.
“Not even to you,” he said.
“No,” she admitted. “It wasn’t that sort of relationship.”
“I assume he didn’t have these discussions with any of his other colleagues either?”
“Oh, no. He knew they would have laughed at him.”
Exactly so, Eekhaut thought. These wonder kids of the digital age would have laughed at him and his strange musings. Salvation. Certainly not.
“Did any of this help?” she asked.
“Yes, it has. I appreciate your help, Annick. I do. It gives me a clearer view of who Adriaan was. Get in touch again if you remember anything more.”
“I hope you find . . .” she said but left the sentence unfinished. She got up. “You know, Adriaan was good at his job. He told me he regularly found loopholes to get things done, whatever that was. Financial things, I assume. I guess nothing important enough to get him . . .”
Killed.
“But you have no idea what he had found?”
“All companies are involved in some sort of fraud, Chief Inspector. Management hiding income and assets from shareholders and from the tax inspector. That’s common enough. Surely you know.”
“I’m sure they all do that.”
“But they wouldn’t murder a mere employee to cover that up, would they?”
“No, usually not.”
“Anyway, I won’t be working for them for long. I want to get out. Find something else.”
“Good luck,” he said.
After she had left, he ordered a Leffe beer. There was a lot to think about. Basten connected to an apocalyptic religion, perhaps discovering corporate fraud. The latter might have been enough to get him murdered in such an awful way.
It was time to talk to someone within the Church of the Supreme Purification.
20
EEKHAUT KNEW DINNER AT the Grand Café Krasnapolsky, next to the Bijenkorf department store, would cost him dearly, yet he ordered starters, a main course, and dessert accompanied by a superior white wine, the price of which would have made him question his sanity under other circumstances. This was his second visit to this eminent establishment since coming to Amsterdam. The first time had been when Dewaal wanted to meet with him on his arrival, and she had picked up the bill. He remembered how she had looked: official but extremely feminine. She had looked much younger than she was. They had had mandarin duck, as he recalled. They had even drunk a bottle of wine.
This time he chose the salmon ceviche with coriander, radish, sour cucumber, and dressing; the spaghetti vongole with chili peppers; and the chocolade fondant with yuzu gel and vanilla anglaise and caramel–sea salt ice as dessert. And a bottle of dry white wine. While he ate, he observed. He observed the people who came here to have dinner, to talk, to watch those who wanted to be seen. It was a perfect spot for people watching. Amsterdam’s high society. This was the place he would take Linda when she came back.
He had another reason to indulge this sudden longing for luxury. He wanted to be assured of the normality of the world, even if this part of it was mostly exclusive and expensive. He needed the certainty that the world of criminal activities, of perverse torture and murder, was counterbalanced by the extravagant spending of the privileged. Here, in this expensive restaurant, the veneer of civilization was as thick as it could get. Here, he was as far removed as possible from abnormality. Even if this rich lifestyle was far beyond his means. He was spending a considerable amount of money, but it was worth it.
But at the same time, he realized he was wrong. The glossy veneer of civilization existed only for people who were careful enough to hide their inhuman side. He assumed most of them had made their fortune on the backs of people less lucky. The glitter here was nothing but a shiny armor, protecting these people from their own conscience.
He settled the bill and walked back to his flat, wrapped in his heavy coat and thick scarf. He mused about whether Dewaal would agree to pay for his dinner as a research expense. She probably wouldn’t.
He walked past Muntplein and wondered if he still could find a pub open for business. The wine had made him thirsty, and he needed a pint of beer.
On Rembrandtplein, several local cafés were still open, but most of them had a deserted look. Finally, he decided to go home. His apartment was warm and cozy. He settled into his easy chair. The evening before he had started reading Stephen King’s Duma Key, which he wanted to finish. He thought about checking his email first, but he felt lazy and stayed in the chair. A few moments later he was sound asleep.
WEDNESDAY
21
“HOW MANY PEOPLE ARE employed by the Bureau?” Eekhaut asked. “Your outfit here, I mean. All together?”
“Twenty-four,” Dewaal said. “Us included. But not the temps—those on loan from various other departments.”
“And
how many knew about the details of the case?”
“About half of them. No, less, actually. Some others might have heard the rumors, but even then . . .”
The newspaper lay between them on the desk. The headline read: DUTCH VICTIM IN RITUAL BURNING. The article covered seven columns. There was an aerial picture of the circle of victims they’d found in the Ardennes. No real details, but the title and picture were suggestive enough.
“Someone earned himself extra income,” Eekhaut said. “By leaking this to the press.”
“I will kill him,” Dewaal firmly said. “Or her.”
“Might not even be one of our people,” Eekhaut suggested.
“No, maybe not. Someone from headquarters or from the Ministry of Justice—potential leaks everywhere. But very few people outside this office have knowledge of these details. Anyway, here we are, in deep shit. If we assumed nothing would get to the press, we assumed too much.”
The morning had been cold but sunny, and according to the weather forecast, it would remain sunny throughout the day. Eekhaut had treated himself to a generous breakfast in one of the cafés at Rembrandtplein with a hot chocolate, two croissants, yogurt, orange juice, and a Danish pecan nut pastry. He had received an email from Linda. She had returned to Mombasa and would be back in Europe as soon as possible. Her mission had ended catastrophically, she wrote. A sandstorm had destroyed the camp. The refugees had dispersed, and the team’s efforts to help them had been fruitless. She would be back soon. She would be back in his life.
He felt excellent. Until he read the newspaper.
“The press will be knocking at our door very soon,” Dewaal said. “Or at the prosecutor’s door, which is worse. She won’t like that at all. I expect her call any moment now. She has issues, that woman.”
Eekhaut thought Dewaal should have called the prosecutor herself. He wasn’t bothered by what the prosecutor might think or do. He had dealt with her ilk for too long and had other things on his mind. Linda’s short message had an ominous tone to it, something he couldn’t place. As if she were telling only part of the story. The storm. The mission’s failure. Something else was bothering her.
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