Once the kettle had boiled, I made a cup of tea for myself and Tim. I added some cold water in Tim’s cup and then put it in front of him.
Suddenly I had an idea.
I took my phone from my pocket and called Sandra’s mobile. Her husband had presumably heard more about the circumstances in which she died.
But to my great disappointment, I heard an unknown voice say the number no longer existed. Sandra’s husband evidently must have ended her phone contract.
I sat down on a stool opposite Tim and took a sip. “Isn’t this nice, the two of us sitting together?” I asked rhetorically. “You’re getting so big, baby. Daddy would have been as proud as peacock,” I said and to my surprise, found myself not feeling sad or gloomy.
My thoughts wandered off again and I realised that I didn’t know anything about Sandra’s life that could provide a lead to work with – her husband’s surname, her address, the gym she was a member of or an employer.
Tim rolled around onto his belly and let himself slide down the stool. “I want to play.”
I was about to say ‘sure’ when on the spur of the moment an idea came to me. I was grasping at straws, but there’d be no harm in giving it a try.
“Tim? Mummy has a surprise for you.” There was something I knew he enjoyed, but we only did once in a blue moon. “Would you like to take a ride on the tram with Mummy?”
He threw his chubby, little arms in the air. “Yeah,” he yelled and started running in circles around the room in sheer excitement.
I smiled. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s put on your coat.”
After pulling on my jacket too, I opened the front door and Tim stepped outside, his tiny legs moving cautiously over the doorstep. Then I realised that I didn’t have a snack with me to keep him quiet if he needed distraction. “Wait here. I’ll be right back, baby,” I said, and turned towards the kitchen.
Moments later I returned to the front door only to find out Tim was no longer where I’d left him.
I looked left and right, calling out his name, but he was nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t a busy street that we lived on, but it made me feel uneasy. Tim was far too young to be out by himself.
I scurried about a hundred metres to the left, where I got to an intersection. “Tim, where are you?” I yelled. The air was cold and crisp and the sun was shining in the bright, blue sky – little white clouds of vapour were rising from my mouth each time I called out his name. With my hand above my eyes, I peered down both ends of the side street, but with the exception of a single walker, I didn’t see a soul. I felt like an idiot, I couldn’t believe I’d let him out of my sight.
I turned around and rushed back over the pavement, passing my house, and continued my way to the next side street. I checked both directions, but this part of the neighbourhood was filled with little shops and coffee bars with their trendy chalkboards full of cheerful messages blocking my view of the pavement. After moments of dithering, I decided to return home and devise a plan from there, my heart skittering in my chest.
As I ran into my street again, I noticed my upstairs neighbour step out of her front door. She had presumably seen me running around the neighbourhood. “What’s wrong, Jennifer?” she asked kindly.
I clung on to her, feeling distraught and bewildered. “Timmy’s gone. He ran off.” I barely managed to check my tears.
She wrapped a woollen scarf around her neck and closed the door behind her. “I’m sure he won’t be far. I’ll help you look for him.”
“Thank you,” I whispered.
She pointed into the direction of the Vondelpark. “I’ll go that way. Maybe you can check the playground,” she suggested. “He may have gone there.”
I felt stupid for not thinking of that myself. “I will.”
I rushed across the road and headed for his favourite playground.
It was probably less than a minute later when something happened behind me. I can’t recall what I heard first – it’s quite possible that it took place simultaneously – the piercing shriek of my neighbour that vibrated through my heart or the sound of a car coming to a screeching halt.
I turned abruptly. “Tim!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. As fast as my legs could carry me, I ran in the direction of the sound, my legs nearly buckling under me.
As I turned the corner, I saw a car halted in the middle of the road. A red pushbike was lying on its side in front of the car, a dent clearly visible in the bumper. My neighbour stood over the bike with a look of concern on her face.
I came to a stop, brought my hands to my cheeks and froze. “Oh God, no,” I whispered. “This can’t be happening.”
I could see the car driver getting out of his car, looking as pale as a ghost, covering his mouth with his hand.
Somehow, I was able to move again and managed to sprint towards the scene of the accident. When I almost got there, I saw a child lying on his back in the road, in front of the car. The boy with the blond curls slowly clambered to his feet and started crying. My dear neighbour wrapped her arms around him and held him gently.
Despite the short distance, I was out of breath when I arrived.
“He had a narrow escape,” the neighbour said softly and passed Tim to me. “That car missed him by a hair’s breadth.”
Tim wrapped his arms around me and started balling his eyes out. I gently stroked his back, whispering words of comfort into his ear.
The driver came up to us, a disconcerted look still written across his face. “I’m terribly sorry,” he muttered. “The boy hurtled across the road out of nowhere.”
I looked at the man. “It’s my fault.” I wiped away tears from my face. “I should have kept a closer eye on him.”
I noticed the neighbour exchanging a look of understanding with the motorist. “Perhaps he’s a bit too young to be playing outside alone.”
“Of course he is,” I responded defensively. “I never let him out by himself. We were about to leave the house and then I forgot to bring something with me and then …” I broke off and shook my head, trying to collect myself. “Never mind.”
I put Tim down as he’d stopped crying by now, and inspected him. To my relief, he seemed to be unharmed.
The man spoke again. “Well if he’s alright, I’ll be leaving now.” He gave Tim a pat on the back of his head. “No more cycling on the road for you, young fellow.”
Tim nodded, his face all red and swollen from weeping.
“I’m so sorry for all this fuss,” I said.
The driver raised his hand, got into his car and continued on his way.
I put Tim on his pushbike, thanked my neighbour extensively and hurried home, my hand on Tim’s back. I noticed my armpits were soaked when I spoke to him firmly. “Promise me, you’ll never take off without mummy again.”
He didn’t react to my reprimand. “Mister had cookies.”
I frowned. “What’s that?”
“Mister had cookies. For Tim.”
My heart started pounding and I felt sick.
I stopped the pushbike, squatted next to him and looked him in the eye. “Did a man tell you he had cookies for you?”
Tim nodded.
“Was it the man from the car?”
He shook his head. “Man with the hat. Tim had to come.”
It felt as if my heart was going to burst out of my chest.
“Did a man with a hat tell you to come with him, and that you would get cookies from him?”
Tim lowered his eyes and slowly nodded. “Tim naughty?” He’d probably noticed the anguished expression on my face.
“Oh no, baby,” I responded and pulled him into my arms. “No … Don’t you worry, alright?” Then I let go of him and looked at him, my eyes piercing into his, innocent and trusting. “But please promise Mummy, you’ll never – and I mean never, ever – talk to a stranger again. Alright?”
Once we arrived at our front door, I decided to exchange the pushbike for the buggy. As expected, Tim objected by stiffen
ing up like a board and squealing like a pig, and it was only after I offered him a lollipop I managed to fix the straps and started walking towards the tram stop. Although the Baarsjes was a considerable distance away in the south of the city, I was lucky that the number twelve tram stopped less than a ten-minute’s walk from our house.
It had started drizzling and I unfolded the hood of the buggy, so that Tim wouldn’t get soaked, flipped the hood of my winter coat over my head and upped my pace. On the way to the tram stop I passed the numerous restaurants and coffee bars that Oliver and I had found so charming when we bought the house and where we’d spent many an hour with friends or just the two of us. I thought about the implication of Tim’s remarks – it seemed there had been someone who had tried to lure him or even abduct him. Should I interpret this event as a warning directed at me or did it have nothing to do with my search? Was it in any way related to the threatening letter that I’d recently received at home?
There was, of course, the possibility that Tim’s imagination had gotten the better of him, but in any case, it made me feel unsafe and jittery.
We arrived at the Museumplein stop, where the atmosphere changed from residential to tourist. Around me I heard people chatting in foreign languages, taking pictures of the points of interest surrounding us. I was glad my hood was partly shielding my face and hoped it would prevent visitors from asking me directions.
Tim jumped up in his seat at every tram that arrived at the stop. “This one?” he’d exclaim, and I smiled and told him “not yet”.
After I’d seen tram twelve pop up in the distance, we got on and I prudently walked towards the front of the tram, pushing the buggy ahead of me, and braced myself as the vehicle started to move.
Due to the dreary weather, there were fortunately few tourists in the tram, and I managed to put the buggy away from the aisle on its brakes.
The tram driver’s head was about half a metre away from me, his hair thinning considerably and exposing the white of his scalp here and there, and I felt the tension in my stomach rising. I glanced at Tim, who seemed to be enjoying himself, feasting his eyes on the scenery that flashed past the windows, and decided to approach the man casually.
“Sir, may I ask you something?”
“Yes, miss,” the driver answered, his gaze still on the track.
I pretended to be unfamiliar in the city and asked him if the tram would make a stop on the street where Sandra had been involved in the accident.
“It goes quite a long way over it. Where exactly do you need to be?” he asked.
Off the top of my head I tried to come up with something that was nearby and gave the name of a hardware store.
The man, who looked like he was in his fifties, turned his head towards me and gave me an inquisitive gaze. Then he turned his eyes back to the track again. “In that case you’ll need to get off at the third stop,” he replied, his face flashing with pride, presumably from knowing the map of Amsterdam by heart.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, raising my thumb.
The tram drew to a halt at the next stop where a large number of passengers exited.
“Nice weather all of a sudden, isn’t it,” I said with a mock serious face, lingering at the front of the tram and trying to strike up a conversation.
The driver pressed a button to close the doors, checked his mirrors and gently accelerated. “Tell me about it. It’s been chucking it down nonstop for the past hour,” he responded. “Oh well, I’m locked up in this beast anyway.” The driver, who must have weighed over a hundred kilograms, gave a deep-throated laugh, his belly shaking under his blue uniform.
Tim started fussing in his buggy. “Hush darling,” I said as I rummaged in my bag, relieved to find a second lollipop. It was against my principles to keep him quiet with unhealthy food, but lately I found myself throwing these good intentions out of the window.
“I heard about that accident with the cyclist and a tram the other day through the grapevine. Wasn’t it just awful?” I gave a gasp and covered my mouth with my hand like a second-rate actress in an am-dram trying to simulate shock.
“Yes, someone told me about it during my lunch break.” The man shook his head. “How awful.”
“Awful,” I echoed his words flatly.
He looked at me for a moment. “It affects us all, you know. A horrific accident like that is a tram driver’s worst nightmare.”
“I’m sure it is.”
The tram driver pressed his intercom and informed the passengers that we were almost arriving at the Vondelpark. He needed little encouragement to carry on speaking, feeding my need to find out more about the circumstances in which Sandra had died. “It happened in a flash, so I heard. I just don’t understand people, they rush across the street in a hurry without looking and don’t seem to realise what a giant a tram like that really is. If you get underneath it, you’ll be smashed beyond recognition or repair, there’ll be nothing left of you.”
I closed my eyes, shook my head and tried to wipe the image of Sandra under the tram from my mind.
The doors opened again and a couple of people entered, whereupon the tram driver said “good morning”. I moved over to let the passengers filter past.
My heart was beating faster as I worried the driver would start asking questions about me poking around, but I did my utmost to make my voice sound calm. “By the way, didn’t that accident happen on this line? Number twelve?”
“You’re right. Yes, my colleague Archie was on duty that day. Decent chap. We’ve known each other for years. Riding the tram was his life and soul, but now he’s become a shell of a man. Spends his days at home now. From what I’ve heard, he can’t get the accident out of his mind, poor sod.”
It wasn’t just horrible for Sandra and her family, but it had obviously taken a large toll on the driver, as he was presumably traumatised by the collision. “Oh gosh, that’s dreadful,” I coaxed, hoping for more details. I glanced at Tim, who had almost finished his lollipop. I was getting closer, but I needed to hurry up.
The driver shook his head. “The irony is, that it all happened just around the corner from that poor guy’s house. So each time he goes out, even if it’s just for a walk from his flat to the deli, he’s reminded of the accident.”
My ears pricked up at this point. “Is that so?” I mentioned the name of the street where the accident had supposedly taken place to the tram driver.
“He lives just around the corner from there, opposite that Turkish greengrocer who was recently mugged. Archie and his wife have a flat on the third floor. The children left the house years ago.”
“Isn’t that something,” I whispered, imprinting this valuable piece of information to memory.
There was a pause as we were each caught up in our own thoughts, until Tim started whining and I turned my attention to him.
Even though I had achieved my goal, I didn’t get off the tram until we arrived at the stop the driver had mentioned, in order not to raise suspicion.
I waved to the driver and pretended to walk away from the tram stop.
Once the tram was out of sight, I crossed the track to get to the other side of the road. “Tim, Mummy has surprise for you again,” I chirped. “We’re going to take another ride.”
While I was waiting for the tram heading back home, I entered a number of search terms on my phone. It didn’t take me long to find a local newspaper’s item with a mention of a Turkish greengrocer recently robbed in broad daylight, not too far from where I was right now. On my digital map I saw that it was a side street from tram twelve’s route and that there was a deli just around the corner. “Bingo,” I exclaimed.
21
It was two days before I had the opportunity to take further action after discovering Archie’s address. It had felt like a long wait as I was keen to pick the tram driver’s brain, but then again, the delay had given me the chance to think about a sound approach.
As I turned the final corner before his house, I saw cra
tes of fresh produce from the Turkish greengrocer on the pavement. I parked my bike on the opposite side of the road against a lamppost and inspected the various buildings, looking for nameplates, which unfortunately turned out to be absent. The first building – a large, family house – was ruled out immediately as I had been told Archie lived in a flat. The second building housed a company, but the third consisted of three flats.
I said a little prayer and rang the upper doorbell.
“Yes,” a female voice barked through the intercom.
I could feel my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth as I started to speak. “Good morning, my name is Doctor Van Dijk. I’m the company doctor at your husband’s work. I’ve come to see how he’s doing.”
There was a silence on the other side.
I knew I took an immense risk – anything could go wrong. Perhaps an occupational health physician had already come by, or Archie would start asking questions and smell trouble. Worst-case scenario, I could end up losing my license. But as I thought it would be best to stay close to my own expertise as a health professional, I opted for this approach.
The woman pressed the buzzer without saying another word. I heard a click and subsequently pushed open the door.
I climbed the staircase to the third floor where a woman, who looked around fifty years old, with bouffant blond hair and copious amounts of makeup, was awaiting me in the doorway. She was wearing an old-fashioned beige blouse with prominent shoulder pads, covering an enormous bosom.
I reached out my hand to introduce myself and recalled my fake name just in time.
“Maria van Daal,” the woman responded.
She took my coat and hung it on a rack in the narrow hallway.
“Please follow me,” she continued in a distinctive Amsterdam accent. “My husband is inside.”
I followed her into the living room, where plain linoleum lined the floor, adorned by a tiger skin rug in the seating area. On one side of the room stood an antiquated oak dining table and four chairs, with a checked tablecloth. On the other side was a cream-coloured couch on which an older man was seated, his shoulders drooping and his eyes straying outside, through the net curtains.
Double Deceit Page 17