I heard the sound of the front door opening and immediately afterwards an unknown voice calling out, “Amsterdam-West police, good afternoon.”
Hans walked towards the corridor. “We’re in here. Please, come in.”
I didn’t know what exactly I was expecting – perhaps an entire team dressed in white suits, ready to crawl over the crime scene. Instead, merely a single police agent in uniform stepped into the room, introducing himself as Peter, with a smile on his face and a distinctive Amsterdam accent.
After the officer had examined my consultation room, established that a pavement tile had been hurled through the window from outside – as if we hadn’t come to that conclusion already – and had read the note, he started entering all the information into his laptop. Simone brought him a cup of coffee with a biscuit. She seemed to find it all immensely fascinating and I imagined how she’d delight in recounting every last detail to her friends tonight.
The agent looked alternately at Hans and Simone, as I’d told him that I’d only just arrived at the practice. “Did you hear anything out of the ordinary, or see anyone suspicious in the last few hours?” Hans and Simone looked at each other and shook their heads. “No, nothing at all,” Simone answered, looking like a deer in headlights.
“We both haven’t been in my colleague’s consultation room today,” Hans added. “Is it possible that it happened during the night?”
The agent made a face suggesting it was anyone’s-guess and kept typing in silence, the table vibrating each time he hit his keyboard.
I took a sip of my tea, this time succeeding without spilling it, hoping the warm liquid would calm down my nerves, although it felt like I’d need something stronger to do the job.
Hans leaned back against the door, his eyes fixated on the agent, who was still taking notes, and rubbed his chin. “Do you have any clue who might be behind all of this?”
The agent calmly finished his report and then pushed the laptop aside. He leaned back, crossed his arms and looked at Hans. “Look. We can never tell for sure with incidents like these. But given the message on the note and the fact that nothing was stolen, I’d venture a guess that this might be the work of a disgruntled patient.” The agent’s gaze turned to me. “Have you had any altercations with a patient recently, or has any complaint been filed against the practice?”
Simone glanced at me, then quickly lowered her eyes again.
I thought back to how I’d been ranting at Mrs van Brock a while ago and felt a wave of red creep up my neck until my cheeks flamed. She hadn’t been the only patient I’d riled recently.
Hans responded like a diplomat addressing a problem in the Middle East. “Disgruntled patients are not uncommon here. It’s a rather dynamic neighbourhood that we’re serving,” he declared, which was obviously a euphemism. He smiled at me, making me feel supported. “Wouldn’t you agree, Jennifer?”
I nodded, feeling in a fog, as if the world around me was moving too fast.
The agent looked searchingly at me. “Dr Smits, has anything like this happened to you before? Has anyone ever threatened you in any way in the past?”
My mind went back to the note on my doormat, which nobody knew about. When I’d stumbled upon this second note just now, I was absolutely positive that it was written in the same spirit, but now I started to have my doubts. Why in the world had I been such an idiot to toss that first message out? Now I had nothing tangible to compare this second note with.
Before I could answer, Hans responded. “On one occasion, there was a patient who wasn’t too pleased with how she was treated by Dr Smits. My colleague has had a rough time lately and we’re all only human after all. However, we had a sit-down to clear it up and reconciled with the lady in question, so I don’t subscribe to this incident having anything to do with her.”
I nodded, feeling rattled and flustered about the whole situation.
The agent tapped his knuckles on the table for a moment and then pushed himself out of the chair. “Right. I’ve entered everything into the system. You’ll receive a letter shortly with an overview of everything that happened.” He grabbed something from his bag and handed it to me. “In this flyer you’ll find tips from the police to prevent burglaries in the future.”
I smiled dutifully and said “thank you”, although there was obviously little use locking the barn door after the horse has bolted.
“I’ll be heading off now.” He winked at Simone. “Thanks for the coffee, love.”
Simone started fiddling with her hair and smiled at the man with the broad shoulders.
Surely he couldn’t be finished already? “Shouldn’t you be doing something, take photos of the room, collect trace evidence or secure fingerprints? Things like that,” I asked in a panicky voice.
He grinned and answered me, his Amsterdam accent even more pronounced, “No offense, Doc, but I think you may have watched too much CSI. If we start doing that for each minor case like this, we’ll be powdering ourselves into a corner and never catch any real crooks.”
Simone tried to stifle a giggle and I gave her a glare of contempt.
“Secure the place with one of those yellow tapes?” I tried.
There was an ever so slightly dismissive look of on his face as he shook his head. “This whole mess can just be cleaned up now.”
“Well, this is a fine kettle of fish,” Hans responded, apparently disappointed in the minimal approach as well. Then he turned his attention to Simone. “Can you go and get the dustpan and brush please?”
Simone left the room with a face like a smacked bum.
“I’ll see myself out,” Peter said, raising his hand, and strode out towards the hallway.
I had a bad feeling about this. I jumped up and followed the agent with brisk steps. “But how are you planning to find the perpetrator without any evidence?”
The agent swivelled, his bright blue eyes looking kindly at me. “Doc, people are being burgled twenty-four-seven. During the time we’ve been talking here, three other places have already been broken into. You’re lucky nothing has been taken. I’m sorry to break it to you, but the chances of nabbing these fellas is slim to zero. Even if we were to collar the culprits, we’re probably dealing with obnoxious, little punks who’ll be released again after three days of litter picking.”
I folded my arms in front of my chest and remained silent with a furrowed brow.
The agent shook hands with Hans and me. “Take care, Dr Smits,” he said.
Hans closed the door behind the man and turned to me. “Oh dear.”
My legs felt as if they were about to buckle from underneath me. “Surely, they can’t get away with it that easily?”
26
I hit the pedals of my bike, feeling beads of sweat forming on my back. Yesterday I’d been so upset by the devastation in my consultation room that I had to devote all of my energy to carry out my work properly – there had been no opportunity to phone Detective Armstrong. But I felt increasingly edgy and knew there was no time to lose. I wanted to get hold of the detective as soon as possible and share my latest revelations and suspicions of forgery and bribery concerning Mason & McGant, so I decided to ring him before my first consultation of the day. While I waited for the traffic light to turn green, I fished my phone out of my pocket and scrolled through the contacts until I arrived at the right number.
He answered my call. “Detective Armstrong.”
“Good morning, this is Jennifer Smits speaking,” I began in a friendly tone. “It’s been a while since we last spoke. I’m Oliver’s wife, the man who died half a year ago at a holiday park.
“Yes, yes, I know who you are. You called me not too long ago,” he grunted.
I resumed, feeling slightly pressured. “You may also remember I told you before about the secret file my husband had been working on at the law firm. As it turns out, I recently …”
“Yes I do remember, Mrs Smits,” he interrupted me, his voice raised. “And I explained to you we ca
nnot do anything for you. The outcome of the investigation was irrefutable – there’s no indication whatsoever to assume that your husband’s death had a non-natural cause.”
I clutched the phone between my ear and my shoulder as the lights turned green and swiftly cycled off. “Hold your horses. Last time you said that I couldn’t provide evidence for all my hypotheses. This has now changed – I have evidence.”
There was a pause. “And what kind of evidence might that be, ma’am?” he asked, without a trace of interest in his voice.
“It’s too complicated to clarify over the phone. Would you have an opening for me to stop by?”
“Ma’am, I have other pressing engagements,” he said resolutely. “There are a ton of files piled up on my desk. You have no idea what kind of workload I’m under – after last year’s round of budget cuts, our department has shrunk by forty percent while the big shots above us expect the same output,” he complained.
I was thinking about how I could win him over when a black SUV suddenly emerged from my right. With all my might I squeezed the brakes of the bike, skidding over the asphalt. After what seemed like an eternity – but in fact was most likely less than a second – my bike screeched to a halt. The nose of the front wheel was only a few centimetres away from the bumper of the car. I’d escaped getting run over by the skin of my teeth.
“You idiot!” I yelled at the motorist, who was gawking at me in astonishment. “You almost hit me.”
“Excuse me?” I heard the detective ask.
I was standing still on the bike path, my heart beating wildly in my chest. Didn’t that moron have eyes?
“Mrs Smits, are you still there?”
The man in the car seemed to come back to his senses and lowered his window. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Didn’t you see, I was coming from the right!” he yelled.
I realised that he indeed had priority and needed a moment to catch my breath. “Yes I’m here. Sorry about that,” I spoke into the phone.
Detective Armstrong gave a sigh. “Mrs Smits, I really need to go.”
I ignored the driver, who was still cursing and hollering at me, put on my headphones and cycled away.
This was my last chance. “Ten minutes of your time is all I ask, no more. I will stop badgering you after that. I promise.”
There was another sigh. “Alright then.”
We agreed that I’d stop by during the lunch break. The detective gave me an address that, to my relief, was less than five minutes from my work by bike. I’d be able to duck out for the meeting without too much trouble – I didn’t feel like informing my colleagues about my plans.
“See you later,” I said, feeling elated and cycled along the last few streets towards my work.
After a hectic morning in the practice, I was knee-deep in administration when I noticed it was almost time to meet with Detective Armstrong.
Hans stuck his head around the corner of my room. “Lunch?”
“I’m not eating in today,” I said, stowing my phone in my handbag, avoiding his eyes.
“Oh, that’s a shame. Not hungry?” Hans asked kindly.
My cheeks were turning red. “I er …” I faltered. “I have to pick up something at a friend’s house.” I felt sick as soon as the lie had passed my lips, but I told myself it was for a greater cause.
“Right. I see. Just make sure you have something to eat while you’re on the go,” he said lightly, but there was slight sound of concern in his voice, which I found completely unwarranted – there was nothing wrong with me. “Sure, I’ll grab something on the hoof,” I assured him. I demonstratively pinched a piece of belly fat. “I need to keep that muffin top in shape, right?”
He seemed reassured and laughed. “Exactly.”
I slid my arms into my coat. “See you later,” I yelled over my shoulder and dashed out.
Outside I decided to ignore my growling stomach and cycled straight to the police station – I didn’t want to give Detective Armstrong any reason to cancel our appointment.
A while later I saw an imposing, modern edifice fronted with glass panels rise up in the distance. This police station was nothing like the concrete, dilapidated building that I’d been taken to by the police months ago when Oliver had just died. Memories of that horrible day came rushing back, but somehow the intensity of the grief seemed to have abated with time.
I ascended the black, stone steps to the entrance and saw a counter inside where, according to Detective Armstrong, I had to register. I walked over to it and gave my name through the protective glass shield. “I have an appointment with Detective Armstrong.”
“One moment please,” the lady in the blue police uniform said.
She asked for my identity card, the number of which she noted down and made a phone call.
Then she turned to me again. “This is a visitor’s pass that will provide access to the building. If you hold the pass against the scanner, it will get you through the gates.” She pointed towards something in the far distance. “Then take the lift to the third floor and Detective Armstrong will be waiting for you upstairs.”
I thanked her and followed the instructions. As the lift doors opened on the third floor, I was greeted by a man of about sixty years old, with a grey moustache masking his upper lip. His pink scalp was visible through the thin gauze of his wispy white hair and he was towering about ten centimetres above me. The amiable-looking man extended his hand and introduced himself.
I answered his firm handshake. “Jennifer Smits.”
“Impeccable timing,” he remarked and gave me a nod. “Let’s head to my office.”
We walked silently over the blue carpet towards the end of the corridor, where he held the door open for me. The large window in the room offered a panoramic view over the flanking canal.
“Take a seat,” he said, indicating a hard wooden chair. He walked to the other side of the table and lowered himself onto a chair which squeaked under his weight. He pulled a blue lunchbox from his backpack, secured with an elastic band. “Mind if I eat while we talk?” Four neatly cut sandwiches and some fruit filled the box. “I have another meeting with my team at one o’clock.”
I said that it was no problem and felt my heart pounding in my chest. This was the moment to run my ideas by the detective and convince him to reopen the investigation. If this didn’t work out, I’d have no other options at my disposal to resolve the mystery surrounding Oliver’s death.
The detective got straight to the point. “You wanted to discuss something with me? Fire away.”
I rifled through my handbag and pulled out both my pack of papers and Sandra’s, which I had printed out late last night, and began talking. “I told you before that my husband was secretly working on a file entitled Van Santen, right?”
The detective chewed noisily on his sandwich and mumbled something in consent.
“I gained access to this document after his death,” I said, being purposely vague about the way we had appropriated it. “Based on this, I reached the conclusion that there was actually no such client named Van Santen. This was the first point that deviated from the usual procedure at Mason & McGant.”
“Who were Mason & McGant again?” asked the detective.
His remark made me feel disheartened – he apparently didn’t recall anything about Oliver’s case.
He gobbled up a chunk of bread, immediately grabbed a new sandwich from his box and admired it. “Can’t beat a good old cheese sarnie,” he said and eagerly sunk his teeth into it.
I rolled my eyes and dug my nails into my palms, trying to stay calm. “Mason & McGant is the law firm my husband used to work for, remember?”
He nodded his head vigorously. “Oh yes, now I remember. Go on.”
“We’ve been scrutinising the documents and raked over every detail. It transpires my husband was investigating a number of suspicious cases within his office and organised the results in a file with a pseudonym, ‘Van Santen’.”
; The detective took a grape from his lunchbox, tossed it in the air and moved his head so he could catch it in his mouth. He missed and the grape bounced off the table, vanishing somewhere underneath his desk. His obvious and almost offensive lack of attention made me question whether he was taking any of this seriously.
I waved the pile of papers in the air in a desperate attempt to redirect his focus before speaking again. “My husband drafted a chart containing the evidence gathered for the four cases and categorised them into two different types.” I placed the chart on the table and turned it a quarter so that we could both read it. “I’m not an expert in this legal jargon as I’m a doctor by profession, but it transpires that something unusual was going on with regards to the evidence of those cases. Something that was so significant and illicit that he felt the need to give this document a pseudonym. He didn’t even mention it to me, his own wife.” I deliberately left out the fact it wasn’t the only thing Oliver had been hiding from me.
“Hmm,” he muttered wearily and snatched his last sandwich out of the box. He glanced at his watch. “I have a few minutes left.”
I felt like a noose had been forced around my neck – I hadn’t gotten to all those other suspicious things yet, I could feel my glimmer of hope in a good outcome fizzle out.
“Do you remember the compromising DVDs we found, showing all the lawyers who received their training at Mason & McGant?”
This piece of information seemed to have jogged his memory. “Oh right,” he said, a chunk of bread crammed in his left, bulging cheek. “Now it’s all coming back. That is where it got ugly. Wasn’t your husband captured in that footage?” he asked, but I could tell by the look on his face he knew the answer to his rather indelicate question.
My cheeks flushed with disconcertment. “My theory is that the paralegals are deliberately recorded on tape during their first year,” I said, evading his question. “So that they can be silenced later on during their careers whenever they witness things at the firm that are illegal or otherwise in breach of the law. Or even worse, used to put the squeeze on them to actively participate in criminal activity.” I paused a moment letting the detective take it all in, before I concluded my story. “I have a strong suspicion that the Dutch Forensics Institute is playing a major role in this as well.”
Double Deceit Page 23