A Cold Death in Amsterdam (Lotte Meerman Book 1) (22 page)

A second police car overtook us.

I took the same turning as the blue light. This was the road where Anton and Karin Lantinga lived. Giant houses on both sides proclaimed the wealth of their owners.

A group of police cars and an ambulance were parked at the end of the street. I took my foot off the accelerator and slowed the car down to walking speed.

‘Oh shit,’ Stefanie said.

I switched the radio off. We crawled along and I hoped to see number 32 on one of the houses before we got to the swirling sirens. However, as I counted the numbers, I already knew that these emergency vehicles were parked where Anton lived. I knew it deep down inside. I had been right to expect the worst.

‘Now he’s not going to talk any more, is he? Do you think Karin shot a second husband?’ Stefanie almost sounded as if she was laughing.

‘Shut up!’ This was our fault. If we hadn’t pressurised him, if we hadn’t pushed him . . . I knew this wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t wanted to talk. I hoped he hadn’t killed himself. Maybe he’d had a heart attack or maybe Karin had. I parked the car behind the ambulance, pushed the door open, flashed my badge to the paramedic with one hand and grabbed my coat with the other.

‘What happened?’ I heard Stefanie ask. But I didn’t stop. I didn’t want to hear an explanation. I wanted to see it. I was putting my coat on as I moved, no time to stop. A flash lit up the dark sky. A photographer. No need for that ambulance then. Who was it, Karin or Anton?

I hurried along the path towards the garden where the snow was being trampled by myriad feet. As I added my footsteps to those of my local colleagues, the snow underneath my boots whispered of death. Tall trees stood like black-dressed undertakers at the edge of the white lawn. Making for the flashing lights of the photographer, I passed an orderly row of box shrubs. As I turned the corner at the end of the row I saw the feet of a forensic scientist clad in what could be camouflage gear, the white of the plastic identical to the colour of the snow. Between the footsteps, between the marks of the people who photographed, examined and investigated the dead body, was the trail of a bird, the small tracks leading over the ground from the box hedge to the shed. I followed the bird’s trail with my eyes to avoid looking at the body lying in a pool of coral-red snow. My chest felt tight and there was a large lump in the place where the two underwires of my bra met. I held out my badge to nobody in particular and forced myself to have a closer look. The tears in my eyes froze to small sharp icicles. Frost bit my face and the cold air burned my lungs when I inhaled.

I looked at my watch. It was eight o’clock, exactly the time we were supposed to meet. The body was wearing a pair of jeans, brown loafers and a dark blue V-neck jumper over a T-shirt. Why wasn’t he wearing a coat? It was well below zero. He must have thought he’d only be outside for a short time. Had he heard something? Seen somebody?

A hand gripped my arm and I pulled free without taking my eyes off the dead man. He was lying on his right-hand side and there was a hole in his left temple. Maybe shot from close range. There might be traces of powder on the skin.

‘Lotte, what are you doing here?’ The hand was on my arm again, more insistent this time. I didn’t like the physical restraint and I tried to shake it off, but the hand wasn’t budging. I looked up and saw Ronald de Boer. His hair had escaped its severe control and rioted over his forehead. Another flash of the photographer drew his face out of the darkness. It looked criss-crossed with wrinkles like dark pencil lines on his skin, which had a pallor that made it almost as grey as his eyes.

‘I . . . we were supposed to meet up with Anton tonight.’

‘We?’

‘Yes, I’m here with Stefanie Dekkers.’

Ronald cursed softly. He looked over my shoulder to check who was nearby and tugged me off to a darker and more secluded corner of the garden. ‘We’ve got to be careful,’ he said. He took one glove off, cupped my jaw with his palm, then ran his thumb along my cheekbone. His skin felt warm and alive to the cold of my face, and on my arms goose bumps rose. Nerve-endings on the skin of my face came alive and contracted in my stomach.

He brought his face close. ‘Your father was here tonight,’ he whispered. His breath tickled my eardrum and ran a shiver down my spine. I could see the white cloud of his exhalation more clearly than I could hear the words. The rasp of his stubble grated my cheek. I stumbled and put my hand on his shoulder. I could smell cigarette smoke in his hair. I closed my eyes.

‘Not everybody here has his best interests at heart.’

I took a step back and looked at him. His grey eyes weren’t on me but on the group of people around Anton’s body. ‘I know,’ I said.

‘I knew you would. Leave it to me, Lotte. I’ll deal with everything.’ He traced my cheek again with his thumb; the skin felt rough like grains of sand. ‘I’ll protect him, just like I did before.’

‘But—’

‘I’ll talk to you later.’ He moved his hand to the back of my neck, to that vulnerable place that used to be protected by hair, and gave it a squeeze before he walked off to join the group.

I stood and watched him.

He approached Stefanie and shook her hand. She offered him a cigarette out of the packet she always had in her pocket. Two small lights glowed side by side. He gestured at me with the cigarette between his fingers. Stefanie nodded, her mouth sucking nicotine into her lungs. She breathed out a white cloud of cancer-causing smoke.

I left the garden and walked up the drive to the cavernous house. The front door was ajar and I pushed it further open, running my fingers over the knocker that was in the shape of a bronze lion, his teeth exposed in an eternal growl. I paused on the doorstep. Parquet floors and high ceilings, a chandelier in the hallway and mirrors on either side were meant to give an even greater impression of space. Dirty footprints covered the hallway where people had traipsed a mixture of mud and snow into the otherwise clean house, and now the mirrors reflected how it had been soiled. I tried to scrub my boots as clean as possible, reluctant to add to the mess on the floor. From behind a door to the left I heard voices. Female voices. Crying. I followed the sound and pushed the door open.

Karin sat huddled on the floor in a corner of the sitting room. She was hiding behind the dining-room furniture like a frightened wild animal, the striped wallpaper behind her like bars. Her hair was still in its Grace Kelly chignon but unravelled strands hung about her face. Black mascara was smudged around her eyes like a large bruise, and her wrinkles were red as if they’d been recently cut in her skin with a razor. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ she burst out. ‘You know this is your fault. I told him not to—’

‘Not to what?’

She caught hold of her necklace, a single long strand, and pulled it round her neck, pearl by pearl, as if it was a rosary. ‘I’ve got nothing left. Nothing.’ Her other hand clutched her BlackBerry.

I crouched down beside her. ‘Mrs Lantinga, I’m so sorry. Have you got any idea who did this?’

Karin stared from the policewoman who was keeping her company, back to the open door. I glanced over my shoulder to see what she was looking at, but didn’t see anything. I only heard the footsteps of my colleagues walking up and down the hallway. ‘I’m not talking to you. I’m not suicidal yet,’ she said, her eyes not leaving the door.

‘Shall I close it?’

She shook her head and wiped the tears away with her left hand. Her BlackBerry whirred as her thumb continuously scrolled the trackball in a compulsive gesture. She didn’t look at the device; her eyes were riveted to the open door.

‘Did you hear anything?’

‘A shot. I told him not to talk to you. And not to that old guy either.’

‘Which old guy?’

‘The retired policeman – Huizen?’ There was tension in each of her muscles. She looked scared to death, ready to jump up to attack anybody coming through that doorway. At that moment, she looked the same age as Otto Petersen’s mother.

I sat down on the floor next to her and we both looked at the open door. A hint of her jasmine and apple perfume was a reminder from a happier, less frightening time. A couple of forensic scientists walked by in their plastic outfits. I waited until they’d gone.

‘He came here?’ I said it quietly.

‘Yes, around six. Wasn’t here for long. Didn’t come in.’

‘What time . . .’ I looked at the policewoman for answers, wanting to spare Karin the entire question.

But Karin replied. ‘I heard the shot at just after seven,’ she said. ‘And I called the police immediately.’

An hour before we’d been due to meet. I remembered the blue police sirens overtaking us on the road from Alkmaar to Bergen. ‘You know who did this,’ I said. ‘Tell me what happened.’

She hid her face. ‘Please don’t ask. Leave it.’ She sounded exhausted.

‘I can’t leave it. Your husband is dead – you say it’s my fault, and it feels as if it
is
my fault. I need to know.’

‘First Otto, then Anton.’ She spat out the words.

‘Did you hear anything? See anything? Anybody?’

The BlackBerry flashed a red light but Karin didn’t look at it. She kept staring at the door and remained silent.

I wanted to talk to my father but I couldn’t as I had to drive Stefanie back to Amsterdam. If I’d been here with Hans I could have taken him along, but with Stefanie I couldn’t take the risk. Her conviction that he was involved and her quest to nail him for something to get our boss off the hook were too strong. The inside of the car was cold but I had to take my coat off; it was too bulky to drive with it on. I switched the heating on full. The odour of warmth filled the car, which would have to do before the actual sensation materialised.

‘I saw you,’ Stefanie said. She smelled of the cigarettes she’d had with Ronald.

‘Saw me when?’

‘With that Alkmaar detective, Ronald de Boer. I saw the two of you together.’

I didn’t say anything.

‘I don’t care,’ she said. ‘You can do what you like. I won’t tell anybody.’

I switched the radio on. A female voice was telling us the weather forecast: more frost for the next three days, but a lower chance of snow. Stefanie reached out and changed the channel, pressing the button to change it again every time she heard a talking voice. In the end a radio station playing Abba satisfied her and she sat back. The road was practically empty. Without the snow of last week, this drive was a whole lot easier. It shouldn’t take us more than forty-five minutes to get back to Amsterdam.

‘So Anton Lantinga didn’t kill Petersen then,’ she said.

‘We’ll wait for forensics, but it seems the same modus operandi.’

‘Will Alkmaar take the case?’

‘I’m not sure. Those files . . .’

‘Forget about those files, for goodness sake!’

‘They’re important.’

‘Yeah yeah. Anyway, Goosens then? Or do you think Karin killed both men?’

‘She was distraught and scared.’ I turned the sound of the radio up and whispered along with Agnetha that the winner takes it all.

‘I talked to Ronald,’ Stefanie said.

I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel in time with the music.

‘He didn’t have many ideas on who could have killed Anton. He worked the original Petersen case, didn’t he?’ she wanted to know.

We entered the tunnel under the Noordzeekanaal and the radio cut out. ‘Yes, he did.’

‘He’s very good-looking. You’re a lucky girl. I’ll be pissed off if they take the case after all the work we’ve done.’

‘The two weeks of work we’ve done.’

‘You know what I mean.’

I did. I thought of Ronald’s words, that he’d protect my father. Like me, Ronald must think he needed protecting from himself.

It was still dark when I cycled to work. The dynamo on my bike whirred like the trackball on Karin’s BlackBerry when her thumb had turned it compulsively last night. The sight of Anton’s head with the gunshot wound at the temple and Karin’s tears had haunted me until the early hours. The only reason I hadn’t taken my car out for another restless nocturnal drive was because I worked instead. I’d spent a long time in my study.

It had only taken seven seconds to change my drawing and cross out Anton Lantinga’s name in its box, but then I’d been left with nothing that made sense – unless the witness, Wouter Vos, had seen Karin drive Anton’s car. I stared at the piece of paper for ten minutes or so, then got the Tippex out and removed the cross through Anton’s name with white. My drawing was about who killed Otto Petersen. Unless we had evidence that the same murderer killed both men, Anton was still in the picture for the first shooting.

Petersen’s mother told me her son was talking about revenge. But what if that wasn’t revenge for Anton’s affair with Karin, but revenge for the collapse of Otto’s company? I drew a new box and wrote in the anonymous whistle-blower that Stefanie had unearthed. Van Ravensberger admitted to getting most of his losses back from the investments that Goosens made for him. Was that what happened to the money? I drew another dotted quarter circle, concentric to the first one, connecting Goosens to the missing forty million euros, to show this second alternative.

I’d paused my pen on the line connecting my father to Anton. So far it only said
Did he pay him?
above it. With an unwilling hand I wrote
He was seen at Anton’s house
below the arrow.

After another half an hour of looking at the partially empty sheet with a totally empty brain, I gave up. In my bedroom I shook a number of the small blue pills into the palm of my hand. They looked like blueberry jelly beans. I raised my hand to my mouth, then lowered it again and tipped the pills back in their amber pharmacy pot.

Now as I moved my legs in a steady rhythm, the effort of cycling brought some warmth into my cold calf muscles. Anton’s murder had to give us new information. He’d wanted to talk to us – and that had clearly forced the killer to act. Had he told anybody he’d set up the meeting? And we weren’t the only ones Anton wanted to meet. He had also arranged to meet my father and, who knows, maybe even somebody else.