A Cold Death in Amsterdam (Lotte Meerman Book 1) (34 page)

The door behind me opened with a click, which tore the tension like an exploding bomb. I jolted, but kept looking at Wouter. His eyes swerved away from me but then his shoulders relaxed and he smiled. But he didn’t put his gun down.

‘Put the gun away, Wouter.’ From behind me Ronald mumbled a repeat of my words as if he didn’t really want to say them.

Wouter didn’t react. His gun didn’t move.

‘Drop your weapon.’ Ronald said it louder, more securely.

‘We can still get away with this.’

‘No, we can’t. This is where it ends, Wouter. I’ve covered for you, but it’s gone too far. You lied to me.’

Wouter moved his feet wider to stabilise his body against the wind.

‘You swore that Anton was still alive when you left. You swore you didn’t kill him.
I
took those files from the shed.
I
threatened Karin Petersen. I said not to tell anybody you’d been at their house. God, she thought I knew all along. Put the gun down, Wouter, or I will shoot you.’ Ronald’s voice croaked. He coughed.

Wouter didn’t say anything but clicked the safety off the gun. If I’d still had mine, this was when I’d have had no choice but to shoot him.

‘You’re my friend, Wouter, and I don’t want to do this. But I will.’

‘This is your fault, Ronald.’ Wouter gestured at me with his gun. ‘You told me you had her under control. You told me you got her suspended. But here she is. That’s not under control.’

‘Stop it, Wouter. You’re threatening an unarmed police officer,’ Ronald said. ‘
Put the gun down.
It’s over.’

Wouter’s lips worked although no words came out. With his eyes blinking behind the glasses, he signalled the thoughts inside his head. Many snowflakes fell in a few seconds as we stood and waited. The wind caressed my face as if to comfort me. Would the wind’s glancing touch be the last thing I felt? Would the sound of my heartbeat and the distant rumble of the traffic be the last thing I heard? Exhaust fumes the last thing I smelled? Would the sight of Wouter and the frozen canal behind him be the last thing I saw?

Then there was the sound of sirens, the high and low two-tone getting louder and closer. Wouter moved his finger. I heard the shot. Somebody screamed. A shard of ice crashed in my right shoulder, then radiated out in heat. I dropped to my knees.

In response, a shot roared out from behind me.

I saw Wouter fall. I watched his body until my own pain dragged me further down and I lay on the ground, the stones bringing a chill to my face.

I wasn’t going to die. The black railing of the steps hung against the falling snow. I reached out, grabbed hold of the cold metal and pulled myself up until I was sitting. Pain soared on the movement. I pressed my hand against my shoulder and watched the blood stain the skin red from between my fingers down along the tendons like a henna tattoo. I tore my eyes away from the hypnotic stream and looked at Ronald. His eyes were fixed on the broken body at the bottom of the stairs.

The sirens came to a halt.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Ronald whispered, his voice drowned in the cacophony of police cars. I knew he wasn’t talking to me.

Footsteps approached – my colleagues in uniform. I turned my head and saw Ronald hand over his police-standard Walther P5. ‘We need to get you to the hospital,’ said an officer I’d never seen before. I recognised Erik, who had found me by the side of the canal a few days ago.

My mobile rang: I knew it was the call I’d been waiting for. I kept my left hand pressed against my shoulder. Erik answered the phone and held it to my ear.

‘Hi, Lotte, it’s me.’ It was my father. ‘They let me out.’

‘That’s good, Dad, that’s good.’

As I waited for the ambulance, whose tones I could hear in the distance, my father’s voice flowed continuously like a stream of comfort in my ear. He chatted and I said little, until the paramedics walked up the stairs. ‘I’ve got to go now, Dad,’ I said – I didn’t want to worry him too much – ‘but can I come and stay with you for a while?’

‘Of course, Lotte. You can stay as long as you like. When will you be here?’

My pain subsided a bit and at last became bearable. ‘I’ll give you a call tomorrow.’ They’d want to keep me in hospital at least overnight.

‘I look forward to it,’ my father said.

‘Me too.’ I smiled.

Many people have given up their time to read all or parts of this novel and I’m grateful to them all, but especially to Alan Buckingham, Caroline Buckingham and Chris Beton. They provided invaluable feedback on the characters and plot, and their positive words kept me going. I’d like to thank my agent Allan Guthrie for all his work on shaping my novel and finding it a good home, and finally Krystyna Green and all at Constable & Robinson for believing in this book.