After the Silence: Inspector Rykel Book 1 (Amsterdam Quartet) (8 page)

Monday, 2 January
20.06

Tanya stood, ankle deep in the ashes, and followed the white light of her torch beam as it swung slowly back and forth. She’d been here for at least half an hour and had nearly covered the whole area, but so far there had been no child’s bones, or indeed anything else of interest. Not even the sound of an owl or a seagull to break the silence.

The night was clear, and the darkness, punctured only by a handful of stars, showed how far from a major city this corner of the Netherlands was.

She shivered and wished she’d brought a hat with her, or at the very least some gloves.

What am I doing here
, she wondered,
what am I going to find that everybody else has missed?

Finally she managed to convince herself to leave and she headed back to the car, the smell of burning catching in her throat from all the disturbance she’d caused. She was just reaching out to open the door when she thought she saw – or did she hear? – something off to her left, in the far corner of the plot. She kept still, holding her breath while she tried to peer into the darkness, willing her eyes to work better.

Is that her?
the thought hammered at her.
Is she here?

She aimed her torch in the direction of the noise and flicked it on.

There was something there. Her chest felt like it had been whacked by a speeding truck. The torch beam caught something, movement, by the hedge almost exactly where she’d found the doll.

Before she knew what she was doing Tanya felt the wind in her hair and her limbs pumping as she sprinted back towards the burnt-out house. She didn’t have time to go round and so ran straight through what remained of the ash, causing it to fly up all around her.

Her eyes were stinging and she couldn’t see but she kept on, pushing hard, her lungs willing her not to breathe in. Moments before she was about to make it out the other side she caught her foot on something and went down hard, slicing her knee on a part of what must have been the same object she tripped on.

She picked herself up and tried to carry on, forcing herself through the hedge, the scratches nothing compared to the pain in her leg. Once through she couldn’t see anything. Training the torch out in an arc she figured she’d be able to catch sight of the person – because she was sure it
was
a person – but despite the landscape being flat there was nothing.

Were they taller than a child?

She paused and listened, but the only sound she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears, a sound like a massive waterfall, and the dull thump of her heart, which seemed to make the landscape around her pulse in time.

Which way had they gone, and what had they been doing there? And how long had they been there watching
her? Were they out there somewhere now, observing her still from the cover of a ditch, or flattened out in a rut in a field? Again she swung the torch around and again she came up with nothing. And it was then that she began to feel exposed.

All that’s good for
, she suddenly realized,
is showing where I am.

She flipped the switch on her torch and turned round, scared suddenly and pushed back through the hedge, the crackling loud in the still night, the sharp branches clawing at her like evil hands.

She could feel a presence behind her the whole way back to the car, and even turned twice fully expecting to see a face, or a raised arm whose hand clutched a hammer or knife. The feeling got so strong that she ran the last twenty metres back to the car, threw the door open, jumped in and fumbled with the key, unable to get it in the ignition. Then it was in, sliding into place, and she yanked it to the right, the engine not firing up until the third attempt.

She swung the car round in a tight circle and slammed her foot down so hard she was afraid she’d break the accelerator.

Monday, 2 January
21.07

‘And he didn’t say where he was going?’ Jaap asked.

Saskia shook her head. Her rounded belly touched the table in front of her.

He’d come back, aware that she was all on her own. He thought of all the times he’d been here with Andreas and Saskia, in this very kitchen, enjoying a meal, each other’s company.

And that time last year, when Andreas had been away. He felt even worse about that now.

Everything looked different, as if Andreas’ absence had altered the room.

‘I can’t do this on my own,’ she said, tears rolling down her cheeks. Jaap moved round behind her, holding her shoulders as she sat in the chair. He could feel her shaking, the damp heat of her tears.

Holding her brought back memories of when they’d been together, before they realized they just couldn’t make it work. Ironically it was her and Andreas getting together which had brought them closer than they’d ever been as an item.

‘It’s going to be okay,’ he murmured to her, hearing how empty the words were.

‘So where were you last night?’ she asked as the sobbing subsided.

‘I had to go see Karin, she called me in a total state and you know there’s no one else –’

‘Jaap, forget what I said earlier, I don’t blame you.’

‘I should have gone, but Karin was …’

Her hand found his.

‘Andreas shouldn’t have gone on his own, it’s not your fault.’

The fridge juddered, clicked off, and he could hear a plane, coming in to land at Schiphol, humming through the sky outside.

‘I need to check Andreas’ computer,’ said Jaap. ‘I think there may be something on it I need.’

‘It’s in the study,’ she said, her voice thick, choked.

Jaap walked though and flipped the light on. He could still feel where Saskia’s hand had lain on his own.

He was just about to fire up the computer, but stopped and looked for the router, which he found under the desk. He turned it off – he didn’t want it syncing with a server and wiping everything off this one as well.

Result.

Everything was still there.

He opened the case file on the Black Tulips; the last entry was early Sunday morning, and it was just a phone number. He looked up the area code and found it was from Friesland, up north.

Where Sergeant van der Mark called from. Is her case linked to the Black Tulips too?

He shut down the computer, then hesitated for a second before turning the router back on.

Let’s see how smart De Waart is
, he thought as he left the room.

‘Do you know who did it?’ she asked as he returned to the kitchen.

‘I … not yet but I’m going to find out. But there’s something I’ve got to tell you.’ He pulled a chair up and sat, looking at her. ‘I can’t be officially on the case, they won’t let me. The thing is …’ He paused, searching out her eyes. ‘… they’ve assigned De Waart to do it.’

‘De Waart?’ She straightened up. ‘But he hates Andreas, blames him.’

‘I know, but there’s nothing I can do about it.’ He found himself scratching a small dark stain on the table with one of his fingernails.

Andreas and De Waart had been in a chase which led them out towards Haarlem. It was foggy and Andreas was driving. As the visibility diminished he said he was going to stand down, but De Waart insisted they carry on. Less than a minute later, when something shot out in front of them in the fog, Andreas swerved and flipped the car.

The seat belt meant Andreas got away with minor bruising, but De Waart didn’t have his on.

The impact broke his leg in three places and left him with five pins, a limp, and a hard-on for Andreas.

‘So he’s going to come and ask you some questions – just don’t tell him that you’ve been talking to me.’

‘Does he know about us, that we were together once?’

‘Probably, I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter.’

‘What if I refuse to speak to him?’

‘I don’t think that would be a good idea.’

Her head went back down.

‘The funeral’s set for Friday morning. I can’t believe he’s gone,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t believe he’s gone.’

Jaap sat in the night’s stillness.

He’d learnt how in Kyoto. It had seemed impossible at first.
Just sit
, his teacher had told him, but when he did the very thoughts he was trying to escape kept churning, multiplying like cockroaches. It nearly drove him crazy. Until, a few months in, they’d started to fade, the images went from Technicolor to sepia to black-and-white. And sometimes, for just a brief few moments which nevertheless seemed almost timeless, a stillness, a vast empty space filled his mind. At those moments he was free.

After leaving Saskia he’d gone back to his houseboat, and although exhausted was unable to sleep. He’d got up, gone through to the main living area, and settled on the mat and cushion he kept in the corner furthest from the door which led up on to the deck.

He focused on the breath as it entered his body then left it, again and again, feeling the cold air’s sharpness against his nostrils on the in-breath, its softer warmth on the out.

Gradually the torrent of thoughts receded from his mind’s foreground. They were still there, forming, trying to hook his attention, demanding that he engage with them, but he kept his focus on the sensations caused by the movement of air, until he felt almost as still as the world around him.

These were the moments when everything was
different, when he couldn’t tell where he ended and the world began, when he felt connected.

There was no
he
and nothing to be connected to.

Time was irrelevant, time didn’t exist.

When he finally opened his eyes hazy moonlight was pooling on the floor in front of him.

He rose, his legs stiff and his back sore, and he got the feeling there was something he’d missed during the day. Something that he should have checked, something important.

But, as he climbed back into bed, pulling the cover up over him against the cold, he just couldn’t think what it was.

Monday, 2 January
21.42

As the plane lifted off the ground Jan Zwartberg settled back into his seat and closed his eyes, the dimmed cabin lights making it difficult to read. He could have reached up and activated the little spotlight above his head, but when it came to it his arms just wouldn’t obey the command issued by his brain.

He was exhausted – the last few days had rushed past quickly: he’d managed to achieve what he’d set out to do, had got a few more contacts, interested parties who liked the look of the unique service he offered – and as the plane steadily rose he sank down into sleep, contrary motion.

The feral smell of the on-board meal woke him, the fold-down tray loaded with a baking hot plastic container. Peeling back the lid he saw what looked like a prop for a cheap slasher movie and, revolted, pushed it away.

No use trying to get back to sleep now. He’d picked up a late edition of
De Telegraaf
at the departure lounge and he reached into the seat pocket where he’d jammed it as he boarded, the air-con nozzle shooting a cold stream down his neck as he did so.

A stewardess came round and offered drinks; he took a
whisky, just to help him relax a bit, unwind, help work out the kinks in his neck and shoulders, and to celebrate, treat himself. He opened the paper, the ink already staining his fingers – and why couldn’t they invent an ink which didn’t do that, and whilst they were at it what about making newspapers smaller, so that you didn’t end up having to fight with them, especially if you were in a small space?

He started reading. Enjoying the earthy tang of the drink he scanned the front page and then moved on to the next, where, as he saw the headline, the latest mouthful of whisky he’d taken sprayed out of his nose, searing the delicate mucus membranes, making them feel like he was breathing fire. The paper was dappled with tiny spots of single malt.

The title, ‘Amsterdam Diamond Merchant Murdered’, had got his attention. He scanned the article at speed but there was no mention of a name, the journalist clearly having very little real information. But it did say the victim had been discovered at their house on Herengracht.

He placed the plastic cup back down on the tray table, his hand shaking so badly that the remaining whisky slopped over the edges, creating little pools of golden liquid which glinted in the half-light. Everything was racing now, mind, heart, bowels, and he felt claustrophobic, like he needed to smash open the window and breathe some real air.

Eventually – by the time the captain had come on the speaker, heralded by angelic soft ascending bells, and told them all to buckle up as they were starting their descent, and would the cabin crew mind preparing for landing? – he’d managed to calm himself down and convince himself
that he was jumping to conclusions. There were countless diamond merchants in Amsterdam, and many of them probably lived on Herengracht. After all, what was the point in making money if you couldn’t enjoy it? So there was no reason to panic just yet.

As soon as they landed he pulled out a clamshell phone and placed a call.

The phone rang out, his hand sweating against the cheap plastic.

He pocketed it again, and told himself that he’d find that everything was okay, that it was someone else, just a coincidence.

And it was this thought which sustained him through the landing, through passport control at Schiphol, sustained him all the way through the cab ride back into town, sustained him right up to the moment when he closed his front door behind him, and slid across the two deadbolts, each locking into place with a loud clang.