Once I’ve calmed down I get on the phone to Vermeer. Only her phone’s off so I have to settle for Jansen.
‘We need to meet,’ I tell him.
‘What’s this about, sir?’
I’m beginning to think this whole sir business is him being sarcastic.
‘It’s about a unifying theory of everything, which manages to finally bridge the gap between general relativity and quantum mechanics. What the hell do you think it’s about?’
‘I –’
‘Where are you now?’
‘Den Haag, I’m down here with Vermeer.’
‘When are you back?’
‘We’ll be at the station around three or so. But what’s this –’
‘Call me when you’re close. I’ll meet you there.’
I hang up before he can say ‘sir’ again.
The more I think about this, the more I know something’s not right. But calling Jansen was maybe premature. I get on the phone to Gert Roemers, head of the computer crimes unit at the station.
‘I thought you’d left,’ he says once I’ve got hold of him and made my request.
‘Sort of. But I’m thinking of writing my memoirs and I wanted to speak to a couple of people involved in old cases.’
Roemers makes a noise like liquid’s shooting out of his nose.
‘Memoirs? Jesus. You’re not putting me in them are you?’
‘No, you’re not interesting enough.’
‘Good. All right, give me the names; I’ll call you back.’
‘First is Robert Huisman. He’s on the system already, should be easy to trace. The second is Joos Wilders, who used to work in tech, retired about four years ago.’
I stuff the letter into my pocket and go to the houseboat moored next to mine. Leah answers the door. She’s seventy-ish, grey hair and piercing eyes the colour of which I’ve never quite been able to fathom. Atlantic Ocean in winter might be close. Leah’s been living here since the early seventies when she emigrated from New York to pursue her art, abstract sculptures made from pieces she finds on her frequent wanderings round the city: scrap metal, bits of bikes, plastic bags, branches from trees, used syringes. She finds a use for everything. Her deck has a constantly changing array, and so many tourists stopped to take photos that she eventually bent her artistic principles enough to actually contemplate selling the odd piece. Now if you catch her on a good day she might even take cash. As to men, there’ve been many over the years, but none of them for long. She once told me she felt stifled, suffocated even, if one of them stayed more than four or five days. None of them ever reached six, as far as I could tell.
I give her a spare set of keys – they were Tanya’s and have a ghost of her scent, even just holding them brings back that gnawing regret – and ask her to look out for the electrician.
‘That yours?’ she asks, pointing to the Mustang.
‘Yeah,’ I say and for some reason feel a slight swell of pride.
‘Shame …’ she says, staring at it wistfully over my shoulder.
Back on board the houseboat Roemers calls. He’s got Wilders’ address, which I scribble down quickly. Huisman, though, is going to take him a little longer, he tells me. I ask him how long. He says something smart about a bit of string. I tell him to get on with it.
I’m just getting ready to leave when my phone goes off again. Nellie de Vries, Hank’s wife. I debate not answering for a moment, but we’ve not spoken recently so …
‘Jaap, there’s something I want to talk to you about.’
She sounds different to usual, flatter somehow.
‘Sure, what’s up?’ There’s a stab of fear in my gut.
‘It’d be better in person, maybe we could meet up?’
My antennae are twirling at this point, but I know not to push it over the phone. We agree I’ll drop by her place in IJburg later on today. I hang up feeling queasy, because I’ve got a terrible feeling I know what she’s going to say.
Joos Wilders is first. I check the address, which seems like a retirement complex out near Kasteel Brederode, a building that was of strategic importance in the Hook and Cod wars of the fourteenth and fifteenth century, but has now been relegated to a national monument.
I lock up, get in the car. Then I get out, clean the shit off the bonnet. Leah’s still on deck and I wave as I go past, but I don’t think she can even see me, her focus entirely on the vehicle. It’s like she’s deconstructing it in her head, working out which bits she could cannibalize for the sake of art. I’m going to have to watch her.
My route’s the A10, then A4, before I swing onto the A9 northbound, which funnels me up through expanses of reclaimed land. The sun’s out, and it’s an almost perfect autumn day with a fragile light blue sky and seventeenth-century clouds. My interior weather is not as good; it feels tense like the gathering of a storm. It’s not long before I spot the sign for Sunrise Homes, an arrow pointing to the next right. Sunrise. Who are they kidding? It should be Sunset. I take the turn and motor down a lane that ends in a parking space next to a field. On the other side, buildings are dotted around some manicured grounds, and there are old people everywhere: gardening, sitting on benches, chatting in groups. They don’t look all that unhappy. I resolve not to mention the Sunrise/Sunset thing to anyone.
The reception desk has one of those old-fashioned bells that looks a little bit like a breast, and you have to hit the nipple with the palm of your hand. Next to it a vase oozes with obscenely voluptuous tropical flowers. A stack of leaflets promise a wonderland of fun for anyone lucky enough to live the Sunrise Lifestyle. There’s a distinct lack of receptionist, though, even after I’ve slapped the bell up a bit.
‘She might be a while,’ croaks a voice from behind me. I turn to see an old woman, wrinkled, bent, a half-smile and eyes which, whilst watery, hold a certain power still. She shuffles towards me like a penguin, bringing with her an aura of powdery lavender. She’s wearing a taupe bathrobe with a purple waist tie, and slippers which each have two pink furry balls stitched to the tops. They flop around as she moves.
‘Someone died about half an hour ago,’ she says by way of explanation. ‘And they’re short-staffed today.’ She moves closer and adopts a conspiratorial air. ‘It’s because of the laxative I put into the staff breakfast; two of them have gone home already. Good to keep them regular.’
She chuckles, her shoulders keeping time.
I’m about to ask her if she knows Joos Wilders when we’re interrupted by a voice.
‘Elsie, there you are,’ says a harried-looking woman in uniform heading towards us, a Stepford grin on her face. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you. You didn’t take your medicine this morning; it was found hidden in the flowerpot again.’
‘It’s not medicine,’ Elsie stage-whispers to me. ‘It’s poison. They’re trying to poison me. All of them are.’
‘I’ll be with you shortly,’ Stepford Receptionist says, leading away Elsie who is protesting verbally but complying physically. A few minutes later she’s back.
‘Sorry about that,’ Stepford says, inserting herself behind the desk, her walk oddly stiff. She’s wearing a light blue polo shirt with an embroidered rising sun, shooting rays all over her left breast. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m looking for Joos Wilders, I believe he lives here?’
‘Are you the dog warden?’
‘What? No, I’m … an old friend of Joos, I was passing and thought I’d drop in.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she says, tempering her forced smile a little. ‘Joos Wilders died earlier this morning. That’s why everything’s a bit chaotic here at the moment. And I’ve got two staff off sick as well, both gone down with a stomach bug, so it’s hard holding it all together today.’
I start to understand her pained grin, and I suddenly wonder about what Elsie said.
‘How did he die?’
‘Probably just old age. It’s not uncommon. He adopted a dog only last week and it was barking really early this morning. That’s how we found him. Anyway, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really need to –’
‘I’m actually from the police,’ I tell her, hoping she’s not going to be officious and ask for some ID. ‘I needed to talk to him about an old case but that’s obviously too late. I would like to see where he lived, though.’
Chances of me finding something important, like a memo from him saying he had actually verified the time stamp are infinitesimally small. But I’m here, and what else can I do? Her grin’s getting ever more pained.
‘Look, if you point me in the right direction I can let you get on.’
She thinks it over. Her stomach gurgles. Then she tells me how to get to Joos’ bungalow and swiftly disappears behind a door marked STAFF.
I walk through the grounds. There are probably forty or so small bungalows spread out, each with their own little garden. Some are vegetable plots, others are more ornamental. One is a square of grass trimmed to precisely 2.5 millimetres; I’m guessing the occupant used to work in government or for a local council. I’m a rare beast in this terrain, and the local fauna check me out, mostly with friendly smiles, though I spot a few pairs of medicine-dulled eyes.
Joos’ bungalow is easy to spot. A cleaning crew is hanging around outside with mops and cigarettes and slumped postures.
As I step closer I hear muffled barking from inside. The door opens and a man, who must be the one Stepford mistook me for, steps out with a dog on a leash. I’ve seen enough police dogs to know what it is, a Malinois, though it doesn’t seem fully grown yet and it’s almost entirely black. It looks like a black wolf. Oh god.
The Malinois abruptly finishes barking, and decides it would like to sniff pretty much everything in the world. The man holding the leash is in danger of having his shoulder dislocated.
‘Are you a relative?’ he asks me as the dog lunges forward and sniffs my shoes.
‘Of the dog or the dead man? Neither.’
‘You don’t want a dog, do you?’
‘Why, what’s wrong with it?’
The dog’s moved on from my shoes and is exploring my leg.
‘There’s nothing wrong with it – it’s just in all likelihood it’ll end up being put down. The shelter’s already oversubscribed. I took seven dogs in yesterday, know how many of those are alive today?’
I don’t know because I’m not a mind reader. I hate being posed rhetorical questions, so I don’t say anything or give any indication that I care about the answer and yet he makes a zero with his thumb and forefinger anyway.
‘Sorry, I can’t.’
The dog’s worked his way up my leg and is now poking its snout right at the pocket where my vape is, making a series of loud snorts.
‘He likes you,’ the man says. ‘First time he’s stopped moving since I got here.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him again.
The man shrugs. ‘C’mon boy,’ he says, gently tugging the leash to get the dog moving. The dog’s less than keen, but the man ends up dragging him behind him. They pass another man, in a uniform similar to Stepford’s, who’s heading in my direction with righteous purpose in his step.
‘Can I help?’ he asks in that way people have when what they really mean is who the fuck are you? but don’t have the balls to actually say it. He tacks a little forced laugh on to the end of it.
‘No, I’m fine,’ I tell him as I step past the cleaners who seem in no hurry to get into the bungalow.
‘You can’t go in there,’ he calls out to me, though it sounds more of a squawk really.
I turn to look at him; he’s short and stocky and doesn’t seem to have much flexibility in his spine. His smile is a masterclass in insincerity.
‘I’m an old colleague of Joos’,’ I tell him. ‘I just need to see inside.’
‘You’re police?’ he asks, less squawky now, but still suspicious.
‘Exactly.’ I step through the front door.
The first thing that hits me is the heat. The radiators are on nuclear meltdown setting. The space is decent, though: a large living room looks out onto a garden at the back. Beyond that a field filled with small clouds fallen from the sky. Sheep, on closer inspection. The kitchen’s tiny, the bathroom has a sit-in bath, and the bedroom has a floor-to-ceiling bookcase and a single bed. The cover is pristine white and the whole thing looks unslept in. There’s a round white mat on the floor which is covered in black dog hairs. Thankfully, though, it’s cooler in here – the window’s half open. I scan the bookcase, mostly technical volumes and a shelf devoted entirely to the works of Ursula K. Le Guin. Moving on I find two entire shelves crammed tight with spiral-bound notebooks. I take one down and find it’s a diary of sorts. Flipping through it I can see the man was obsessive; there’s an entry for every single day, the writing cramped but precise.
‘Do you have some ID?’
Doorway. Mr Sincere. Behind him a security guard. Notebook back on shelf.
‘Yeah,’ I tell him, running my finger along the spiral spines, trying to work out which one I need. I pull one out, find I’ve miscounted, and try another. This one’s right, the date range covering what I need.
‘I really would like to see it,’ he says, taking a step into the room, the forced laugh at the end of each sentence really starting to grate now. He’s positively vibrating with some pent-up emotion.
‘It’s in my car,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll take you there once I’ve finished here.’
He snatches the notebook from me and puts it back on the shelf.
‘I don’t believe you,’ he says. I can see his inner child. And it’s a petulant snot-nosed little brat who would have benefitted from some boundaries being laid down in early life. The security guard steps in, his inner child’s the none-too-bright sort who hang around and protect people smarter than themselves. My inner child reckons it’s getting a bit cramped in here.
‘Bit cramped in here,’ I tell them. ‘Let’s move out.’
I step towards Mr Sincere and he decides to retreat, the security guard turning round and moving through to the living room. The second Mr Sincere’s through the doorway, I slam the door shut, lock it, and quickly find the notebook again. There’s a barrage of banging. I toss the notebook out of the window, then unlock the door.
‘Tripped,’ I say by way of explanation. ‘Fell against the door.’
Two pairs of suspicious eyes. I grimace and rub an elbow, just for show.
I’m escorted back to reception by both of them, one either side of me.
‘Did you eat breakfast here?’ I ask.
‘No.’
‘I’ve heard it’s good. Maybe there are some leftovers you could get.’
I feign heading back to the car park, but as soon as I’m out of their view I double round and find the notebook where I threw it. It’s splayed open on the grass, a breeze flicking pages as if it’s being speed-read by an invisible man. I pick it up, skim through until I find the date I’m looking for and start reading.
It starts out with a description of what he had for breakfast, details of a strange-shaped puddle he spotted on the way to work, and various other bits of minutiae that he seemed to think were worth recording. Then, right at the end of the page, I find it. Just two sentences. I read them several times, just to make sure I’m not misinterpreting them.
But unfortunately I’m not. I close the notebook, as if that will make what I’ve just seen disappear.
The dog warden’s van is parked next to the Stang. The man himself is leaning against his vehicle, sucking something strawberry-scented out of a vape pen, and playing a game on his phone. I’ve been trying to get hold of Jansen but his phone’s off. I try one more time as the dog explores the rim of the front tyre with his snout. Still no Jansen. I give the dog warden a short wave, get in and drive away. Then I stop, throw it into reverse and pull up by him.
‘Is that dog really going to be put down?’
‘’Fraid so,’ he says. ‘There are just so damned many of them, and no one wants a dog like this.’
I get out and check my phone for Carice’s number. She runs a hugely profitable business training police dogs and selling them to forces around the world. It can cost upwards of thirty thousand euros to train a top-level bomb-detection dog, and she’s damn good at it. She’s only five foot, but has a way with hard-bitten working dogs which doesn’t just border on the supernatural – it’s downright surreal.
‘Wassup?’ she asks in American, as I knew she would. Carice spent time in the US, somewhere in Michigan is as about as precise as I can remember, studying with one of the foremost working dog trainers in the world. Since then she’s always done a faux-American thing in the way that only a European can, dripping with irony and superiority. None of which hides the strong undertow of longing.
I tell her, exactly, wassup.
‘You with the dog now?’
‘Yeah.’
On the phone a riot of barking starts up. Carice yells No! and silence reigns.
‘FaceTime me; I’ll have a look.’
I get it going and show her the dog.
‘Move towards him,’ she tells me.
I move forward. The dog stops being interested in the tyre and turns to look at me, ears alert. But he stands his ground, doesn’t back away even when I’m up real close.
‘He’s fine,’ she says after a few seconds. ‘Bit of a punk, but not too bad. Confident body language. It’s the nervy, neurotic ones you need to be wary of.’
‘So you’ll take him?’
‘Take him? I thought this was about you taking him.’
‘Me? I don’t know anything about dogs.’
‘It’s easy. Just remember not to treat him like a fur-baby, and don’t let him get away with anything you don’t want him to do. If you get really stuck, you can bring him out to meet me. Gotta go, I’ve a bitch in heat and one of the young males is getting a bit fruity.’
She’s gone, leaving another very loud No! ringing in my ear.
The guy hands me the leash. ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘You’ve just saved a life.’
He’s in the van and away before I can change my mind. The dog’s nosing at my pocket again. Seems like he might make a natural drug dog. Maybe he’ll come in handy.
I open up the passenger door and the dog jumps in without me having to prompt him.
‘Good boy,’ I say.
He gives me a look which says don’t patronize me. Or maybe I’m misreading it. After all, I don’t know anything about dogs. As the Stang’s engine bites and we’re both pushed back in our seats I wonder just what it is I’ve got myself into.
As I hit the A9 again I find out. Apparently the dog likes to bark at cars as we pass, and as I tend not to be a slow driver there are a lot of cars to bark at. Carice had said not to let him get away with anything I didn’t want him to do, and this barking is driving me insane. Not to mention the very real threat of permanent hearing loss. So I try out my best No!, which only results in him barking more. It worked for Carice, but clearly I’m missing something. This is not good.
I try Jansen again. This time his phone’s on and he answers.
‘Back yet?’
‘Yes, sir, just walking into the station right now. What’s that noise?’
‘It’s a pet cat.’
‘I didn’t know they barked, sir.’
‘Neither did I. Maybe I should take it to a vet. Listen, I’ve got something for you. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be there in half an hour.’
Halfway through the journey, just as we’re pulling into Amsterdam, the dog gives up looking out of the window and curls up on the seat. His ribs expand, then he lets out a massive sigh.
I might have just saved a life, but does that make up for my mistake?
Because from what I can see in Wilders’ notebook, the odds that I did are starting to look overwhelming. A mistake that has had deadly consequences and could have led directly to the death of Marianne Kleine.