Zelda sipped tea in interrogation room number four, too tired to care how bitter her drink was or how cold it had gotten. Detectives Oosterbaan and Merks had been questioning her for hours, trying to get their heads around the information she had to share about Konrad Heider, Oswald Drechsler, Karen O’Neil, Philip Verbeet and the Van Heemsvliet brothers.
Sighing wearily, she tilted her head back and stared up at the ceiling, wondering how much longer they’d keep her here. She’d meticulously recounted everything she could remember at least ten times now, starting from the moment her internship began through to her bashing the lawyer’s head in with a spade. Though his nose and jaw were shattered, Konrad Heider would survive. He would never be handsome again, but that didn’t really matter in prison where, according to the two detectives, Heider would be spending many years, once his wounds had healed.
Zelda was as relieved to hear she hadn’t actually killed the lawyer, as she was to know that he would pay for his crimes – all of them. The police found evidence on his laptop which clearly linked him to both break-in’s, Gerard’s death and the bungled robbery at the Amsterdam Museum. The police had even found proof he’d falsified several of the documents submitted with Karen O’Neil’s claim on Irises. Not that more evidence of her wrongdoing was really necessary. Detective Oosterbaan chuckled when he told her that Karen had admitted to lying about being Arjan’s granddaughter before the cops could even cuff her.
The police could add to their list of charges kidnapping and two counts of attempted murder, Zelda thought ruefully, another wave of guilt washing over her as she remembered how quickly Friedrich’s jovial expression changed when Heider’s bullet entered his shoulder.
She scratched at her neck; the collar of her white jumpsuit still stiff with starch. She wondered when she would be able to wear her own clothes again. Neither Oosterbaan nor Merks would tell her what the punishment was for bludgeoning someone in self-defense. She knew that Dutch jail terms tended to be light in comparison to American sentences; she prayed the judge would consider all of the mitigating circumstances.
The detectives had excused themselves ages ago and Zelda was having trouble keeping her eyes open. Now the interrogation was over, she was totally drained. Using her folded arms as a pillow, she laid her head on the table and let her eyelids droop closed. All she wanted to do right now was crawl into bed – any bed – even if it was attached to the wall of a prison cell.
Just as she was drifting into unconsciousness, loud rapping on the metal door snapped her back awake. The two detectives re-entered the interrogation room. Oosterbaan laid a printout on the table while Merks handed her a cup of fresh tea.
“This is a copy of your statement. Read it first, then sign at the bottom,” Oosterbaan said, taking a seat across from her. Merks leaned back against the door, his arms folded across his chest.
As Zelda quickly skimmed the document, Merks asked again, “So, you never did see what was inside the root cellar?”
She gazed up at him, briefly wondering if this was one last test to see if she was telling the truth. “No, like I said before, I didn’t get the chance. I rode with Friedrich to the hospital in the ambulance. Two officers showed up a few minutes after the doctors rushed him into the emergency room and brought me here to this police station.” She was thankful to hear the bullet hadn’t done much permanent damage. A few days in the hospital and then he could come home, where Zelda would hopefully be waiting to nurse him back to health. He’d be good as new soon enough.
“Our forensics team has finished their work and representatives of the Amsterdam Museum will be on-scene shortly. Bernice Dijkstra and Huub Konijn, I believe you know them?” Merks asked, a smile playing on his lips.
His seated partner leaned forward, joining the conversation. “We are quite impressed by how you figured out where Arjan van Heemsvliet had hidden his artwork, especially considering Drechsler and his nephew had been actively searching for it for so many years.”
“They didn’t have his letters,” she blushed.
“Regardless, we think you deserve to see what Van Heemsvliet and Philip Verbeet stored in that root cellar, before the crates are removed. It is quite an extraordinary sight.” Both detectives were grinning broadly.
“Are all of the paintings in Arjan’s inventory book really down there?” She could hardly believe it to be true, regardless of all that had happened, but the expressions on the detectives’ faces made it clear that this was indeed the case.
“We believe so, though until all the crates have been transported to the Amsterdam Museum’s depot and opened, we won’t be certain. However, our officers did open three crates when they first arrived on-scene. They’ve reported that the boxes contain framed paintings and paperwork documenting their provenance. It should be quite simple to track down the current addresses of the owners or their heirs. Your discovery will make many families very happy.”
Zelda felt a surge of pride. All she’d wanted to do was help Rita Brouwer get Irises back, yet thanks to her persistence, naivety and a lot of luck, she had stumbled upon Arjan’s entire cache of artwork. Now all of those families he had helped seventy years earlier – all thirty-eight of them – would be re-united with what was rightfully theirs, including Rita and her sisters.
“But what about hitting the lawyer with the spade? What crime are you going to charge me with?” her voice trembled, sure this interview would end in handcuffs.
“Considering he had kidnapped you and repeatedly threatened to shoot both you and your friend Friedrich Rutz, we view your actions as a clear case of self-defense. You do not have to worry about him pressing charges against you.”
Relief swept through her body as the detective’s words sank in.
“So, would you like to see the root cellar?” Merks asked again.
Zelda nodded, giddy with excitement. Sleep could wait.