Tanya’s lying on the hotel bed when she gets the email.
She’s been staring at the ceiling, thinking, against the express wishes of the specialist, about the baby. She was sure she’d felt it kick whilst lying there. She tried to take that as a sign that it was OK, that it would make it, that the hole in its tiny heart would heal over well before it was born. Right now she feels like she’d do anything, absolutely anything, to make sure it’s OK.
She finds herself online – Jaap had told her not to bring her phone, but she’s sure her laptop’s fine – researching everything about the heart, when the email comes in. She can hear a chambermaid chatting on the phone just outside her room.
The email is from someone at the Schiphol morgue. They’d tried to get her on her phone but had no luck. They ask to be called as soon as possible.
She grabs her pre-pay phone and dials the number, fear clasping her throat.
She listens to the woman’s voice on the other end of the line, and then, once she’s finished, asks her to repeat herself.
Then she thanks her and hangs up.
She calls a cab which arrives just as she’s ready. On the drive she wonders about calling Jaap, but thinks this is the last thing he needs right now.
She’s been to the city morgue out near Schiphol airport many times, but only in an official capacity. She’s never been called there because someone she knew needed to be ID’d.
She’s met by a detective she’s never worked with but seen around a few times. She signs in, and he takes her through to where the official identifications are made. It’s like a dream; she doesn’t see how this is real.
When the sheet is whipped back it turns from dream to nightmare.
The woman she’d spoken to earlier said she’d been named next-of-kin. Apparently he’d actually had a document drawn up by a lawyer which also gave her control of his estate, such as it was, and requested that she identify him.
She steps forward, the slab Kees is laid out on seeming to move away from her in space-time as she does.
She looks at the face.
It was him she’d seen four days ago.
Then, as the tears dribble down her cheeks and create a sour tickle under her chin, she nods.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘It’s him.’