December 2024
Brigadier Terpstra
BRIGADIER TOMAS TERPSTRA planned to question the prime suspect before the family’s arrival on the island. His partner, Karel, like most young people, liked to sleep late, a habit he needed to break during a murder investigation—even when it was a cold case.
Yesterday they had spent a wet, blustery day on Lutine, observing the crime scene investigators process the scene. A sense of urgency prevailed as the weather deteriorated. The team pitched a tent over the grave, but wind shook the canvas and threatened to pull out the stakes. Rain formed gullies that streamed in from all sides. The bones were hastily collected. The sandbank was photographed and videoed. Soil samples taken. Debris from the container spill sent away for forensic analysis. Tomas knew that the likelihood of finding evidence beyond the immediate gravesite was nearly nil after twenty years of exposure to wind, rain, and animal activity.
He didn’t know if the victim was murdered on Lutine or killed elsewhere and dumped. His department didn’t have the budget or the resources to waste. When the weather made further investigation untenable, the crime scene coordinator released the scene, and her team returned to the mainland by police boat. A couple of men would come back to tidy up as soon as the weather lifted. Tomas and Karel spent the night on Wexalia, at a B&B with thin walls, grubby bathrooms, and special low winter rates.
While Karel drove, Tomas took in the scenery. Gray was the operative word. They passed dreary villages and a stunted pine forest. Past the midpoint of the island, the landscape changed to polder. Karel parked the car in front of the beachcomber’s house, an old fisherman’s cottage.
The cottage had low brick walls and a high pan-tile roof. A lean-to was built onto one side, and the main roof brought down over it at a less steep pitch. The lean-to housed the Castaways Museum.
They walked up the shell driveway. A small, fiberglass boat, repurposed as a planter, dominated the tiny front yard. The planter was half full of muddy water, the plants submerged, a few leaves floating on the surface.
The museum had its own entrance. Tomas pushed on the door, and a bell jingled. The ceiling sloped with the roof. He could stand up without ducking if he kept to the left. Karel, who was shorter, had less of a problem. The wood interior was dry and brittle as kindling.
An eclectic assortment of objects filled the shelves. Chipped pottery. Old coins. A cannonball. A life preserver. Empty Russian vodka bottles. Tomas read the nearest label: SS Surrey, cargo steamer lost in December 1884.
“A ticket costs three euros each,” said a gravelly voice.
Tomas hadn’t noticed the old man sitting in a rocking chair behind the counter, knitting something with blue yarn. His shaggy white hair and reddish-gray beard framed a lined face. He was wearing what looked like a hand-knit turtleneck sweater, possibly one of his own creations.
“I’m Brigadier Tomas Terpstra, and this is Detective Karel Rijkaard. We’re with the Noord-Nederland police.” Tomas showed the man his identification card. “Are you Menso De Vries?”
“I am. Are you going to buy a ticket or not?”
Tomas didn’t have a search warrant, so he nodded at Karel, who pulled out his wallet and laid a bill on the counter.
Menso put down his knitting needles and made change. “What can I do for you?”
“We have some questions about Louisa Veldkamp’s disappearance twenty years ago.”
“There’s talk her body’s been found on Lutine. Was it her?”
“The remains match her description.”
Her identity still needed to be confirmed, but Tomas felt confident enough to reopen the case. The remains were those of a female Caucasian, age between thirty-five and fifty. Based on the length of her femur, she was tall, an inch or two under six feet. At least ten years had elapsed since the time of death. Everything fit.
“It was because of the storm, wasn’t it?” Menso said. “The Wad gave up her bones.”
“Can we sit down somewhere?” Tomas asked.
The beachcomber ushered Tomas and Karel through an interior door to the main house. The scarred plank floor groaned under Tomas’s feet.
Tomas guessed that walls had been knocked out to create a spacious room. In the rear was a basic kitchen with a wood-burning stove, and in the center of the room was a table made from old wood nailed together, four mismatched chairs pulled up around it. A sagging sofa lined the wall on the museum side. The steep wooden staircase in the corner probably led to a bedroom.
“Tea?” Menso asked, and motioned for them to sit at the table.
The cottage was even colder than the museum. Tomas left on his coat. Karel took off his; his belly fat gave him natural insulation. While Menso fed a log into the stove and put the kettle on, Karel turned on his iPad, and Tomas gazed at a few family photos that were arranged haphazardly on the walls. One photo showed a younger Menso fishing in a boat, but Tomas couldn’t make out the name on the hull.
“Is it the same boat—?” Tomas asked, waving his arm toward the front garden.
“That’s her. The Dogger,” Menso said as he placed steaming mugs on the table. “I bought her in the eighties. Kept her washed and waxed. Patched up cracks in the fiberglass. A couple of years ago, the hull failed. The old girl deserved better than to end her days in a wrecking yard. The planter was Famke’s idea. That’s my granddaughter. She has a master’s in marine biology. Funny, her mim couldn’t wait to leave the island, but Famke can’t keep away.”
Tomas struggled to follow Menso’s West Frisian accent and occasional lapse into dialect. He set down his mug. “I appreciate you taking the time to talk to us. This isn’t an interview. We’re here for background.”
Menso nodded. “I got nothing to hide.”
“When was the last time you saw Louisa Veldkamp?”
“It was the day the Veldkamp wiif arrived on the island. I was at the harbor, picking up my daughter and granddaughter. They came over on the same ferry. We had words on the dock. I won’t lie to you. There was bad blood between us. But we went our separate ways.”
“I know about the incident with her sons when they were ten years old. What’s your side of the story?”
Menso’s face flushed magenta. “The wiif didn’t like me being friendly with her boys. Jealous, if you ask me. Willem and Jurriaan used to bring me objects they found on the beach. Most of it worthless, but I pretended they were treasures. I once gave them lemonade and cookies when my wife was on the mainland. The boys were late getting home. When their mim found out where they’d been, she raised hell. Called me a pedophile.” He took a sip of tea, the mug shaking in his hand.
Tomas nodded. “Go on.”
“The police locked me in a cell overnight. Willem swore I hadn’t touched them. So that was that. But the islanders started looking at me sideways. Just when the talk died down, the Veldkamp wiif disappeared. It’s harder to prove you didn’t do something than to prove you did.”
“How did her necklace wind up under the floorboard of your cottage?” Tomas said.
Menso’s face darkened. “She drowned. Right?
“Please answer the question.
“Not until you tell me the real reason you’re here.”
“The manner of death hasn’t been determined, yet,” Tomas said.
“I have nothing to add to what I told the police twenty years ago,” Menso said, his eyes shifting between Tomas and Karel. “I found a pair of shoes on the beach. I picked up one and the necklace fell out. It looked valuable, so I dropped it in my pocket. I knew I was doing wrong, but I took it anyway. They sentenced me to community service.”
“Describe the necklace.”
“Gold chain and a piano pendant.”
“The pendant is unusual. Possibly unique. Did you know the necklace belonged to Louisa Veldkamp?”
“How would I?”
“She was wearing it when she got off the ferry.”
“I had other things on my mind.”
Menso’s eyes must be sharp as a gull’s, finding objects in the sand that other people missed, especially shiny objects. But Tomas let the matter drop for now.
Tomas said, “You were arrested for drunken and disorderly conduct in 2000. Would you tell me about that?”
Menso jumped to his feet, the cords in his neck standing out. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“You’re not under arrest. You don’t have to talk to us, but I’d like to hear your side of the story.”
The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the tapping of Karel’s fingers on the iPad.
Menso leaned his fists on the table, his face wrestling with indecision. “I was drinking a pint in the Fair Weather Pub. Old Doeksen implied I liked little boys. I slugged him. I wouldn’t have done that if I’d been sober. I swore off alcohol and haven’t touched it since.”
“Where were you at the time Mrs. Veldkamp went on her run?”
The beachcomber sneered. “Like I said in my statement. I was combing the beach as usual. If Mrs. Veldkamp went on a run that morning, I didn’t see her. Now, get out of my house.”
Tomas sank into thought as he and his partner passed the boat planter on their way to the car. He considered whether to ask the crime scene investigators to examine the boat. Although it was nearly impossible to remove blood residue from every crevice, the biological elements in blood degraded fast. He decided not to waste his limited budget.
He climbed into the car and checked his phone for messages. There was one from Hendrik Veldkamp, informing him the family had arrived on the island.
“What do you think of our prime suspect?” Tomas asked as Karel started the car.
“Menso is the only person with a motive.”
“It’s the only motive that was uncovered in the original investigation,” Tomas said. “But remember, it wasn’t a murder inquiry then. She was presumed drowned. We’ll need to dig.”
“He has a history of violence,” Karel said.
“A man once provoked him when he was drunk. That’s not much of a history.”
“He has a temper.”
“And he knits,” Tomas said.
Karel grinned.
The Wadden wasn’t visible from the cottage, but even with the car windows raised, Tomas could smell the rotten-egg stench of the mudflats.
A few minutes later, Karel drove onto the dike road. On their left, a mist had settled over the Wad, thin close to the shore, thicker in the distance. The sky stretched dark and low over the island like a moth-eaten blanket, silvery light glowing through the holes.
At last, Karel broke the silence. “I was thinking. Menso has only been arrested once for theft. What if he knew the necklace belonged to Louisa? Maybe he found it in her shoe—just like he said—and stole it to spite her.”
“Does this mean you don’t believe he’s guilty?” Tomas said.
“If he killed her, he wouldn’t take a piece of jewelry off her body knowing it could incriminate him.”
Tomas thought for a moment before replying.
“Criminals do foolish things all the time. They take trophies. Make mistakes. That’s how they get caught. Let’s pay the Veldkamps a visit.”
“Can we grab a sandwich first? I’m starving.”
Tomas looked at his watch. Karel had eaten a huge greasy breakfast at the B&B only a few hours ago.
“Lunch can wait until after we talk to the family.”