Assignment in Amsterdam

by Carrie Bedford

  “Maybe.” Alex was distracted, crouching on the floor, with a plan spread out in front of her. I peered over her shoulder.

  “Did you add in the concrete pillar?” I asked. “We need to note it on the plans.”

  “Uh huh.”

  Realizing I wouldn’t get a response while she was concentrating so hard, I straightened up.

  “I’ll leave you to it.” After deciding to do more research on the pillar by myself, I hurried back down the stairs and grabbed a copy of the plans from the kitchen table, calculating measurements in my head. It seemed that the concrete block would be located over the butler’s pantry next to the kitchen so I started there and found a built-in cupboard that seemed to be in the right place. I opened the door and examined the construction. As I expected, it was reinforced with a hefty stone lintel over the doorway. The side walls were constructed of solid stone with their footings deep in the flagstone floor. That suggested that there would be more reinforcement down below.

  Plans in hand, I hurried down the elegant, blue-carpeted stairs which curved down to the entry hall and opened the oak door set in the wall. Inside was a corridor painted drab green that led into a vast and ancient kitchen with chipped white-tiled counters and a soot-covered fireplace with a spit and several pot-holders. The smell of soot and ash lingered, embedded in the plaster and tiles. I looked up at the beamed ceiling and glanced at the plan I was holding. I was right underneath the apartment kitchen. The difference between old and new was extreme. I couldn’t imagine cooking anything down here.

  After a quick look around, I walked through a long, winding corridor that gave access to a jumble of sculleries, laundry rooms and storage cupboards. Most of the rooms were the same: empty spaces with stone floors. But finally, I found what I was looking for. In the gloom, the room almost resembled a chapel, with stone columns rising to support a vaulted ceiling. There was no altar, however, and no decoration. It was simply another level of reinforcement, providing support for the concrete block above it. Why, though? What purpose could it serve? It seemed the answer had to lie beyond the paneled wall on the top floor. I climbed the stairs to find Alex still staring at her plans in the near darkness.

  “We’ll need to organize some portable lights,” I said. “We’ll have to work late if we’re going to meet our deadlines.”

  We’d just gathered our things and were heading back towards the stairs when there was an almighty crash below, followed by panicked shouting. With my heart in my throat, I took the stairs two at a time and raced towards the sound.

  Henk came barreling towards me, waving his arms and yelling. I pushed past him and dashed towards the dining room, almost running into Sam as he came out.

  “What the hell happened?” he demanded.

  “No idea,” I said, as Alex called to me from the living room. “Kate, you’d better come and see this.”

  She and Henk were standing a few feet away from a pile of broken glass and twisted metal. An electrical wire drooped from the ceiling. The room’s massive chandelier had fallen on to the decorative table below. Hundreds of crystal shards glistened like ice on the sofas and the rug. The table, surprisingly, was intact.

  “Henk says he was trying to rehang the picture that fell yesterday,” Alex said, pointing to a step ladder over by the wall. “He nearly fell off the ladder in shock when the chandelier plummeted down behind him.”

  I gazed at Henk. For all his shouting, he didn’t look particularly shocked. But his aura still circled over his head, so the chandelier crash hadn’t been what threatened him. He said something to Alex.

  “He says it’s an omen.” She rolled her eyes. “He says the house doesn’t want us here.”

  “I think it’s Henk who doesn’t want us here.” I said.

  “Why on earth would Henk want us gone?” Alex undid the tie that held up her ponytail and ran her hands through her blonde hair. She looked younger with her hair down, I thought. When she tied it back up again, it added a couple of years.

  Noticing that I was watching, she smiled. “I sometimes wear glasses just to make myself look older. Otherwise, the guys on the construction sites call me ‘pet’ or ‘darling’ and ask me if I shouldn’t be at school. Drives me nuts.”

  I sympathized. I’d had similar problems when I’d started work. Now I was worrying about my first wrinkle.

  “Well, Henk will probably lose his job once the sale goes through,” I said, thinking out loud. “Maybe he’s trying to frighten us off so that TBA cancels the purchase.”

  I felt a little guilty about criticizing the old man, who was obviously at risk of dying in the coming days. “There can’t be that many potential buyers out there for a property like this,” I said. “It could take years. That would allow dear Henk to sit and drink coffee in the kitchen for the foreseeable future.”

  Henk probably didn’t know that his future was destined to be short-term. And if he did, then he had even more reason to maintain the status quo. Staying in a familiar job in a house where he’d spent decades would be preferable to the upheaval of leaving.

  “Can you tell him to deal with the mess?” I asked.

  When Alex asked him, he grimaced and shrugged a lot but finally toddled off to find a broom and a bin. Once we were fairly sure he would actually clean it all up, we escaped to the kitchen. Sam went back to the dining room to continue his phone call.

  “There’s something weird going on,” Alex said. “Pictures and chandeliers don’t just fall to the ground for no reason. Not in a newly-renovated apartment with rock-solid construction.”

  I agreed. From what Eline had said about her husband’s perfectionist approach to renovation, it was unlikely that fixtures would have any trouble staying in their place.

  “Maybe Henk is right, and we shouldn’t be here,” she said.

  I was surprised. Earlier, she’d seemed so enthusiastic about the project. “I doubt Sam would even consider giving up on the project because of a couple of minor incidents,” I said.

  “Not that minor. Someone could have been seriously hurt or even killed when that chandelier fell.”

  I thought about it. This could be the impetus I needed to get Sam away from the house. But I suspected it would take a lot more than that to convince him. I’d have to tell him about his aura. Much as I hated the thought, the time had come to be honest with him.

  “We’ll talk about it with Sam when he’s free,” I continued. “It will have to be his decision. Meanwhile, we should keep working. There’s a huge amount to get done.”

  I started to open my laptop but stopped when Alex spoke. “So, you and Sam.” She paused. “You look so sad sometimes when he’s in the room. Is there something going on there? Do you fancy him?”

  I hadn’t realized my concern was so obvious. Or maybe Alex was particularly observant. Either way, I wasn’t sure how to respond. “No, of course not,” I said finally. "We’re good friends and have been for years.”

  Alex raised an eyebrow.

  “I am a bit worried about him,” I continued. “He’s under a lot of pressure with this project. It’s one of his first since he began consulting, so it’s really important.”

  “Ah, I see. I’m sorry if I misread things. So, do you have a boyfriend?” She stuck her long legs out in front of her and stretched her arms above her head.

  “Yes. His name is Josh and we work for the same firm. We’ve been together for nearly three years now.” I tapped on my phone and showed her a recent picture of him.

  “He’s cute,” Alex cooed. “His eyes are stunning. I’ve got a shirt that’s the same aqua color.”

  I looked at Josh’s photo for another few seconds before putting my phone away. “What about you?” I asked.

  “Nope. I had a boyfriend at university in Boston for a year. Felipe. He was gorgeous, but we went our separate ways. He’s working in Asia now.”

  “And you live in London?”

  “Yes, my Dad went back to the States when he and my mum divorced abou
t ten years ago. I enjoyed being closer to him while I was at university but by the time I graduated, he had a new girlfriend and Mum was by herself, so I decided to come back to England for work. She’s doing fine now, though, so I started applying for jobs back in New York. In fact, I had an interview scheduled for this week but I had to pass on it because of this project.”

  “Oh, no. That’s bad timing.”

  Alex shrugged. “Yes, but at least this development will look good on my applications going forward.” She grinned. “There’s always a silver lining, right?”

  I smiled at her. She had a positive attitude. “It’ll look good if we get it finished,” I said.

  “Too right. Better get on with it.”

  But Sam came back just then, insisting it was time to leave for the day. After he’d locked the front door, we strolled in the encroaching darkness along streets full of walkers and cyclists. Alex had suggested we have drinks at the local bruine kroeg, a brown cafe, so called for its dark wood and smoke-stained walls. An essential part of Amsterdam life, Alex told us, the brown cafes offered coffee, newspapers, beer, wine and drinks.

  Dating back to the 1600s, this one was packed with locals and tourists. Every inch of wood, from the ceiling beams to the plank floor, gleamed in the light of period lanterns. The noise level made it hard to hold a conversation, but I was all right with that. I’d left home at five in the morning to get to the airport and I was tired, not to mention a little fuzzy from the Genever-based cocktail Alex insisted we all try.

  Still, I had a strange feeling that someone was watching me. It was almost physical, as though a finger was poking me in the back. I swiveled my barstool and scanned the crowd behind me. Seated around bar tables, groups of young people yelled at each other in Dutch or English. I heard a little German too. No one was paying attention to me, but I remembered what Sam had said about feeling that he was being watched inside the house.

  I surveyed the bar again. There was one man sitting alone, perched on a stool near the door, his head bowed over a beer. In a hooded sweatshirt, with a backpack at his feet, he looked like a tourist. And he probably was, traveling solo and stopping for a drink. Perfectly normal.

  Alex tried to persuade us to have another round, but we convinced her it was time to go find dinner. By the time we’d put on our coats, the tourist’s seat was empty. We paused at the door, bracing for the cold we knew waited on the other side. When I stepped out, I glanced up and down the street and saw a man with a backpack staring into the lit window of a bookshop just a few meters away. Was he the tourist from the bar? Was he lingering there deliberately?

  “What’s the matter?” Alex asked me. “You look worried.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  I was being irrational. Dozens of men with backpacks were strolling past or looking in windows. Tessa’s death, all the auras, my fears for Sam. It wasn’t surprising I was on edge. I knew from experience that I was susceptible to imagining the worst when dealing with an aura— everyone in sight was a possible threat. But I’d also learned that it paid to be alert and vigilant, quick to suspect any stranger, or friend, come to that. Until I knew Sam was safe, that would be how I’d operate.

  6

  In spite of a luxurious mattress, I didn’t sleep well. All night, my mind kept cycling through possible threats to Sam and Eline. After dinner, I had walked Sam to his room, nervous about leaving him alone overnight. But, short of camping on his floor, there wasn’t much more I could do. So, I was up early and, at seven, I texted him good morning and was glad to receive an instant response, evidence that he was okay for now at least.

  After showering, I opened the wardrobe and happily pushed aside the dressy jackets and trousers I usually wore for work. Instead, I pulled out a pair of jeans, a comfy cream-colored jumper and flat boots. With my aubergine-colored puffy jacket, a scarf and thick socks, I’d be ready to face the freezing wastelands of the Janssen building’s upper floors.

  I met up with Sam in the hotel’s breakfast room. He looked well-rested, but his aura still circled, once again killing my appetite. I sipped coffee while he demolished a cheese omelet.

  “Sam, there’s something I need to tell you,” I began.

  He held up his hand as his phone buzzed. “Sorry, I have to take this. Let’s head over there.”

  “You’re just showing off,” I kidded him. “Walking and talking at the same time.”

  With him on his mobile, we made it all the way from the hotel to the Janssen house. As he was still listening, I mimed that I was going to take a look around the outside of the property. I hadn’t paid it much attention the day before, but the outside appearance of the house would offer TBA Capital’s clients an important first impression of the company they were doing business with.

  From the street, the building was attractive and well-maintained, obviously another improvement made by Tomas Janssen. Black window frames contrasted nicely with the soft pale stone of the facade, and the design was pleasingly symmetrical. On the ground floor, there were three large windows on both sides of the front door, which was centered under a carved stone pediment. On each of the three floors above were seven tall windows. It was truly impressive.

  I walked the length of the building to its end. Located on a corner lot, it appeared to be as deep as it was wide, providing ample space for the multitude of rooms we’d explored inside. Behind the house, black wrought iron fences lined with dense hedges created a barrier between the city pavement and the property. I peeked through a gap in the hedge to see weed-strewn gravel paths winding through overgrown boxwood topiaries. It appeared that the Janssens hadn’t had much interest in gardening.

  When I heard voices, I retraced my steps to the front door. Alex had arrived, also dressed in jeans and a puffy jacket. She wore sturdy work boots.

  “I wear these to construction sites,” she said, lifting one foot to show me. “Steel-toed to prevent accidents. I didn’t bother to bring my hard hat, though.” She grinned. “Although maybe I should have, in case of falling artworks or light fixtures.”

  She and I laid out our drawings and laptops in the kitchen, while Sam went to his customary spot in the dining room. We hadn’t been working long when the doorbell rang.

  “Probably Mr. Moresby,” I said. “He must have forgotten his keys.”

  Instead, when I ran down to open the door, a strange man stood on the doorstep. He was in his forties, slender, with dark hair going grey at the temples and wore a smart suit and tie. My first thought was that he was a lawyer, maybe a colleague of Bleeker’s.

  He held out a hand to shake mine. “I’m Pieter Janssen,” he said.

  “Ah, the nephew.”

  He tilted his head and then smiled. “I suppose so. Yes, I’m Tomas Janssen’s nephew.”

  Remembering my manners, I introduced myself and waved him in. He walked into the lobby and waited for me to close the door.

  “Come on up,” I said, noticing that he seemed hesitant. Considering he was co-inheritor of the house, he didn’t seem very proprietorial about it.

  As we walked up the stairs, I told him about the others on the team and the plans we were working on. He didn’t say much in response other than that he wanted to see the house one more time before it was sold.

  When we reached the living room, Henk was there, looking up at the bare wire where the chandelier had hung.

  “You must know Henk,” I said to Pieter.

  He nodded stiffly as Henk glared at him. After a few seconds and without a word, the caretaker stalked out of the room. That was awkward. Ever the polite hostess, I felt the need to apologize for Henk’s behavior.

  Pieter shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. He’s always been a little eccentric.”

  That was an understatement, but I didn’t argue. I led the way to the kitchen, where Sam and Alex were chatting. I introduced everyone and offered Pieter tea.

  “No, thanks. I won’t stay long. Just wanted to say goodbye to the old place. Do you mind if I
do a quick walk around?”

  “Go ahead,” Sam said. “But before you do that, can I just verify that you’re planning on signing all the paperwork soon?”

  He shifted, looking a little embarrassed at being pushy. But he was right to ask. We needed Pieter to get those documents signed.

  “Yes, sorry for the delays. I’m meeting the lawyer later today with Eline.”

  “Mr. Bleeker? We saw him yesterday. He seems very professional, and nice, too.”

  “That’s good to hear. I haven’t met him yet, but Eline seems to like him. So, don’t worry about the documents. We’ll get everything taken care of.”

  I wondered if Eline would have calmed down enough to sign paperwork. She’d obviously been distraught over Tessa’s death.

  Sam beamed. “Great. That’s good news, thank you. Enjoy your tour. Don’t mind us. Take your time.”

  Pieter nodded and moved off into the hallway. I watched him go and took a seat at the kitchen table opposite Alex, who was chewing on her bottom lip, her brows drawn together in a frown.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Nothing. Just thinking.”

  “You look worried.”

  She shrugged. “Do you think we should have asked for some kind of identification? I mean, we just let in a stranger to wander around. Eline didn’t mention that Pieter was coming.”

  “True, but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be here,” I said.

  “Well, I’ll go keep a discreet eye on him.” She stood up. “Back in a few minutes.”

  I looked at Sam. “It was all right to let Pieter in, wasn’t it?”

  His phone rang just then. “Terry again,” he said. “I’ll take this in the dining room.”

  Left alone, I tidied up the kitchen and wandered to the windows for a view of the busy street below. Even from up here, I could hear the ring of bicycle bells. A man on a houseboat was cleaning the deck, while several barges moved slowly along the canal. The houses on the opposite side of the water were beautiful. Tall and narrow, under gabled roofs, they were painted in a rainbow of colors. I remembered reading that, back in the sixteenth century, taxes were based on the width of the house, which led Amsterdam’s good citizens to build ever narrower and taller homes. It would be easy to fit four or five of them into the expansive width of the Janssen house. Jacob Hals hadn’t let a few tax bills stop him from building this massive house, clearly intended to impress his friends and foes.