“I have a table up there.” Kitt pointed to the table on the mezzanine, where he’d left his jacket and coffee.
The Dutchman’s mobile rang. He struggled to get the phone out of his pocket with one hand.
“Let me help you.”
“Dank u.” Vlaming handed Kitt the large plastic cup with its cinnamon-dusted mountain of cream and retrieved the pealing mobile. “Excuse me,” he said, taking the call, moving away a short distance.
Kitt went to the table he’d chosen earlier. He set Vlaming’s drink, a fancy, whipped cream-topped concoction, the kind Bryce favoured, on the tabletop and looked across the aisle, where Mae settled into a seat with a fat mug. She opened the little tourist map she’d taken from the hotel.
Damn it. She was too close. “So contrary,” he muttered.
She put on her glasses, turned the map one way, then the other, before removing her glasses, fixing her hair, hands passing over her ears in a nonchalant attempt to reposition the earpiece.
Kitt scratched this temple. “Across the aisle is not ‘two to three tables away’, is it?” he said.
Mae touched the tip of her nose with her middle finger.
He rubbed his top lip to hide the amusement he didn’t want her to see. “How very American of you,” he said, and picked up his barista-made pour-over sun-dried Uganda Red Cherry.
Green trench coat over the back of a chair, flattish tan handbag on her lap, she removed a small iPad, flipped open the cover and began to type on the tablet. In two seconds the mobile Kitt had on the table buzzed and rattled. He lifted it and found the emoji of a little brown coil of poo on the screen. Mouth pursing to eradicate the twitch of a grin, he placed the phone back on the table and the chair across from his scraped over the floor. The moment of amusement gave way to irritation. The woman distracted him, or rather, he allowed himself to be distracted by her, which is why she was here instead of living the life she’d had before he’d opened his bloody mouth and told her he loved her. Silently, he cursed himself, cursed her dead husband, cursed Llewelyn, and slipped a pleasant expression on his face while picturing the various way he could kill his superior.
Vlaming flicked back his hair and sat. “Apologies, Mr Templar,” he said and reached for his beverage, a very faint sheen of sweat shining at his hairline. He had a long, long suck through the green straw, the same kind of plastic straw Mae had shoved into a would-be assassin’s ear at the beginning of the year.
“I see you like sweet coffee, Mr Vlaming.” Kitt sipped hot brew; the flavour of dark chocolate, strawberry, and Morello cherry rolled over his tongue.
Vlaming shrugged, his blue doll eyes flicking to someone entering the café to his left, a skinny young man with a laptop. “Not usually, but today I need a jolt of caffeine and sugar,” he said. “Call me Jan. It’s Leslie, right?”
“Yes. Shall we be on our way?”
“If you don’t mind, let’s sit for a moment. I have an appointment at eleven, and I’ll be on my feet all day after.” He sucked whipped cream and milky coffee through his straw.
“Whatever makes you comfortable, Jan.” Kitt placed his mobile face-down on the table and settled in for the small talk he knew was about to begin. If he’d been a gambler, he would have put money on Vlaming mentioning the weather—and lost.
“First time in Amsterdam?” Vlaming said.
“I’ve been here a few times.”
“For work or as a tourist?”
“Both. Very different place to when I was eighteen.”
“Were you like other eighteen-year-old English boys who came here to try weed in coffeeshops and visit deh window girls in De Wallen—deh red-light district?” he said, his Dutch accent softening th to d.
“No. I went to see the Oude Kerk and Ons’ Lieve Heer op Solder.”
“Nice Dutch pronunciation.”
“I try.”
“You went to see deh churches?” Vlaming laughed tuh-huh-huh.
“I was after a religious experience.”
Vlaming tuh-huh-huhed again. “A religious experience tuh-huh-huh.”
Kitt’s mobile buzz-buzzed. “Excuse me,” he lifted the phone, turning it to find Mae’s A religious experience? You’re really turning into the Roger Moore Bond.
“Where did you stay when you were eighteen?”
Kitt set the phone screen down. “In a filthy little hostel.”
“Where are you staying now?”
“The Palace Grand. I just dropped off my bags.”
“Very nice. You know, you should join us tomorrow, for my aunt’s garden party. I realise it is probably deh best time for you talk to her. We are eager to get to deh bottom of dis, much like you and Hedison’s, as quickly as possible.” He said, his accent thickening. “Dis month is deh garden high point of deh year, and it’s very busy, but I want to find out how dis happened. I have my own idea, as I said to Jill. I’m sure she told you how we…” He put a hand to his mouth for a moment, solemnness touching his eyes. “I’m sorry we meet under such circumstances. I am sorry to hear about Jill—Ms Charteris’ death. Were you friends?”
“We only just started working together.”
“It’s very sad.” Vlaming glanced at his watch, a heavy-looking timepiece with moon phases in the face, and sighed. “Are you in the same position as Jill, Leslie?”
“Jill was a fraud specialist investigator. I’m an internal investigator.”
“Internal investigator?” Vlaming’s face lost a little colour.
“It sounds imposing, but it’s simply that my scope is a bit broader than Jill’s. I’m only here owing to the suddenness of her death. Despite the loss, it’s business as usual for Hedison’s. We prefer to intervene in a situation like this, and investigate provenance matters, privately, without publicising it. Fraudulent misrepresentation of provenance for private pieces consigned to us is considered an internal matter, yet this particular instance, with some pieces being genuine and some reproduction, and recent events in the auction world, we were, shall I say, concerned for you. Admittedly our first obligation is, typically, to our consigner,” Kitt gave a small cough, “or to be completely honest, to our own sales commission. This year’s occurrences of art trafficking and fraud has auction houses re-examining their own practice and procedures, as well as their possible complacency with regard to a culture of casual corruption. In spite of the potential fraud here, let me allay any fears you may have. It’s not typical for an auction house to disclose the name of a consigner and involving police is, frankly, bad for business.”
“You mean Hedison’s wants to protect itself?”
“Exactly. We’d like to handle this discreetly. I had hoped Ms Charteris would have explained that to you.”
“I see.”
“Thank you again for meeting me so early. I know you’re very busy with your work and the tour.”
“To be honest, our meeting could not have come at a worse moment, it is deh busiest time of year for me, but my aunt and I do want to find out how we got here.”
Kitt had another swallow of coffee and set the cup down. “You went over this with Ms Charteris, and I have her notes, but it would help me if you could take me through the course of what you think happened, and what you found when you went to the freeport in Luxembourg. You can fill in anything I may have missed.”
“Where shall I start?”
“With when Ms Charteris notified you.” Kitt reached for his coffee again, wrapping his right hand around the paper cup, left hand on the tabletop, the natural curl of his fingers hiding two truncated knuckles.
Mae watched Vlaming toy with his iced whatever it was, turning the plastic cup this way and that, before sucking from a green straw and licking whipped cream stickiness from this thumb. “I was at work last Tuesday,” he said, “when I got a call from my aunt. She’d received a call from Jill Charteris with Hedison’s Auction House.” Vlaming said, his voice clear in Mae’s ear. “An hour later my secretary and I were off to my family’s unit at
Luxembourg Freeport. Sure enough, deh collection was gone. Deh jewels survived Nazi’s bombing Rotterdam and now de’re gone. Godzijdank Hedison’s discovered a few pieces were paste and held on to deh collection, otherwise deh jewellery would be lost. We are trying to decide on our next course of action, insurance and so forth, even perhaps suing the Luxembourg Freeport.”
“There’s much to think about,” Kitt said.
“We’ve been doing a lot of dat, trying to come up with how dis could have happened. I told Jill I believe it started two years ago, at deh Green Tech Global Horticultural Summit. After a session on Nutraceuticals, Edibles, and medicinal crops, deh man beside me struck up a conversation. Even if our discussion wasn’t memorable, I remember him for a few reasons: his very pretty girlfriend, his cologne, an overpoweringly sweet scent dat made me sneeze, and his name was Giacomo Negroni—Negroni, just like deh cocktail—you know Campari, gin, and red vermouth?”
“Yes, I’m familiar with the drink. Google said your area of interest was in greenhouse management.”
“You Googled me? People usually Google my Aunt Polly, but you Googled me.” Vlaming chuckled and, listening, Mae took notes, typing on the screen of the tablet as he went on, “As a horticulturalist,” he said, “and director of deh Hortus, I’m interested in all aspects of greenhouse management, sustainable agriculture, plant propagation and industry production, greenhouse technology, hydroponics, and nutraceuticals. I find it exciting deh Netherlands are at deh forefront of agricultural innovation, particularly when it comes to sustainable agriculture. Greenhouses are huge, some over a hundred-fifty acres. Dis time of year, I run small tours to some greenhouses, estates and chateaus as a way of raising money to supplement deh upkeep of a few of deh private gardens at dose estates and chateaus, and deh upkeep for deh Hortus as well. Although we receive funding from deh Municipality of Amsterdam, we’re an independent organisation, we depend on our income from activities, tours, donations and sponsorship.”
“Much like many country homes of the British aristocracy being open to the public for tours,” Kitt said, glancing at Mae typing notes on her tablet. “Out of curiosity,” he said, “by nutraceuticals, edibles, and medicinal crops, do you mean marijuana?”
Vlaming nodded. “Dat’s one example, yes. Medicinal crops—such as marijuana—are a major new industry, with significant opportunities for growers and investors. It’s a revolution for growers, home gardeners, and deh horticulture world. At dat summit, I sat at a table with Negroni and his girlfriend, a big Chinese guy from Hong Kong, and a man from Guatemala. We all discussed medicinal crops, deh regulatory side of the industry, as well as deh technology perspectives. I do remember deh Chinese guy and Negroni were quite interested in labour shortages. I came across Negroni and his girlfriend deh next day, on a tour I organised to Chinese gardens at Hortus Haren, to gardens in Menkemaborg near Groningen, and a private chateau northwest of Amsterdam, which is now closed. I forgot deh name of deh company who bought it, it’s something Italian. Anyhow, dey moved into experimental greenhouses and interbreeding programs to produce hybrids for edibles, and Negroni found it interesting. He came to deh garden party at my Aunt Polly’s. She has a party every year. She thought Negroni was amusing. We got friendly, social. I liked him. His cologne, not so much.”
“You recall anything else from that summit?”
“Negroni’s very pretty girlfriend. She wasn’t interested in horticulture. She was in Amsterdam to buy antiques. Wow, she looked like a porcelain doll with long reddish-blonde hair—what a figure, een lekker stuk. I liked her Texan accent.”
Mae’s fingers froze on her tablet keyboard, she looked across to the two men just as Kitt said, “She was from Texas?”
Vlaming’s smile showed one front tooth slightly overlapped the other. “Ja. Yee-ha!”
Kitt gave a slight chuckle, glanced over at Mae sitting stiff, immobile, and asked the question they both knew the answer to. “On the off chance, was the girlfriend named Ruby?”
Chapter Eight
Mouth open, Vlaming’s brow arched. “How did you know dat?”
“Some porcelain dolls you don’t forget. I’ve dealt with her as a Fine Art and Collectables Specialist at Smythe & Dexter in Santa Fe.”
Vlaming shifted in his seat. “Auction houses must be specialised like horticulture, you get to know old and new players, and move in deh same circles. You know her well?”
“Let’s say we were once rivals. Did you spend much time with her?”
“No.” Vlaming scratched his neck. “I’m married.”
“I mean socially.”
“Oh, yes, of course. It was friendly, social. We never got beyond talk about family, travel, exporting flowers, importing and exporting antiques. It took me a while to realise she and Negroni were a couple. My secretary said he’s lekkerding and I suppose he’s very good-looking in dat Italian way women like, early forties, I think. Ruby was a fair bit younger dan him. And me.” He smiled sheepishly. “Okay, I admit had a whimsical little dream she might fancy me.” He scratched his neck again, his little laugh self-conscious and self-effacing as he looked down at his coffee and shrugged.
“We’re all guilty of momentary flights of fancy over an attractive woman. Did you discuss exporting antiques with her?”
Vlaming’s head came up.
Kitt sat back, watching the man, letting him talk.
“Not at first. She was interested vintage soil analysis kits, balances for seed, rain gauges—we have a similar small collection of items at de Hortus. And my aunt has a collection of bulb graders, hand tools, gaiters and clogs—yes, I know, how very Dutch, but deh French and Eastern European countries also wore clogs, as did deh Chinese.” He exhaled. “Aunt Polly and I talked about it. I invited Negroni and Ruby to have a look at the pieces held by de Hortus, and the things in my aunt’s collection. It’s easy to look back now and see we might have been right about what seemed far-fetched at deh time, and we can’t prove what we believe happened, how we truly believe deh jewellery was taken from secure storage.” Vlaming glanced at his watch. “Sorry. I need to get back for my lecture. Could we continue as we walk?”
“Of course.”
Vlaming grabbed his coffee and rose. “You know, it makes sense to include you as guest for my aunt’s garden party tomorrow.”
“Yes, it does. Thank you. It would serve as a fine time to meet your aunt.” Kitt climbed to his feet, looking for Mae. She was halfway out the door, stuffing her arms into a short, sage-toned trench-coat that matched the green in her eyes. By the time he and Vlaming made it outside she was three metres ahead, map in hand, heading, he knew, for The Hortus Botanicus a few blocks away.
“How is it exactly you think this came to happen?” Kitt walked beside Vlaming on a footpath running alongside tram tracks, shopfronts, and old, narrow brick buildings that had quintessentially Dutch stepped rooflines.
“Deh last time, deh day after the last garden party, Ruby and Negroni came to my aunt’s home again, to see our garden tool collection and stay for lunch. I’m pretty sure Ruby and Negroni did some snooping in Aunt Polly’s study—is dat the word, snooping? Nothing was missing, but deh room had a lingering scent of sickly-sweet vanilla, like spray to cover smells in deh toilet.”
Kitt said nothing for a moment. Then he gave a slight nod. “I think we may have found the connection we’ve been looking for.”
“Negroni?”
“No, Ruby. But I am eager to talk with Mr Negroni.”
“You are in luck. He’s on deh guest list for my aunt’s garden party. I was planning on confronting him. Politely, of course.”
“His attendance would certainly make my job easier.”
“I wonder if Ruby will still be with him.” Vlaming’s mouth broke into a smile more sickly than wistful.
“I can tell you she won’t be.”
“Do you know she’s moved on to another man?”
“No. Ruby Bleuville was arrested for murder and a whole rash of other crim
es involving the illegal export and import of stolen cultural artefacts.”
Vlaming stopped dead, his large eyes grew larger. “Godverdomme, you’re joking!”
“Sadly, I am not.”
He went pale, brushing his flopping lock of hair back slowly. “Are you saying it’s Ruby who took advantage of us?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible. Some of the artefacts she stole were lifted from freeports where she had gained access with a key fob that someone hadn’t realised was missing. The authorities still aren’t clear on where the key fob originated.”
Dumbfounded, Vlaming shuffled a few short paces. “You believe it could be me?” They’d passed modern façades, crossed the Amstel over the Blauwbrug, and were near the Nationale Opera and Ballet. He stared at the curved building and wiped a hand over his mouth. “We have our fob, but…there was one time…it was after Negroni and Ruby had visited, and my aunt couldn’t find it. She swore she’d put it in her handbag, but couldn’t find it, and she was angry with me for suggesting she’d become forgetful, for believing a stereotype—you know how some say elderly people are forgetful, but dey are no more forgetful dan younger people who misplace car keys. Naturally, her fob did turn up in her handbag, it was stuck to deh bottom by bit of drop. Do you…do you believe… I’ve seen deh technology, warnings about skimmers on geldautomaat and shimmers copying credit card information. Do you…maybe…Ruby copied our fob? Is dat even possible?”
Kitt stayed silent. There was no need to say anything since Vlaming was telling him everything, filling in blanks that didn’t need filling—and then some. And it was all utter tosh.
“It is all unbelievable,” the man said.
“Quite.” An idea popped into his mind and Kitt ran with the improvisation. Soberly, he gazed at the man. “There are others, Jan,” he said.
“Others?”
“Hedison’s has other clients who have been victims of theft from their freeport secure storage, which were all insured with Hedison’s. These items may or may not have a connection to the sort of work you do.”
True to Your Service Page 9
