The Pilgrim Conspiracy

by Jeroen Windmeijer

  The best they could hope for was that there would be traces of DNA on the napkin, even the smallest amount. On TV trace evidence was enough to put the murderer behind bars in the space of a fifty-minute episode, including the adverts. So these days, it wasn’t always easy to make the general public or the victims and their relatives understand why a criminal was still on the loose a week after a crime.

  But even if they did find the person the DNA belonged to, they still had to prove that they had drawn the map. Their DNA could have been transferred to the napkin in all sorts of ways. And they also had to prove that the map had been left behind by the suspect rather than by someone else who had been trying to set them up.

  He turned on his monitor to reread the notes he had made during his conversation with Tony Vanderhoop earlier that afternoon.

  Van de Kooij and some of their colleagues had spoken to the other members of the American delegation. They hadn’t been formal interviews, just conversations that were part of the standard procedure of talking to everyone present at the crime scene. Vanderhoop and the others were flying back to Boston that evening.

  Vanderhoop had walked into Rijsbergen’s office with an air of confidence that seemed typical of Americans. ‘Good afternoon,’ he had said brightly, shaking Rijsbergen’s hand for far longer than was necessary, like he was trying to give an unseen photographer ample opportunity to capture the moment on film.

  They took their seats, and Rijsbergen got straight down to business.

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual yesterday?’ he asked. ‘Anything that might help us with our enquiries?’

  Vanderhoop considered the question seriously for a moment, pausing exaggeratedly like an actor who had been directed to look grave and contemplative.

  ‘No, not really,’ he said at last. ‘We’ve talked to a lot of people. I’ve been introduced to a lot of brothers and sisters. Of course, I’ve forgotten most of their names already. I’m afraid I might not be of much help to you, but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘But you should know that there have been a lot of threats made to the Boston lodges recently, specifically aimed at the Freemasons. Perhaps it’s worth looking into whether something similar is going on here?’

  Rijsbergen made a note of this, but he didn’t see how threats made so far away could have anything to do with something that had happened here in Leiden. Then his gaze fell on the plastic sleeve with the map inside. He picked it up and showed it to Vanderhoop, who indulged him by examining it but appeared not to recognise it.

  ‘I understand from my colleague that you were in the back garden with several other people on the night in question. Is that correct?’

  ‘That is … correct,’ said Vanderhoop, on his guard suddenly, like he was considering his answer carefully to avoid walking into a trap. ‘We were in the garden talking to people. As I just said, I’ve forgotten most of their names. I might recognise some of their faces, but I couldn’t tell you everyone who was there. It was a pretty big group. Some of them were smoking. Filthy habit … I chatted to Peter de Haan. He was with two young men, but I don’t remember their names. We went back outside again after the presentation.’

  Rijsbergen paused, allowing a meaningful silence to fall between them, giving the impression that he was on to something but wanted to play his cards close to his chest.

  ‘But what are we looking at here exactly?’ said Vanderhoop, who had regained his earlier self-confidence.

  ‘A paper napkin with a map of the building on it. It appears to have been drawn in great haste. The building manager at the Masonic Hall found it in a bin in the refectory.’

  ‘Someone drew a map of the building and then threw it in the trash?’

  ‘That’s what it looks like, yes.’

  ‘That’s weird, don’t you think? Why would someone make this and then throw it away?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  Vanderhoop had been staring at the napkin intently, but now he looked up abruptly, as if he had smelled something unpleasant. ‘What are you suggesting?’ he asked. There was a sudden edge to his voice.

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything at all,’ Rijsbergen replied calmly.

  ‘No. Sorry. I’m drawing a total blank here. As I’ve already said, we were outside drinking coffee with a bunch of other people. After that, we went inside for the presentation. Some of the brothers and sisters talked about why they became Freemasons. Well, according to what I was told afterwards, because obviously the whole thing was in Dutch. I didn’t notice anything odd about any of it.’

  He stared at the map again.

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I really can’t help you.’

  Vanderhoop and Rijsbergen had parted warmly in the way you might say goodbye to someone you’ve met on holiday – with a certain detached cordiality that comes from being confident that you’ll never see each other again.

  Vanderhoop had given Rijsbergen his business card which the detective had taken carefully between his thumb and forefinger. The moment Vanderhoop had left the room, the detective pushed the card into a plastic evidence bag with his pen. He sealed the bag and attached a label with the date and the name ‘Tony Vanderhoop’.

  When the Americans had left, Van de Kooij had come into Rijsbergen’s office with some sheets of paper in his hand. He’d yanked out the chair that Vanderhoop had been sitting on and perched on the edge of the seat like he was trying to avoid sitting on the warm spot left by Vanderhoop’s backside.

  ‘Are you any the wiser after talking to him?’ he asked. ‘Do you think he had something to do with it?’

  ‘Who? Vanderhoop?’ Rijsbergen asked in reply. ‘I don’t know. I think he’s a bit of an oddball, but that’s not much to go on. The only thing he’s really got going against him is that he was in the Masonic Hall last night. But so were sixty or seventy other people. I’ve yet to see anything that looks like a motive. So at the minute, we only know enough to be able to speculate. The same goes for that Peter de Haan fellow and Fay Spežamor … it looks like they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But who knows what might still turn up? Anyway …’

  He made a few notes and then put down his pen.

  ‘What about you? Are you any wiser?’

  ‘No, not really,’ Van de Kooij replied. ‘They were all very nice people, very helpful. Couldn’t tell us anything we didn’t know already. Took down all their details, obviously, made copies of their passports and so on.’

  ‘Good. How many names do we have now?’

  ‘About sixty, I think. That means we still need to find ten, maybe twenty of them.’

  ‘Well, that’s great progress. There’s not much more we can do now than go down the list and talk to the people whose names we do have. We’ll start with Peter de Haan and his partner. You and I will do them and a couple of others, and you can give the other names to the rest of the team. If we all do five or six, then we’ll get through everyone in two or three days. And we’ll have the test results for the map back from forensics either tomorrow or the day after.’

  Van de Kooij jumped up from the chair. ‘Great. I’ll get that organised then.’

  At least there was one person who was enthusiastic about the task that lay ahead of them.

  Chapter 11

  Peter sat in his office. Although it was strictly forbidden, he’d lit one of the five cigarillos he habitually smoked each week. Every Sunday evening, he put five of them in a silver-coloured cigar case, one for each weekday. He’d opened the window wide, and now he sat on the windowsill, blowing the smoke outside. It was a pointless exercise because as soon as he blew the smoke out, the wind blew it right back in. But he hoped it would fool the smoke alarm on the ceiling above him.

  He mulled over that afternoon’s lecture. His response to the use of the term ‘genocide’ should probably have been more rigorous. Although you could certainly call what happened to the indigenous population a decimation, the word ‘genocide’ was problematic becaus
e it suggested a deliberate plan.

  He took a drag on his cigar, held the smoke in his mouth and blew it out through his pursed lips in a long streak.

  He was pleased that the other side of the story would also be presented as part of the commemoration of the Pilgrims’ departure from Leiden four hundred years ago. It was an opportunity to show the uglier side of history and to highlight the conditions that the Native Americans were living under now.

  Peter had called Chief Inspector Rijsbergen as soon as he’d got back to his office.

  Rijsbergen had told him that he would be visiting Fay between five and six and that it would be most convenient if Peter could be there at the same time.

  It was almost half past three. Peter usually worked until around six, but right now, he couldn’t focus at all. He felt an overwhelming need to be with Fay.

  There was a knock at the door. It opened before he could answer.

  Peter hurled the stub of his cigarillo outside and grabbed the aerosol that was on the windowsill. He always sprayed a few puffs of air freshener around the room to mask the smell after he’d had a cigar.

  When the door was fully open, Peter froze with the aerosol still in his hand, like a graffiti artist caught red-handed by the police.

  It was Mark. He burst out laughing. ‘You know you can smell that cigar smoke all the way down the other end of the corridor, don’t you?’ he said. ‘That air freshener is useless.’ He closed the door behind him. ‘I just came by to see how you were doing. I heard about what happened last night. Judith told me you and Fay went to that open evening.’

  ‘Thanks, Mark. That’s very thoughtful of you.’

  There was a three-seater sofa in Peter’s office that gave it a homely feel. Mark sat down on it.

  ‘It was awful,’ Peter said. ‘In one word, awful.’

  ‘Bizarre, too. A murder committed at an open evening with so many visitors.’

  ‘You’re right, it was bizarre, but … Did you know that Fay and I were the ones who found him?’

  ‘Seriously? Wow!’ Mark, who had been sitting on the edge of the sofa, fell backwards so that he ended up looking oddly slumped. ‘That’s awful,’ he said. ‘Fay knew him quite well, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, she did. He was the chairman of her lodge, so she’d spent a lot of time talking to him. I only met him a couple of times myself, but still … To find him like that …’

  Stop talking, Peter told himself sternly.

  But Mark didn’t seem very interested in hearing about how he and Fay had found Coen Zoutman.

  ‘How’s Fay doing?’

  ‘Oh, just as you’d expect.’ Peter said. ‘Badly, of course. It’s really shaken her. She’s got no idea who could have done it. A good man, Zoutman. He wouldn’t have hurt the proverbial fly.’

  ‘So it’s a mystery.’

  Peter told him about the Americans he’d met at the American Pilgrim Museum.

  ‘I came straight back here after the tour. Apart from that man, I haven’t talked to anyone about it … Actually, that’s not entirely true. One of my students was there yesterday too. I talked to him about it, but only briefly.’

  ‘And what are you going to do now?’

  ‘Now? I’m going to head home. Well, to Fay’s. See how she’s doing.’ Peter went over to his desk chair to put on his jacket. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Back to the office, do an hour there, and then I’ll go home too, I think. I want to do a bit of work at home, and then it’s my turn to make dinner. Judith cooked last night.’

  Peter was very happy with Fay, but even after all these years, he couldn’t help feeling a hot, almost visceral stab of jealousy at moments like this. He could try all he wanted to resist it, try to reason the feeling away, bring to mind the cosy domesticity he enjoyed with Fay, sitting outside together in front of her house with glasses of wine in their hands, watching Agapé play with a ball in the little courtyard …

  But despite all of that, at moments like this, when Mark spoke so easily of cooking for Judith, Peter saw himself in Mark’s place, stirring various pans on the hob with a cold beer next to him on the kitchen counter, condensation glistening on the glass. And Judith, coming in rosy-cheeked from the cool air outside, wrapping her arms around him and leaning into his back, tenderly kissing his neck …

  But anyway …

  Mark started to get up, but just then, his mobile rang, and he crashed back onto the sofa. He leaned to one side so that he could fish his phone out of his trouser pocket.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. Then he listened to the person on the other end of the line for what seemed like an unusually long time.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Peter heard him say.

  ‘Hmm … of course. The Sionshof … Yes, that’s where I live.’ He looked at Peter with furrowed eyebrows, not sure where the conversation was heading. ‘What?’ he said suddenly, raising his voice. ‘They’ve what?’ He listened again as the person explained, then said, ‘Right. I’m on my way.’

  ‘What was that about?’ Peter asked when Mark hung up.

  ‘There was something … Uh … It was someone from the housing association that manages the complex. I’m their contact person for the Sionshof residents.’ He paused. ‘Someone’s daubed red paint on the outside wall.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘No. But it’s not just that. That would just be a random act of vandalism. This is something else.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘They’ve turned the word “Zion” over the doorway into “Zionists”, and above that, they’ve written “Death to the”.’

  ‘Where’s the sense in doing that?’

  ‘It doesn’t make any sense, of course. It’s called the Groot Sionshof, for heaven’s sake.’ Mark hissed the first ‘s’, like a snake. ‘Supposedly, the stonemason who was supposed to chisel the name over the door made a mistake, and that’s why it’s written with a “z”’ rather than an “s”. If protestors wanted to make a point about Israel, doing this makes no sense at all. The Sionshof’s got nothing to do with Jews. There’s nothing Jewish about it.’

  Then they looked at each other in horror. They had both just had exactly the same terrible thought. So it was no surprise when they both said the same name.

  Chapter 12

  ‘Judith!’ Mark screamed when she answered her phone. He jumped from the sofa with an anxious look in his eyes and put his left hand over his heart like he thought that it might calm it. ‘Where are you?’ he asked, his voice still much too loud.

  Peter, who had been watching Mark anxiously, felt his shoulders drop.

  ‘She’s at her office!’ Mark shouted, as if Peter was standing on the other side of a town square. ‘It’s okay, darling,’ he said, calmer now. ‘I’m so relieved.’

  He told Judith what had been done to the doorway of their hofje. Judging from his reaction, Peter got the impression that Judith wasn’t the slightest bit worried that the stunt might have been directed at her in any way. Mark made one or two half-hearted attempts to connect the vandalism to the fact that she lived there, but the more he tried to convince her, the less likely the link started to seem.

  ‘I’m coming over, darling,’ Mark said.

  Peter couldn’t hear Judith’s reply, but it was obvious that she was protesting.

  ‘No, I’m not overreacting,’ said Mark. ‘I just want to see you. This has given me a fright. I’d rather we went home together.’

  Peter heard him say that he would set off immediately. Judith had apparently relented.

  ‘She’s at the office,’ Mark said again, entirely unnecessarily. He held up his hand and left Peter’s office without another word.

  Peter sighed deeply, relieved that their panic about Judith had turned out to be a storm in a teacup.

  These are strange days, he thought. It’s no wonder my nerves are shot.

  He called Fay.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, sounding like she had just woken up from a deep sleep.

&n
bsp; ‘How are you doing, darling?’

  ‘Oh, you know … It’s just all so sad.’

  ‘I’m coming over, all right?’

  ‘All right,’ she said.

  ‘Are Alena and Agapé with you?’

  ‘They’ve gone to the Antiquities museum. They were going to go for pancakes afterwards.’

  ‘Ah, that’s nice.’

  ‘Yes,’ Fay said flatly. ‘But I ought to go and get dressed. I’ve got to pick my bike up. I left it at the office yesterday. Oh, never mind. It can wait until tomorrow.’

  When Peter arrived at the little house, he heard the shower running. The living room and kitchen were perfectly neat and tidy. Alena had probably had something to do with that.

  Although most men would be less than thrilled at the idea of spending so much time with their mother-in-law, Peter got on well with Alena. She was well read, interested in current affairs and able to give her opinions on them in a pleasant, level-headed way.

  Fay had been cautious about introducing Peter to Agapé. Her daughter had only been a few months old when her father had died, and she had no memory of him at all. Fay had been reluctant to bring a new ‘father’ into her life without being confident that the relationship would last. But there had been a natural easiness between Peter and Agapé from the very beginning. Agapé called Peter by his first name, although Fay had once revealed that she told the other children at school that he was ‘sort of like a new dad’.

  Two glasses stood invitingly on the kitchen counter next to an opened bottle of red wine.

  Peter heard Fay turn off the shower, and less than five minutes later, she was downstairs.

  She hugged him, and he pressed his face to her damp, sweet-smelling hair.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s have a drink.’

  She went over to the counter and poured them both a glass of wine.

  Once they had settled on the sofa, Peter told her about the paint that had been daubed on the wall of the Sionshof. ‘They’re so horrible, those anti-Semitic slogans,’ she said. ‘And so stupid as well. The Sionshof has nothing to do with Zionism at all.’