by Hannah Howe
When Velvet returned, she said, “Lia says I’m too soft; she says I should be more radical in my beliefs.”
“And what do you think about that?” I asked.
Velvet frowned. She bit her bottom lip. “I’m not sure what to think. I guess I’ve always been happy to be led.”
“Lia led you here,” I said.
“Yes.”
“She betrayed you.”
“Yes.” Once again, Velvet frowned and chewed on her bottom lip. Canting her head to the left, she looked up at me and said, “Maybe I should learn to think for myself?”
“Hold that thought,” I smiled.
Velvet nodded. She continued to view me with a fixed, earnest expression. She was a follower, a person who sought gurus; swapping Lia’s beliefs for mine did not offer a solution; she had to learn to think for herself.
Eventually, Velvet glanced down. She sipped her coffee then said, “You didn’t answer my question; are you a feminist?”
“I believe in equality,” I said, “male-female, black-white, gay-straight...everyone has something to offer, everyone can make a positive contribution, if they’re given a chance.”
“I want to make a positive contribution through my singing,” Velvet said.
“Well, stick with me,” I said, “and maybe you’ll get that chance.”
I was making promises galore, but how could I deliver? That was something else to ponder as I reached for my phone and spoke with Saskia.
Chapter Nineteen
Saskia had spoken with Karla of the Zusterschap and she’d agreed to meet me. The meeting would take place in the Jordaan, to the west of Grachtengordel.
A network of narrow streets and delightful canals, the Jordaan contained a mix of houses, shops, cafés and bars. Originally, a refuge for sixteenth century Protestants and later for Jews, the Jordaan developed from open countryside. In some respects, the district’s cosmopolitan origins reminded me of home and Tiger Bay.
By the nineteenth century, the Jordaan had developed into a working class stronghold, a highly politicized region. However, in the 1980s the professional classes, faced with rising house prices, established homes in the Jordaan, thus adding to the region’s attractive personality.
The maze of streets, a consequence of organic development, offered the prospect of confusion, so with my map in hand, I cycled to the rendezvous point.
Karla had agreed to meet me near the Homomonument, a memorial dedicated to oppressed gay men and women. Symbolized by three pink triangles, made of granite, the monument recalled the years when fascists forced gay men to wear a pink triangular badge.
I didn’t know Karla, but I recognized Lia. She was standing by the monument, her frizzy hair waving in the breeze, her stare intense as she polished her black-framed spectacles. While she cleaned her spectacles, she talked with a taller woman, presumably Karla.
In her mid-fifties, Karla possessed flame red hair, which radiated from her head like rays of the sun, dark brown eyes and narrow, pinched cheeks. Her nose was prominent and pointy. Lean, she stood around five foot ten. Her clothes were nondescript, largely hidden beneath a long raincoat. Without doubt, her hair stood out as her most prominent feature. Indeed, it reminded me of classical paintings, depicting a goddess.
Karla approached me. She offered a smile; her smile revealed a number of fillings and three black teeth. Fillings and black teeth – if she was a goddess, she was a deity with a sweet tooth.
She said, “You are Sam?”
I nodded. “And you are Karla.”
“Yes. You are a private detective.”
“I am.”
“You are proving to men that you can succeed in a man’s world.”
“If I do succeed,” I said.
“You are proving to men that you are better than them.”
“First among equals,” I said.
“You are better than them,” Karla insisted.
“To prove your point,” I said, “I need to return home with the briefcase.”
Karla arched a thin eyebrow then glanced at Lia. “What briefcase?”
“The briefcase that Velvet stole from Jeremy Loudon and Lia stole from Velvet.”
“I do not have the briefcase,” Karla insisted, her lips upturned into a saccharine smile.
“Maybe you could help me to find it,” I suggested.
She canted her head to the right and frowned; a woman confused, perplexed. “Why should I do that?”
“An act of sisterly love?”
“The briefcase, and its contents, go beyond sisterly love,” Karla said.
“So you’ve seen it,” I said.
Karla turned her back on me. With Lia in tow, she walked along the pavement, past the Westerkerk. Pushing my bicycle, I followed.
The Westerkerk was another splendid example of Dutch ecclesiastical architecture. Even though I bordered on scepticism, I surmised that the churches of Amsterdam would offer the visitor numerous delights. There were many philosophical reasons for my lack of religious belief. However, I could probably link my scepticism to my childhood. Aged seven, for Christmas, my mother had bought me a lavish Bible, very colourful, beautifully illustrated. A bookaholic, even at that age, I proceeded to read the Bible until I reached the middle of the book. Then I discovered that the pages duplicated themselves; the printer had bound the book in error. For some reason, that snapped the tenuous thread between yours truly and religion. On such fine lines, our lives turn.
Catching up with Karla, I prompted, “The briefcase...”
She swivelled, mid-stride, then offered me an irritated look. “The contents of the briefcase would fund our movement, spread our message, empower women all over the world.”
“Trouble is,” I said, “the contents don’t belong to you.”
“If I had the briefcase,” Karla said, walking on, striding forth with purpose, “that’s what I would do; use the contents to empower women all over the world.”
“If you don’t have the briefcase,” I said, “why agree to this meeting?”
“I was curious.” She stopped abruptly, her gaze fixed on the canal and a smart white boat. “And now,” she said, “my curiosity is satisfied.”
“I need the briefcase,” I said, “to save Velvet.”
“I can’t help you,” Karla said. She turned away and marched along the pavement.
“Velvet is a woman,” I said, “a vulnerable young woman, in trouble.”
“I can’t help her either,” Karla insisted; she marched past the white boat, lengthening her stride.
“Your words don’t hint at sisterly love,” I said, “in fact, they hint at selfishness.”
“Leaders must be selfish to succeed,” Karla said. She paused, turned then offered me a patronizing look. “Leaders must make harsh decisions, for the good of the movement. Sometimes, those decisions impact on our sisters; on occasion, some of our sisters must fall by the wayside.”
“And right now, Velvet’s the one to take the fall?”
“She is a true sister,” Karla said, “a martyr to our cause.”
With certainty in her stride and arrogance in her walk, Karla disappeared into the distance. Glancing to my right, I realized that we’d been talking outside Anne Frank’s house. How could anyone destroy a flower so beautiful? How could people be so cruel? If God did exist, did he look down and shake his head in sorrow? Did he rage against the extremists and their heartless ideologies, their lack of compassion? Did he despair at leaders who manipulated the mob? What price humanity if people can send children to their deaths? What price our future if we allow history to repeat itself?
Weighed down with those thoughts, I turned and noticed Lia. She approached me then said, “I hope that one day you will understand Karla. I hope that Velvet will understand. Karla is right; we must do this, for the good of all women.”
Then Lia walked off, to join her goddess.
Chapter Twenty
In the dining area of our hotel, Velvet, Mac and you
rs truly sipped beer, enjoyed our evening meal. Velvet and Mac devoured a plate of herrings, onions and pickles, while I contented myself with a salad and a portion of fries.
The diners, smartly dressed, respectable, offered a gentle, contented hum as they sampled the hotel’s culinary delights. Meanwhile, Mac dabbed his moustache with a napkin then said, “So, Missy, you reckon Karla has the briefcase.”
I nodded, “I’m sure she does.”
“Maybe best to leave it at that and return home?” Mac suggested. “After all, if the briefcase is loaded with money, better for Karla to spend it than Jeremy Loudon.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But if we don’t return with the briefcase, what will happen to Velvet?”
“Ticklish,” Mac said, pursing his lips, accentuating his moustache.
“Like an itch you can’t scratch.”
Mac arched an eyebrow; then he laughed.
We were preparing for our dessert, apple tart all round, when someone caught my eye. I’m not saying that all private detectives are paranoid, but it does help if you have a heightened sense of awareness. And my heightened sense of awareness alerted me to a figure, lurking in the shadows. I glanced up and offered a double take; yes, it really was him, Mickey Anthony, in Amsterdam.
“Hey, Mickey!” I yelled.
Mickey glanced over his shoulder, at me, then ran towards the door. Ignoring the troubled looks of the startled diners, I ran after him.
The night was cold, the pavements slippery. Thankfully, I was dressed in a woollen top, blue jeans and flat shoes. Accelerating towards a corner, I caught sight of Mickey’s shadow then I followed him as he scampered down a lane. At the bottom of the lane, he slipped and nearly fell, his equilibrium disturbed as he rounded a second corner. Seeking support, he thrust out his arms. Then he grabbed an empty beer barrel and rolled it towards me. I hurdled the barrel, slithered along the cobblestones and followed Mickey into another lane.
Mickey was fit, certainly more athletic than during his booze-fuelled days. However, he was not in peak condition, so I continued to make ground on him.
In desperation, Mickey pushed over a stack of wooden pallets, and a variety of winter vegetables bounced my way. I skipped over the vegetables then chased Mickey to a canal.
At the canal side, Mickey paused for breath. Vapour trailed from his mouth while his chest heaved from his exertions. Meanwhile, my breath maintained its steady rhythm. I was good for a few miles yet. I put that down to pure thoughts and my angelic lifestyle; Sam, the sanctimonious saint.
“Not bad,” I said, placing a hand on Mickey’s shoulder, “but lacking that five percent that could drag you out of danger.”
Mickey shrugged. He placed his hands on his hips and doubled over. Then he coughed into the cold night air. When he’d recovered, I grabbed his arm and dragged him towards the restaurant.
In the restaurant, I found Velvet and Mac, sitting at our table. They’d scoffed the apple tart and now were drinking beer. I took a sip of beer, to slake my thirst, then plonked Mickey on a chair beside us. Although he’d recovered his composure, his brow still dripped with sweat.
“Well, well,” Mac grinned, “it’s Dickey Anthony.”
“Mickey,” Mickey said with a scowl. Mac and Mickey did not get on; they had ‘previous’.
“Take a pew,” Mac said. “Rest your legs. You look as if you need it.”
Mickey mopped his brow. He closed his eyes and shook his head. Then he summoned a waiter and ordered a beer.
Mickey had quit his heavy drinking, but still he consumed alcohol; he’d told me a half-truth, par for the course for Mickey Anthony.
“You in Amsterdam for the nightlife?” Mickey asked Mac between sips of beer.
“I’m here to assist Sam.”
“So the gay bars don’t attract you?” Mickey asked, his handsome features swathed in a mischievous smile.
“If you’re trying to wind me up, sunshine, you’ve picked the wrong day.” Mac leaned back; he took a swig of beer. Then he licked the residue from his lips. “I’m feeling tranquillity itself, peaceful and calm.”
Irritated, Mickey turned to me. “Why do you hang out with this poof?” he asked.
Like a Jack-in-the-box attached to an over-coiled spring, Mac leapt forward. He reached across the table and grabbed Mickey by the scruff of his neck. “On the other hand,” Mac said, “I could be moved to flex my muscles, just for the exercise.”
“He’s choking me,” Mickey gasped, his face turning purple.
“I can see that,” I said. “Purple doesn’t really suit you, Mickey; lighter tones contrast better with your swarthy looks.”
Mickey coughed and spluttered. Far from taking pity, Mac tightened his grip.
“Better put him down,” I said to Mac, “in case the sight of a person turning puce puts the diners off their dinner.”
Mac nodded then released his grip. Mickey sat back, moistened his lips and caressed his throat. “I’ll get you for that,” Mickey said, waving his beer at Mac.
“You’re still lacking that crucial five percent, Mickey; if I were you,” I said, “I’d leave it at that. Instead of posturing, tell me, why are you in Amsterdam?”
Mickey grinned, the prelude to a lie. “I’m on holiday, to see the sights.”
Mac and I exchanged a knowing glance. Then Mac said, “What say I drop him into a canal? The freezing water might jog his memory.”
“Okay,” Mickey sighed as Mac reached across the table to grab him by the throat, “I’m looking for the briefcase as well.”
After sipping my beer, I asked, “On behalf of your client?”
“Of course,” Mickey replied. He ordered a second beer then proceeded to drain half of its contents with one swig. “Have you found the briefcase?” he asked, drawing the back of his hand across his lips.
“Not yet,” I said.
“But you know where it is?”
“I have a good idea.”
“Maybe we could pool our resources,” Mickey suggested.
I scowled, “You mean, add my knowledge to your lack of knowledge?”
“I’m talking in terms of leg work,” Mickey grinned, “and investigative skills.”
“That still leaves an imbalance,” Mac said, “Ninety-five to five, in Sam’s favour.”
Ignoring Mac, Mickey conceded, “You’re a good investigator, Sam, almost as good as me. If we pool our talents, we can crack this.”
“And when we find the briefcase?” I asked.
“You hand it over to me.”
“Why?”
“Because the contents of the briefcase belong to my client.”
“Being?”
“Money,” Mickey said.
“Anything else?” I asked.
Mickey glanced at Velvet, his eyes restless, evasive. Then his gaze wandered around the restaurant; the seconds ticked by as Mickey perfected his shifty look. “Not that I know of,” he said.
“My client,” I said, “Jeremy Loudon, he won that money.”
“Crookedly,” Mickey insisted.
“Our clients are multimillionaires,” I said; “why are they fighting over a few thousand pounds?”
“Pride?” Mickey suggested.
“And?”
Mickey lapsed into a heavy silence.
“The truth, Mickey,” I probed.
“The truth,” he said, “and we’re partners, right?”
“The truth,” I said, “then we negotiate.”
Mickey sighed. He sat back and, with his right thumb, caressed the dimple in his chin. Weighing up his options, he glanced at Mac, at Velvet, then at me. “Okay,” he conceded, “the briefcase contains millions.”
“It’s not big enough for that,” I said.
“In diamonds.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Your client gambled away a million pounds, in diamonds?”
Mickey nodded, “I told you; we’re talking high stakes here.”
Turning to Velvet, I asked, “Did you see any di
amonds?”
Velvet shrugged; I wondered, idly, what she made of our conversation; our banter fuelled her education, if nothing else. “Like I told you,” she said, “I didn’t look inside the briefcase.”
“But diamonds were placed on the gambling table?”
“As chips, yeah.”
“Did Lia mention the diamonds?”
“Not to me,” Velvet said.
“Do you reckon Lia discovered the diamonds?” Mac asked.
“If they weren’t concealed within the briefcase,” I said, “almost certainly, yes.”
“And if they were concealed?” Mac asked.
“The way Karla talked about the briefcase funding the Zusterschap, I’d say that she discovered them, yes.”
“There’s enough in there for everyone,” Mickey insisted; “my client, Loudon, Karla; us. What do you say, Sam, we grab the diamonds and take our share?”
“I say I must talk with my client; I need to understand what’s going on.”
Chapter Twenty-One
In a lightly populated aeroplane, I flew from Schiphol in Amsterdam to Rhoose in Cardiff, landing on a bright blue, sunlit day. The air was still and only light clouds disturbed the sky. However, it remained very cold and I required a hot cup of coffee as soon as I arrived home.
At home, I threw my dirty clothes into the washing machine, stuffed my suitcase with replacements, then drove to Llanmaes and Loudon’s mansion, in search of answers.
Back in Amsterdam, Mac continued to chaperon Velvet; it seemed wise to leave her there until the issues surrounding the briefcase, and now the diamonds, had been resolved. As far as I knew, Mickey was also wandering around Amsterdam, looking for the diamonds.
At Loudon’s mansion, the morose guard escorted me to the house, to the indoor swimming pool. I found Loudon in the pool, swimming vigorously, while Annabel reclined poolside, on a turquoise lounger. Annabel wore a bikini, a straw hat and dark sunglasses, presumably to shield her eyes from the bright strip lights. The pool was well illuminated and well heated, a luxury item for a man who had everything.
