by Hannah Howe
I dragged the item from the pipework and we feasted our eyes on a small velvet bag. Ironic that the bag should be made of velvet. Then I pulled open the drawstring and sprinkled the diamonds on to Saskia’s left palm.
We glanced at each other and smiled. Then she said, “Beautiful, aren’t they.”
I nodded. “Though beauty often brings out the beast in people. Speaking of which,” I said, “we’d better get back to Otto Visser.”
Back on Saskia’s boat, I checked my wristwatch. We were running late. At full throttle, we sped along the river, crossing our fingers, hoping that Otto Visser was a man of his word.
Chapter Thirty
We returned to the windmill, a few minutes late. Piet the henchman opened the door and we stepped into the octagonal building. I completed a quick head count and discovered to my relief that everyone was still standing.
Obviously, Piet had returned from his trip to the warehouse. He looked pleased with himself, so presumably he’d recovered the weapons.
“You have the diamonds?” Visser asked. He climbed out of a rickety rocking chair and walked over to me.
Without further ado, I delved into my jeans pocket and produced the sparkling stones.
“Thank you,” Visser said. He was gracious enough to bow, to offer a touch of civility. “The diamonds are in my hands and our business is at an end.”
As Visser spoke, Karla hovered in the background. She craned her neck, to peer at the diamonds. She looked pale, maybe through stress, maybe at the thought of losing a small fortune.
Karla rubbed her arms. She licked her lips then said to Visser, “Are you going to shoot us?”
“That thought did cross my mind,” he admitted.
“Not wise,” I said. “We might have alerted the police.”
Visser nodded ruefully. “That thought also crossed my mind.” He gazed down to his palm, to the velvet bag and the diamonds. “I have what I desire. My honour and pride are satisfied. I see no reason to shoot you. I see no point in bloodshed. However, you will not leave this place until I have made arrangements for these diamonds.”
At gunpoint, Otto Visser frogmarched us into the barn. There, his henchmen secured the bolts before they all departed, with the diamonds.
“Now what?” Mickey sighed. He flapped his arms in agitated fashion. “You should have tricked him, Sam, held on to the diamonds.”
“And seen you all shot?” I frowned.
“That’s the trouble with women,” Mickey said; “too soft, too sensitive; to survive in this business, you need a hard edge.”
Now was not the time for a debate, though I felt one brewing. Instead, Mac came to our rescue when he said, “Look what I’ve found.”
From a corner of the barn, Mac had retrieved a long pole, maybe a mast, a cast-off from a barge. He grinned. Resembling a knight lowering his lance, he adjusted the pole then said, “Reckon we can smash that door down?”
Before anyone could reply, Mac ran towards the barn door. With his moustache bristling, his muscles rippling and his face set with a steely determination, Mac thundered towards the door and cast it asunder. Wood and hinges cracked and splintered. Dust flew into the air. When that dust had settled, Mac was still grinning.
“What are you waiting for?” he chided. “Let’s get after ‘orrible Otto and the diamonds.”
Mac threw his lance on to the ground, tossing the pole aside as though it were matchwood. Meanwhile, I turned to Karla, Lia and Velvet, and said, “You stay here; we’ll be back, soon.”
Along with Mac, Saskia and Mickey, I ran towards our vessel. We jumped on board the boat and duly gave chase. Visser had made his escape on the light blue boat, an inferior vessel. He’d secured a head start; however, we had more power in our engines. I’d back us to win, in a race.
“You reckon he’s heading for Amsterdam?” I asked.
“Seems a fair bet,” Mac said.
Saskia nodded. She’d already set a course for Amsterdam.
At full throttle, we hurtled along the river, at times bouncing on the water, soaking boats and people in our wake. We attracted a mixture of angry and curious looks from the people, who thinned in number as we left Wormerveer far behind. In truth, it was an exhilarating chase. With the wind in my hair, cooling my face, I couldn’t help but smile.
That smile became a grimace when we caught sight of Otto Visser. We were travelling at speed through open countryside now, with no one else around.
The lack of witnesses spurred Visser’s henchmen into action. They caught sight of us then opened fire, sending bullets over our heads.
As the bullets rained down, Saskia weaved her boat from bank to bank, making full use of the generous width offered by the river. Our erratic course and speed, coupled with the gunmen’s unsteady platform, made us a difficult target. It would take a lucky shot to hit us, an unlucky strike for the victim. Nevertheless, I made a point of lowering my head.
After licking the spray from his ginger moustache, Mac said, “You happen to have any weapons aboard this vessel?”
Saskia nodded towards a cupboard. She leaned towards Mac and said, “You might find something in there.”
Mac opened the cupboard to reveal a lifejacket, a number of flares and a handgun. The handgun was a Smith and Wesson .32, a make and calibre familiar to me.
“Just the one?” Mac asked.
Saskia nodded.
Mac grinned, “Good enough.”
As Saskia powered her boat along the river, Mac opened fire on Visser’s henchmen. Predictably, they ducked and their guns fell silent.
“That should keep them honest,” Mac laughed.
Mac and the henchmen exchanged fire then all fell silent. We were approaching a built-up area, closing on De Poel.
Ahead of us, Visser tried to navigate his boat towards the bank. However, he was travelling too fast; with a thud, the light blue boat collided with the bank.
Meanwhile, Saskia circled her boat, and we watched as Visser and his henchmen ran for cover; abandoning their boat, they splashed through soggy marshland, through land crisscrossed with drainage channels.
Maintaining control, Saskia eased her boat towards the bank. When we were close enough, Mac, Mickey and yours truly jumped off and gave chase.
“Here, take this,” Mac said, tossing over the handgun. “Two shots left.”
Then Mickey and Mac went in pursuit of the henchmen while I ran after Otto Visser.
In fact, running was nigh on impossible. Instead, we splashed our way through the waterlogged land, the mud and silt slurping, aggravating our muscles, draining our energy.
At one point, I slipped and fell head first into the water. Visser was tiptoeing by comparison and so he managed to retain his balance. However, he was losing his breath. As I straightened, he produced a handgun, a small, silver weapon, possibly a Lilliput and fired at me. Once again, I dived into the water, emerging covered in silt and mud.
Turning, Visser splashed on, through the network of drainage channels, heading to who knows where. Ahead of us, I saw nothing but open countryside. Visser was on the run, but like a hamster in a wheel, he had nowhere to go.
After wading for metre after metre through the clinging mud, Visser dropped to his knees and gasped for breath. Turning, he raised his gun, squeezed the trigger and fired indiscriminately; he was in no state to perform any muscular action, let alone aim and fire a gun with accuracy. Nevertheless, he pushed himself to his feet and splashed on.
Within seconds, Visser staggered then slumped to his knees. He dropped the gun, which made a gentle plop in the water. Wading over to him, I watched as he pulled open his raincoat, as he fumbled in his trouser pocket for his asthma pump. His fingers shook, so he couldn’t control the pump properly.
Squatting, I held Visser’s hand and guided the inhaler to his mouth. He took two grateful puffs, paused, then two further puffs on the asthma pump. Then he sat down in the water, a grey ghost covered in brown mud.
“You okay?” I a
sked.
Visser nodded. Once again, he used his pump.
For several minutes, we sat in silence while Visser regained his breath, my left hand resting against his sodden back, propping him up.
“I should have shot you at the windmill,” he said, his breath still ragged, far from normal.
“Too messy,” I said. “The police would have put the pieces together; difficult to enjoy the diamonds from prison.”
Visser nodded; he closed his eyes, revealed a face lined with strain.
Raising my gun, I pointed the barrel at Visser’s midriff. With a smile, I said, “The diamonds, or your life.”
“Take them,” Visser sighed. He reached into his trouser pocket, retrieved the velvet bag and threw the diamonds at me. I caught the bag, checked its contents then clasped the gems in my grubby little hand. “Take them,” Visser repeated, “they are not worth the hassle.”
In the distance, back at the boat, I noticed that Mac and Mickey had rounded up the henchmen. Fair play to Mickey, he’d played his part and captured Wim. Holding the youth by the scruff of his neck, Mickey marched him back to the river. Meanwhile, and quite literally, Mac had bashed Piet and Dirk’s heads together; compliant, and no doubt in a daze, the henchmen trudged through the mud and water.
Mac and Mickey could see us. No doubt, they wondered what was going on. So I helped Visser to his feet and with fragile steps, we returned to the boat.
“You recovered the diamonds?” Mac asked.
I nodded then gave him the velvet bag, for safekeeping.
We were all covered in mud, not least the smartly dressed Otto Visser. With my right hand resting on Visser’s left elbow, I guided him towards Piet, his senior henchman.
“Your boat is still afloat,” I said, “your boss needs medical attention; I suggest that you make your way back to Amsterdam.”
Piet nodded then rubbed his sore head. He took Visser by the elbow and with Dirk’s assistance, they guided their master to the light blue boat. At that moment, Visser was more concerned with gathering lungfuls of fresh air than with ogling beautifully cut diamonds. His henchmen would ferry him to Amsterdam and he would trouble us no more.
“Next stop?” Mac asked, his gaze fixed on Visser’s boat as it cruised along the river.
“Back to the windmill,” I said, “to pick up Velvet, Lia and Karla. Then Amsterdam. Then a bath. Then home.”
Chapter Thirty-One
We chugged along the river to the windmill where we met Velvet, Lia and Karla. When all were safely onboard Saskia’s boat, Mickey regaled them with tales of our derring-do. Already, facts were blending into fiction as Mickey painted himself as the hero.
Back at the Amsterdam Marina, we disembarked and gathered our thoughts. Karla had recovered her composure and banished her disappointment at losing the diamonds. She stood under a street light, her flame red hair glowing like a beacon.
“One day,” she said, “women will rule the world and the world will be a better place.”
I nodded, “Maybe one day women will rule the world and the world will be a better place, but if that day arrives, we should offer no thanks to you.”
Karla thrust her chin into the air. Then she walked off, her back straight, her head held high, past an office block, which offered employment solutions. No doubt, she’d continue to plot and scheme, to promote the Zusterschap. Maybe, deep down, she believed in the Zusterschap and its ideals, though like presidents and prime ministers, she was more interested in unbridled power.
Stinking to high heaven, Mickey walked over to me. He said, “So, you have the diamonds.”
“Secure,” I said, “in Mac’s rock-like hand.”
Gingerly, Mickey fingered his face and the swelling around his nose. “Don’t remind me,” he said. “But we have a deal?”
“What deal?” I asked.
“Come on, Sam,” Mickey groaned, “I helped you to retrieve those diamonds; I should have a share of the spoils.”
“For you or your client?”
Mickey turned away, to stare at the marina. Leaning back on his heels, he prevaricated, searched for the right words and, maybe, a truthful answer. Then, with an icy rain falling from a cruel sky, he shrugged and said, “I need some big bucks, fast.”
“To pay for your fancy house and plush office?”
Mickey nodded, “I’m in debt.”
“How did you secure the loans?” I asked.
“Contacts,” he said.
I scowled then stepped towards a tall grey building, seeking shelter. The icy rain stung and, against my wet clothing, the hailstones were cold. The weather matched my mood, matched the general atmosphere. With a sigh, I turned to Mickey and said, “I think you’re connected to the wrong sort of people.”
“Are you going to help me out, or not?” Mickey asked, his tone plaintive.
He stood, forlorn, in the icy rain, a man alone, without friends, but with plenty of enemies. Of course, I could help him, but I didn’t trust him. So I said, “No.”
Mickey scowled. He stomped away, into the gathering gloom, calling out over his shoulder, “Since you got married, Sam, you’ve become a hard, selfish bitch. I won’t forget this; I won’t forget this, ever.”
Mac stood at my shoulder. He pursed his lips, fingered his moustache and said, “Want me to nudge him into the water?”
“Am I a hard, selfish bitch?” I asked Mac.
Mac shook his head. He smiled, “I told you before, Missy, nothing wrong with toughening up. As for selfish...you allowed yourself to be shot at because principles matter to you. Selfish people don’t go in for things like that.”
A chilly wind blew from the east and scores of boats bobbed on the water. The marina was crowded with boats, all seeking a safe harbour. Meanwhile, Saskia examined her boat, for signs of potential damage. Then she walked towards us, a smile gracing her face; Visser’s bullets had not grazed her vessel.
In gratitude, I said, “How can I thank you for all your help?”
“It was fun to work with Mac again,” Saskia said. She paused to untangle her straw-coloured hair and to adjust her blouson. “And, er, interesting to work with you.”
“I must return the favour sometime.”
Saskia nodded, “If my work takes me to Cardiff, you will.”
Meantime, Lia gazed at Velvet, her look expectant, inviting a reaction, begging a friendly response. However, Velvet merely stood with her back to Lia, her gaze fixed on the bobbing boats within the marina, her thoughts apparently as dark as the black water.
“What will you do now?” I asked Lia.
“I will pursue my beliefs,” she said simply.
“Through the Zusterschap?”
She shrugged, “Maybe I will find another organization. Maybe I will build my own.”
“I wish you luck,” I said.
“Maybe Velvet will support us,” Lia said, “when she is famous.”
Velvet had transformed herself from a soft touch into a woman of iron. In time, with experience, maybe she’d find a compromise, a way to trust herself and the people around her while protecting her vulnerability.
“Give her time,” I said, “and Velvet will contact you.”
“I hope so,” Lia said. Then she too disappeared into the cold Amsterdam night.
When alone, Velvet turned to face me. “What now?” she asked. “Will you keep your promise; will you contact the music manager, Milton Vaughan-Urquhart?”
“As soon as we get back home, I’ll contact Milton. But first the hotel and a bath.”
With cold fingers, I teased my clothing; wrinkling my nose, I sniffed a lapel.
“Something smells rotten around here,” I said, “and I think it’s me.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Back home once again. After a night of passion with Alan – absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all that jazz – I made contact with Jeremy Loudon and Milton Vaughan-Urquhart. Over the telephone, Loudon sounded disinterested, distracted, which surprised
me. However, Milton was in town and he agreed to meet Velvet, agreed to hold preliminary discussions. Next, I telephoned Velvet and arranged to pick her up.
We were travelling in my Mini, to Loudon’s mansion. First, I wanted to hand over the diamonds; second, I felt that Velvet should apologize in person, as a mild form of penance.
As we weaved through a country lane, Velvet said, “You spoke with Milton?”
I nodded, “I did.”
“What did he say?”
“He’ll talk with you and he’ll listen to your voice.”
“Wow!” Velvet opened her eyes wide. She stared through the windscreen, at nothing in particular. Then she clasped her hands together in glee. Her excitement was palpable and I couldn’t help but smile.
“However,” I said, adding a note of caution, “you must remember that the music industry is very competitive; there can be no guarantees.”
“A chance,” Velvet said, “that’s all I want. I don’t care if I become a session musician, a backing singer, a lyric writer; I just want to be involved in music.”
At Loudon’s mansion, one of the lugubrious guards met us and escorted us to the house. If anything, the guard looked glummer than ever, his melancholy mooching casting a pall of gloom.
Inside the house, in the luxurious living room, we found Jeremy Loudon sitting with his head in his hands. He looked up at me; he revealed an unkempt appearance; his cheeks were tear-stained, his eyes red.
“I found the diamonds,” I said, placing the velvet bag on a Queen Anne table. The combination of rich walnut and highly polished veneer turned the table into a mirror, though I did notice a small scratch on one of the cabriole legs. “Velvet would like to apologize and ask for your forgiveness.”
I gave Velvet a gentle nudge. She coughed, cleared her throat then stepped forward.
“I am sorry, Mr Loudon,” Velvet said; “I don’t know what came over me; I didn’t mean to hurt you; I will never do anything like that again.”
“Leave us,” Loudon said. With his head bowed, he stared at the well-polished, antique floorboards, then at the chaise longue, its seat littered with Annabel’s magazines.
