A Cold Death in Amsterdam (Lotte Meerman Book 1)

by Jager, Anja de

  ‘Anton Lantinga – who’d have thought it? Let’s pick him up now.’ She needed to take two steps for every one of mine. Even in her high-heeled shoes she was almost a head shorter than me. ‘That would be a front-page story right there.’

  ‘You’re insane.’ I lengthened my steps further. It had been my tiredness that had made me jump to the wrong conclusion: that she had suggested arresting my father. Now I could breathe again. Still, every centimetre I put between the two of us felt like a blessing.

  ‘Shall I get him in for questioning?’ Stefanie’s voice was breathless, either from trying to keep up with me or from excitement at the thought of arresting Lantinga.

  I didn’t respond. My office was two floors up from the canteen. We passed by the lifts but I ignored them and moved to the stairs.

  ‘So how come the CI didn’t know about this witness?’ Stefanie had stopped at the lift button and now had to run to catch up with me.

  ‘I suppose the files got lost.’ I took the stairs two at a time as I always did.

  ‘They couldn’t have done,’ she puffed. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘In transit?’ The sound of my boots echoed through the stairwell, the concrete steps amplifying the noise.

  ‘Didn’t someone pick them up?’ Somehow she was managing to keep up with my pace.

  ‘They lost the paperwork then.’ One floor up.

  ‘But he asked for more information,’ Stefanie said. I wasn’t going fast enough to lose her or even to stop her talking. ‘It’s strange, isn’t it?’

  I pushed open the door at the end of the stairwell. ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Of course it is: a witness after all these years . . .’

  We arrived at my office. ‘It isn’t “after all these years”: the guy came forward immediately.’

  ‘What’s he like?’ She was breathing hard and fanned herself with the front of her fitted jacket.

  ‘Who?’ I glanced over at my empty desk and the reports from the Petersen file that I’d strewn all over the floor.

  ‘The witness, of course.’ A flush moved from the top button of her white blouse up the sides of her neck and covered her cheeks, the red blotches clashing with the fuchsia pink of her suit. She wiped a few drops of sweat off her forehead, which was fleshed out and therefore unlined, unlike mine.

  ‘I don’t know – geek done good, I’d say.’

  ‘Perfect. They make excellent witnesses. The judge will love that.’

  ‘Stefanie, there isn’t enough—’

  ‘Not yet, but we have some time. What about the detective?’

  ‘What about him?’ I bent to pick the papers up and put them back in their cardboard box.

  ‘What’s he like?’

  From my position on the floor I saw the ladder in her tights – she’d be horrified when she noticed. ‘In his fifties, seemed professional enough. Bit over-controlled.’

  ‘I thought he was older, this – what’s his name . . . Piet Huizen?’

  I turned back to the floor and my tidying. ‘Oh, him – yes, he’s retired.’

  ‘Interesting . . .’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, retired guy, missing witnesses, missing records – it’s worth investigating, that’s all. We should look into that.’

  I made a show of checking my watch. ‘I thought you wanted to interview Lantinga. We’ve got some time – he’ll still be at work.’

  A smile bloomed on Stefanie’s face and I sighed with relief, hoping I’d managed to drive any thoughts that linked my father to missing records from her mind.

  Chapter Nine

  The shiny copper plaque by the door read simply: Omega. The seventeenth-century houses on the Herengracht did their best to bend themselves around the semi-circle of the canal. Their facades leaned forward and back as the subsidence of Amsterdam’s peat and sand foundations had tipped them centimetres this way and that. Shops, businesses and living accommodation stood in non-uniform individuality side by side along the wide water, each house slightly different from its neighbour: some had three storeys, some four; a different style of gable, a different colour paintwork; some with steps leading up from the lower-ground floor, others with ground-floor entrances. Despite the variations, they still formed a coherent row.

  We went up the flight of stone stairs above the basement entry – ten steps that probably took us over the partners’ bicycle storage. The steps had been swept clear of snow. When the receptionist buzzed us in, I pushed open the door, which had been painted the green of old 1,000-guilder notes.

  A model of a sailing ship, its white sails stained nicotine-yellow by age, sat in a glass display cabinet to the left of the reception area. The wallpaper was of a pale green fleur-delis pattern. The girl behind Reception and her desk with the computer on it seemed to have landed by mistake in a period drama.

  ‘Police, Financial Fraud department,’ Stefanie announced, showing her badge. ‘We’re here to see Anton Lantinga.’

  ‘Mr Lantinga? I’m afraid he’s in New York this week. Did you have an appointment?’ The dark-haired, latte-skinned girl checked her screen and typed something. ‘Yes, he’s back on Wednesday.’

  ‘What about Karin Petersen?’

  ‘I don’t think we have someone of that name . . . Ah, you mean Karin Lantinga, of course.’

  Stefanie and I exchanged a glance. So Karin had married Anton. How soon after Otto’s death?

  The receptionist dialled a number and looked at us. ‘What may I say is it regarding?’

  ‘I’ll have to tell her that in person,’ Stefanie said.

  The young woman shrugged. ‘Mrs Lantinga,’ she said to the phone, ‘I’ve got two police officers here for you . . . I don’t know, they wouldn’t say . . . OK . . . OK, I’ll ask them to wait.’ She put the phone down. ‘She’s in a meeting right now and will see you as soon as she’s free. Please take a seat.’

  I turned and sat down gingerly on a vulnerable-looking green and white striped settee. I didn’t dare rest against it. Stefanie stayed standing, admired the ship and then went back to the receptionist.

  ‘Do you have any brochures on Omega? For investors,’ she said.

  The receptionist moved a sheath of straightened black hair from her shoulder to her back with an imperious gesture. ‘Omega is closed for new investors,’ she said, ‘and even before that there was a ten-million euro minimum investment. I can take your name and have our Investor Relations department contact you if and when we do accept new investors.’

  ‘Any material on fund performance?’

  ‘Karin Lantinga will give you everything you need. She’ll be with you shortly. Please take a seat.’

  Stefanie didn’t. She walked up and down, picked up a copy of Het Financieele Dagblad and looked at the front page, then turned to page two at a speed that made it clear that she’d read no more than the headlines. How long would Karin Petersen, now Lantinga, make us wait?

  Just then, a door opened and two men, both in suits, probably in their late forties, walked through accompanied by a slim woman who looked of similar age. She shook their hands, and I heard her say, ‘Thank you so much for your time. Sonja will get your coats.’ Sonja the receptionist opened a hidden panel to a closet and handed the men their overcoats. Throughout, we were ignored.

  The woman opened the front door, shook their hands again and closed it before turning to us. ‘You’re the police, I suppose.’ Her smile had disappeared and she looked older, but still younger than the fifty-three I knew her to be.

  Stefanie introduced herself and showed her badge. Karin was a little taller than Stefanie but needed ten-centimetre heels to help her. Her hair was golden-blonde with streaks of silver grey. It was tied in a bun at the nape of her neck, the weight of it tipping her head slightly back, removing any slackness under the chin and giving her a Grace Kelly-like poise and elegance. She faced me and said, ‘And you are . . .’

  I got up from the sofa and said my name.

  Karin threw
one look at the receptionist and led us through the door. ‘We won’t go to my office,’ she said, walking down the corridor lined with Dutch Golden Age oil paintings on either side. I didn’t recognise the artists – we were moving too quickly to have a good look – but they seemed to be originals. I was reminded of Wouter Vos’s apartment, where modern works decorated the hallway. ‘We’ll use the boardroom instead.’ Karin opened a door and over her shoulder I got my first glimpse of true opulence. The ceiling was painted to show a sea battle in which large ships, one identical to the model downstairs, sailed at full mast in the kind of sea that got surfers excited. Grey thunder clouds looked even darker in contrast with the red, white and blue of the triumphant Dutch flag.

  ‘Admiral Michiel de Ruyter,’ Karin said. ‘The ceiling shows his famous victory over the English at Medway. We based the decorating scheme for the entire office on this room.’ She sat down at the head of the cherrywood table, looking regal, powerful and in absolute control.

  Stefanie pulled out a chair to the right of Karin. I would have liked to remain standing, preferably in a corner where I’d have a perfect view, but Stefanie pointed at the chair next to hers and gestured for me to sit down. At least I didn’t have to sit between the two of them; I could watch both women at the same time. I stroked my fingers over the wood, which was glossed like a new conker. Between the painted ceiling and the green and white striped wallpaper, there were signs of the modern era in the room as well: the star phone in the middle for conference calls, microphones sunk in the table and a projector at the far end. A small stand in the corner carried a tray with bottles of Spa water and a teapot as well as a selection of chocolate biscuits. We, however, were not offered anything.

  ‘What can I help you with?’ Karin said. As she spoke, she took her BlackBerry out of her bag. Its red light flashed and she scrolled through the emails with a French-manicured finger, her eyes glued to the little screen.

  I couldn’t place her accent. It sounded flat, studied, as if she’d had a regional accent that she’d worked hard to get rid of. I tried to imagine her speaking in the softer tones of a southern accent or the farm-like cadences of the north – but neither suited her. A delicate perfume, with notes of apple and jasmine, floated over the table.

  ‘We’re re-investigating the murder of your husband, Otto Petersen,’ Stefanie said, unsmiling and professional.

  Karin put the BlackBerry on the table, sat back and folded her hands. The right was only adorned with a plain golden wedding band, but on the left the entire bottom segment of her ring finger was covered by a square-cut blue stone in a golden setting. ‘Has any . . . new evidence come to light?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Stefanie said. ‘We’ve had some new information. It’s too early to disclose what it is.’

  Karin’s face turned itself into a mask. Nothing moved, not a muscle around her lips, not a blink of an eye. Even the lines on her forehead smoothed themselves out. She looked at me. Her eyes, deep blue as the sapphire on her finger, narrowed between the crow’s feet. ‘Sorry, but I thought you were from the Financial Fraud department.’

  ‘I am,’ Stefanie said. ‘Detective Meerman is from CID.’

  ‘I see.’ Her eyes slid from me to Stefanie.

  ‘Could you please tell us your version of events on the evening your husband died,’ Stefanie said.

  ‘Anything in particular? Or would you like me to tell you all the minutiae?’ Karin raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Your movements in the afternoon.’

  ‘I can’t remember all of them.’ She tipped her head sideways a little at the end of the sentence.

  ‘You drove to the prison . . .’ Stefanie prompted. She moved forward and I had to stretch my upper body to its full length to keep Karin in view.

  ‘Otto had asked me to pick him up at five o’clock in front of the prison.’

  ‘He called you?’

  ‘As soon as his release date was decided.’ She scrolled the trackball on the front of her BlackBerry again, clicked on an email and read it.

  ‘You expected that?’

  ‘Yes. I always thought he’d want me to drive him home.’ Her eyes hadn’t left the device.

  ‘OK. So you drove to the prison,’ Stefanie said.

  Karin was silent. She let it last.

  Stefanie was the first to fill the gap. ‘What time did you get there?’

  Karin smiled at her BlackBerry and put it back on the table. ‘I got there before five – a quarter to, ten to, something like that – and waited for him. I sat there for half an hour and still he wasn’t out. So I went up to the prison, to talk to the warden. Still no sign of Otto. Then the warden spoke to one of his colleagues, who told us my husband had been released just after four. He had apparently got in a cab and left.’

  ‘Were you angry? Annoyed?’

  Karin unfolded her hands and used the right one to tuck some strands of blonde hair behind her ear. ‘No, I wasn’t angry.’ She looked Stefanie straight in the eye. ‘I thought something had come up and he hadn’t been able to contact me.’

  Stefanie nodded. ‘A change of plan.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘He could have called?’

  ‘I assumed he’d phoned the house.’

  ‘And had he?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Was there a message on your answerphone when you got home?’

  ‘Otto was dead when I got home.’ Her voice purely stated the facts. She might as well have told us it was raining. She caressed the double string of pearls that fitted closely around her neck, probably to hide some slackness in the skin.

  ‘But was there a message on the answerphone?’

  I watched this game between Stefanie and Karin. What was truth after all this time? Could anybody still remember exactly what they’d done, felt or seen after ten years?

  ‘No, there was no message.’

  Had she been angry then? Unless she had changed a lot in the ten years since his death, this wasn’t a woman to keep waiting. Had she been glad of the delay, perhaps? Glad for the extra time it gave her, to consider how she was going to tell him she was leaving him? Postponing the moment she had to tell him of her affair? In my mind I pictured her inside that car, waiting outside the prison. Nervous but controlled. He’d asked her to be there, so she was there, doing her duty. It rained – drops like tears falling on the car and streaming down the windows. She didn’t want to be there: surely she was wishing she was somewhere else, anywhere else.

  ‘So now, knowing there wasn’t a message, why do you think Otto asked you to pick him up?’

  Karin let her eyes rest on the table in front of her. She took a deep breath and replied, ‘I think he wanted me out of the way. Whatever he had planned, whomever he was meeting, he wanted to make sure I wasn’t at home.’

  I wrote what had he planned? – who was he meeting? on my notepad.

  Karin laughed, a sound like breaking glass. ‘Your colleague clearly likes my explanation,’ she told Stephanie. ‘Hadn’t you figured that out for yourself yet?’

  ‘You had an affair with Anton Lantinga, whom you’ve now married.’ Stefanie paused for Karin’s confirming nod, then said: ‘Someone saw him at the scene of the crime.’

  I kicked Stefanie on her shoe, hard enough to shut her up but soft enough not to make her cry out.

  ‘Who saw him?’

  ‘We can’t disclose that.’

  ‘He wasn’t there. He went home that morning.’

  ‘But—’ Stefanie began.

  ‘Where’s Anton now?’ I interrupted her.

  ‘New York, meeting new investors.’

  ‘You didn’t keep the Petersen Capital name,’ I said.

  ‘No, of course not. This is an entirely different firm.’

  ‘When did you found it?’ Stefanie said.

  ‘We had to close Petersen Capital after the inquest and Otto’s conviction. We worked with investors to see if they wanted to transfer their money to our new company, Omega.�
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  ‘And did they?’

  ‘Many of them did. They realised that Otto was the rogue element. The firm was otherwise run on sound principles.’

  ‘And you didn’t know anything about what he did?’

  ‘He was the only one of us to go to prison. The court decided we were innocent. Many of our investors agreed with the judge. And we’ve made them enough money to repay their trust.’

  ‘When is Anton due back?’

  ‘The middle of next week. I’ll ask him to contact you. If you could give me your card . . .’ Stefanie handed hers over. ‘Is that all?’ It was a graceful dismissal.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ We left. Karin didn’t show us out – we were not important investors.

  We walked along the next canal over, back to the office. On a map, Amsterdam’s canals looked like the concentric circles I drew on my notepad, like the year rings of a tree but cut in half, with other canals connecting them like the spokes in a bicycle wheel. Ducks slipped and slid over the ice until they found a hole and joined their friends. All skaters would hate them for keeping the gaps open. The ice was white, water mixed with snow. On this canal, where the tour boats didn’t break through it once an hour, it would be thick enough to hold a person’s weight in another day or two, and the frozen water would form a temporary pavement for the two houseboats more permanently moored with the ice as an extra anchor.

  ‘I bet he was meeting Anton Lantinga,’ Stefanie said, her words accompanied by a white cloud of breath. She walked with her hands deep in her pockets, a scarf wrapped around her neck, and turned to look at her reflection in a shop window. She didn’t wear a hat, probably too afraid it would mess up her perfect shoulder-length cut.

  ‘Not if it’s about Anton and Karin.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Would he have known about them? Who’d have told him?’

  ‘Maybe Karin herself did.’

  ‘And it festered in him while he was locked up, until it boiled over on his first hour out.’ I said the words to check if they felt true coming out of my mouth. I couldn’t tell. I didn’t know Otto Petersen yet – I didn’t know what he was like. I needed to get a better idea of his personality. Had he been a calculated risktaker: I get forty million euros, that’s worth seven years in jail, or a megalomaniac: I’m so clever, they’ll never catch me, or just someone who got sucked into circumstances, started small and watched it snowball into something huge he couldn’t control, possibly egged on by his wife. ‘You worked on the first Petersen case, didn’t you?’