A Cold Death in Amsterdam (Lotte Meerman Book 1)

by Jager, Anja de

  ‘Not business partner – former employer.’

  ‘Your former employer’, Stefanie continued, ‘and your wife’s former husband.’

  ‘Yes, Karin told me. I’m happy to help even if I can’t see why this couldn’t have waited until I was home. The man’s been dead for over ten years.’ I looked for a hint of a smirk around his thin lips, but there was none.

  ‘Where were you on the evening Otto Petersen was murdered?’ Stefanie’s suit, the colour of a eurocent coin, had large creases around her hips, where the skirt had ridden up over her flesh and she’d sat on it.

  ‘At home.’ In contrast, Anton’s dark blue suit was crease-free, as was the part of the white shirt I could see and the yellow-and-blue diagonally striped tie. He looked as if he’d just come out of a business meeting instead of an eight-hour flight.

  ‘Can anybody confirm that?’

  ‘I was alone.’

  I doodled on my notepad, drew circles with my pen and filled them in. Anton was straining his neck to see what I was writing. I tipped the notepad further towards me and added another circle.

  ‘Your car was seen outside Petersen’s house at the time.’

  ‘Oh, please. Not this again.’ He leaned forward, folded his hands and put them on the table. ‘Karin said you had new information.’ He kept his eyes on Stefanie and slowly shook his head. ‘You don’t, do you?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘This is insane,’ he muttered. ‘After all these years, we have to go through this again.’ He pushed his chair back as if he considered getting up, but then thought better of it. ‘The guy’s an idiot.’

  Stefanie sat up and her shirt fell open revealing the top of her breast trying to push free from a blue lace bra. ‘Which guy?’

  ‘The witness.’

  ‘Which witness is that then, Anton?’

  He frowned at the use of his first name and rubbed his watch again. ‘I wasn’t in Alkmaar that evening, so nobody can have seen me there. That means the witness must be the same guy who was lying first time round. Oh for goodness sake, you don’t believe him, do you?’

  ‘He seems credible.’

  ‘He claims he saw my car. Well, he certainly didn’t see me. There must be more people with that car.’

  ‘But none of them wanted to kill Otto Petersen.’

  ‘Neither did I.’

  ‘You just wanted to talk to him? Things got out of hand?’

  Stefanie moved her face into Anton’s space, but he didn’t flinch or retreat. He looked her squarely in the eye and said forcefully: ‘I wasn’t there. I didn’t do it.’

  ‘So – are you saying someone borrowed your car?’

  He sighed heavily and rested his chin in his right hand. ‘My car wasn’t there. I wasn’t there.’

  ‘Maybe Otto Petersen wanted to kill you. Did he bring a gun to the meeting? Was it self-defence? An accident?’

  He sighed again and looked at Stefanie through half-closed eyes. ‘I told you: I wasn’t there. I didn’t meet Otto Petersen that evening.’

  ‘Were you going to leave but Otto got home earlier than you expected? Is that it?’

  ‘No, I left Karin first thing in the morning. I wasn’t there.’

  ‘But someone saw your car.’

  ‘Someone says they saw my car.’

  ‘Why would that someone lie?’

  Anton sat back. ‘Why indeed.’ A pause, then he repeated, ‘Why indeed.’

  ‘You know the witness?’ I said. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Stefanie give an imperceptible shake of the head. My gaze dropped. To the side of the table, Anton’s brown leather briefcase rested on the floor. It was open at the top, revealing a fat book that he must have been reading on the plane.

  Anton looked at the ceiling and took a deep breath in and out before answering me. ‘No, I don’t know who the witness is.’

  ‘How much did you pay Piet Huizen?’ Stefanie said.

  He screwed up his forehead. ‘Who?’

  ‘Piet Huizen – Alkmaar police. Because you paid him, didn’t you, to make those files go away.’

  ‘I didn’t pay anybody.’ He looked at his watch and moved it on his wrist. ‘I came back from New York. I didn’t ask for a lawyer. I think that shows my desire to cooperate, to help solve the murder of my wife’s first husband. It would have been easy for me to stay in the States.’

  ‘And it would have been equally easy for us to have you extradited. Yes, we appreciate that you came back but we would appreciate it even more if you really did cooperate and tell us what happened that night.’

  ‘I don’t know because I wasn’t there. I was at home.’

  ‘But no way of proving it.’

  ‘Karin telephoned me, when she came home and found Otto’s body.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Seven o’clock.’

  ‘Plenty of time to have driven from Alkmaar to Amsterdam. Traffic jams are the other way at that time of the evening.’

  I understood why my father hadn’t arrested Anton. One witness who saw a car wasn’t enough to bring a case to court. We haven’t got enough, I wrote on my notepad. I crossed the last word out and changed the sentence to We haven’t got anything.

  Stefanie looked at what I’d written and cut the interview short. ‘Thank you, that’ll be all,’ she said and scraped her chair back.

  ‘Hold on.’ Anton got a moleskin notepad out of his leather briefcase. ‘What was the name of the guy you mentioned? The guy I’m supposed to have paid?’

  ‘Piet Huizen.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He smiled politely at Stefanie before writing my father’s name down. As he put the notepad back in the bag, the fat book slid over and bared its title. Anton Lantinga had been reading the second Harry Potter.

  In the car, crossing under the Schiphol runway, on the way back to the police station, Stefanie and I agreed that we needed to talk to Wouter Vos again to take a more formal statement and check some details. I called Wouter from my mobile. He didn’t sound surprised to hear from me and was happy to talk to us the next afternoon.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When I came back to our office after the interview with Anton Lantinga, I saw that Hans had been right: Thomas was back. His pretty-boy face grinned at me from the desk opposite Hans’s. His hair was ruffled up and he wore a blue shirt as he did every day, ever since I’d known him. He’d once told me that his wife thought it brought out the colour of his eyes. I’d been surprised he was married.

  ‘Hi, Thomas. How was your holiday?’ I said, pretending I wasn’t concerned about his return.

  ‘Very nice, thanks. Went skiing for two weeks with the kids. Verbier.’

  ‘Well, it’s good to have you back.’

  ‘I talked to Hans about your new case. He said you’ve got it all under control.’

  ‘I guess. There isn’t much for us to go on. Missing money, a twelve-year-old unsolved murder and a reappeared witness.’

  ‘And a kid holding up a petrol station.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘Not proud of what you’ve done?’ Thomas said the words in a deliberately sarcastic tone of voice.

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘But he threatened to shoot you. There was a security camera. I’ve seen the tapes.’

  ‘You have? I thought you’d only just got back.’

  ‘You know how much I love watching those tapes. Or listening to tapes. Either one. Especially if you’re on it.’ He grinned at me. I knew better than to react. That’s what he wanted; that’s what he was like. ‘The guys from Internal Investigations told me it’s all just a formality. They did say they weren’t too sure of your tactics going in there, but that it was all pretty obvious from there on in: you’d identified yourself as a police officer, had given him warning: he shot first.’

  ‘Why would they tell you before me?’

  ‘Who knows.’ He smiled his pretty-boy grin again. His teeth were white against the wintersport tan. �
��Anyway, seeing you on that tape made a nice change from just listening to you talk. How many hours of interviews were there?’

  I didn’t even pretend I didn’t know that he was talking about the Wendy Leeuwenhoek tapes. ‘A lot.’

  ‘Yeah, a lot. But not every conversation was taped, was it, Lotte? I might have to tell the prosecutor about that. We wouldn’t want him to be blindsided by that, now would we? And if I know, I’m sure the defence team can find out as well.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a shame the confession isn’t—’

  ‘I’m not talking about that final meeting. I’m talking about ones in between. Conversations that must have taken place but were never recorded. Or, if they were recorded, the tapes were never handed in.’

  ‘Every conversation was recorded,’ I objected.

  ‘No, they weren’t. I know they weren’t. I’m not sure how many unrecorded meetings or conversations you and that murderer had, but I know for a fact that there was more than one. Maybe you should come clean to the prosecutor about that, make sure he knows.’

  ‘Everything was recorded,’ I repeated.

  ‘Nice try, Lotte.’ He pushed himself out of his chair and took his jacket from the back. ‘If you won’t tell him, I will. I’m not going to let the trial fall apart just because of you. The prosecutor needs to know.’

  ‘Without me the trial will fall apart. But tell the prosecutor whatever you want.’

  ‘I will.’ He put his hand on my shoulder on the way out. I flinched from the physical contact. ‘I came back yesterday and am going to work with André Kamp’s team,’ he said. ‘Just popped in here to check you were OK. But you guys don’t seem to need me here.’

  ‘And what is Kamp’s team working on?’

  ‘A spate of petrol-station robberies.’

  I relaxed. Of course – that was why André Kamp had interrogated Ben the morning after I’d shot the kid. ‘So you watched the surveillance tape.’ It was good to know that Thomas actually had a work reason rather than just a personal one.

  ‘He doesn’t quite fit in though, your kid. All the others were done by two or three people, all heavily armed.’

  ‘The kid had a gun.’

  ‘Different type. Not in the same league. Anyway, those robberies haven’t stopped even though we’ve got the kid here. I’ll talk to you about it later. Gotta hop. New team meeting.’ He paused with his hand on the doorframe. ‘Talk to the prosecutor, Lotte. Whatever meetings you had with Paul Leeuwenhoek, the defence will find someone who witnessed it. They will use it.’ He didn’t wait for an answer but turned around and left.

  The first time I’d met Wendy’s father without the tape recorder had been by accident. The investigation had been going on for over a month and the stack of tapes that documented the conversations I’d had with both Paul and Monique had grown rapidly. The parents hadn’t been our allies over the years – they felt we hadn’t done a good job and did not hold back from sharing their feelings with the press. The boss had asked me to start over with them, bond with them and become their friend, so I had spent a lot of time with each of them. I’d see Monique Leeuwenhoek a couple of times a week. I’d pop in after work, just to have a cup of tea with her, just to chat, me on my own, un-threatening and low-key. I didn’t feel bad about searching through the files with a fine-tooth comb all day to find something that would prove her guilt and just chit-chatting with her in the evening. I had to believe the talking would lead somewhere and that eventually she would tell me something I needed to hear. I did the same with Paul. I was recording all the conversations.

  Then I bumped into Paul in a bar on the Leidseplein. I was there with a friend; he was alone. He joined us. We talked. My friend fancied him. I wasn’t sure if she knew who he was and I had no way of telling her. She wouldn’t leave; she hung around, bought him drinks and it was obvious she wanted me to go home. I didn’t. I drank too much, but I didn’t embarrass myself. I watched him, I listened, I smiled at his jokes but I mainly stayed silent. I was in control. I saw his green eyes rest on hers; I saw his flirtatious attitude towards her. I saw it all and observed.

  When my friend needed to leave, Paul walked out with us.

  When I said goodbye he put his hand on my arm. ‘Will I see you tomorrow?’ he said. ‘I like talking to you.’ He smiled and I could feel the intensity of his eyes in mine all the way through to my stomach. All the people milling around on the Leidseplein, going from bar to bar, the tram coming past, the awful band playing on the pavement . . . all disappeared. ‘I enjoy being interviewed by you,’ he said, ‘your attention on every word I say.’ The wind had picked up and blew my hair into my eyes. He tucked it behind my ear. His fingers felt electric where they touched the skin of my neck.

  When I got home I took a photo of Paul, Monique, his ex-wife, and their little girl Wendy and looked at it for a long time. I wanted to insert myself into that photograph, take the place in that family that Monique had given up when she divorced Paul. I could picture myself in her position with Paul’s arm protectively around my shoulder. I lay in bed, open-eyed, and knew it was impossible. I didn’t tell anybody I’d seen him.

  The second time I’d met Paul without the recorder, a large number of properly taped interviews later, it had felt surprisingly private. The knowledge that the things we said would not be listened to by Thomas and the rest of the team afterwards had given that meeting an intimacy that had made me happy at the time and later sickened me.

  But now, in the bright light of the police station, what worried me was that first time: would my friend remember? She had called me the next day to ask if I’d thought he liked her. I hadn’t answered her. Surely by now she must know who he was; there was no way she could have missed all the newspaper coverage. Maybe she had even put two and two together. Would she be a witness for the defence? What could she say? Should I call her to . . . to do what? To warn her or to plead with her to keep quiet? That would surely make things worse. I couldn’t do it.

  What was the gap on the tapes that Thomas had found? I assumed that Paul had referred to something we’d talked about on the night out. I would have to listen to all the tapes myself, to all the conversations, to find out when and where we had slipped up – I had slipped up. But I really didn’t want to listen to all those tapes again, listen to hours of his voice. I reminded myself that this was what Thomas was good at. This was what Thomas had done all the way through the investigation: listen to the tapes, take note of nuances and of any gaps. There was no way he would say anything to the defence, since he would do nothing to jeopardise this trial – but he might go to the prosecutor’s office. I would just have to sit tight and wait for the call.

  That night, my dreams and thoughts got the better of me again and I had to go for another drive across the country. But I didn’t stop at a petrol station.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The files had told me that Otto Petersen’s mother was in her eighties, but her eyes looked into mine without a sign of confusion. Her long white hair was tied on the top of her head in a series of loose, intertwined knots. No thin-looking perm. She wore a night-black roll-neck pullover and trousers that hugged her tall thin body around the hips then flared out.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Petersen,’ I said. ‘I’m Detective Lotte Meerman from Amsterdam CID. We’re re-investigating the murder of your son. Could I have a word?’ I waited for her response. Maybe I should have started with some introductory chit-chat.

  ‘Can we go for a walk?’ she said. Her smile pulled the champagne-coloured crepe-de-chine of her cheeks into a series of pleats.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘If you have the time, it would be nice to go for a walk.’ She looked at my boots. ‘They’re thick enough for the snow.’

  It was better to go outside than be indoors in an old lady’s small sitting room with, inevitably, the heating turned up too high. ‘Fine,’ I said. It was a good thing Stefanie was still in Amsterdam, as she would never have agreed to a walk, but she had other work
to get on with and we’d arranged to meet at Wouter Vos’s place later.

  I kept my coat on and waited in the little hallway until she was ready. Large pieces of furniture, the remnants of a previous life, cluttered the small flat. This was sheltered accommodation, under the protective shadow of a nursing home, on the edge of a park.

  ‘Have you been here long?’ I asked when she came back, wearing a warm black coat, a bright pink scarf and sturdy boots.

  ‘I’m too good for this place,’ she whispered. She gestured at the nursing home with a knotted hand before securing the front door. The swollen knuckles of her fingers locked a double wedding ring in place. ‘My son bought the flat for me when my husband died. A lot of my friends are here, so I thought: why not.’ She set out at a brisk pace along the lane through the park. The bare branches of trees touched each other high above our heads like the vaulted beams of an outdoor cathedral in which we’d worship winter. The sun slipped its rays through the gaps, so weak the light needed the help of the pull of gravity to reach the path.

  Mrs Petersen’s steps were sure and her arms swung by her side with the energy of a child kept inside for too long and finally allowed out to play. ‘I don’t regret it. In the beginning I travelled a lot.’

  I had to make an effort to keep up as we moved deeper into the park. ‘Are your friends still here?’ I asked, slightly out of breath.

  ‘Yes, there’s five of us. We used to go to school together. Ada isn’t too well any more, but the rest of us, we go on holidays, walks, to lectures, exhibitions. It’s quite a good little set-up. But they’re afraid of a tiny bit of snow. Worried they’ll fall and break a hip.’

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘I’ve been inside for a week now. I could do with some fresh air. I’m grateful for your company, for whatever reason you’re here.’ She looked me in the eye.