by Chris Ewan
“Do you have your papers?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your immigration papers.”
“Oh. I don’t have any,” I told him. “European Union and all that.”
He blinked behind his highly polished lenses. “Your passport then.”
“One moment,” I said, and left him while I went into my bedroom to fetch my passport. When I returned, I found him studying the cover art on the Hammett novel up close.
“Are you a book lover Inspector?”
He just looked at me. “It is a famous book?”
“Quite famous.”
“Most people hang pictures on their walls.”
“Well, I’m not really that into art. At least not in the conventional sense.”
“You have heard of some of our Dutch masters?”
“One or two,” I admitted. “Though I’ve never really cared for Van Gogh.”
I handed Burggrave my passport and he opened it at the back page and studied me intently over the top of it, as if he suspected he would find a discrepancy between my passport picture and my face. Then he removed his pocket book and a pen from his coat and began jotting down my details.
“What is your business in Amsterdam, Mr Howard?”
“I’m working on a book myself,” I said, gesturing to my manuscript. “I’m a writer of mystery novels. Perhaps you’ve read one of them?”
“I have not,” he said, concentrating on his note making. “Maybe you are not so popular outside of your own country.”
“I sell very well in Japan.”
“Japan is not the Netherlands.”
You could see why they’d made him an Inspector.
“Is this just a routine check?” I asked, gesturing to my passport.
“You were contacted by a man several days ago, Mr. Howard. Wednesday evening.”
He glanced up and held my eyes.
“I’m afraid I don’t remember that,” I said, as evenly as I could.
“He sent you an e-mail.”
“Really? I don’t recall it at all, but then I have been working quite hard recently. You don’t happen to know his name, do you?”
Burggrave studied me some more, looking for some kind of giveaway. I smiled as pleasantly as I could and cocked my head to one side.
“His name is Park.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head and acting as if I was trying hard to remember. “I’m afraid that name means nothing to me.”
“We have his laptop. It tells us you read his message.”
“Oh,” I said. “Oh wait. Yes. I did have one message now you mention it and I suppose it could have come from this man. I deleted it right away, you see, because it was so odd. He asked me to meet him in a bar, as I recall. Usually my readers might send me a question about one of my stories or ask if I can sign a book. It’s rare for them to want to meet me.”
“Did you meet him?”
I widened my eyes in surprise, then shook my head no.
“Of course not. Do you smoke Inspector?”
I darted away from his gaze towards my desk and picked up a packet of cigarettes. I made a show of searching for a lighter, looking beneath my papers and inside the uppermost desk drawer, then left him for just a moment to go to the kitchen, indicating with the unlit cigarette in my hand and a roll of my eyes what it was I was after.
In the kitchen, I let out a breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding and tried to think where to take things next. The reality was I had few options. I’d set a course now and I’d have to follow it through and see where it took me. Lying to a Dutch police officer about meeting a man who’d been beaten close to death probably wasn’t my smartest move ever but it could still turn out okay if I played it right. After all, I got the impression Burggrave hadn’t looked into my background yet and if I gave him no cause for suspicion he might never place the phone call to the British Embassy that would tell him all he could care to know about my record.
I reached for the top of the stove, grabbed the box of kitchen matches I kept there and returned to the living room. I was just about to light up when Burggrave motioned towards the lighter that was positioned quite visibly on my desk.
“Right before my eyes,” I said, throwing my hand up. “I’m always doing that.”
Burggrave gave no indication as to whether he believed me or not. I don’t suppose it really mattered. I reached for the lighter and lit my cigarette, the flare reflecting in his spectacle lenses.
“So you did not meet Mr. Park?” he asked again.
“That’s what I said.”
“But you did not tell him this?”
I exhaled smoke into the room.
“Reply to his e-mail, you mean? No, I didn’t. I suppose that was rude of me. But you see, you can never be sure what these people want or how, well, normal they are. I had thought that by not answering he’d assume I hadn’t read his message.”
“But your computer sent him a message telling him you had.”
“A read receipt, I believe it’s called. I had no idea about that.”
“So it is possible he went to this bar.”
“Cafe de Brug—the Cafe on the Bridge, I believe. I know it, you see. And I suppose he could have gone. Why is it of interest to you, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Burggrave studied me again, as if he was registering precisely what my face was doing so that he could gauge what effect the words he was about to use would have on me.
“Mr. Park is in hospital. He was attacked.”
“Oh God. At the cafe?”
“In his apartment.”
“And you wondered if I might know something about it?”
Burggrave nodded carefully.
“Well I’m sorry I can’t help,” I said. “What does Mr. Park say about it all?”
“He is asleep.”
I frowned, trying to act as if I was confused by the discrepancy between the grave look on his face and the words he’d spoken.
“You mean he’s unconscious?”
“He could die.”
“God. I’m sorry to hear that. I only wish I could have helped further.”
I extended my hand to shake but Burggrave just looked at it with mild distaste before moving towards the door of my apartment.
“You will be staying in Amsterdam, Mr. Howard?” he called over his shoulder.
“Until I finish my book.”
“I may speak to you again?”
“Fine. But Inspector, my passport?”
Burggrave paused. I opened my palm and held it out to him and after a moment’s hesitation he reached inside his jacket and passed the red folder back to me.
“Forgive me,” he managed, through gritted teeth.
“Not a problem,” I replied.
EIGHT
I sat at my desk for some time after he’d gone, smoking and looking out of my window at the patterns the wind was making on the surface of the canal. I thought about trying to work on my manuscript and the briefcase problem Victoria had spotted but I knew it would be pointless. My mind was on another course now, preoccupied with the mess I’d got myself in. I wondered how wise it had been to he to Burggrave and then I thought about whether Victoria was right and I should just leave Amsterdam altogether. It wasn’t as if I had anything holding me down: my possessions fitted in two holdalls, my rent was payable on a weekly basis and I would be walking away from my latest bout of thievery with close to six thousand euros in my pocket. It was a nice fantasy, so far as it went, but that was all it could be. The fact was I’d told Burggrave I was staying for the foreseeable future and it would look suspicious if I left. And besides, I had a feeling I might be missing out on a pretty intriguing opportunity if I did go.
Leaning back in my chair, I pulled the central drawer out of my desk and set it down on the floor by my feet. Then I felt around in the space where the drawer had been until my fingers found what I was looking for. I stood the two monkey figurines on my desk in front of me, the
one covering his ears and the other shielding his mouth, and I held my face in my hands and thought about the third monkey, the one covering his eyes, and then I thought about how I was seeing about as little of my current situation as he was. How much was the complete set of figurines worth? Who even collected these things? And could they be moved on without too much difficulty?
I sighed and knocked the monkeys over onto their heels with a flick of my fingers, then scooped them up in my hand, put on my overcoat and scarf and stepped outside into a wintry, rain-laced breeze.
When I reached Cafe de Brug, it was almost full inside. Customers in knitted jumpers and woollen hats were warming their hands around mugs of Koffie Verkeerd and one or two were eating slices of spicy apple tart with whipped cream. The clientele seemed almost entirely Dutch and I felt self-conscious as I approached the young man behind the bar and interrupted the background chatter with my English.
“Is Marieke here?” I asked him.
The man squinted at me. “Who are you?”
“We’re friends.”
The man squinted at me some more and I resisted the temptation to warn him against stepping outside the glass door of the cafe in case the wind froze his features that way.
“Is she here?” I tried again.
Reluctantly, the man picked up a telephone and, when it was answered, mumbled some Dutch into it. I caught the word ‘Engelsman’ but it was about all I managed. Some way into his short conversation, the man paused, looked me over, and seemed to provide a cautious description. I told him my name was Charlie but he chose to ignore me and hung up instead.
“She is upstairs,” he said, directing me towards a door marked ‘Prive’ at the far end of the room. “She waits for you.”
I left the man to practise his squinting and walked past the few remaining tables and on through the door. A flight of wooden stairs took me to a second floor landing where I found Marieke looking down at me. She had on a pair of leggings and a baggy sweatshirt, her hair was unwashed and tied loosely at the back of her head, and she wore no make-up. But even with the scowl she gave me, which was far more severe than her friend’s downstairs, she still had the ability to make me forget what it was I’d been thinking about.
“We need to talk,” I said, not quite meeting her eyes.
Marieke studied me for a moment, then turned and walked through the doorway behind her. I followed, soon finding myself in a light-filled room overlooking the front of the building, and beyond it, the bridge that spanned the Keizersgracht canal and that had given the cafe its name. A set of wicker lounge furniture filled the middle of the room, and there was a double bed and a clothes rack in the far corner, plus some nearby metal shelving units containing stock items for the bar: coffee beans, beer nuts, napkins, that kind of thing. Marieke sat herself down on the wicker sofa and folded her legs under her and I chose to perch on one of the armchairs and rested my elbows on my knees and rubbed my hands together for warmth.
“I need to know what’s going on,” I told her. “You have to tell me who you’ve spoken to and what you’ve said. Everything, in fact.”
“Michael is alive,” she told me, after a pause. “I do not think you care, but he is alive.”
I softened my tone. “Of course I care.”
“In the hospital, a machine breathes for him. He sleeps always. His fingers…” She shuddered.
“I said I care, Marieke.”
She looked at me hard, clenching and unclenching her hand. I wasn’t sure what she saw in me then and was even less sure that she liked it.
“Why did you run?” she asked, finally.
“You know why.”
“Because you are a coward,” she said, jerking her chin at me.
“Maybe. But if I’d stayed, it wouldn’t have helped Michael. I don’t know that I could have explained what I was doing there. I had my burglar tools on me. I didn’t know you, not really.”
“It was wrong.”
“Yeah, well Michael paid me to do things that were wrong. I have a feeling he did some bad things himself in the past.”
“He may never open his eyes again.”
“I know that. I spoke to someone at the hospital.”
“You have been there?” she asked, scrutinizing me, her lips pressed together.
“I used the telephone. I didn’t think it was safe to go. I’m not sure you should go either. I’m not sure about much of anything right now.”
“Perhaps you should keep running. Coward.”
I sighed. “Look, the police came to see me this morning.”
Her eyes narrowed. I could see I’d at least got her interest.
“They asked me about Michael. They knew we met. They said they found out through his computer but I’m not sure I believe them.”
“How else would they know?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you.”
“Ha,” she said, throwing her hands up. “You think it was me? You think I am a coward too?”
“I think you were upset. In shock. You may not have known what you were saying.”
“I told them nothing.”
“I’m not saying it was deliberate. It’s possible you don’t even remember. Shock does that. You might have told them about me meeting Michael. Maybe you didn’t tell them much more than that. Maybe they filled in the rest.”
“You think I am stupid? I told them nothing.”
“Alright,” I said, making a calming gesture with my hands. “But they still knew. They didn’t know if it was important but they knew to come and talk to me.”
“What did you say?”
“That we never met.”
“And they believed you?”
“I’m not sure. Did you tell the police about the two men Michael was with?”
She glanced towards the floor. “Of course.”
“You know them?”
“No. I described them.”
“Did the police know who they were?”
She shrugged. “I do not think so. They wanted to know if Michael had met them before.”
“And?”
“I said I did not know. It’s true,” she told me, eyes wide. “I never met any of Michael’s friends.”
“Some friends.”
“But that is what he called them to me.”
“How about the monkeys?” I tried. “Did you tell the police about them?”
She shook her head, slowly.
“What is it with them anyway? How much are they worth?”
“They are worth nothing.”
“You’re sure? Because when I showed you one of them the other night…Your eyes.”
“Yes?”
“They opened up. Like I was holding a bright light in my hands.”
She began to smile then, as if she might laugh at me, but she managed to control herself and rested her chin on her hands.
“I had not seen him before,” she said, simply. “The one covering his eyes, yes. But not the others.”
“But what do they mean, Marieke? To you? To Michael?”
“Do you have them with you?” she asked, peering at me.
I shook my head.
“Where are they?”
“Someplace secure.”
“Take me to them.”
“Not just yet. I don’t know what I’m involved in here. They give me protection.”
“You will have your money,” she said coldly.
“Maybe. But right now all I want are some answers. Why not tell me about the second thief? Did you know about him?”
Marieke’s face tangled into a question mark, her lips pursed together to form the dot at the base of the curve her eyebrows and nose were describing.
“So you didn’t. I think I believe you. There was a second man, Marieke. He broke into the apartment in the Jordaan while I was there. He was looking for the same thing I was.”
“I do not know about this second man,” she said.
“I think Michael hired him. I think he want
ed a back-up when I said no to him.”
“But why would he do this?”
“Because he needed the monkeys on that night in particular. He was very specific about it. It bothered me at the time, though not as much as it should have done.”
Marieke unfolded her legs and found her feet, moving to the window at the front of the room. She wrapped her arms about herself and stared at her faint reflection in the window glass. I watched her watching herself, caught up in the circularity of the image. Those freckles on her neck again. Tiny blemishes. Calling out.
“He only wanted you,” she said. “Nobody else. You were recommended to him. Someone in Paris. A friend.”
“That can’t be right,” I told her. “I know a man in Paris but he would have told me about this.”
“Not if Michael did not want him to.”
“Yes. Even then.”
“You think so?”
“Yes,” I said. “The man I’m thinking of passes work my way. It’s how he makes his money. But I have to trust him for it to work. He knows that.”
She hitched her shoulders. “Perhaps Michael had to trust him too.”
“Not in the same way.”
“Of course in the same way,” she said, turning to me, her face as open as I’d seen it so far.
“No,” I pressed on. “You don’t understand. This man is a fence.”
“Yes?”
I looked at her expectantly, waiting for my words to register somewhere inside her thick head. They didn’t though. They began to register inside mine instead.
“Marieke,” I said, “what is it Michael did for a living?”
“You do not know?”
I shook my head.
“But he is like you, Charlie.”
“Exactly like me?”
“Yes. A burglar, ja?”
NINE
