‘You’re a star, Dad. Honestly. I wish Mum was more hands-on, like you. Mummy wishes Oma was more useful, like Opa, doesn’t she, Eva. Yeees! Who’s a lovely little sugar-puff, then? Oh, my little smelly baby bum-bum.’ Talking gobbledegook at Eva, Tamara’s attention was immediately snatched away by an alarm bleeping somewhere in the house. ‘Shit. I’m gonna be late. I’ll miss the train. Where’s my phone? Where’s my phone? Where are my goddamn shoes?’ Her fumbling fingers had somehow pushed her hair into the clip and now she was pressing her feet into unpolished, worn-down shoes that Van den Bergen was sure would make George itchy.
What was the point in protesting? His daughter was so blind with travel-panic and lack of sleep, she wouldn’t notice her father’s look of harried concern for his own health and schedule. She didn’t have time to stand still for a moment and really take note of him. He resolved to let her go, un-grilled.
With the house quiet and empty of shirking new parents, Van den Bergen first ventured into the untidy kitchen, which was strewn with dirty pots, baby bottles and unopened post. First, he dosed his florid-faced baby granddaughter with liquid paracetamol. Then, he took her up to her nursery and set her down on the changing station. As he started to change her stinking nappy, he wondered if anybody had ever thought to manufacture changing stations with adjustable height for the extra tall and the extra short. Perhaps when Minks fired him, he would create just such a thing, saving a raft of stay-at-home Dutch fathers from backache. Hell, the Scandinavians were tall and into all that progressive daddy-day-care crap too, weren’t they?
‘What a lovely, clean-smelling girl you are, my little darling!’
Kissing the top of the baby’s head, Van den Bergen strolled over to her window, resisting the temptation to put her in the cot whilst he tidied up. Fuck it, if he was going to do the jobs that Numb-Nuts was supposed to.
Feeling that he was being observed from some unknown vantage point by some shadowy Jag-driver, perhaps from the other side of the canal, Van den Bergen jumped when his phone rang. Elvis.
‘Van den Bergen. Speak.’
‘Last night, boss.’
‘What about it?’ He closed the Venetian blind, leaving the slats partially open so he could look out without being seen. If there was somebody lurking, they would surely reveal themselves if he stood there for long enough.
Elvis sneezed.
‘Don’t tell me you’re not coming into work.’
There was an awkward silence, followed by another deafening sneeze. ‘I was in damp clothes for hours, boss. Don’t worry. I’ll be in. But listen. Den Bosch is definitely up to no good. He collected rent from about five run-down houses full of illegals. Then, guess what?’
Van den Bergen nuzzled the soft hair of Eva’s head. ‘He donated the cash to a cancer charity? Bought puppy dogs?’
‘Handed it over to some neo-Nazi who seemed to be at the epicentre of a big rally outside the mosque last night.’
Did Van den Bergen spy a man, dressed in a tailored coat and trilby, standing outside one of the houses on the far side of the canal, staring straight into the baby’s room? He blinked hard. Shook his head and kissed Eva’s little fingers, which were exploring the deep grooves that arced either side of his mouth. As he scanned the suburban morning that was unfolding beyond the blinds, he saw nobody there. He was just an elastic band stretched to its limit. One dead trafficked girl, four dead nonagenarians, an angry George and an apoplectic digestive system – what a combination.
‘No surprises there, though, eh?’ he said. ‘George and I already got the impression that Frederik den Bosch is no charmer.’
‘You should see the display cabinet in his office. There are some choice exhibits.’
‘I hope you got photos.’
Another hurricane of a sneeze had Van den Bergen holding his phone away from his ear.
‘Don’t worry, boss. Marie’s going to show them to you when you get in, unless you want her to email them now?’
‘I’ll be in! If Minks asks, though, I’ve gone to question the trafficked survivors or something. Don’t, whatever you do, tell him I’m at Tamara’s.’ He decided not to give Elvis time to respond. Didn’t want to hear it, if his subordinate member of staff wasn’t prepared to lie for him. Well…it was less of a lie and more of a fib. ‘What I want to know is what a fascist is doing letting his houses to foreigners. Surely the last thing he wants to do is facilitate a load of illegal immigrants living on his doorstep. And yet he’s funding neo-Nazi activity with the cash.’
‘Boss! He slipped away from the rally. Guess where he went.’
‘Get on with it, for Christ’s sake!’
‘The mosque. The imam let him in.’
Absently watching a red car cruise to the end of the street, Van den Bergen mulled over the prospect of a right-winger like Den Bosch fraternising with his enemy. His agitated guts roiled with painful bubbles of gas. He remembered that he hadn’t yet eaten. Tablets on an empty stomach. Not good. He didn’t clock the green Jaguar as it appeared at the head of the street, rolling slowly forward.
‘Get over to the mosque. Better still, research this imam and we’ll go over there together when I’ve finished. I’m going to do what I can to find out about Hendrik van Eden while I’m babysitting. We’ve got hardly anything on him. And don’t tell Minks. Not about me. Not about the Force of Five. No updates on Den Bosch either. He can wait.’
It was only when he rang off that he spotted the Jaguar. Ordinarily, his instinct would be to confront the bastard and ask what his business was. But right then, with no service weapon to hand and a baby to care for, he realised he was vulnerable.
He placed Eva on her changing mat once again, hurriedly putting warmer clothes on her. Oblivious to what was going on, she kicked her legs freely, making gurgling noises. At least her temperature had come down.
‘Opa’s taking you for a walk,’ he said in jolly tones.
Fumbling with the stiff fingers of a man just past his prime, he put her into her padded Sesamstraat romper suit and snapped the press studs shut. The goggle-eyed characters were gawping out at him from their velvet appliquéd vantage point. Their stares were accusatory. How dare he be a grandfather with such a dangerous job? What the hell was he thinking? Where the fuck was Numb-Nuts when he needed him? Fathering was his responsibility. Van den Bergen was no longer fit for this young man’s crap.
Breathing raggedly as his heart raced to keep up with his imagination, he marched down the stairs, setting up the buggy with one shaking hand. ‘Yes,’ he said, keeping the levity in his voice. ‘We’re going to have a lovely time in the park and watch all the birdies.’ He snatched the only bottle in the steamer that was clean and poured boiled water from the kettle into it. Scalding himself in his haste. It would cool. Not quite enough for a decent drink, but it was better than nothing.
Glancing back, he saw a tall figure standing at the end of the path. The frosted glazing revealed no detail, but Van den Bergen was certain this was the man in the trilby he had glimpsed from Eva’s room.
‘Okay, lady. Let’s go.’ He was careful to pick up the changing bag and shove a dummy in her mouth – an unwelcome gift he’d bought when she was born. Tamara wouldn’t approve, but Eva sucked greedily on it. More to the point, she fell absolutely silent but for the click, click, click sound of her chomping on the soother.
They slipped out of the back door and made their way stealthily to the end of the garden. Van den Bergen prayed that Eva would keep sucking on the dummy, and that her continued silence would enable them to slip away from the watchful man in the green Jaguar.
Still, how likely was it that somebody would ring him at the exact moment of his escape? Before he could undo the lock on the rotten back gate, Van den Bergen’s phone rang shrilly on maximum volume.
CHAPTER 17
The practice of Dr André Baumgartner, Oud Zuid, later
‘Jesus. I don’t know how you do this all day,’ George said, sitting in the dark, crampe
d waiting room. She ran her fingertips over the arms of the armchair, exquisitely upholstered in velvet jacquard fabric, but uncomfortable as hell. A rich old fart’s chair. ‘All this waiting around for people. This lot has got more attitude than most ghetto gangsta wannabes, to keep the cops sitting around.’
Marie threw down the magazine she had been flicking through, a heavy, glossy tome on the interiors and gardens of the wealthy. ‘You get used to it.’ She yawned and stretched her arms upwards, revealing dark stains below her armpits.
George grimaced, turning her attention instead to the horrible oil painting of a Friesian cow that hung on the wall. Nineteenth century, no doubt. George hated all that gilt-framed, ye-olde crap. She thought wistfully of the temple to mid-century chic that would one day be hers. If only Van den Bergen would shit or get off the pot. If only she hadn’t lost her sodding job in the UK. Shelve it, George. You’re on the payroll here, now.
She was just about to ask what excuse Marie had given to Minks for her absence from the office when the main door to the private consulting rooms slammed shut, further inside the converted apartment.
‘Oh, you’re back. Good,’ came the secretary’s voice. ‘There are two young ladies waiting for you. Police. One’s a doctor. Not a medical doctor.’
Ignoring the pointed remark about her PhD, which was de rigueur among the pretentious, whether they were London SW3’s ‘finest’ or the upper crust of the Oud Zuid, George listened to the deep croak of an older man. Leaned back to catch sight of him before he could come in with a prepared smile on his face. Caught a glimpse through the crack in the door of a slim old guy in a dapper grey suit.
She heard low voices as they continued to whisper.
Then: ‘Yes. Pass your hat and coat to me, Dr Baumgartner. I’ll hang them up for you. Don’t worry. And your post is on your desk.’ The secretary’s voice was back to normal pitch. She was gabbling as though this was the most excitement she had seen in years. ‘The ladies are through there. Shall I send them into your office? I’ll bring through a tray. Coffee?’
Finally, George and Marie were ushered by the secretary into Baumgartner’s office. It was similar in décor and feel to the waiting room. Old money. Baumgartner looked more sprightly than his croaking voice had suggested. His posture was impeccable. He presided like a lord over this mini fiefdom, spreading his hands in an open gesture across his rosewood desk. Rose to greet them. Shook their hands.
‘Officers! Welcome. How nice to have such charming young ladies in my consulting rooms.’
George took a seat on yet another bloody uncomfortable chair, wondering if the rich were prone to piles as a result of their furniture choices. ‘It’s Doctor and Detective, actually, but we’ll let you off.’
She gave the old duffer a winning grin. Just like the Life Fellows at Cambridge, this one. At her side, Marie’s cheeks flushed scarlet.
‘How may I help?’ Baumgartner directed his enquiry to Marie, failing to make eye contact with George.
Marie leaned forward, opening her pad at a new page. She hooked her red hair behind her ear. It was reasonably clean today, for a change, but a duller hue at the still-lank roots than it should have been. Fixing Baumgartner with a steely gaze, she clicked her pen into action. ‘We’re investigating four suspicious deaths of patients at the surgery you own.’
Baumgartner laced his fingers together and cocked his head to the side, a convincing look of surprise on his face. ‘Oh? Suspicious? Suspicious in what way? This is the first I’ve heard of it.’
‘It’s not yet a formal murder investigation,’ Marie explained. ‘But it’s come to the police’s attention that four elderly gentlemen recently died in almost identical circumstances. They were all patients of Dr Saif Abadi, your employee. We wanted to speak to you about him.’
Baumgartner’s bushy grey eyebrows scudded upwards. ‘Who are the gentlemen in question, may I ask?’
Marie gave the identities of the old men.
‘Oh dear. What a pity they’ve passed. A good age though. Fitting for such fine, upstanding fellows.’ Baumgartner’s expression had softened.
George caught sight of a tall figure in the corner of her eye. Looked round to see it was only Baumgartner’s dark overcoat and hat, hanging on a peg in the consulting room beyond. She wondered if she was spending too much time around Van den Bergen’s natural paranoia, and reading Rivka Zemel’s suffocating tale of being backed into a corner of history that nobody enjoyed remembering.
‘Did you know them?’ she asked him. ‘Personally, I mean? Could you tell me what sort of men they were?’
Shaking his head, Baumgartner treated George to a sympathetic half-smile. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘You spoke as though you knew them.’
‘No. I’m afraid you misunderstand. I wasn’t acquainted with them. But everybody of a certain age knows of them. They were quite the war heroes in their day.’
Carefully observing his body language for signs that he knew more than he was letting on, George nodded slowly. Never taking her eyes off his, skilled as she was in spotting a bullshitter’s tell. Baumgartner was Abadi’s boss, and he owned the practice where the dead men had been registered for medical care. Perhaps he was hiding something or someone. ‘Coincidence that they should all die of heart attacks within weeks of each other though.’
‘That’s coincidence for you,’ Baumgartner said, completely deadpan. ‘But you often find that couples or close friends die one after the other, especially when they’re very old. It’s like they just give up. A strange phenomenon, but I have absolute faith it’s just a coincidence.’ He cocked his head to the side again. Was that a patronising expression on his well-groomed face? ‘What did the post-mortem reports record?’ he asked Marie.
‘Death by natural causes.’
‘Then why are we having this conversation, ladies?’ He chuckled, craning his head forward like a tolerant schoolteacher.
George wanted to punch him. Though he was seventy, he looked healthy enough to warrant a punch. It definitely wouldn’t class as elder abuse. ‘Because three of them left money to Abadi,’ she said. ‘Another coincidence. And they all had been prescribed dangerous doses of medication known to bring on heart attacks in certain circumstances. More coincidence. There comes a point when a series of amazing coincidences starts to look like a pattern of planned criminal activity.’ She examined her fingernails, waiting for her challenge to sink in with a man who almost certainly wasn’t used to such confrontation – especially coming from a ‘young lady’. ‘So…Abadi. What’s he like?’
Almost theatrically, Baumgartner stroked his chin and looked up to the large Flemish chandelier that hung from the ceiling. The bright light reflected in his pale green eyes, giving him a twinkle that made him seem ten, maybe twenty years younger. Here was a man who hadn’t surrendered to age. George thought of Sally Wright, coughing her smoker’s blackened guts up in a cold, damp, medieval room in St John’s, mitigating the shakes of ill health with hot toddies made from pilfered college cooking whisky and not-quite-boiled water from her tea urn. Or Letitia, not yet fifty, but wheezing thanks to obesity, too many Lambert & Butlers and her ‘shocking bloody pulmonaries’. Baumgartner’s visible robustness was something George only saw in the Dutch. A product of bike rides, simple meals, uncomplicated thinking and never having to endure the inherited angst of a persecuted people. It was genetics. She closed her duffel coat against those green eyes, now locked onto her, as if to hide her own shoddy genetic makeup.
‘Dr Abadi is an excellent physician,’ Baumgartner said. ‘Excellent. He’s worked for me for many, many years now, and I’ve never once had anything but outstanding feedback about his performance as a family doctor. He’s trustworthy, bright, diligent…’ He pursed his lips and frowned. ‘I admit, he does come across as a little odd. Eccentric, perhaps. Sometimes he’s even somewhat jumpy, though I’d always put it down to his ethnic background. Different cultures. You know?’
Just as George was a
bout to come back at him with a sharp retort, Marie shot her a silencing glance.
‘So, you trust him, then?’ Marie asked, scribbling in her pad. She poked her tongue out of the corner of her mouth in concentration.
‘I trust him as head of my practice, yes. And by implication, I trust him with a good chunk of my money and my reputation, too.’ Baumgartner pointedly checked the time on his gold watch: a discreet vintage Swiss number, by the looks of it. Money – another reason to look so damned virile in your dotage.
Carefully, George withdrew from her satchel several photos of the dead men’s medication and laid them in a row on the desk, facing Baumgartner. ‘Do you recognise these?’
‘Well, I know what the tablets are. But what do you mean?’
‘The pharmacy labels, for a start. Titiaans Apotheek.’
Baumgartner shook his head. Smoothed the silk of the pale grey handkerchief that poked out of his jacket’s top pocket. ‘Not the pharmacy that the practice’s patients use.’
‘Titiaanstraat is not far from here, though, is it?’ George watched closely for a reaction, wondering. Just wondering…
‘There are a number of pharmacies in this area, Miss McKenzie.’
‘Dr McKenzie.’
‘Have you asked the pharmacy you believe to have dispensed these tablets if they still have the prescription dockets on file?’ He sucked in his cheeks. Donned a pair of bifocals, looking every inch the formidable pillar of society that various prestigious medical societies lauded him as being. A man with an impressive online presence. An arrogant dick.
‘Yes,’ Marie said. ‘They didn’t. They didn’t have any CCTV footage either. It’s an old-fashioned outfit in a good neighbourhood where all the houses and apartments are rigged up with security like Area 51, so they don’t have to. And why would they? The Bijlmer methadone junkies are hardly queuing to steal extra gear from there.’
The Girl Who Got Revenge Page 12
