Into the Night: Inspector Rykel Book 2 (Amsterdam Quartet)

by Jake Woodhouse

  The desk in front of him looked post-Hiroshima.

  The guy behind it looked even worse.

  ‘But I tell you before, I don’t know this man you keep talking about.’

  ‘The thing is,’ Kees looked at the guy’s name badge but was unable to read it because of the black grease which seemed to permeate the whole place. ‘I think you do.’

  Kees sought out the man’s eyes, but he ducked them away.

  Metal hitting concrete clanged out from behind him. One of the mechanics cursed. A tinny radio was playing in the background, periodically obscured as one of the cars was revved up. Kees caught diesel fumes.

  ‘It’s simple,’ said Kees, figuring that the guy in front of him probably wouldn’t understand the finer points of Dutch law. ‘You don’t tell me where I can find Isovic, then I’ll come back later tonight. With some friends.’ He smiled.

  He’d been finding that smiling was pretty good at unnerving people.

  ‘So what’s it gonna be?’ he asked, feeling like someone in a movie.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ said the guy. ‘If I tell you I don’t see you again. Okay?’

  Kees smiled a bit more. As suspected, the guy came from somewhere where the police had more power, and hadn’t worked out that it was different in the Netherlands.

  Fifteen minutes later Kees was standing outside a house in Zandvoort, the North Sea at his back. He’d even seen some people on the beach, the sun hanging over the sea reflecting light back off the green-brown water. He’d been here last summer, he remembered as he pressed the doorbell.

  He and a few colleagues had made the trip out having seen posters for a world skinny-dipping record attempt. Expectations had been high, and they’d settled in on the beach with large amounts of beer.

  But in the end they’d been disappointed. It turned out anyone who actually wanted to take their clothes off in public wasn’t worth looking at.

  Finishing their drinks, they’d driven back into Amsterdam and gone to a live sex show, which Kees had ducked out from early. For some reason he’d found it depressing.

  Nothing much happened in response to the bell ringing, so he walked round the side, noticing how the salt spray was corroding the metal gutters. The garden out back was small, neat, with a few rows of tulips following a white wooden fence. He went through the gate, which he expected to creak but didn’t, and walked up to the patio windows, peering inside.

  Neat, like the garden. Not the kind of place he’d expect a Bosniak to have friends.

  He tried the windows but they were locked. Glancing around he could see the back of the house wasn’t overlooked directly, except maybe by the houses on either side. He turned back and stared at his reflection in the glass, the image slightly doubled, out of focus.

  Fuck it, he thought as he pulled out his gun, flipped it round and broke the left-hand pane with the butt.

  Glass tinkled to the ground. A shard just missed his foot.

  Kees brushed off the gun and re-holstered it, his foot crunching glass as he stepped inside.

  His search turned up little; there were two bedrooms, one lived in, the other looking like it might have been ages ago but had been left untended for a while, dust on the bedclothes giving it away.

  In the kitchen there was a half-eaten burger, congealing in its open wrapper next to a laptop set up on a breakfast bar, and a soft-drink cup. He prodded the bun. It was still warm, the sesame seeds felt like braille against his finger, and a bit of brown glossy sauce oozed out of the edge.

  Pushing aside the burger and the large cardboard cup with its swirls of red and white spiralling round the outside, he moved the laptop so he could see the screen. The screensaver showed the pink silhouette of a dancing woman on a black background.

  He slapped the space bar and the machine whirred into life, replacing the dancing woman with a plain desktop. A web browser was open, with two tabs. The first tab showed a news website with a story about a headless man being found after a tweet, the second was the Twitter account in question.

  Kees had heard all the chatter on the police radio about the beheading as he’d driven over to Haarlem.

  He looked at the Twitter page.

  The first tweet gave an address in Amstelveen.

  The second, posted at 17.46, read, ‘More to come?’

  Everybody in the Netherlands must be looking at this, he thought.

  For a moment he wondered where it had all gone wrong.

  This was the kind of case he should be in charge of, not sneaking around looking for missing witnesses.

  He heard a noise outside, and looked out of the window, ducking back just in time.

  Someone was walking up to the front door.

  The footsteps stopped. Kees could hear keys rattling, then one turning in the lock. He stepped quietly behind the door and pulled out his weapon.

  The person was in the hallway now and seemed to have stopped dead. Kees was working out if they could see the broken window from there but decided they wouldn’t be able to.

  Then they started moving – two steps, three – and walked into the kitchen.

  Kees slammed the door shut and pointed his gun.

  The man jumped, spun round.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ he said, backing away from Kees until he bumped into the sink.

  ‘Where’s Isovic?’ said Kees, wondering if he should try out a smile again.

  ‘I … don’t know what you mean.’

  He was about fiftyish, Kees thought. Short brown hair going grey, pale face and a suit which had probably once looked smart. But it didn’t disguise the fact that his body was lean and muscled. The guy worked out, that much was clear.

  ‘I want,’ said Kees advancing a step, ‘to know where Isovic is.’

  ‘I think there’s been a misunderstanding, I don’t know anyone called Isovic.’

  Kees couldn’t quite place his accent, down south maybe.

  ‘You are?’

  ‘I own this place. It’s a rental. I’d had a complaint from a neighbour about the tenant. That’s why I’m here, to check it out. Can I put my arms down now?’

  ‘Keep them where they are. What’s the tenant’s name?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  Kees fished out his ID and flashed it. The man squinted a bit, then nodded his head.

  ‘The tenant’s name is Osman Krilic – he’s been here for just over a year now.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘My arms are getting tired.’

  ‘Tell me your name,’ said Kees.

  ‘Philip Hauer.’

  ‘With your left hand, throw me your driving licence.’

  Hauer stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. He lowered his hand, fished around in his right pocket and pulled out a worn leather wallet.

  ‘I can’t get it out with only one hand,’ he said.

  ‘So do it over your head.’

  Hauer did what he was told. Once extracted, he tossed the licence on to the breakfast bar. Kees stepped forward to pick it up. The guy wasn’t lying. Or he had a fake ID.

  Kees tucked his gun into the back of his trousers, hitching his jacket over the handle once it was in place.

  Fucking uncomfortable, he thought. But it looks good.

  ‘Catch,’ he said as he flipped the licence back to Hauer. ‘So, if I wanted to get hold of Krilic, and given that he’s not here and it looks like he left in a hurry –’ he pointed to the half-eaten burger ‘– what would you recommend?’

  A tapping noise at the window made them both look across.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  The face at the glass was hollowed out, the eyes dark rimmed.

  Six months, thought Kees. Tops.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Hauer. ‘I was just checking up. After you complained about the noise.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’ asked Kees, addressing the old man direct.

  The face at the window looked at Kees, then shook his head.

  ‘He pretends to be
deaf,’ said Hauer. ‘Which is odd as he complained about shouting here earlier. Which kind of proves he can’t be.’

  Kees moved towards the window and bent down so his face was right by the old man’s.

  ‘When did you see him?’ he asked with exaggerated care, loud enough to be heard through the glass.

  ‘About five minutes ago.’

  ‘I was here five minutes ago, and I didn’t see him.’

  The old man nodded. Kees could see a car with a mattress tied to the roof inching along the road by the sea.

  ‘That’s because he ran away just as you arrived at the front door. I saw him jumping over the fence at the back. Him and another man I hadn’t seen before.’

  10

  Saturday, 8 May

  18.21

  ‘Where are we at?’

  Jaap hated having to give real-time progress updates. The fact that he had to give this one to Smit made it even worse. That’s why he’d chosen to do it over the phone.

  ‘Two bodies without a head. Someone on Twitter who knew about the killings, and there may be another one tomorrow.’

  ‘I saw all that on the news. What I’m asking is how close are you to stopping it?’

  You’d think I was responsible for this, thought Jaap.

  ‘I’m pursuing several lines of enquiry,’ he said, knowing that was going to piss Smit off, but beyond caring.

  It was a couple of hours since he’d stood in the playground, holding the receipts and realizing that he’d put the victim in prison years before.

  The receipts could just be a coincidence.

  But with the photo on Koopman’s phone as well? he thought. That’s one too many.

  ‘That’s the line I give to the press. I want something more concrete,’ snapped back Smit.

  ‘Well I haven’t got anything, yet. And I’m just about to interview someone so I’ll get back to you.’

  Jaap stabbed the end call button, wishing it was Smit’s eye.

  ‘That went well.’

  He was down in Computer Crimes, talking to Roemers, the head of the unit.

  ‘The man’s an asshole.’

  ‘True. And there’s a good chance he may walk through those doors at any moment.’

  ‘I didn’t think he liked it down here?’

  ‘He doesn’t. But with most of my crew working on Tanya’s thing he’s been keeping an eye on us all afternoon. Seems particularly keen to get a result.’

  Tanya had left the houseboat for work early that morning, saying she’d been roped into a drugs raid. She was hoping it’d be over quickly so she could meet her friends at midday. They’d said goodbye, Jaap still only half awake. Then he’d rolled over to her side of the bed, still warm and smelling of her, and fallen back asleep.

  ‘She still here?’

  ‘She was about twenty minutes ago.’

  She really needed that break, thought Jaap. She’s going to be gutted.

  ‘You’re not here just for my company,’ prompted Roemers when Jaap hadn’t said anything for a few moments.

  ‘Yeah, right. I need you to hack that Twitter account – can you do that?’

  ‘Frits already asked me that.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I told him that the question really is, am I allowed to do that?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you need—’

  ‘—written authorization. Exactly. Like the song says, “fuck the law”.’

  Jaap didn’t know the song, but then Roemers looked like he was into weird music.

  Jaap stared at the screen, the tweet taunting him.

  More to come?

  I don’t have time for form-filling, thought Jaap.

  ‘The thing is,’ said Roemers, picking up on Jaap’s frustration and shifting forward in his seat. ‘I know someone who isn’t restricted by our very high moral sense. Do you want me to ask him?’

  ‘How long do you think it will take?’

  ‘Hard to say – could be a few hours, could be days – but the sooner he gets going …’

  ‘The minute you hear anything—’

  ‘Got it,’ replied Roemers, who’d already turned to his screen, fingers scuttling over the keyboard. ‘Just setting him off on it now.’

  ‘I’m assuming you can do this though?’ Jaap dropped the second victim’s phone on his desk. ‘It’s locked.’

  ‘In my sleep, baby.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s off contract, just like the first one, but check it anyway. And once you’ve got it unlocked cross-ref the call lists in both phones, I want to see what comes up. How long’s it going to take to crack?’

  Should be about twenty minutes or so. You want to wait?’

  ‘Just call me,’ said Jaap as he stepped out the door. He toyed with going to his desk – he needed to get a start on the initial report, and he wanted to check up on when Teeven had actually been released – but figured the risk of bumping into Smit too great, so he left the station.

  Outside the sun was just dipping towards the row of houses to the west. The buildings on the opposite side of the canal were still illuminated, their windows polished gold.

  He started walking, trying to think about the victims. Two people, one who had a photo of him and a gun under his bed, the other he’d put away for murder.

  The case had been controversial, the dropout daughter of a right-wing politician had been found raped and strangled. The media had been all over it, and Jaap remembered the politician had even used it to his political advantage.

  And tricky. Jaap had been under pressure to make an arrest, and while he’d genuinely believed that Teeven, a minor player in a drugs outfit based in Amsterdam Zuid, was involved, he’d had a nagging feeling that there was something wrong, something which didn’t quite fit.

  But given the outrage whipped up in the press the trial was pressed through fast, and Teeven went down for murder.

  And now, before being killed, he’d got out and just happened to spend the last few days sitting in a cafe a clog’s throw away from Jaap’s houseboat.

  I can’t have Floortje staying with me now, he thought as he walked.

  Saskia was going to be down in Den Haag next week so she didn’t have to travel back and forth for the trial. There was a house for prosecutors to use right by the ICTY, and Jaap realized he’d feel a lot happier if Floortje was down there with her.

  And Saskia wasn’t going to like that at all.

  The air was cooling rapidly in the shade on his side of the canal. Skin on his forearms goose-pimpled up. He turned off on to Leidsetraat, heading south. A tram screamed by, metal on metal.

  Saskia answered on the third ring.

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘On your witness? No, but I’ve got something else I need to talk to you about.’

  ‘I can guess already.’

  He could sense she was exasperated. She’d been with him long enough, and then with Andreas, to know what was coming.

  ‘Look, I’ve thought about this. I could see if we could get someone to help out—’

  ‘Hire someone, you mean?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll pay for it, and—’

  ‘I don’t want to do that, I’m going to be busy.’

  ‘I know, which is why you need someone. There’s room at the house you’ll be at, right? So whoever we get could live in.’

  ‘There are four bedrooms, but that’s not really the point. Why can’t Floortje stay with you?’

  Jaap took a breath. He could smell something frying in rancid fat from the fast-food joint he’d just passed.

  ‘The thing is, I’m thinking of moving out for a few days, there’s that problem with the floor? I had someone take it up yesterday and they think they may have to tank the whole hull. And I’d rather get it done sooner than later.’

  Why do I lie so easily? Jaap wondered.

  ‘Well, someone’s got to be the responsible parent. I guess it’ll have to be me,’ she said and hung up before Jaap could reply.

  Great, he though
t. Just fucking great.

  Trying to bring up a child which he’d not had time to prepare for was never going to be easy. That he was having to do it with his ex made it even harder.

  There were too many people around, too much movement and noise. He needed to think and ducked into the first side street he came to, passing a shop selling bonsai trees. He stopped and looked at one, its delicate branches reminding him of his time in Kyoto.

  It’d been tough.

  In fact it had nearly driven him crazy, but he’d come out of it with a sense of calm and purpose which he’d not felt before.

  And then, with Karin’s death, it had gone.

  He wondered if it would ever return.

  His pocket buzzed and he answered his phone, seeing it was Roemers.

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘A couple of things. The Twitter maniac has posted again, there’s a picture of two heads. I’m sending it over to you now.’

  ‘And what’s the other thing?’

  ‘Unlocked the phone, not much on it. But there’s something you need to see.’

  Jaap got a weird taste in his mouth. His neck felt too long.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t want to ruin the surprise because it’s—’

  ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘Okay, fine. It’s a photo taken early this morning.’

  Jaap knew what was coming.

  He didn’t want to hear it.

  ‘Looks to me like Tanya, and I’m pretty sure she’s leaving a houseboat. In fact, it kinda looks like your houseboat.’

  11

  Saturday, 8 May

  18.52

  Tanya stared at the red letters on the murder board as she slumped into her seat.

  Open and shut this wasn’t.

  Not by a long shot.

  This was the kind of case which would be very much open, possibly for a long time, and it had her name next to it on the murder board.

  As the most junior member on the homicide team she’d got the shitty desk. The one right by the door, so everyone who came into the room walked right by her back. And when they left the door open, which they invariably did, she got a direct scent line to the toilets just next door.