‘Yeah, 57. So I was asking him some questions and he ID’d one of the headless guys they’re showing on the TV?’
‘Which one?’
‘Koopman.’
‘When was this?’
‘Friday night. I checked the CCTV and worked out he was with three other guys. And the thing is, one of them looked like the other one who got beheaded.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘Out by the docks.’
‘I think we need to talk,’ Jaap checked the time on the dashboard. It said 2.57. It was wrong. ‘I’ve just got to speak to someone, should be about half an hour. I’ll call you when I’m done.’
If Koopman and Teeven were there with two other guys, he thought as he hung up and got out of the car, does that mean they’re all going after me? And are they also in danger?
For a split second Jaap wondered if the killer might just be doing him a favour.
Before getting out he placed a call to Roemers, asking if he’d unlocked Teeven’s phone. Roemers wasn’t answering.
Why’s he taking so long? thought Jaap as he sprang up three grimy steps leading to the front door of a house and jammed his finger on the brass nipple.
A horde of dogs started barking on the inside, and a man’s voice yelled at them to be quiet. Behind him, on the opposite side of the road, he could hear the unmistakable sounds of a couple arguing.
Jaap had spent the short drive going over what he’d got.
Which wasn’t much.
Two dead bodies, Koopman and Teeven. Koopman had a photo of him and a gun; Teeven, a man Jaap had put behind bars for murder, had been sitting watching his houseboat for the last few days.
It was clear Teeven wanted revenge, and he’d maybe roped some others in to help.
What wasn’t clear was why they had died.
And then there was the tweet, hinting that there may be more killings to come.
The others they were at the club with, he thought. Is one of them the killer? Or were they involved in Koopman’s and Teeven’s surveillance on me?
The door opened a crack, the man having failed to quieten the dogs.
He was tall, taller than Jaap, and eyed him with suspicion.
Jaap had managed to track Schneeman, the manager of the brewery Koopman worked at, to his house in Plantage.
‘You the guy who called?’ Schneeman asked.
‘Inspector Rykel.’
‘Get down!’ he shouted. It took Jaap a second to realize he was yelling at the dogs.
‘Come in,’ said Schneeman. ‘Don’t mind them, they just want to play.’
Jaap stepped into the hallway and was inspected by a rolling sea of eyes and teeth.
He followed Schneeman through to a lounge just off the hall to the left, the heavy fug of dog strong in the air. Schneeman managed, through a complicated series of manoeuvres, to keep all the eyes and teeth in the hallway, and closed the door on them. A low growling started up, followed by intense scratching at the door.
‘So you said there was a problem with Jan Koopman?’
His voice was hoarse, presumably from all the shouting he had to do around the place.
‘You’ve not seen him on the news?’
‘TV bust a month ago, haven’t really had time to fix it. So what’s he done, must be pretty heavy if it’s made the headlines?’
‘It’s more what someone did to him. He’s dead.’
‘Oh.’
Jaap waited for Schneeman to say something else, but then gave up.
‘He was killed this morning. Someone took his head off and burned his hand. And I found a gun under the bed in his flat.’
‘I …’ Schneeman sat down on a brown sofa by the wall and breathed out. ‘This is unbelievable. I mean, I didn’t know him that well, but …’
‘How long did he work for you?’
‘Well over ten years. More like fifteen maybe. He was a good worker, experienced, you know? Most of the guys don’t tend to stay that long, or they’re slackers. But Koopman, he was different.’
He clearly was different, thought Jaap. Gun under the bed and a photo of me on his phone.
‘He’d never been in any kind of trouble?’
‘What, at work? No, no trouble.’
‘Acting strange recently?’
‘I’m not sure. He got on with people, he was quite good at that really. But I’m not sure about actual friends.’
‘Anyone he fell out with?’
‘Look, I don’t know. I’m not on the floor all that much. But I can’t see any of our guys flying out there to kill him.’
‘Flying out where?’ said Jaap.
Schneeman looked at him with raised eyebrows.
‘Somewhere in the Dutch Antilles. He went last week. It’s his annual two-week break, takes it every year at the same time.’
Jaap felt like he had a hand round his throat.
He pulled out his phone and showed Schneeman the image of Koopman and Teeven that Frits had sent through to him earlier. Luckily whoever had posted them on Twitter had managed to make them look like mug shots; you couldn’t see the severed necks.
‘Who,’ said Schneeman, ‘are they?’
Jaap’s phone started ringing, he turned the screen back to him and saw it was Roemers.
‘I thought you’d said twenty minutes?’
‘Yeah, it took a little longer. But you’re gonna love what I’ve got. I unlocked the second phone and cross-reffed the call lists like you asked.’
‘And?’
‘And there’s a number in common. But the best part is, I’ve got a live trace running on it now. You mobile?’
‘I can be. Where’s it located?’ said Jaap.
‘Van Baerlestraat, heading south-east.’
Jaap did a quick calculation, less than ten minutes away at a gentle drive, he reckoned he could do it in four.
‘I’m on my way. I’ll call you when I’m in the car.’
He turned to Schneeman.
‘I’ve got to go, but you’re telling me that neither of these is Koopman?’
‘Never seen either of these guys before.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely, Koopman’s totally bald, has been ever since I’ve known him. He always comes back from holiday with a red scalp.’
In the car Jaap fired up the engine and set off, the sound of his mind intermingling with the hum of the motor. If the first headless body wasn’t Koopman, then who the hell was he? And why did he have the key to Koopman’s flat? He remembered the photocopy of his driving licence, the image too poor to make out the face properly. He’d requested the original, but it’d not come through and he’d forgotten to chase it up. And he’d made the mistake of assuming the photo posted on Twitter was Koopman as he’d already ID’d him from the flat …
He dialled Roemers on the hands-free, the ring loud and echoey in the car’s interior.
‘Where is it now?’
‘It’s shifted a bit, signal’s just approaching Amsterdamse Bos.’
Jaap slammed the siren on and overtook a van painted with hippy rainbow print on the side. He’d not been back to Amsterdamse Bos, the large wooded area south of the city, since Andreas’ body had been found there over a year ago.
‘Get Dispatch to check if there’s any patrol in the area. I’m still a few minutes out.’
He crossed the bridge at Alexanderplein, cutting in front of a tram, and turned into Mauritskade. Traffic was lighter so he killed the siren and lights.
‘No one’s closer than you,’ came back Roemers’ response. ‘But they can get someone there as backup, probably arrive same time as you.’
Jaap thought about exits. He’d no idea how many there were, but he knew there were too many to cover.
‘Tell them to approach from the eastern end, and quietly.’
As Jaap sped down Hobbemakade his mind was racing. Could the person with the phone he was chasing be the killer? Or were they in danger themself?
About a hundred metres away from the entrance he spotted brake lights, two red flashes in the darkness.
‘Shit,’ said Roemers. ‘Signal’s gone. Whoever it is must have turned the phone off.’
‘I think I’ve seen the car, but keep watching in case it comes back on.’
Jaap checked his weapon, hit the siren and hidden lights in the grille of the car, and motored forward. The car in front, a silver BMW, an older model but still probably worth a few euros, was stationary. Jaap thought he saw a door on the passenger side close before the car shot forward, accelerating fast.
He hated car chases. They were nothing like the movies. And they more often than not ended with the police car standing down as it was just too dangerous to continue. But they were the only two cars on this stretch of road.
‘In pursuit, silver BMW,’ he said to Roemers. ‘Get Dispatch to move the patrol car round to Bosbaanweg and block off the exit.’
If they didn’t manage to corner them before they got out of Amsterdamse Bos, it would be so much harder. There were multiple routes, way too many to cover.
‘Patrol’s in position,’ came the response.
Jaap eased off the accelerator. He’d got them. He could even see the flashing blue up ahead now. As could the driver of the car in front, who slowed down then stopped ten metres short of the patrol car, which sprawled across the road, its blue and orange stripes vivid in the BMW’s headlights.
Jaap jumped out of the car, signalled to the two uniforms to hold position and edged forward, his gun clasped in both hands. There were two heads in the vehicle in front. Three metres from the car he stopped.
‘Driver, get out of the car slowly. And keep your hands visible.’
The door opened with a soft click, and a man got out, struggling to keep his hands up. His movements were not those of a young man. Out of the corner of his eye Jaap could see one of the uniforms trying to stifle a laugh. As Jaap circled round he could see why.
The man’s fly was undone, his erection fading fast.
Both uniforms were laughing now, shaking so hard their aim was all over the place.
‘Zip up,’ said Jaap.
He made the passenger get out, a man dressed as a woman, complete with a ridiculous wig and swooping eye make-up which would make an 80s rocker jealous.
‘I need both of your phones,’ said Jaap. ‘Turn them on and put them on the bonnet.’
As they complied Jaap went back to his car and pulled his own phone out of the hands-free holder.
‘Signal still gone?’
‘Yeah, hasn’t been turned back on yet,’ replied Roemers as Jaap walked back to the BMW, stepping in something soft on the way. ‘Did you get anyone?’
‘Keep watching,’ said Jaap, checking out both phones. The old man’s was turned off, the prostitute’s was on.
‘Turn it on,’ he told the old man.
‘Can you see it?’ Jaap asked Roemers once the phone had booted up and found a signal.
‘Hang on, let me re-scan,’ said Roemers.
Jaap looked around. Sad that people had to resort to this. His neck felt tight and he looked up to the sky.
A cloud sliced the moon in half.
Off in the trees to his right an owl screeched.
Next to him the car bonnet was ticking.
‘No,’ came Roemers’ voice. ‘Nothing.’
21
Saturday, 8 May
22.53
Despite everything, it had worked like a dream.
He watched from the trees as they let the two men go. Jaap Rykel, the one they needed, spoke to one of the uniforms, then got back on his phone, heading back to his car, the streak of white in his hair catching the moonlight.
Something started crawling across his neck, but he didn’t move to swipe it off, not wanting to give away his position, and he let it scuttle back and forth, moving up towards his ear. A tremor ran through his body, but he still didn’t move.
Only once both cars had gone did he dare shift his hand and flick whatever it was away, just as it was about to crawl into his ear.
He waited for a few more minutes, listening to the sounds, leaves whispering, something scuttling in the undergrowth off to his right. The owl which had made Rykel turn his head and look in his direction for a moment – and his heart had stopped then, but there was no way he’d have been able to see him – screeched again.
The timing had been good. He’d turned the phone on, driven here and waited. The second he’d seen the patrol car move into view he’d switched it off. That still could have been a coincidence, but when the unmarked appeared, chasing down the BMW, he knew it had worked.
He’d had to think fast today, the two deaths complicating things, and it was still driving him mad trying to work out who it was. He had an idea now, but it wasn’t going to deflect him from his purpose, he’d worked too hard for that.
And then it had struck him, his number would have been on Teeven’s phone, and he could use that to his advantage.
There’d been no guarantee they’d even make the connection, let alone take the bait.
But they had, which meant that when he needed to, he could get Jaap Rykel exactly where he needed him to be.
Day Two
* * *
22
Sunday, 9 May
05.10
Jaap leaned back and rubbed his eyes.
He’d been staring at the paper on the table in front of him, glowing in a pool of light cast by the lamp he’d flicked on earlier, and the words had started to take on weird shapes, morphing from letters into symbols he didn’t know the meaning of.
In essence it was simple; he had two victims, the second of which, Teeven, he’d put away for murder years before. And, given that the first victim had a photo of Jaap on his phone and a gun, and that Teeven had been spending time staking out Jaap’s houseboat, it seemed pretty clear what they were planning.
Revenge.
But that was where things started to break down, because Jaap, even if he didn’t feel it due to lack of sleep, was alive, and the two men weren’t.
There were too many questions, and he’d woken with them swarming around his head like biting insects. He’d got everything he could down on paper, hoping that would help something jump out at him. So far it had raised more questions than answers.
Before going to bed the previous night he’d worked the phone, managing to track down Koopman in Curaçao. It didn’t take long for Jaap to feel comfortable that he was who he said he was, confirming that the first victim wasn’t Koopman.
Which led him to the gun.
It was the same one used in a killing years ago which had been linked to Bart Rutte, though he’d never been charged. Jaap was sure he’d heard the name before but couldn’t place it, just couldn’t remember where or when. He needed to find out.
Something else he couldn’t place was the phone he’d followed to Amsterdamse Bos; the men in the BMW had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was almost as if whoever had the phone knew Jaap was coming and had turned it off just at the right moment.
I might even have passed them in the dark, he thought.
Was it possible whoever had the phone had been working with Teeven? The thought that they’d turned the phone on to lure him out into the woods had struck Jaap earlier. If he’d gone on his own, without the uniforms turning up as well …
I’m chasing a ghost, he thought as he got up, massaging the muscles in his neck.
The questions kept coming, layering up in his mind.
He walked into the main living area and pulled out his zafu, a round kapok-filled cushion he’d brought back from Kyoto, and placed it on the orange mat on the floor.
The only way he could escape was to be in each moment, not get caught up in thought.
Once he’d settled down and set a fifteen-minute timer he closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, feeling the movement of his diaphragm, the rise and fall of his chest, aware of the coolness of t
he in breath through his nostrils, the warmth of the out breath.
At first his breathing was ragged, but it gradually settled into a rhythm and started to open up his mind. It wasn’t clear of thoughts – he’d learned that wasn’t possible to achieve – but he was able to observe each thought and let it go immediately, concentrate on the space between them.
Gradually the spaces between each thought seemed to elongate.
His breath became almost imperceptible.
His pulse slowed.
Time expanded.
Space.
The bell on his timer rang clear into the stillness of the morning.
Jaap listened to the liquid purity of it as it faded away, tapered into nothingness.
His eyes opened, he took a few breaths and stood up, stretching his muscles out.
Usually after sitting the first few minutes were filled with gentle surprises, everyday objects looked different, fresh, as if he was seeing them for the first time. He’d get caught up in limescale patterns in the sink, or he’d suddenly notice the lines on the palms of his hands, like channels on the face of the moon.
All things he’d seen a million times before but hadn’t really connected with.
He put away the zafu, rolled up the mat, trying to do it slowly, keep his mind on what he was doing, be aware, but already his calm was beginning to be chipped away at.
He stepped over to the kitchen in a corner of the main area and poured a small cup of water into the kettle. The stove fired up, and he watched the fire burst into life, how it spread out as he lowered the black cast-iron kettle towards it, the flames reaching up eagerly, hungrily, a nest of newborn chicks craning to reach their mother’s beak.
He’d lost the kettle lid a year ago – he suspected it had gone missing when the forensics were going over the houseboat looking for clues as to who had killed his sister. That was something he tried not to think about much. The man responsible had been killed, by Kees, but it didn’t feel like justice.
The flame hissed gently, heat warming his arm as he stood waiting for the water, his mind already detached from the present, the space which had opened up vanishing like the void momentarily created by lightning.
And his thoughts were louder than thunder.
Into the Night: Inspector Rykel Book 2 (Amsterdam Quartet) Page 10
