He attentively wrapped the elastic band back around the lunchbox and slid it into his backpack. Then, to my astonishment, he pulled out one of those boxes of milk children take to school with them. “I see where you’re going,” he said, puncturing the aluminium foil with the straw and taking a sip. “By the way, who are we?”
I looked at him, puzzled. “I don’t follow.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You said: we went through the documents.”
I had to admit, he was sharper than I’d perceived him to be. Perhaps I’d been underestimating him so far. “Sandra and I,” I wavered.
“And who is Sandra?”
A wave of crimson crept up my neck. “Sandra was my husband’s mistress,” I confessed, immediately regretting it. I should have said she was a friend of mine.
I quickly continued. “After we found these documents, she died under suspicious circumstances, not far from here, as a result of a collision with a tram.”
“Oh yes, I remember,” he cut me off. “There was nothing suspicious about it, Mrs Smits. It was just a terrible accident.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I’ll get to that in a moment.”
The detective was adamant. “Mrs Smits, one of the best detectives was assigned to that case. With a team full of professionals, he investigated everything at the scene of the accident. There was absolutely nothing suspicious about this poor woman’s death.”
“How can you know for sure?” I muttered. “I spoke with the tr …”
He broke me off. “Yes, yes, you told me all that over the phone last time.”
“But,” I tried, but stopped when he raised his hand and closed his eyes.
He looked at me. “Listen, Mrs Smits,” he began. There was that look of pity again, which I’d seen in people’s eyes so often lately and couldn’t stand anymore.
I turned my head away and stared out of the large window, where I noticed it had started drizzling.
“You’ve been through a lot lately. Your husband was snatched from this world before his time and you didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye to him. Suddenly you’re all alone, left behind with a toddler. You apparently discover that your husband has been, er …”
I looked at him, lifting my chin and squaring my shoulders, daring him to say it out loud, but this time he was the one who averted his eyes in discomfiture.
“Anyway. This lady suddenly dies as a result of a fatal bicycle accident with a tram. It must have been an incredibly traumatic time for you. There are people who’d lose their marbles over less.”
I felt anger welling up. “Are you suggesting I’m losing my mind?” “Oh no. Of course not,” he hushed. “I’m merely trying to say it must be overwhelming.” He folded his hands together like a priest presiding over his congregation. “After your husband’s death, I spoke extensively with my colleagues in the south. They’ve done an excellent job over there and meticulously examined all traces,” he said proudly. “After you and I spoke on the phone a while ago, I went back over the report and I reiterate – I one hundred percent agree with their findings.”
I wielded the piece of paper with the chart presenting the evidence that Oliver had prepared so scrupulously, and shook it in his face. “But this here is new information,” I sputtered, but I knew I’d lost the battle, any objection would fall on deaf ears.
He raised his voice. “This isn’t proof of murder. It’s not even a starting point. Neither of us know what your husband’s intentions were when he drafted this document. Maybe his supervisor had requested him to make an overview of some cases. It’s anyone’s guess basically.”
He glanced at his watch again. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”
I gave a little whimper of protest. “Please,” I said, trying not to burst into tears. “I am desperate. You are my last resort. I received a threatening note at home the other day and yesterday a tile was thrown into …”
He released his breath with a long, impatient sigh. “Look. If it would ease your mind, I’ll promise to go over it later.” He grabbed the stack of papers and tossed them to the corner of his desk, on top of a tall, disorderly pile.
The detective was merely humouring me – we both knew he wouldn’t seriously examine that evidence. Best-case scenario, he’d skim through the document and toss it in the bin. More likely, it would lay on his desk for months, collecting dust, only to be fed to the shredder during a clean-up.
I was overwhelmed with defeat – I’d been unsuccessful in trying to win him over.
I stood up and gathered up my belongings, acknowledged my loss and shook his outstretched hand. “Thank you for your time.”
He nodded and smiled. “All the best to you, Mrs Smits.”
It was still drizzling when I left the police station. I pulled up the hood of my jacket and swiftly unlocked my bike. As I made to cycle off, I noticed a young man on a scooter, shielding his face with his hoodie. I waited for him to go first, but he kept lingering, his head slightly bowed and hidden from my view. I shrugged and started pedalling towards the practice.
Along the way my thoughts turned to the past few days, in which everyone around me seemed to have been doubting me and questioning my sanity. I’d ruined the date with Dan – he’d clearly concluded I was a lunatic, my girlfriends thought that I wasn’t thinking straight and Detective Armstrong had made it abundantly clear my suspicions were completely unfounded as far as he was concerned.
Perhaps the grounds for Oliver working on the Van Santen file were entirely different after all. It was clear that the document didn’t belong to a client and so the name was indeed a pseudonym, however, there were countless innocent explanations for this, as the detective already pointed out.
Perhaps my mind was playing tricks on me and I was barking up the wrong tree. Admittedly, I hadn’t felt like myself in the past six months, I was suffering from a perpetual lack of sleep and the alcohol was flowing a little too profusely.
I stopped at a traffic light and pressed the button a few times as the rain intensified, swooped by the wind across the road. I managed to fish my phone out of my pocket and noticed I had only ten minutes left until my next consultation. I would have to ask Simone to get me a sandwich.
Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I was alarmed by a rumbling sound coming from directly behind me As I looked back, I saw a figure on a white scooter wearing a blue, utterly soaked top, just a few metres away, looking familiar. Wasn’t that the same guy I just saw as I left the police station? The rain was beating down on my face, obscuring my vision, and I was unable to make out the face that was hiding underneath the hood. I abruptly turned my head forward again and felt my heart skittering erratically in my chest. There was something unnerving about this guy and the way that he’d been loitering outside the police station, but had now caught up with me.
The light turned green and I cycled on hurriedly, my hand over my eyes trying to hinder the plump drops of rain. The scooter didn’t overtake me as I would have expected it to, and my fears began to grow. After a few minutes of hearing a continuous hum of the engine behind me, I plucked up the courage to ever so carefully look over my shoulder. For a brief moment I caught a glimpse of the hard gaze in his dark eyes boring straight into me, but the man immediately bowed his head again.
He was following me! I pedalled as fast as I could, even though he could obviously catch up with me at any moment if he wanted to. The pounding rain felt like a thousand tiny pins stabbing my face. I veered right, towards the practice and when I cautiously looked back over my shoulder again moments later, he’d disappeared.
I halted by the side of the road and took a moment to catch my breath, my head spinning. Why was that guy following me? Was there someone out there that wanted to keep an eye on me? Did it have something to do with the two threatening notes I’d received or the man Tim had spoken about?
I tried to calm myself down. “Get a grip, Jennifer,” I said out loud. There was probably a simple explanation for all of this.
When I entered the practice minutes later, my trousers were sticking to my legs and my shoes squelched loudly as I walked. I only had a few minutes to smarten up.
“Oh gosh, you’re drenched!” Simone said, looking at me from head to toe. “Take your time. Your patient hasn’t arrived yet,” she added and handed me a towel.
“Thanks,” I responded, hanging my soaked coat to dry on the coat rack. I swept the wet strands of bedraggled hair away from my face and made a few attempts to dab myself dry with a towel. I glanced at myself in the mirror – I’d had better days, but this would do.
My eyes fell on the small window in Simone’s room, offering a wide view of the busy main road on which our practice was located. “Simone, have you by any chance ever seen a young fellow in a blue hoodie on a white scooter passing by?”
Simone spun around on her office chair and looked at me in surprise. “I see so many people from here, it’s one of the busiest roads in this part of Amsterdam. I’m sure there would have been someone who fits that description.”
I stared into the distance. “You’re probably right,” I mumbled.
There was a short pause. “Are you all right?”
My gaze turned to Simone. “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” I responded with a faint smile and fled to my consultation office.
As I put my phone on mute I noticed I’d received a message from Lindsey.
‘Jen, I hope you’re not cross with us anymore. We love you and only have your best interests at heart. How about we go for drinks soon?’
I tossed my phone back into my bag and decided to respond later. I plopped onto my desk chair and watched sheets of rain stream relentlessly down the windows. It wasn’t until then did I realise how tired, cold and hungry I was.
I opened our administration programme and saw that Mrs Peters had already registered into the practice. I leaped up, walked to the counter and asked in hushed tones. “Simone, could you get me a sandwich?”
She stared at me in astonishment. Behind her I saw Hans, who was making a fresh pot of coffee, look up with eyebrows that had risen several centimetres. “It’s almost two. Haven’t you had any lunch yet?” Simone queried.
I threw out an excuse. “I was running late. Just make it a cheese or ham sandwich.” I laid a note on her desk to cover the costs. “Thank you.”
Before either of them could comment, I dashed into the waiting room. “Mrs Peters, you’re next.”
27
I’d curled up on the couch with a cup of herbal tea and switched on the eight o’clock news. I tried to listen while Tim hummed through the baby monitor, but it was hard to keep my mind focused. After my appointment with the detective, I’d promised myself to let go of everything related to Mason & McGant, however, this morning I’d remembered that in the email I’d received from Sandra via the Shared drive, there had been a telephone number listed with the Amsterdam area code. It could have been her landline and thus formed a means to get in touch with her husband. Didn’t I owe it to Oliver to put that man to the test? After all, he worked at the same firm and I had to therefore consider the possibility he knew more about what was going on at Mason & McGant. The universe seemed to have thwarted my every move so far, but had now thrown me this last buoy – surely I couldn’t leave this opportunity untouched?
I grabbed the remote control and turned off the television, ignoring the little voice in the back of my head that told me to let the matter rest, opened my laptop where I soon found the number.
I keyed in the numbers on my phone and after ringing three times, the call was answered. “Roderick DelaHaye,” came an unfamiliar voice.
“Good evening, Roderick,” I said in the most polite manner I could muster. “This is Jennifer speaking.” There was an anticipated pause. “Jennifer Smits? Sandra’s friend,” I clarified as if we’d been BFFs, having weekly get-togethers over wine and olives.
“Oh right. Hello Jennifer,” the man said, but it was evident he didn’t recognise my name, which was probably for the best given my plan.
“How have you been doing?” I said in the pitiful, compassionate tone that people had so often used with me since Oliver died.
He gave a big sigh and sounded worn out when he spoke. “Oh well, I’m okay.”
I laid out the next steps of my plan. “Of course you and I never met when Sandra was alive, but I’d love to perhaps visit you, Roderick. We’d become like two peas in a pod, San and I,” I said and winced at this lie. “Maybe I could pop by for a cup of coffee? I’d really like to reminisce about that wonderful lady with someone who shared my fondness for her,” I wheedled and prayed that I wasn’t pushing my luck.
I heard him dither. “Oh right. Perhaps that might be a good idea. Come to think about it, I believe Sandra did speak about you.”
I frowned. Was he just being polite, or could Sandra have mentioned my name to her husband just before she died?
“Wonderful,” I exclaimed in feigned delight.
“Would you like to come over to our place for tea, tomorrow afternoon around three?” he proposed. “I only work mornings at the moment, I can’t concentrate for any longer than that,” he said with an air of gloom.
“I understand, it must be hard,” I responded empathically, but inside, I was rejoicing. “Three o‘clock sounds perfect.”
“What’s the address?”
It remained silent for a moment. “I thought the pair of you were so tight-knit, weren’t you?”
I squeezed my leg hard, while thinking on my feet. “Oh, without a doubt,” I confirmed, lying through my teeth. “We just never met at home.”
He seemed to buy it and gave me an address, just south of the financial heart of Amsterdam.
“See you tomorrow,” I said brightly and hung up.
When I cycled into the street that Roderick had directed me to the following day, I saw a number of immense, ultra-modern residential towers rising up in front of me, with all kinds of café bars, boutiques and eateries at the base. I’d never travelled to this part of Amsterdam before, although it was fairly close to Mason & McGant. One of the towering buildings turned out to contain the number I was looking for and I walked up to the intercom. The glass walls of the building were tinted, concealing the inside, giving the impression of being an extravagant, high-end property. To my surprise, there wasn’t a doorbell per flat, but only one general entrance button for me to press.
The buzzer sounded and a posh voice asked me which resident I required. “Mr DelaHaye,” I answered.
Access was granted after which I heard the door unlock, and automatically and slowly open itself. I entered the building and found myself in an enormous, empty lobby, where a man in a blue uniform seated behind a counter was watching me with piercing eyes.
I walked towards the counter and told him I had an appointment with Mr DelaHaye at number 220.
With a surly and somewhat presumptuous expression on his face, he shoved a list towards me. “Please enter the name and house number you’re visiting, madam.”
This is a lot of palaver just to visit Roderick, I thought to myself. I managed to hold back a cutting response and did what the man had requested and then walked across the shiny, marble floor towards the lift. The metal sign flanking it indicated that number 220 was located on the 23rd floor – the top of the building.
The glass lift whooshed upwards ultra-fast, hardly making a sound, and offered stunning views over the city. When the doors opened, I saw there were two penthouses residing at this highest level.
I rang the bell for 220 and almost instantly the massive, wooden, double front doors swung open.
An older lady in a work uniform stood in the doorway with a straight back. Her thick head of grey hair was tied up with a silver pin.
“Mrs Smits?” she asked. “Mr DelaHaye is expecting you.” The housekeeper gracefully stepped aside to let me in.
The walls of the hall were covered with dark, wooden panels, giving the impression of a hotel. The marble floor was spotle
ss with the appearance of having been polished recently, and a small side table with a framed photo of Sandra on top was the only object in the room that gave a hint of this being a home.
The lady delicately took my coat and hung it in a separate cloakroom. She led me into a room without windows, containing an immaculate, brown leather couch and a glass coffee table adorned with a selection of carefully positioned magazines, which were – judging by their covers – all business related.
“May I offer you something to drink?” she asked.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Mr DelaHaye will be with you in a minute,” she declared and retreated with an almost invisible bow. I walked a few steps and let my eyes wander through this odd, immaculate room and noticed a painting on the wall in van Gogh style. I got the impression that Roderick received clients or colleagues here in his home.
It wasn’t long before the other door in the room swung open.
“Jennifer,” I heard someone call out behind me as if he’d known me for years. I spun around and took a brief moment to observe him – Sandra had told me her husband was of a similar age to her, but he looked at least ten years older. The top two buttons of his blue-and-white striped shirt, which was wrinkled where I’d imagine it would have usually been perfectly laundered, were left undone, exposing a few wisps of chest hair. The dark circles under his eyes were probably the culprit for my misjudgement of his age.
I dithered about whether to shake his hand or if it would seem too formal, but before I was able to decide, he moved up to me with wide open arms and drew me into an embrace. A whiff of his eau de cologne assailed my nostrils, but was hardly able to mask the musty, unpleasant and overwhelming scent enveloping him. I held my breath until he finally let go, only to hold me tightly by the shoulders. There was something defiant in his voice when he spoke. “It is an absolute delight to meet you, Jennifer.”
Double Deceit Page 24
