Black Ice (24 page)

Anna would do the shopping. No, she'd make a list of what they needed, and he would drive off and get it all in the morning. And in the evening, when they'd closed the door behind the last guests, they'd sit together at the cash desk counting the takings, and he'd write everything down, and they'd have a little drink, a beer and a genever for him, maybe a sherry for Anna, and they'd think about what there was to be done next day.

The wind blows around the house, sometimes howls around the house, shakes the shutters in autumn and spring. It makes the house shake in winter when the sea rolls in like thunder under the dark night sky, trying to catch the dunes in its drift of foam and then withdrawing with a roar into the black night.

They'll count the money and lock it in the safe, and then they'll climb the stairs and go into their bedroom, the central heating has warmed it up, it's as
comfortable as being back in the womb, the wind leaps up at the little windowpanes but it always falls back powerless, it can't do them any harm.

They get undressed, Anna stands there barefoot, she takes her panties off, she bends down, her white buttocks are taut, she raises her leg and pulls the panties over her foot. She puts her nightie over her head, she stretches her arms, the nightie falls over her buttocks, and then she comes to him, the mattress sinks, come here, Anna, my Anneke, she embraces him, warmth, warmth, the white cushion of her breasts, her belly, she flings one leg over him, draws him close to her, Anneke, my Anneke, her lips are soft and moist.

26

When Scholten put his key in the lock the door was suddenly opened. The old lady stood there. She was nodding excitedly and speaking in Dutch. He could just about follow her.

“
Meneer
, two gentlemen were asking for you. One from Germany and the other is a Dutchman.”

“What's up?”

She waved both hands. “Two gentlemen.” She raised two fingers then dug her forefinger into his chest. “They want to talk to you. It's urgent.”

“Wait a moment.” He raised two fingers himself to make sure he had understood. “Two gentlemen?”

She nodded. “Yes, yes.”

“And they want to talk to me?”

“Yes, yes, they're waiting for you in the café on the beach promenade.”

“Café? Beach promenade?”

“Yes, yes, they said it's urgent.”

Scholten stared at the old lady. She was nodding excitedly. He said: “What do they want?”

“They're waiting in the café on the beach promenade.”

“Yes, I get that bit.” He looked down the road, and then at the old lady. “Were they from the firm of Köttgen? Did they say Köttgen? Köttgen,
verstaan
? From Germany?”

She nodded. “Yes, one was from Germany. And the other is Dutch. They're sitting in the café.”

“Yes, right, I'll go and find them.” He passed her, climbed the stairs. She watched him.

He gulped his fears down. He called: “Manny? I'm back. Where's my boy?”

He carefully opened the door, looked down at the floor. “Now we're going for a walk, little Manny.”

The crack in the doorway was empty. Scholten opened the door fully, went into the room. The cat was nowhere to be seen. He bent down, looked under the bed, straightened up, felt the bedspread. His glance fell on the window. He had forgotten to close it. Both halves were open, fastened to their hooks. The damp wind lifted the little curtains.

“Oh, bloody hell!” He went to the window, looked out. The sloping roof of the shed was right below the window. “Manny?” He made coaxing noises, whistled a long, shrill note. “Where are you? Come home at once. Come here, little Manny. Come on, boy, we're going for a walk.”

Suddenly he closed the window. Then he opened it again and fastened the hooks again. He picked up the basket and leash and hurried downstairs. The old lady was still standing in the corridor. She looked at him, her lips moving silently.

“Have you seen my cat?
Kat
,
verstaan
?” He mewed.

“
Uw kat?
” She shook her head; no, she had not seen his cat.

He went out into the road, whistled, smacked his lips. He looked in the front garden. “Manny?”

He stopped. Perhaps the cat had run off into the dunes. Perhaps it had run into the woods.

He was going to turn and go along the path to the woods on the dunes when he remembered the two gentlemen in the café. Bloody hell. Sweat broke out on him. He hurried along the road to the beach
promenade, looking into every yard he passed. “Manny?”

There were not many people in the café. A young girl in a black dress and white apron was leaning against the bar, her legs crossed. Two men were sitting at the table in the corner of the glazed veranda. Scholten didn't know them. One rose and came towards him. “Herr Scholten?”

“Yes?”

“Ah, wonderful! We thought you'd never turn up. My name is Maubach.” He offered his broad hand with a smile. Scholten took the hand. “Pleased to meet you.” He swallowed. “What's this about?”

“I'll explain. Can we talk for a moment?” Maubach pointed to the corner table.

“Well, yes. It's just that I'm in rather a hurry.”

“I don't think this will take long. It really would be very helpful if you could spare us a few minutes.” Maubach led him to the corner and indicated the other man. “This is Herr Huygens. And this is Herr Scholten, who is so much in demand.”

Huygens laughed, stood up and shook hands with Scholten. Scholten sat down. He was feeling a little better. If only the cat would come back.

The girl came over. Maubach asked Scholten what he would like to drink. Scholten asked for a beer and a genever.

Maubach rubbed his hands, looked at Scholten and said: “Herr Scholten, we need your help.”

“My help? What with?”

“You'll understand in a moment. I am a chief superintendent in the CID, and Herr Huygens is from the Amsterdam CID.”

Scholten rubbed his ear. “CID? What do I have to do with the CID?”

Maubach laughed. “Don't be alarmed, Herr Scholten. And I must apologize for taking you by surprise like this, but we're in rather a hurry.” He looked at Scholten. “I called your home this morning, but there was no answer. And then I called your office and was told you were here, and that you weren't well. The lady I spoke to said they didn't know when you would be back, and you had to stay in bed.”

Scholten said: “Yes, well, when I rang this morning I was still feeling rather rough. I didn't expect to be up and about again so soon myself.”

“No need to explain, Herr Scholten.” Maubach laughed. “These things happen. You can feel terrible, and then you're much better all of a sudden.”

Huygens said: “It's the sea air. It could bring the dead back to life.” He laughed. Maubach agreed, “Yes, you've got it good out here. I wouldn't mind being unwell in Heemswijk myself.” He waited until the girl had brought the drinks.

“Well, it's like this, Herr Scholten. There is some urgency about this business, and we can't get any further without a statement from you. So I got into my car and drove over the border. And my colleagues in Amsterdam were kind enough to say they had no objection to my asking you a few questions here and now. Beside your sickbed.” He laughed, raised his glass, drank first to Huygens and then to Scholten.

He wiped his lips, examined the glass. “Herr Scholten, I'll be frank with you. However, I must ask you to be discreet. You mustn't talk to anyone else about this. Can I trust you?”

“Of course. Of course. But I don't know what you're talking about.”

Maubach looked at him. “Herr Scholten, we strongly suspect that Frau Wallmann's death was not an
accident. And we have always had grave doubts of the theory that she
voluntarily
jumped off the steps.”

Scholten's heart began to thud. He stared at Maubach. “What do you mean?”

“Murder, Herr Scholten. We think Frau Wallmann was murdered.”

“Murder?” Scholten's voice was thin; it sounded strange to him. He cleared his throat. “But who would have murdered her?”

“Think about it, Herr Scholten. You know the situation in the Köttgen company. You know more about it than anyone else, or so Herr Büttgenbach told me, anyway, and he should know.”

Scholten nodded. “Yes, yes. I mean, who do you think did it?” He looked at Maubach. “You don't mean . . . ?”

Maubach nodded. “Of course. Herr Wallmann. That can't surprise you too much, Herr Scholten. Look around you. Of all the people with whom Frau Wallmann had dealings, who had a motive?”

Scholten looked out of the veranda. He was thinking feverishly.

The girl brought his beer. He reached for it and took a long draught without toasting the other two men. He wiped his mouth.

Maubach said: “Do you understand?”

Scholten cleared his throat. “But that's nonsense. That's just impossible. Herr Wallmann, I mean, he has an alibi. It can't have been him. It's a watertight alibi.”

Maubach nodded. “I know. That's why we could get no further at the time. And that's why we had to close the file on the case and hand it back to the public prosecutor's office.”

Scholten looked at him. “Then why now? I mean, why do you now think it was Wallmann?”

Maubach laughed. “Well, you see, Herr Scholten, sometimes the police aren't as useless as people think.”

“Good for the police,” said Huygens.

“You may well say so. One of my younger colleagues, Herr Scholten, he couldn't get the case out of his mind. He was convinced from the first that Herr Wallmann had thought up a very clever ruse. Yes, and then there was a strange anonymous phone call, someone called and said Herr Wallmann had murdered his wife. And that got my colleague looking into the case again. On the side, you understand, as well as his regular work. That's why it's taken rather a long time.”

Scholten said: “When was this?”

“The anonymous call? Some time in May. Frau Wallmann was buried long before then.” Maubach took a notebook out of his pocket, leafed through it. “It was May 12. A Monday. The caller said, ‘Frau Erika Wallmann of the civil engineering firm of Ferdinand Köttgen didn't die in an accident. She was murdered. By her husband. You ought to investigate . . . ' And then he hung up. Yes, it was definitely rather odd.”

Scholten said: “And you don't know who phoned?”

“No, it was impossible to trace the caller.”

Scholten said: “But surely your colleague couldn't find out any more – I mean, Frau Wallmann had been dead for almost two months on May 12. There wouldn't be any evidence left.”

“Yes, so you might think.” Maubach looked at the time. “But my colleague went to look at those steps again last week. Up at the Wallmanns' weekend house by the lake.”

“The steps?”

“Yes, last Monday. A week ago today. And he found some odd things.” Maubach smiled. “Nail-holes in the
front edges of a couple of planks.” He looked at Huygens. “Those steps are made of really good solid timber.”

Huygens nodded.

Maubach said: “And the holes were very regularly spaced. Four of them, side by side. He found them on the landing where the steps turned a bend. And on the two steps above the landing. And nowhere else. Odd, don't you think?”

Scholten passed a hand over his face. His throat tightened. He swallowed. “But what's odd about that? The steps are ancient. They must be full of the marks of nails.”

“Ah, but these nail-holes were quite new. And listen to this. My colleague took out one of the planks – and it came out quite easily. The bolts holding it in place had been greased. It had to have been done fairly recently. And then he found that these nail-holes were not just in the front edge of the plank but in all four edges.”

Scholten could have groaned aloud. He cleared his throat. “So what? Like I said, they're full of nail-holes.”

“Well, no, Herr Scholten. No, no. These are perfectly regular. Four holes in each of the long sides and two in each of the narrow sides. And now, listen to this. We sat down and tried to work out what it meant. Because at first sight there seemed no sense in it. But then the penny dropped.”

“What penny?” Scholten took out his handkerchief and rubbed the nape of his neck. “What kind of penny dropped?”

“Keep listening. Back in March we'd already wondered how Frau Wallmann could have fallen down those steps. She was a strong healthy woman; she wasn't hobbling around on a stick. And even back then
one of us said – it was just meant as a joke, you see – one of us said there must have been a sheet of black ice on the steps or she could never have fallen down them. We thought that was funny. We didn't understand the facts at the time, and they weren't obvious either. But that's exactly what it was: black ice.” He looked at Huygens. “Murder by black ice.”

Huygens shook his head. “Amazing. You did a good job there.”

Scholten laughed. He thought it was someone else he heard laughing. “But that's nonsense,” he said. “How could there be ice on the steps at the end of March? In fine spring weather?”

Maubach smiled. “Just suppose, Herr Scholten, you take out those planks and nail strips of wood to them all the way round. You let the strips come a little way above the planks, and you waterproof the whole thing, say with insulating tape. Do you know what you get then?”

“How would I know?”

“You get a kind of basin or dish, understand? And then you fill it with water, an inch or so deep, and you put it in a freezer. Guess what you have on that plank next morning?”