Black Widow (3 page)

‘But the Mayor has influence, surely?’

‘Look, the housing development is canal-side. The canal was found to have sprung a leak. They do that, from time to time. It’s the Authority’s responsibility to make repairs. There’s no mystery to it.’

‘The Mayor must be up to
something
, though,’ Gus countered, seizing what he considered to be the nub of moral high ground. ‘Isn’t it in the nature of politicians to abuse their power?’

‘Maybe so,’ Miriam said coolly. ‘But then again, he might just be the most honest man in Amsterdam.’

‘Hah!’

Miriam made a visible effort to rein in her temper. ‘This time you’ve gone too far, Gus. What would have happened, do you think, if we had run this story?’

‘We’d have found a few more readers?’

Miriam was clearly between hot flushes, and was as cold as yesterday’s obituaries. ‘You’re off Crime,’ she said. ‘You’re on Tourism. And try not to screw up this time. The subs are already demanding danger money.’

‘But –’

‘Get out, Gus.’

Gus didn’t protest further. He had his dignity to consider. Besides, he was positive this would only be a temporary setback. Miriam needed reporters like him. Truth was one thing, and of course it was easier when a story was supported with
hard
evidence, rather than the sort which gave a little under close scrutiny. But the fact of it was that journalists were increasingly a part of the entertainment industry. And Gus understood what his readers wanted to hear.

Shit, though. Tourism? He hated tourists.

There was a buzzing in his pocket. A text message. Elizabeth. One of his informants at the station. Left tit substantially bigger than the right, which offered a useful reference point in the dark, should he lose track of which way was up. She thought she had a chance of marrying him. Charming, really.

Gus was a firm believer in Providence. And a kind of inverse journalistic karma, which no one else seemed to understand. Whatever the truth of it, it seemed there had been a murder out on the Sint Luciensteeg. In a hotel. Well, well.

Hotels, Gus reasoned, were often frequented by tourists.

Chapter 2

‘We could cycle,’ Pieter Kissin suggested as he followed his new partner down to the station car park.

‘Exercise is bad for you,’ Tanja countered. ‘Look at joggers – always dropping dead of heart attacks. Or footballers, always rupturing their cruciates or whatever.’

Pieter smiled his easy smile. ‘So why do you spend every other night in the station gym?’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Harald Janssen.’

Jesus, Lucky loved to gossip.

‘And what else did he tell you?’

Pieter shrugged, but didn’t see fit to answer the question. ‘Do you want me to drive, then?’

Tanja fixed him with a dangerous look. ‘What, because I am a woman, and you think women can’t drive? Let’s get one thing straight –’

Pieter offered an apologetic shrug. ‘Actually, Detective Inspector, it’s more that I think you might still be a little intoxicated.’

Tanja stopped and tightened her grip on the car keys. ‘What?’

‘I am sorry. I don’t know how else to say it. But alcohol leaves a certain residue on the breath.’ He sniffed delicately. ‘Wine, I should say. Probably white. I’d hesitate to specify the grape, though.’

There was no dignified response to this allegation. And, now that she’d been caught out, Tanja saw no alternative but to capitulate. She threw him the keys to her battered old Opel, and, dammit, there she was, blushing.

‘Did you perfect your nose at the Academy?’ she enquired, if only to hide her embarrassment.

‘No. We used to holiday in France when I was a child. The Médoc. We always seemed to end up at a vineyard.’

‘Oh.’

He started the car. It fired first time, which to Tanja’s way of thinking was a little disloyal, when in her case it was never better than fifty-fifty if it would start at all.

‘So where to?’ he asked.

‘Sint Luciensteeg.’

‘And which way is that?’ he queried.

‘Turn right out the gates. Oh, and be careful. This isn’t a tractor, or whatever counts as a runabout in the country. You can’t simply drive over things. You have to go around them.’

‘I’ve driven a few tractors in my time,’ Pieter noted mildly as he steered the car onto Elandsgracht. ‘My parents own a farm, near Vreeland. It borders the river. Very pretty. You’d like it.’

‘I doubt that. But I thought your father was Chief of Police?’

Pieter’s tongue played thoughtfully inside his cheek. ‘I asked the boss to keep that a secret.’

‘It wasn’t him. But you’ll learn as you go on that police stations are riddled with snitches. Most of whom are on the payroll.’

‘Ah.’ He flashed her an anxious look. ‘I hope it won’t put a strain on our relationship?’

‘Why would it?’ Tanja answered blandly. ‘You could be our dear Prince of Orange himself, and you’d still have to fetch your own coffee.’

‘I get it.’

‘Anything else I should be aware of? Any other secrets?’

‘Secrets?’ Pieter mused. ‘Oh, I’m allergic to penicillin. Does that count?’

‘Not really.’ The Opel forged a spluttering and environmentally suspect path through a swarm of cyclists, simply belching out those hydrocarbons it lacked the stomach to digest. ‘So how did your dad come by the farm?’ she asked.

‘He inherited it. It’s been in the family three hundred years. He employs a manager to run it, of course.’

‘Oh, of course. And it will be yours, one day?’

‘I’ve never really thought about it. But I suppose it will, yes. I have a sister – an elder sister, actually – but you know how these things work.’

Tanja knew.

‘You married, Kissin?’ she asked.

‘No ma’am,’ he said with a sideways glance. ‘You?’

She looked out of the window to hide her face. Lucky hadn’t told him everything, then. ‘Not any more.’

They soon pulled up outside the hotel, the
Royal William
, a typically narrow, four-storey building of pale red brick and white window frames, strangled in a creep of wilting ivy. A uniformed officer, an
agent
, was standing outside, his arms folded, his eyes fixed on a chattering crowd of onlookers. A Walther P5 pistol was holstered at his waist. The pistol had been in service since the late seventies, and there was talk of replacing it, but for now its compact dimensions and reliability made it a favourite. He had a baton, too, and a can of pepper spray, all standard equipment. He offered careful greeting to Tanja as she approached the cordon, and a look of what might almost have been commiseration to Pieter. Tanja pretended that she hadn’t noticed.

Inside, she was immediately struck by a sense of decay, evidenced by a greasy bloom of nicotine on the walls, and streaks of fossilised sweat on the wooden reception desk. The air smelt variously stale, or oily, depending on which way the hotel’s internal currents were shifting. A draft crept in beneath a door, marked
salle à manger
, as if in homage to the old French domination of the city; or else blew more brazenly through the margins of a revolving door, which offered a distorted view out onto the street beyond. A newspaper sat on a table, dated to three days before.

‘Been here before?’ Pieter asked.

‘No,’ Tanja answered. ‘But I recognise the type. Not every man wants to take his kicks in a
privehuis
.’

Another officer was in conversation with two women, one of oriental extraction, the other dressed in the uniform of a desk clerk. Witnesses, hopefully.

The uniformed
hoofdagent
briefly detached himself from the women. ‘Ma’am.’

‘What can you tell me?’ Tanja asked, as, despite everything, she felt her heart start to beat that little bit faster.

‘Only a little,’ the sergeant replied. ‘We’ve sent a car to pick up the night clerk for questioning. But I can tell you that the murdered man and his, ah, lady friend, signed in under the names Mikael Ruben and Hester Goldberg.’

Pieter made a note of this information on a pad. ‘And where are the other guests?’ he asked.

‘In the dining room, awaiting interview.’

‘Right,’ Tanja acknowledged. ‘Bag the register and keep me informed.’

They took the stairs. Tanja had a mild fear of lifts, particularly when their innards were on full display. But more than that, she’d learned the benefits of drawing such moments out. First impressions were never more important than when dealing with a murder scene: with her heart racing, and her mind awhirl, there was a danger she might miss something. So, she took a series of deep, if surreptitious breaths, focusing on the stairs before her, and no more than that.

Fifty-two steps in total to the top floor. Kissin barely seemed to notice, but she was breathing a little heavily by the time they reached the top. Not through any lack of fitness – it was just that she’d had her nose broken a few years back, and sometimes she couldn’t seem to get enough air into her lungs. She’d even visited a plastic surgeon, to see if there was anything that could be done. There was, apparently. And it needn’t cost her anything: her police medical insurance would take care of it, seeing how the injury had been sustained during the course of her work.

Still, her brother officers could be merciless about such things. They would inevitably find out, and there was no way she was going to let herself become the butt of their jokes. Times changed, but not much, and the one thing a female police officer could not afford was accusations of vanity. It was hard enough to be taken seriously as it was.

She moved along the landing, her nostrils flaring to the faint aroma of rust. Or blood. The principal component was the same in each case.

The room was located at the end of a gloomy corridor, which was lined with a selection of Rembrandt prints. Pieter called out the title in each case:
Bathsheba At Her Bath
; followed by
Belshazzar’s Feast
; and finally
The Jewish Bride.

‘So you are an art lover, as well as a wine expert, Kissin?’

‘I didn’t always want to be a policeman,’ he answered with a shrug.

He seemed cool enough. Yet Tanja suspected that it was an act. She remembered a similar occasion, just a few short years before, when Alex had accompanied her to
his
first crime scene. His aura of toughness had dissipated rather quickly, as she recalled.

So much had happened since then. Tanja closed her eyes, just for a second –

‘Are you all right, Detective Inspector?’

Tanja blinked. ‘Of course.’ She brushed an imaginary speck of dust from her blouse, and took the final few steps along the corridor.

The diminutive Scene of Crime Officer, Nelleke van Wyk, was her usual fastidious self, making a point of asking their identity, and various other self-evident details, and recording them on her clipboard. Whereas Tanja thought nothing of circumventing an unnecessary formality, it was the process itself that van Wyk seemed to live for. She made no secret of the fact that she loathed Tanja’s methods; Tanja made no secret of the fact that she didn’t care.

‘You’ll need to suit up,’ van Wyk instructed.

‘Are we talking the full ensemble?’ Tanja enquired.

‘Can’t be too careful, Detective Inspector.’

‘Fine,’ said Tanja, as she set about shrugging herself into the proffered coverall. There were also gloves, boots and a mask to deal with. It was never a quick business.

‘Keep to the walls as much as possible,’ van Wyk added.

‘Of course,’ Tanja acknowledged.

She moved inside, Pieter a step behind. The first thing she noticed was that the room was L-shaped; that the bed, and its contents – apart from one pale foot – were neatly hidden from view by a wall. The forensics team, looking more comfortable in their white suits and blue booties than she felt in hers, were already moving through this space. One or two nodded greeting; others seemed to look straight through her. They were a curious bunch, not easily understood. Chief amongst them was Karl Visser, so laconic she wondered if he had a pulse. She waved a greeting across the floor. He shrugged.

Pieter edged ahead of her, but she blocked him with an arm.

‘What’s the rush, detective?’ She handed over a pencil. ‘How about you draw me a nice picture instead?’

‘So what are we going to do?’ he protested. ‘Wait for our friend to fossilise before taking our hammers to him?’

‘Don’t forget you are on probation. I can have you transferred at any time.’

‘You can?’

Tanja tapped a finger to her head. ‘I’ve made a mental note, to investigate how I might get rid of you.’

‘How about an acid bath?’ Karl Visser suggested as he held up a microscope slide to the window.

‘Funny,’ said Pieter.

‘Hey, relax,’ Visser said. ‘He’s not going anywhere. Not without his guide dog, at any rate.’

‘What does that mean?’ Pieter said.

‘You tell me. You’re the detective. Or so I’m led to believe.’

Tanja held up a hand to forestall further bickering. ‘How’s that picture coming along?’ she asked Pieter. ‘I’m expecting something in the Rembrandt envelope, at least.’

‘Or perhaps we could simply wait for the photographer?’

‘I want both. Do it.’

Tanja moved slowly around the wall, Pieter beside her, sketching all the while. Tanja noticed that he was working in 3D, rather than the usual plan. So, he was either being facetious, or stupid. On balance, she hoped it was the former. A stupid cop had nothing to fall back on save luck. And Harald Janssen had already cornered that market.

The room was fairly grubby, and gave the impression that it hadn’t been decorated in thirty years or more. The walls were magnolia, whilst the carpet was beige. There was an interior door, closed, which presumably led into the bathroom.

The floor was covered in a loose pile of male clothing, suggesting that the dead man had been in a hurry to get naked. Well, no mystery there; men were like children in that regard.

A low-def TV sat in one corner, a coat-hanger aerial arranged above it. The plug was missing. Tanja didn’t suppose that most guests had cause to notice. There was a kettle and accompanying tea service. The cups were face down.