Into the Night: Inspector Rykel Book 2 (Amsterdam Quartet) (22 page)

Monday, 10 May
18.02

He dropped the phone and pulled out the SIM.

Then he reached into his back jeans pocket and pulled out a lighter. The flame scorched the SIM, casting weird dancing shadows on the wooden walls.

Then he broke the phone up, removed the battery and threw it across the room. That started the baby crying again.

He checked his watch.

Things were now coming to a head.

He was the only one left, all his gang had been killed. Which would have been good, saved him the bother of doing it himself later on.

But for the fact that he didn’t know who was doing it.

And he didn’t have the resources to find out. It’d been driving him crazy for days, ever since the first murder, each further death notching it up even more.

At first he thought they were revenge attacks for knocking off the grow sites, and when the only Dutch member of his crew, Teeven, who was somehow getting the information on the locations, had also wound up dead, he was sure.

Then he’d heard on the news that each victim had had the palm of one of their hands scorched.

That was when he’d really started to get scared. Someone knew about him, knew what he was here to do.

But despite all this, he was still in a position to win.

And no one was going to find him here.

The smell of damp wood was all around him, he could almost feel the mould spores entering his lungs with each breath.

He looked out of the window, on to the pier hovering over the black water.

Rain had been pockmarking the water’s surface but it was easing off now.

Turbulence turning to calm.

He checked his watch again.

Just over twenty-four hours.

Not long now.

Monday, 10 May
18.47

‘We need to get a team on this right away—’

‘No,’ Saskia shook her head, something in her eyes that Jaap didn’t recognize. ‘You heard what he said. If we tell anyone then they’ll … they’ll kill her.’

‘But how’s he going to know? I can take this to Smit, make sure it’s kept—’

‘No!’

‘So what’s the alternative? You losing the trial? Can you do that?’

They were sitting on the floor, backs to the wall. Outside the rain had eased off but was still falling. Saskia was shivering.

‘I … Yeah. I mean, Isovic was our main witness. With him gone there’s a whole load of testimony we’re not going to get. He was really key to our approach. And the judge who got drawn for this trial is the hardest to get a conviction from. When we saw it was him we got worried. So maybe if I mess up there’s a chance Matkovic might walk free.’

‘But it’s not guaranteed, right?’

‘Course it’s not fucking guaranteed. And where were you?’ She turned her head towards him. ‘Huh? You’re her father. You could have been looking after her, but instead you decided to go off on your case.’

‘That’s not fair, and you know it,’ shot back Jaap.

But is it?
he asked himself.
Maybe she’s right.

He couldn’t focus properly, too many thoughts running parallel.

The image of him leaving his houseboat on Teeven’s phone, was it that Teeven had been part of this plot, scoping him out?

He’d been wrong.

He’d been wrong right from the start and now Floortje was paying for it.

‘We’ve got to think about this,’ he said, trying to keep his voice calm, the waver in it telling him he was failing. ‘I think I can find out where she is, and—’

‘I’ve already said—’

‘This is Floortje’s life we’re talking about, we’ve got to look at all the options.’

Jaap could see Saskia was trembling.

‘It’s just coming up to seven,’ he said, trying to sound calm, ‘and the trial won’t be starting until, what? Ten? Ten thirty?’

‘Later, it’s scheduled in for twelve.’

‘Okay, so that gives us seventeen hours before it even starts. I can find out a lot in that time. We can talk just before you go in. I can let you know where I’ve got to … Saskia?’

He could see she was holding back tears, all the muscles in her face fighting to keep them at bay. Her mouth was open, but there was no sound.

A taught line of saliva joined her lips.

He wrapped his arms around her.

‘Listen, it’s going to be okay. We are going to get her back. I promise.’

Only I’m not so sure
, he thought as he held her.
I’m not sure at all.

‘We have to get her,’ she said, her tears spilling on to his neck, echoing the rain outside. ‘Jaap, we have to get her back.’

Monday, 10 May
19.26

‘Who’s this?’

‘This,’ said Kees, ‘is Zamir Isovic. He absconded from witness protection a few days ago.’

‘Don’t you need the hospital?’ said the desk sergeant. ‘I mean, his face and everything? I don’t want him bleeding all over one of my cells.’

Kees glanced at Isovic, hundreds of tiny trickles of blood covering his face. It looked full-on horror movie, but he knew it wasn’t serious.

Or he didn’t care.

He couldn’t work out which.

‘I want to put him in a cell, I’ve got a phone call to make.’

‘Look, he’s cuffed, right? So just chain him to that pipe. I’ll keep an eye on him.’

Having secured Isovic to the pipe, which he was pleased to feel was really hot, Kees stepped outside. The rain had stopped and the air was cool, fresh. He breathed in, wet pavements glittering with reflections from the descending sun, and placed a call to Smit, half expecting his phone to be off. But it rang, and Smit picked up.

‘Yes?’

‘Inspector Terpstra. I’ve got Isovic in custody.’

Silence howled down the line.

‘I thought I’d taken you off that case?’

‘I got a tip-off and had to act fast; there wasn’t time to let anyone else know.’

A car drove past, a curling wave of water peeling from its front tyre.

‘Did you arrest him?’

‘Got him cuffed. I haven’t done any paperwork, not sure what grounds I’d arrest him on. Other than resisting arrest.’

‘Get him down to Den Haag and hand him over. I’ll call the head of ICTY and let him know,’ said Smit. ‘Then he becomes their problem.’

Nice to be thanked
, thought Kees as Smit hung up.

He’d hoped to leave Isovic here overnight, get some drone to take him down tomorrow, but that clearly wasn’t going to happen.

By the time he’d signed out a car – he’d been picky, rejecting the first two offered – and bundled Isovic into the back it was starting to rain again.

As he headed out of the city, down towards the coast, Kees thought about the next few days.

He had an appointment to go back to the hospital, the latest test results would be in.

The tests which would show how fast the progression was.

The thing is
, he thought as he drove,
I’m not sure I’m ready for that.

It’d been nearly a year ago when he’d first noticed the numbness, but he’d put it down to coke and ignored it. Then the other symptoms started to kick in, but it still took him weeks before he’d decided he had to see someone about it. Even then he’d made the appointment and
cancelled it three times before he actually forced himself to go.

The doctor had spent most of the time staring at a computer screen, two-finger-typing Kees’ answers on a dirty keyboard. Each answer seemed to prompt another question from the screen.

Once he’d left, with an appointment for a barrage of tests, Kees wasn’t sure the doctor had actually looked at him once.

‘How you find me?’

Isovic’s voice brought him back to the present, and Kees realized that he’d not even been paying attention to the road. He looked in the rear-view, catching Isovic’s face behind the cage.

‘Someone grassed you up.’

‘Who?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘No, maybe not,’ he turned to look out the window, a lazy windmill stood in a field of sheep.

‘So why did you run away? I thought you wanted to testify against that guy, what was his name?’

‘Matkovic.’

‘Yeah, that’s the one. So you changed your mind? You don’t want him to be brought to justice?’

‘Oh, I do,’ said Isovic looking back, locking eyes in the mirror, his head nodding as if his seat had transformed into a rocking horse. ‘I do.’

Monday, 10 May
20.41

Tanya was getting worried.

She now knew exactly who the victims were, and had confirmed ID on the remaining man from Kees’ photos from 57, presumably the next victim, and she needed to let Jaap know as soon as possible.

Problem was, he wasn’t picking up.

After the uniform had interrupted their meeting and told Jaap there’d been a call from Saskia, he had disappeared. At first she’d assumed something had happened to Floortje, an accident maybe. She’d tried to get hold of Saskia but couldn’t reach her either. And it had now been hours.

She thought back to when she’d met Jaap, the case which had thrown them together. There’d been something there, between them, right from the start. But then he discovered Floortje was his daughter, and their relationship maybe hadn’t worked out quite as well because of that.

He’d changed when he realized he was suddenly responsible for a life.

And he was doing a good job. He clearly loved Floortje, the way his face lit up when he was around her, his attentiveness. Sometimes Tanya felt a pang of jealousy, though she knew that was stupid and tried to dismiss it.

And there were times when Tanya helped out, looked after her for him, and she’d started to wonder if she really
wanted to be a kind of mother to a child which wasn’t her own.

Not that she’d ever really thought about having children herself; the past, and what had happened there had somehow killed that urge.

She turned back to her computer. She’d managed to match the names to the victims, and the man seen at 57, who they presumed was still alive.

Where is Jaap?
she thought, checking her phone again.

They’d been wrong about the case, which was probably her fault; the theory about the cannabis growers had sidetracked them.

She dialled Jaap again, and this time he picked up.

‘Are you okay? Where are you?’ she asked.

‘I had to meet Saskia about something. It’s okay now though.’

She could tell something was wrong. His voice sounded different, harder than normal, as if his vocal cords were seizing up. And she could tell he wasn’t going to tell her anything, at least not now. She decided not to push it.

‘I’ve found out some more on the two Bosnians and I’ve ID’d the last man in the photo at 57. The thing is, they were all part of a gang called the Black Hands, who’re wanted for war crimes—’

‘Where are you now?’

‘At the station, I’m just—’

‘Can you get to Schellingwouderbreek, quickly as possible?’

He sounded off, stressed, under duress.

‘Jaap, what’s going on?’

‘Just meet me there. I’ll explain. And don’t tell anyone about this.’

And then he was gone, the intensity of his voice ringing in her ears.

Monday, 10 May
21.16

Stars pinged off black water.

The sky had cleared, rainclouds heading east towards the continent, and Jaap shivered as he stood waiting for Tanya. He was at Schellingwouderbreek, a small lake in Amsterdam Noord surrounded by woodland.

It was here he’d scattered Karin’s ashes, watched as the grey flakes landed on the surface of the water, clung to the reeds at the water’s edge.

Something rustled in the undergrowth, before plopping into the water off to his right.

He remembered the famous poem by Basho, the sound of water.

The skin on his arms and neck goose-pimpled up.

But he wasn’t sure it was from the cold and damp.

Or something else.

The image of Floortje on the phone screen wouldn’t clear from the front of his mind. And then there’d been Tanya’s call, confirming just how wrong he’d been.

He’d driven out here after taking Saskia home, and had pulled out the I Ching as soon as he parked by the path which led to the water. He’d made a resolve to stop doing this, but …

Coins spun through the air, glinting in the car interior’s light. The I Ching had given him Thunder over Lake.

DANCING TO ANOTHER’S TUNE.

He stepped closer to the water’s edge, the soil softening underfoot.

How did I let this happen?
he thought.

The image of his teacher in Kyoto rose out of the dark, the rounded face, shaved head accentuating the bushy eyebrows, and the placid look in his eyes.

Jaap had woken one morning with the 3 a.m. bell reverberating through his head. It was large, made of copper, and hung in a simple wooden frame in the central courtyard of the monastery. Every day it was someone’s job to polish it, to forestall the inevitable greening of the metal, and Jaap had done it many times, his image distorted on the curved, shiny surface as he worked the cloth back and forth.

It was rung every morning, though Jaap had no idea who actually struck it. After listening to it for a few moments he’d got up, dressed and headed for the main hall, where the next three hours would be spent just sitting. Which was purely a warm-up for a much longer session later in the day.

He’d been struggling for weeks. Sitting still and concentrating on his breath only seemed to intensify each and every physical sensation until he felt like he was in so much pain he wouldn’t be able to carry on. Yuzuki Roshi had simply smiled when Jaap complained to him of the pain, and said, ‘Good, keep going.’

He’d reached moments when he swore he could feel every cell in his body, each one screaming, each one on fire.

But the physical pain was only a mild distraction from something worse.

The mental pain.

That morning Jaap was crossing the courtyard, other monks emerging from all corners like bent beetles, when he noticed Yuzuki Roshi gesturing to him from a side door. Jaap went over to him and, as instructed, followed him through the doorway.

The path on the other side was littered with small round stones which crunched underfoot, and led through a grove of small maples, their branches dripping delicate autumn fire. They followed the path up a small hill, and as they rose Jaap glimpsed through the trees the temple complex spread out below.

He knew it was modelled on ancient Chinese ideas, Zen Buddhism was a Chinese import which had taken root and grown in Japan’s feudal society, and the buildings with their sloping roofs which curled up at the corners were testament to that lineage.

Gravel gardens were dotted about, their swirls immaculate and regularly changed, and ornate bridges arched over small streams linking ponds. On the shore of the largest pond a heron balanced on one leg, perfectly still, perfectly calm.

But as they climbed higher, Jaap could also see beyond the temple grounds: the urban sprawl, wires hanging between buildings, a chaos of cars parked on every available flat surface. Neon lights, rubbish, a truck negotiating a corner on a too-tight junction.

He remembered thinking about being cloistered away, wondering if he was achieving anything.

Or simply hiding.

They reached a small building, built in the same style as the rest, and stopped outside. The paper screen which acted as a door was closed, glowing in the early-morning sun. A bird high above them in the clear still air let out a single piercing shriek.

And Yuzuki Roshi spoke to him, which was a rare experience; most of Jaap’s questions were answered with the curt command ‘Just sit’ or a small bow of the head. He told Jaap to enter the building, look at what was inside and stay and meditate on form and emptiness.

Jaap pulled back the paper screen, the action smooth, and entered the room, the tatami mat rough against his bare feet. It was a small space, no more than two metres square, and lying on the floor was a body. The screen slid shut behind Jaap and he sat down, realizing that the figure in front of him was one of the monks he’d seen about the place but never spoken to.

At first Jaap was angry; this kind of thing might work on people who’d never seen a dead body before, but he was a police inspector, his job involved looking at them all the time. And he was about to get up and leave the room, tell Yuzuki Roshi that cheap tricks weren’t going to work on him, when he realized the very reason he’d ended up halfway across the globe was because of a body.

A body whose life he’d ended. And that of the child she’d been carrying.

So he sat, slowed his breathing down, and tried to focus on what was in front of him, tried to wrestle with form
and emptiness, two polar opposites which were somehow linked.

It took hours, but when, knees aching, his back a twisted rope of pain, Jaap finally emerged into the dusk he felt different.

Felt as if things, life, was suddenly clearer to him.

Felt that, in the end, things were simple.

Form and emptiness.

He’d always assumed the Buddhist concept of emptiness meant nothing, a kind of nihilistic view in a world devoid of meaning.

But as he stood there, watching the orange sun slide down behind the silhouetted mountain range edging Kyoto, the crisp air carrying the savoury smell of miso broth from the kitchens down below, a bird he still didn’t know the name of gently squeaking in one of the trees, he knew that was wrong.

Form and emptiness weren’t opposites, they were one and the same thing. And that realization was meant to bring the end of suffering.

The black circle on a white background which hung in his room at the monastery, an image he’d stared at for hours, flared in his mind.

But that was then.

Now his daughter was being held hostage, and would be killed if he couldn’t find her in the next twenty-three hours.

And it was his fault.

He’d caused suffering, Floortje’s suffering.

Saskia’s suffering.

His own suffering.

Now form and emptiness seemed like so much mystical bullshit.

No better than the kind of crap Blinker peddled to his willing customers.

Behind him a noise, footsteps, and he turned to see a spot of light dancing through the reeds. It flitted back and forth, hit his legs and travelled up to his face so he had to put his hand up and squint into the beam.

‘Jaap, what’s wrong?’

Tanya’s voice, full of concern, came at him as the light flicked off.

He didn’t even know where to start.

He would have laughed.

If he wasn’t already crying.