Читать книгу Black Widow - Isadora Bryan - Страница 11
ОглавлениеOn the simplest, most instinctive level, Pieter was fairly sure that Maria Berger was telling the truth, that she’d had nothing to do with Mikael Ruben’s death. The catch in her voice, the slow unfurling of her limbs, the sense that her body’s internal rhythms had been halted, that they might never start up again – each spoke of her shock, and therefore innocence.
The interview had dragged on for two hours, and they didn’t seem to be making any progress. Maria had sunk back into her grief, her eyes glazed over, her arms hanging loosely at her sides. More often than not she didn’t seem to hear Tanja’s questions; or if she did, her typical response was to start crying again, albeit it in a quiet, low-key fashion. True, Pieter knew that she had a theatrical side, that she might conceivably be putting on a show – but the thing about acting, as he saw it, was that it was necessarily exaggerated.
‘Must we carry on?’ the other occupant of the room said. ‘Maria obviously had nothing to do with this.’
Tanja turned her unblinking gaze towards Maria’s mother. ‘No one said that she did, Mrs Berger.’
‘Then what is she doing here? She should be at home.’
‘And soon she will be,’ said Tanja. ‘But she may have some piece of information that helps with the apprehension of the culprit.’
‘You don’t have children, do you detective?’ said Anita.
Tanja paused a moment. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t.’
Anita Berger leant back in her chair. The air-conditioning was broken again, and the sweat leaked from the margin of her blonde hair, to merge in unsympathetic fashion with distinct layers of makeup. She might once have been very pretty, perhaps even a match for her daughter, but whereas there was a delicacy to Maria’s appearance, Anita had abandoned all notion of subtlety. Her skirt was cut on the well-ventilated side of daring, whilst her breasts seemed to be considering an escape for freedom. A crucifix jiggled provocatively on a chain of silver links, as if intent on humping her cleavage. Her skin was tanned, but more in the sense of leather than anything. When Pieter looked at her, one word came into his mind: melanoma.
There was a knock at the door. Pieter came to with a little start. He hadn’t realised, but he’d been slouching. He eased himself aloft, recalling a seminar on bio-mechanics at the Academy. The way a person sat could alter blood flow to the brain, impeding mental capacity by anything up to five per cent. He took a few sips of water: dehydration could be even more disruptive.
‘Come in,’ said Tanja.
Harald Janssen appeared, and handed Tanja a note. She studied it for a moment, then passed it to Pieter.
It seemed that Maria’s story checked out. She’d been at the Universiteitstheater on Nieuwe Doelenstraat from four in the afternoon, and had been in the company of at least one witness from that point until three the following morning, when she’d left the party at the director’s house in Jordaan. Pieter was pleased that his initial judgment had been corroborated. They already knew that Mikael Ruben and Hester Goldberg had booked into the hotel at nine-thirty; whilst Erik Polderhuis had estimated the time of death as between eight-thirty and midnight. It couldn’t have been Maria.
Then Pieter noticed that Tanja was looking at him. And not with any great enthusiasm. She frowned, and blinked once, slowly. Maybe Pieter was reading too much into her expression, but there seemed to be a warning there. He looked away, wondering what he might have done now.
And then he saw that Anita Berger was looking at him closely, too, and licking her lips whilst she did so. Christ! What was that about?
Maria wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘I want to go,’ she said.
‘To your flat?’ Tanja asked.
‘No,’ her mother answered for her. ‘Home. My home. Our home.’
Tanja nodded. ‘Of course. I think we are done here.’ She checked her watch. ‘Interview concluded at three-fifteen pm.’ There was a snap, as she switched off the tape recorder.
‘You will look after Maria, Mrs Berger?’ Tanja asked.
Anita nodded, gently at first, then with greater vigour. ‘Of course. Always.’
‘Well, I will make a call to the Bureau Slachtofferhulp, anyway.’
Anita shook her head a fraction. ‘Victim Support? No, really, there’s no need. Maria has me. She doesn’t need anyone else.’
*
Outside in the car park, Pieter watched as Tanja tugged open the Opel’s door and thumped down into the driver’s seat – only to yelp as the bare skin of her legs came into contact with hot black plastic. She did a funny little buttock dance, which reminded him a little of mothers trying to get funky at wedding discos.
‘Maybe you should leave the window open a bit,’ Pieter suggested. ‘Or wear trousers.’
‘Shut up, boy.’
‘Boy?’
‘Sorry, did I get the gender wrong?’
Tanja jammed the key into the ignition, rattling it this way and that to disengage the steering lock. Pieter tactfully looked elsewhere as she struggled to get the car running. Her curses were delivered in some southern dialect, he noted with interest; Limburgish, maybe?
The car fired up with a cough of blue smoke. Pieter barely had time to drop into his seat – still hot – before Tanja was off along Elandsgracht.
‘Where are we going?’ Pieter asked. ‘Ruben’s place?’
Tanja grunted. ‘You think he might have left us a little black book of names and addresses?’
‘Well, it doesn’t have to be black, I suppose.’
‘It’s possible,’ Tanja conceded. ‘But a detective would need to be spectacularly lucky to unearth something like that.’
‘So –?’
‘I’ve already asked Harald Janssen to take a look at it.’
Pieter nodded. ‘So what about us?’
‘Well, we’re off to that bar. The Den, on Enge Lombardsteeg.’
‘Ruben had a receipt for there,’ Pieter recalled.
‘So, if the time on the receipt is anything to go by, it seems quite likely that he went straight from there to the hotel. Perhaps our friend Hester was with him.’
‘He might have arranged to meet her at the hotel, though,’ Pieter pointed out.
Tanja didn’t answer and Pieter could tell by the set of his partner’s jaw that she was in no mood for idle speculation. And maybe he’d gone a bit far, teasing her like that. But it had always been his way: whenever he was nervous, something in his unconscious mind determined that the best course of action was to laugh at the source of his fear. He would have to keep a check on it.
So instead he looked through the window, taking in the sights and sounds of his new home. He knew a little of Jordaan’s history, of the incendiary class riots which had flared amidst its gentle gardens during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries; of the February Strike of 1941, when the locals had bravely protested against Nazi treatment of the Jews. There was a statue, somewhere, commemorating the fact. But it all seemed very quiet now. Very safe.
‘The Prinsengracht,’ Tanja noted, as they steered a path beside a canal, its bronzed surface silvered here and there with the frothy wake of pleasure cruisers. ‘Part of the Grachtengordel. So, we have the Prinsengracht, the Herengracht, and the Keizersgracht. Each forms what you might term a concentric ring around the city. Except they aren’t really rings. They’re more like decagons or something.’
Pieter looked at her suspiciously, but she seemed quite serene. Was this an attempt at amiability? He gazed up at the row of three and four storey buildings that flanked the canal, and the avenue of trees which added a verdant streak to the slabs of mottled brickwork. ‘It’s very pretty,’ he said carefully.
Tanja nodded. ‘All this was built during our so-called Golden Age. The seventeenth century! When our navy was the finest in the world, and we even gave the English a fright or two. Hard to think it, now! We might as well be Belgians, for all the influence we have.’
‘Don’t say that,’ Pieter protested earnestly.
Tanja shifted gears with a forceful clunk. ‘But there’s no sense in looking back, I suppose.’
It wasn’t far to Enge Lombardsteeg, but the traffic was tightly packed into the one-way system, and the tourists seemed to have no compunction about further clogging the roads. What might have been a comfortable twenty minute walk turned out to be a fractious twenty minute crawl, Tanja’s language growing more Limburgish all the while.
‘So where are you from, originally?’ Pieter asked.
‘Maastricht. We moved to Amsterdam when I was thirteen. But I learnt to swear properly before we left, if that’s what you are getting at.’
They arrived at another roadblock, this time in the form of a broken-down tram. Pieter winced, expecting a further eruption, but to his surprise, Tanja started to hum. He thought he recognised the melody. ‘To Love Somebody?’ he asked. ‘The Bee Gees?’
‘Right song, wrong band,’ Tanja answered. ‘I prefer the Janis Joplin cover.’
‘Are you a fan?’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’
Snippets of civilised conversation aside, being alone with Tanja in her little car wasn’t a comfortable feeling. It was to Pieter’s considerable relief that they finally pulled to a halt outside a coffee shop, Incan Gold, and he was able to take a shot of fresh air.
Actually, it wasn’t that fresh: waves of sweet smoke were oscillating through the open door.
‘Are you sure this is the place?’ he asked as he peered up at the gold-leaf sign. Incan Gold? A hash reference, presumably.
‘It’s the right address,’ Tanja answered as she stepped inside. ‘The Den must be downstairs.’
Sure enough there was a spiral staircase in the furthest corner of the café, leading down into a yet dingier depth, where clumps of second-hand smoke gathered like ghostly muggers.
‘It’s not exactly signposted,’ Pieter observed.
‘No.’
A rope was drawn across the stairs. Tanja unhooked it, and stepped through.
There was a door at the bottom, labelled simply, Private. Tanja tried the handle. Unlocked.
The decor was much classier on the other side of the door, if still imbued with an appreciably seedy aspect. Classical music swelled gently in the background; whilst flickering electrical candles seemed to serve no other purpose than to define the limit of strategically placed shadows. There was a bar, well stocked, flanked with a row of stools. There were paintings on the wall, prints, most likely, of what appeared to be English landscape scenes. Some exotic variety of vine twined itself around a brass pole, twisting hungrily towards a shaft of natural sunlight, which somehow penetrated below ground. Mirrors, Pieter suspected, if not actually smoke.
A woman appeared from the shadows. ‘Welcome to the Cougar Club!’ she said, smiling. She wore an evening gown of palest jade. It didn’t seem to matter that it was still a little early for that sort of attire; she had the look of a woman who tended to draw evening out as far as was possible. She was rather striking, tall, with longish, blondish hair. Her bare arms were thin, whilst her breasts were larger than they needed to be. She was roughly fifty years old, Pieter guessed.
Tanja looked at Pieter confusedly, before turning her attention back to the woman. ‘I’m sorry – we were looking for The Den.’
‘Well, some people might call it that. But not you two, surely?’
‘I’m not sure I follow,’ Tanja admitted.
‘Look, as far as my accountant is concerned, this is indeed The Den. But most of my customers refer to it by its unofficial name.’
‘I see,’ said Tanja.
The woman nodded happily, and took a step towards them. ‘My name is Sophia Faruk. I’m the owner here.’
‘Hi,’ said Tanja, more reservedly.
Sophia diverted her attention to Pieter, slowly, languorously, yet with a great weight of irresistible determination, like a canal bridge swinging open. ‘He’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘Can I touch?’
She didn’t wait for an answer. She reached out a hand, to brush fingers to Pieter’s chest. He was so taken aback, he didn’t move. Sophia sighed wistfully, then returned her attention to Tanja. ‘You know it’s our strictest rule – no hogging the pretty ones!’
Tanja showed her badge. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Pino. And this is Detective Kissin.’
His partner’s scorched-earth gaze met Sophia’s eyes of polder-grey. For a moment an unspoken challenge seemed to rise between them. Pieter wasn’t surprised that Sophia should be the one to break the contact. There was a fire to his partner’s eye that burnt without thinking.
Sophia’s expression flickered, then grew impassive. ‘How may I help you, Detective Inspector?’
Tanja reached into her pocket, to remove a colour photocopy of Mikael Ruben’s security pass. ‘Do you recognise him?’ she asked, tapping the image in the corner.
Sophia looked at the picture. ‘Maybe.’
‘Only maybe?’ Tanja pressed. ‘One of the “pretty ones”, no?’
Sophia shrugged. ‘I never focus on the faces for long.’ She chuckled, but the sound seemed to sit awkwardly.
Tanja shook her head impatiently. ‘Please, this is important.’
Sophia looked at the image again. ‘All right. Now that I think about it, I do recognise him. He comes in a couple of times a month.’
‘And when did you last see him?’ Pieter asked.
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Last night, perhaps?’
Sophia shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
Tanja showed her a copy of the receipt. ‘This would suggest otherwise. You see the date?’
Sophia studied the receipt. ‘Yes. But really, I’ve said too much. My customers expect a certain discretion on my part.’
‘Trust me,’ said Tanja, ‘Mikael Ruben will not care.’
Sophia licked her lips. Pale lipstick glistened, briefly. ‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s dead.’
Sophia put her hand to her mouth. She groped blindly behind her, and settled back into a chair. She started to say something, then seemed to think better of it. ‘Poor Mikael,’ she finally stammered.
Tanja took a step closer to Sophia. ‘So, you will forgive me if I ask you again, Ms Faruk: did you see Mikael Ruben last night?’
‘I have already said that I didn’t,’ Sophia said. She composed herself with a visible effort. ‘But then, I wasn’t here all evening. I left early.’
‘What time did you leave?’
‘I couldn’t say for sure. I never wear a watch. The passing of time – well, I’d rather not know.’
‘Do you have security cameras?’ Pieter asked. ‘A tape we can study?’
‘No,’ Sophia answered. ‘The last thing my customers want is to be filmed. At least not here.’
Pieter found that he was starting to enjoy the process. This was much more like it. ‘So tell me, Ms Faruk, what exactly is the Cougar Club?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘Let’s assume it isn’t.’
That laugh again. ‘You aren’t from round here, are you, Detective? It’s very simple. Some women prefer the company of younger men, just as some men prefer the company of older women. This is where they like to meet.’
‘Was anyone else working last night?’ Tanja asked. ‘A bartender, perhaps?’
‘Just Frank,’ Sophia answered, quite sullen now.
‘Do you have a doorman?’
‘Jacobus, yes. He won’t be around for another hour, though. We aren’t officially open yet.’
‘And Frank?’
‘He’s in the cellar, doing a stock check.’
Frank was duly summoned. There was a pale sheen of sweat on his skin, and his eyes bulged from deep-set sockets. He had the look of a man who had spent his life in a dark cave. He glanced at the receipt, and the photograph, then screwed his eyes shut as he struggled to remember. Sophia looked at him for a moment, then drifted away, ostensibly to study her mobile. But it was obvious that she was listening intently.
‘Yeah, he was definitely here,’ the barman said. ‘We talked about the game on Saturday – did you see it? What the hell was Jol doing? Honestly, we’d have been better off sticking with van Basten. You don’t counterattack against Feyenoord – you pound em, you understand, like the scum they are. It’s the only way –’
‘What time did he leave?’ Tanja interrupted.
‘Oh, not late. Ten, maybe? No, that’s not right. Earlier. Because I remember talking to another customer about De Klassieker later, and he asked me the time, and it was nine-thirty. So, it would have been, oh, twenty minutes before that?’
‘And did he leave on his own?’ Pieter asked.
‘No,’ the bartender answered, drawing the syllable out as he pondered the question. ‘Don’t think so. I think I saw him talking to a woman, if only for a minute or so. I’ve an idea they went out together. They usually do!’
Pieter was making notes. ‘What did this woman look like?’
‘Sorry,’ Frank replied, ‘I really couldn’t say. Blonde hair, maybe? But it gets real smoky as the evening wears on. And of course Ms. Faruk turns the lights down low. Sometimes it’s hard to keep a track of who’s who.’ He winked. ‘Besides, I’m told not to stare.’
‘She didn’t order a drink?’ Tanja enquired.
‘I don’t think so. It’s mostly the men who buy the drinks round here.’ He lowered his voice a little. ‘Although there are some ladies who prefer a more hands on approach, if you know what I mean.’
‘Where do you keep your copies of the bar receipts?’ Tanja asked.
‘In here,’ Frank answered. He opened a manila folder, leafing through in dextrous fashion. ‘Ah, here we are,’ he said. ‘I believe this is Mr Ruben’s. He ordered, yes, two Grolsch.’
‘May I?’ Pieter asked.
Frank handed Pieter the folder. He flicked through, noting that the bartender was right: perhaps four-fifths of the names on the receipts were male. All part of the ritual, he supposed. There was certainly no record of a Hester Goldman.
‘Do you have a membership roster, something like that?’ Tanja asked. ‘We’ll need to speak to your patrons. Someone must have got a decent view of this woman.’
‘There’s nothing like that.’ Sophia said quickly as she moved back over to join them. ‘As I say, we are very discreet. We rely on word-of-mouth. No one has to sign in. There are no membership fees. My only recompense is whatever passes through my till. That and the satisfaction of knowing that I am providing a valuable service, of course.’
‘Good for you,’ Tanja said shortly. ‘So you’ve nothing else to tell us?’
‘No. I don’t think so. Though obviously I will call you if anything occurs.
Tanja handed Sophia a card. ‘Thank you, then. Oh, and if you could ask your doorman to call me as soon as he gets in. Jacobus, was it?’
‘Yes. I’ll tell him.’
Tanja strode away, climbing the spiral stairs in a vibration of ringing iron. She hurried through the coffee shop, Pieter struggling to keep up.
‘What I can’t understand,’ Tanja suddenly blurted, ‘is the promiscuity.’
‘Oh?’ said Pieter carefully.
Tanja dragged her foot across the dusty pavement. ‘I’ve only had, oh, eight boyfriends in my life. And never more than one at the same time.’
‘You think these women sleep around, then?’
‘I reckon!’
They shared a look. Pieter nodded, to express his understanding. Tanja wasn’t like the women who came to the Cougar Club; fine, he got it. But he supposed he could understand her sensitivity, under the circumstances. Janssen had told him all about Tanja and Alex Hoekstra, his similarly youthful predecessor. It really didn’t bother him, though, and even if it had, he would have kept his mouth shut. Tanja’s private life was none of his business.
They rode in silence back to the station. Pieter was left to reflect that it had actually turned out to be an unsatisfactory interview. They hadn’t really learned anything new. Ruben had probably left with another woman, but they’d suspected that anyway.
All in all he felt that he’d learned more about Tanja in the last few hours, than Mikael Ruben’s killer.
*
Harald Janssen had never really understood his sobriquet. Lucky? It was an insult, really. Professionally speaking, everything he’d achieved had been a product of hard work. And expertise. He was clued-up. He took his statutory two days’ study leave each year, and remembered almost everything he’d learned.
And in a private sense, well, he’d had no luck at all. Three messy wives, and three messy divorces, and three messy kids who would rather stay with their grisly mothers than hop on a tram and visit him occasionally. And the alimony! He was getting poorer each year.
He stretched, yawned, and decided that he would take a nap as soon as the opportunity presented itself. The murder had messed up his sleep patterns. He was supposed to have switched over to nights, yet seemed to have been awake for at least a day and a half.
He was at Mikael Ruben’s apartment on Vossiusstraat, overlooking the pleasant expanse of the Vondelpark. This was Tanja’s case, of course, but she could not be everywhere at once, and he’d been happy to help out with the preliminary legwork. She would want to come here herself soon enough, but someone needed to check it out right away, just in case. Someone trustworthy, with an eye for detail.
The apartment was impressively large, but Ruben clearly hadn’t been one for furnishings, either soft or hard. Tellingly, there was nothing in the way of cushions, nor candles, nor any of that other crap that women tended to like. If Maria (or whoever) had ever spent the night here, then she certainly hadn’t been allowed to linger. There were no extra toothbrushes in the bathroom, no hidden stash of tampons, no secret hordes of emergency shoes.
Harald approved of the minimalist approach. The place must be a joy to clean, he considered as he pulled on a pair of sterile gloves. His own house was a mess. Too much clutter. Too much correspondence from his wives’ lawyers.
So, there was very little sign of recent habitation. Just a pile of laundry, and a plate of pork chops resting by the cooker.
Harald instinctively sniffed at the chops, his thoughts momentarily drifting towards dinner, or supper, or whichever was next on the agenda. God, he was disorientated! Breakfast felt like lunch; lunch felt like second supper. And Christ knows where mid-morning crepes fitted in.
There was no sign of the proverbial black book. Nor, with the exception of a few bills, any written documents of any kind. Of course, Ruben had been an IT specialist; he’d doubtless kept all his contact details on his laptop, or maybe even his phone. Harald believed that you could do anything with a phone nowadays, if you had small enough fingers.
His own fingers were meaty, and so inflexible that he sometimes wondered if he might be missing a joint or two. It was symptomatic of his body all over, really. He had no illusions as to his physical appeal; his first wife had said he was arranged like an ink-blot test.
He looked in the few cupboards, and beneath the bed, all the usual places. Sure enough he found a laptop, a new Macbook. He didn’t try to turn it on himself; he would suggest to Tanja that she should have the IT bods take a look at it. Just in case. Maybe there was a thingy, a spreadsheet.
Harald had embraced the technological age, though only in the sense that a child might embrace a senile old grandmother, with hairy warts, and a bladder problem. The last computer he’d owned – the only computer – had broken the day after the warranty expired, presumably in protest at all the emails it had been receiving from the bloodsuckers at Swartout, Schoonhoven and Rosenthal. Lucky? Hah!
He checked his watch. The day wore on. Handing the key back to the building superintendent, he headed out to his car, and braved the traffic back to the station. He hoped to catch Tanja before she left for home. He had no real news to report, but he liked to be near her.
