The Good Thief’s Guide to Amsterdam (26 page)

I bypassed the bathroom, figuring a bathroom couldn’t come good
two times in a row, and I passed over the storage closet too,
because tackling all the junk inside of it looked like way too much
work and I was content for it to be an absolute last resort. That
only left the kitchen, where the smell of dried food on all the
dirty crockery was potent enough to make me turn up my nose. There
might not have been much evidence of home cooking going on but that
didn’t mean there weren’t plenty of places to search.

The bin was filled to overflow with ready-meal containers, I
noticed, and when I checked inside the microwave I saw that it was
peppered with fatty residues. The wall-mounted cupboards contained
an extensive selection of cereal brands, as well as bread loaves of
varying degrees of decay, and several packets of the chocolate
sprinkles that Dutch people spread onto slices of bread as a
breakfast treat. The base cupboards held a small collection of
cleaning products, a few baking trays and saucepans and the odd can
of tinned food. I checked inside the oven and behind the housing of
the extractor fan and then I gave the lengths of wooden plinth
above and below the kitchen units a solid prod to make sure that
none of them had been loosened. After that, I opened the fridge
door and almost gagged on the eggy smell that wafted out at me.
There was a carton of milk and some processed cheese and a half a
chocolate bar inside. At the top of the fridge was an ice box. I
pulled down the plastic flap on the icebox and pushed a bag of
frozen mixed vegetables to one side. Nothing. Then I straightened
and happened to look down into one of the slots in the electric
toaster and, stone me, there he was, hands covering his eyes as if
he was just waiting for me to shout peek-a-boo.

I can’t tell you how good it was to see him again. What I can
tell you is that I whooped and did a silly little jig and followed
that up with a seriously bad moonwalk. Because to hell with my
book, there was at least one case I could solve all on my
lonesome.

∨
The Good Thief’s Guide to Amsterdam
∧

I
had a few more
errands to run after leaving the apartment, and one of them
involved me teaming up with Stuart for an hour or so. Once we were
done, I left him to carry out a job of his own devising, giving me
just enough time to return to his building and place a series of
phone calls.

The first number I dialled was for the central police station
and from there I asked to be transferred to Detective Inspector
Riemer’s direct line. After a wait of around a minute or so, during
which time I was treated to intermittent bursts of recorded Dutch
soundbites, I was finally put through.

“Mr. Howard,” Detective Inspector Riemer began. “You have some
information for us?”

“You remember me then,” I said.

“Of course. I was just reviewing the notes on your
interview.”

“Ah. I should imagine that makes for some fascinating
reading.”

“The report is quite short, in fact. I see you would not answer
many questions.”

“Would you believe me if I told you I’m shy?”

Riemer paused long enough to let me know exactly what she
thought of my response.

“What if I said I had the impression Inspector Burggrave had
already formed a somewhat biased opinion of me?”

She sighed. “I do not have time for games, Mr. Howard. What did
you want?”

“Oh, not much. Only to say that I think I know who killed
Michael Park.”

Riemer hesitated. I could picture her tense and crowd around the
telephone receiver. “Will you agree to be interviewed?”

“In a sense,” I said. “If you’ll meet with me.”

“When?”

“Four o’clock this afternoon. And bring your deluded colleague
along too, will you?”

After providing her with the necessary details, I rang off and
called the next name on my list. The conversations I found myself
conducting all followed a similar format and without exception
everybody I called seemed reluctant to meet me. If I was a more
sensitive type I might have developed a complex about that but the
truth is I’ve never been one to take things to heart and
fortunately I can be a stubborn fellow when the situation demands
it. In point of fact, every single person I called showed up in the
end, which I’m enough of a realist to admit probably had more to do
with the lure of the diamonds than any reputation I’d developed for
throwing a good party.

The venue was one of Stuart’s masterstrokes. We were in the old
central warehouse at the disused Van Zandt complex. All about us
were broken storage crates, dusty wooden palettes, buckled metal
trolleys and empty oil drums. The floor was covered in an
ankle-high scree of waste and dust and fallen ceiling plaster and
the temperature was no warmer than outside, since there was no
heating to speak of and a good deal of the windows were smashed
through, allowing the bitter gusts of winter air that scoured the
surface water of the Oosterdok to whip around us.

To give the scene some order, I’d gone to the trouble of
arranging a number of crates and palettes to form a rough
semi-circle in front of me but my efforts didn’t appear to have
made my guests any more comfortable. Kim, for one, could have done
with a hat and scarf, because she was obviously cold. Her chin was
tucked right down inside the collar of her puff a jacket, her fine
legs were crossed at the thigh and she was blowing warm air onto
her cupped hands. I couldn’t ask her how she was feeling, though,
because she’d evidently decided to have nothing to do with me or
anyone else for that matter. Her hundred yard stare was a good one,
but that was no surprise given she’d been practising it since her
arrival.

The wide man and the thin man were sat opposite her, sharing the
same crate, and I noticed the thin man had found the time to
replace the leather jacket I’d taken from him. I knew from
experience now that the jacket wouldn’t provide much warmth but
maybe that wasn’t the point. Perhaps it was all part of a uniform
he and his broad companion had devised for themselves years ago,
even if only on a subconscious level. I could imagine them both
getting ready to head out for some general villainy and the
procedure they might go through. Van keys?
Check
. Bower
boots?
Check
. Baseball bat?
Check
. Shall I wear the
leather jacket? Oh go on then.

Talking of clothing, Inspector Burggrave and Detective Inspector
Riemer were the most suitably attired, each of them wearing
standard-issue police coats with dense fur linings. They also
seemed the most inconvenienced by our get-together and gave the
impression I was keeping them from far more pressing matters. That
was nonsense, of course, but they were police officers after all
and it would be bad form to appear pleased about being asked to
show up someplace on anybody else’s terms. So they kept pacing
around in circles and checking their watches and mobile telephones,
and just for that I held off on starting for at least two minutes
longer than I needed to.

Stuart was sat just to my side and, like me, he was dressed in a
thick, roll-neck jumper, though his was several sizes larger and
many times more distended around the gut. He’d teemed the jumper
with a woollen sports jacket with leather patches at the elbow and
he had a very Rutherford-style paisley handkerchief poking out from
his breast pocket. His final prop, a leather-bound briefcase,
nestled on the floor beside his feet, and if anyone had had cause
to look inside, they would have found it was as empty as the wide
man’s head. Stuart looked entirely at ease, which he was entitled
to, since he was the only person beside myself who knew anything of
what was about to unfold.

Next to Stuart was my final guest, Niels Van Zandt. To my mind,
Mr. Van Zandt looked more fragile than he had done inside his home,
his milky eyes watchful and ever ready, but I could also tell that
part of him was caught up in the thrill of being back inside his
family’s old business premises and, so far as I could make out, he
seemed no more aware of the cold than he was of his own breathing.
He wore only a cashmere sweater and corduroy trousers but from the
easy way he was perched on his oil drum, gnarled hands lightly
gripping the top of his cane, you would have thought he was
comfortably reclined in front of the open fire in his study. Part
of me wished I was there myself – I could have done with a mouthful
of bourbon to settle my nerves before I began.

“Thank you for coming,” I said, looking around the group of
people in front of me and showing them my palms in a welcoming
gesture. “Some of you are acquainted, I believe, though I hope you
won’t mind if I hold off on the wider introductions for now.
Suffice it to say that this gentleman on my right,” I said,
motioning towards Stuart, “is Henry Rutherford, my lawyer. Mr
Rutherford is here to ensure that everyone understands that I won’t
be incriminating myself by anything I may say here today.”

I looked at Burggrave and Detective Inspector Riemer and waited
for both of them to acknowledge what I’d said. They did so,
reluctantly.

“For the record,” Stuart cut in, warming to his role, “the two
police officers present have indicated their willingness to adhere
to this understanding.”

I thought he might try to get them to confirm it to him verbally
but, like all successful confidence men, Stuart knew not to
overplay his hand. Burggrave and Riemer contemplated him with
evident distaste but he took it in his stride. As Rutherford, he
could rise above such things. In truth, he was so comfortable in
his performance that Kim must have found it difficult to reconcile
the pompous individual before her now with the crazed gunman who
had held a pistol to her head.

“As most of you know,” I resumed, “the building we are in used
to be the main storage and diamond cutting facility for Van Zandt
Diamonds. Mr. Niels Van Zandt,” I went on, gesturing towards the
resilient old gent, “is the nephew of Lars Van Zandt, the founder
of the family diamond business. Mr. Van Zandt has agreed to join us
today for the sake of clarifying a few points that might otherwise
be taken as conjecture. Thank you again for coming, Mr. Van
Zandt.”

Van Zandt bowed his head and gave me a queer little wave,
faintly regal, as if he was granting me permission to continue. If
I was a military man I might have given him a quick salute but I’ve
never been able to carry off that sort of thing so I just nodded,
as if doffing an imaginary cap in his direction. He seemed to be
enjoying my deference, so I went on with the charade.

“Having had the pleasure of being able to talk with Mr Van
Zandt, I can tell you that his family established their jewel
trading business at the beginning of the nineteenth century. Their
core activities involved them in purchasing uncut stones from the
former Dutch colonies and refining them here in Amsterdam before
selling them onto high-class jewellers and diamond retailers
throughout the world. Unlike a number of their competitors, they
were hugely successful and rapidly became the most powerful of the
Dutch diamond merchants.”

“Did you call us all here for a history lesson?” Riemer asked,
sharply.

“Not at all,” I assured her. “Though I think the background may
help a little. And I must confess that I found it all rather
fascinating when Mr. Van Zandt spoke to me. I don’t think it
inaccurate to say,” I said, acknowledging Van Zandt again, “that
Van Zandt Diamonds were one of the greatest companies this country
has ever known.”

Van Zandt nodded, a contented look upon his face.

“And, as all of us are aware, Michael Park, the American, was
sent to prison for killing a security guard here, most likely while
attempting to steal uncut diamonds from the Van Zandt strong room.
The unfortunate security guard’s name was Robert Wolkers. And
this,” I said, gesturing to Kim, “is his daughter, Kim
Wolkers.”

Everyone looked at her in that moment, though Burggrave and
Riemer’s heads turned fastest. Kim remained cool, neither
acknowledging nor denying it. Her eyes moved only from the point of
oblivion she’d been focused upon to the ground between her
feet.

“This is true?” Van Zandt asked, looking from Kim to me and back
again.

Kim didn’t react so it was left to me to confirm it.

“Then you have my sympathies,” Van Zandt went on, his voice
sombre. “My family were very saddened for you. I know that everyone
on the board was most sad, though I believe they made a generous
payment to your mother.”

Kim looked up and glared at him, the severity of it jarring
something in his watery, old-man eyes.

“She was using the name Marieke Van Kleef for some time,” I
said, directing my explanation to Burggrave and Riemer, before they
could launch into any disruptive questioning. “I could explain why
now, but that would put us ahead of ourselves. And what I’d really
like to do, if you’ll all indulge me, is to skip to the part where
I became involved.”

I scanned the faces surrounding me, though I didn’t expect any
of them to interrupt. They all wanted answers, even if, in Van
Zandt’s case, it was more out of curiosity than necessity. The wide
man and the thin man still hadn’t said anything yet, but they
hadn’t seemed at all surprised when I revealed Kirn’s real
identity. I could see they were uncomfortable, though, because they
kept casting looks in the direction of the doors they had come in
by, and the thin man was sat with his hands clenched together
between his legs, his feet tapping out a nervous quick-time on the
concrete floor. Both of them were facing away from Burggrave and
Riemer, subconsciously shielding their features as though they were
worried they might be recognised from some long-buried mug
shots.