A Cold Death in Amsterdam (Lotte Meerman Book 1) by Anja de Jager

looked surprisingly ugly. I laid it flat on the floor. Somewhere I had the rope I had used to get it up here. I tied it with seven loops to the wooden cross that was nailed to the trunk and opened the curtains and then the window – only to be assaulted by the blast of freezing air.
    The phone rang. I let the answermachine reply.
    ‘Hi, Lotte, it’s Stefanie. Sorry to disturb you so late, but I have been thinking . . . Are you at home?’
    I didn’t step away from the window.
    ‘I’m outside your door, your light’s on. Is your window open? Pick up the phone.’
    I sighed, closed the window and walked over to the table.
    ‘I know you’re there, Lotte. I saw you move – you live where the window was open, don’t you? Come on, pick up the phone.’
    I reached a finger to the button on the machine but was not sure which one to press. Should I pick up or cut her off?
    ‘I’ve got some ideas about Piet Huizen.’
    The decision was made. ‘Hi, Stefanie.’
    ‘Can I come in?’
    ‘I’ll buzz you up.’ I opened the door and waited until I saw her climb the stairs. Once inside, she peeled off her coat like the skin of an onion. ‘That’s a severe haircut.’
    I ignored her comment and walked ahead of her to the front room. ‘Take a seat.’
    She dropped the coat beside her on the sofa. My fingers ached to pick it up and put it on a hanger, but I left it where it was and sat down on the chair.
    ‘You shouldn’t be drinking by yourself,’ she said, pointing at my glass. ‘You’d better get me some too.’
    I got a glass from the mahogany sideboard and poured a small amount, maybe two fingers high.
    She took a large glug and emptied a fair amount of the wine in one go. ‘What’s with that tree? Why is it on the floor? Is this a bad time?’
    Clearly it was. It would have been, regardless of what time it was.
    ‘This is a lovely flat,’ she said. ‘You’ve done well. I know divorced women who are much worse off.’ She raised her glass at me and rubbed her hand over the dark blue velvet of the sofa. ‘Bit stark for me, you know – no scatter cushions, no rugs. Bit empty, bit cold. Suits you though.’
    I didn’t understand how she could think my pale-blue walls and dark wooden furniture cold. For me, the scarcity of fittings created a sense of space. Cushions and carpets would only break the lines that connected the windows to the table, the beautiful parallels of sideboard and picture rails. I had bought my flat from an interior decorator in financial difficulties. I was a cash-buyer and she needed the money. The deal, which included most of the furnishings, was done quickly. Where she kept some pieces for herself, I moved other things around to fill the gaps. She said I should come to her shop on the PC Hooftstraat, Amsterdam’s most prestigious shopping area, where it had been flanked by designer clothes shops. With the proceeds of our transaction, she could keep open a bit longer and she said that she would give me a discount. I hadn’t felt like buying anything, however. It had been one decision too many. Refusing her offer probably insulted her or maybe she had hoped to make more money out of me. I liked living in surroundings that somebody else had chosen.
    Stefanie reached over and helped herself to a couple of mint chocolates out of a box I’d had open on the table for weeks, from before Christmas, as I liked the way the smell of chocolate and mint mingled with that of pine. I didn’t stop her from eating them.
    ‘Anyway, Piet Huizen. Did you meet him?’ She put a chocolate in her mouth in its entirety, almost pushing her fingers in after.
    I imagined dust flying from between her teeth when she chewed. ‘I saw him before I met Ronald de Boer.’
    ‘Right, so you went to his house. Was it big?’
    ‘Comfortable.’
    ‘But big? Big like this flat?’ She laughed and washed the coating of chocolate from her tongue with another glug of wine. ‘Too big?’
    ‘Too big for what?’
    ‘Well,