A Cold Death in Amsterdam (Lotte Meerman Book 1) by Anja de Jager Page B
Authors: Anja de Jager
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topped her glass up from my bottle.
‘I don’t think so.’ I brought my glass to my lips to give my hands something to do and to hide my mouth. I swallowed the tiniest amount.
‘But was there money? Did he have money?’
‘Are you driving? Because if you are—’
‘I’m fine. Nowhere near the limit. So was there money?’
‘Not that I could tell,’ I lied. I could check what her numberplate was and tip-off Traffic Control.
‘Shame. Still, that doesn’t mean he didn’t do something else with it. We should question him.’
‘We’ll question Goosens on Monday morning. That’s much higher profile.’
‘First thing?’ She sounded like a child demanding her St Nicolaas presents right on time.
‘First thing.’ I smiled a fake smile and pushed the box of chocolates closer. It would be good if she ate them all, saved me throwing them out.
But she refused them with a quick wave of her hand, knocked back her wine and picked up her coat. ‘Gotta rush. Patrick’s waiting with dinner.’ I followed her to the door.
She turned. ‘Let me help you with that tree,’ she said. ‘We can carry it down the stairs together.’
I hesitated.
‘How are you going to do it otherwise?’
Getting it through the window would be do-able – after all, that’s how I got it up here – but it would be difficult. I nodded and we went back to the tree.
I slid the key ring around the thumb of my right hand and got a firm grip on the base of the trunk. As Stefanie stabilised the top, I lifted the bottom. I let the weight extend my left arm as far as the socket would allow. Tied together by the tree, we walked down the stairs. As I was three steps lower than her, her head was finally higher than mine. My hand hurt, but she was not stopping so neither would I. Even on the landing, where I would have put it down normally, I kept it lifted as I opened the door. My fingers had difficulty holding the weight even though the needles were like anchors in my flesh and the sap stuck tree and skin together like superglue. I didn’t look round, but kept going down, careful step by careful step, my eyes on the floor, measuring the width of each step and counting each wooden block down, twenty-two steps in total. She took a step whenever I did, our feet making twin noises on the floor.
Only when we got to the downstairs hallway did I acknowledge the existence of my colleague. ‘Finally there.’
She put the tree upright and I rested it against my shoulder. I passed her the keys, she opened the front door and I dragged the Christmas tree out of the house onto the pavement. The council would pick it up tomorrow and chip it into little pieces.
‘Thanks for your help,’ I said. It wasn’t even that hard.
She smiled. ‘Thanks for the wine and chocolates. I’ll see you Monday.’ She waved and walked to her car. I went back upstairs, got a broom out, and removed all the needles from the steps and the marble floor in the hallway. The festive season was over for this year.
Stefanie could well be right. My father’s house was bigger than it should be for a retired policeman, especially in the high-priced commuter belt of Alkmaar. Just over half an hour by train to Amsterdam, house prices had sky-rocketed there in the last ten years. In my study, which used to be the interior designer’s studio, I opened my laptop and googled the address. It didn’t take long to find out that he lived next door to Alkmaar’s mayor and opposite two company directors. Even when he’d still been working he shouldn’t have been able to afford a house in the Oranjepark.
I picked up a pen and walked over to the architect’s table that dominated the study. It was perfect as a horizontal version of our office whiteboard. I paused with the pen above the virginally white sheet of paper, hesitant to spoil its pure beauty with my bad thoughts. In the centre of the white page I wrote
Otto Petersen
. I drew a careful square around the name of the dead man.
‘I don’t think so.’ I brought my glass to my lips to give my hands something to do and to hide my mouth. I swallowed the tiniest amount.
‘But was there money? Did he have money?’
‘Are you driving? Because if you are—’
‘I’m fine. Nowhere near the limit. So was there money?’
‘Not that I could tell,’ I lied. I could check what her numberplate was and tip-off Traffic Control.
‘Shame. Still, that doesn’t mean he didn’t do something else with it. We should question him.’
‘We’ll question Goosens on Monday morning. That’s much higher profile.’
‘First thing?’ She sounded like a child demanding her St Nicolaas presents right on time.
‘First thing.’ I smiled a fake smile and pushed the box of chocolates closer. It would be good if she ate them all, saved me throwing them out.
But she refused them with a quick wave of her hand, knocked back her wine and picked up her coat. ‘Gotta rush. Patrick’s waiting with dinner.’ I followed her to the door.
She turned. ‘Let me help you with that tree,’ she said. ‘We can carry it down the stairs together.’
I hesitated.
‘How are you going to do it otherwise?’
Getting it through the window would be do-able – after all, that’s how I got it up here – but it would be difficult. I nodded and we went back to the tree.
I slid the key ring around the thumb of my right hand and got a firm grip on the base of the trunk. As Stefanie stabilised the top, I lifted the bottom. I let the weight extend my left arm as far as the socket would allow. Tied together by the tree, we walked down the stairs. As I was three steps lower than her, her head was finally higher than mine. My hand hurt, but she was not stopping so neither would I. Even on the landing, where I would have put it down normally, I kept it lifted as I opened the door. My fingers had difficulty holding the weight even though the needles were like anchors in my flesh and the sap stuck tree and skin together like superglue. I didn’t look round, but kept going down, careful step by careful step, my eyes on the floor, measuring the width of each step and counting each wooden block down, twenty-two steps in total. She took a step whenever I did, our feet making twin noises on the floor.
Only when we got to the downstairs hallway did I acknowledge the existence of my colleague. ‘Finally there.’
She put the tree upright and I rested it against my shoulder. I passed her the keys, she opened the front door and I dragged the Christmas tree out of the house onto the pavement. The council would pick it up tomorrow and chip it into little pieces.
‘Thanks for your help,’ I said. It wasn’t even that hard.
She smiled. ‘Thanks for the wine and chocolates. I’ll see you Monday.’ She waved and walked to her car. I went back upstairs, got a broom out, and removed all the needles from the steps and the marble floor in the hallway. The festive season was over for this year.
Stefanie could well be right. My father’s house was bigger than it should be for a retired policeman, especially in the high-priced commuter belt of Alkmaar. Just over half an hour by train to Amsterdam, house prices had sky-rocketed there in the last ten years. In my study, which used to be the interior designer’s studio, I opened my laptop and googled the address. It didn’t take long to find out that he lived next door to Alkmaar’s mayor and opposite two company directors. Even when he’d still been working he shouldn’t have been able to afford a house in the Oranjepark.
I picked up a pen and walked over to the architect’s table that dominated the study. It was perfect as a horizontal version of our office whiteboard. I paused with the pen above the virginally white sheet of paper, hesitant to spoil its pure beauty with my bad thoughts. In the centre of the white page I wrote
Otto Petersen
. I drew a careful square around the name of the dead man.
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