Outsider in Amsterdam (21 page)

“With me?” de Gier asked.

“With you,” Constanze said softly, putting a dish of fried eggs and bacon on the table and switching the toaster on, “if you want me to stay with you.”

“Joachim de Kater,” the chief inspector said and stirred his coffee. “I remember the name. Didn’t you write a report on a visit to an accountant of that name, Grijpstra?”

“Yes sir,” Grijpstra said.

“But how do you know all this, de Gier?” the chief inspector asked. “You weren’t supposed to question her. Grijpstra did, the night before last night I believe. How come you know who she sold her property to?”

De Gier didn’t answer.

“I see,” the chief inspector said. “But personal relationships with suspects …”

The commissaris shifted in his chair. “I think the sergeant is aware of what you are hinting at,” he said.

“All right,” the chief inspector said.

“It’s really my fault, sir,” Grijpstra said. “I suggested that de Gier should date her last Saturday. I thought she might talk a little more easily if he did.”

“It’s all right, adjutant,” the chief inspector said. “We won’t mention the matter again, or rather, I hope we won’t have to mention the matter again. I believe you asked young Mrs. Verboom to stay in Amsterdam while the investigation lasts. Perhaps you can contact her and tell her that she can go now. Mr. de Gier will be able to concentrate a bit better when she is out of the way and we don’t really suspect her anymore, do we?”

“No sir,” de Gier said, relieved. “We don’t.”

“Do you want her out of the way?” asked the chief inspector, surprised.

“She wants me to get rid of my cat,” de Gier said in a small voice.

Grijpstra suddenly roared with laughter and the chief inspector and the commissaris joined him. De Gier shuffled his feet.

“Haha,” the commissaris said, wiping his eyes. “You like your cat, huh? You don’t have to feel silly about that. I like my cat too. It always snuggles up to me when I have rheumatism in my leg.”

“I prefer dogs,” the chief inspector said, “but we’d better
get off the subject, we don’t want to embarrass the sergeant. You say she sold the lot to her husband’s accountant. That’s strange. It looks as if he made use of an awkward situation. A widow needing money. Perhaps a hundred thousand is a low price for that large house on the Haarlemmer Houttuinen and another little house in the country thrown in. It doesn’t sound much to me, but I am no property expert. As an accountant he should protect his client’s interests, not make use of them. Perhaps we should investigate this de Kater.”

“We won’t have a file on him,” the commissaris said. “Accountants are pillars supporting society. If an accountant, a chartered accountant like this Mr. de Kater, ever comes into contact with the police, he loses his ticket, and that’ll be the end of his career.”

“Yes,” the chief inspector said, “but we can ask around. Somebody will know something about him. I can ask some of the state accountants working for the Tax Department, and one of my friends is an accountant. They all belong to some society or other. I should have a report ready by tomorrow and I’ll give it to you.

“Well, that’s it,” the chief inspector said, looking at the detectives. “If you have anything to report you can phone me at home tonight, but keep it short, I’ll be watching football.”

“An owl in a tree,” de Gier said as they walked toward their car, “that’s what he reminds me of. Sitting comfortably while he watches it all and meanwhile we develop flat feet.”

“You ought to be grateful,” Grijpstra said. “I am going to telephone Constanze today and you’ll be free again to live with your cat, happily and peacefully.”

“True,” de Gier said.

The young man didn’t open up when they knocked on the door of the shabby houseboat and Grijpstra put his shoulder against the door and pushed it through its lock.

“Hey!” the boy shouted. “Who told you you could come in?”

“Police,” Grijpstra said, “do you remember us?”

“You shouldn’t force my door. This is my house. What you are doing is breaking and entering.”

“Sorry,” de Gier said, “my colleague stumbled, fell against your door and here we are. Your lock broke. Do you mind if we come in a minute?”

“I mind,” the young man said. “Get out.”

The detectives looked at him.

“Well, all right. I lose anyway. Nobody would listen to me if I lodged a complaint. You all cover each other. What do you want of me?”

It was eleven o’clock in the morning but he was still under his blankets on the floor. The room smelled of unwashed bodies and rotten food.

“Do you mind?” Grijpstra asked and opened two windows. Some fresh air came in, but there was little wind and it was hot outside. The heat wave hadn’t broken yet and the detectives were sweating.

“What’s your name again?” de Gier asked.

“Koopman.”

He got up and put on his jeans and the same buttonless shirt he had worn when the detectives met him for the first time.

“Did you find out who that girl was?” Koopman asked.

“No,” Grijpstra said. “Did you?”

The young man shook his head and combed his hair back with his fingers.

“No. How could I? I had never met her before. Picked her up in the street, or maybe she picked me up. She didn’t talk much when I was with her. I told you before, didn’t I?”

“Sure,” de Gier said. “How do you feel about it now?”

“Rotten,” Koopman said. “How do you expect me to feel? Nobody likes the girl he is making love to to die. I am not an animal.”

“She is dead,” de Gier said. “Do you believe in the hereafter?”

“I believe in the here and now,” Koopman said, “and believe me, I know what I am talking about. The needle has taught me many things you wouldn’t know about. You
couldn’t
know about it. Maybe you think you know something when you have a few drinks but to be drunk is different. Alcohol makes you talk and relax and you lose your fears and inhibitions but the drug is different. It teaches.”

“Look at the mess you are in,” de Gier said. “Aren’t you sorry you became a pupil of the drug?”

“Perhaps,” Koopman said, “perhaps. Perhaps not. Heroin gives a lot but it takes a lot in return. I used to have a comfortable student’s flat and I lived what you chaps call a decent life. The drug has changed it all. Perhaps I am sorry, but it doesn’t matter now. The drug’s got me, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“You feel better now than you did last time,” Grijpstra said. “Did you have your fix today?”

“Of course,” Koopman said, and walked past the detectives to wash his face in the sink. He dried himself with a dirty rag.

“Where do you get your heroin?” de Gier asked.

“At the institute,” Koopman said, “free and for nothing. I was picked up in the street some time ago and the health service took me to the institute. They treated me for a while and now I am an out-patient. I get a free supply every day but they are decreasing the dose and it isn’t enough anymore so I have to make up the difference.”

“So where do you get the difference?” Grijpstra asked.

Koopman looked up as if he didn’t believe what he heard. “You aren’t serious,” he said. “You want me to tell you where I get my fix?”

“Sure,” Grijpstra said.

“You want me to end up in the canal? Like that boy they fished up last month? They had throttled him.”

“Who are they?” Grijpstra asked.

“Ha,” Koopman said.

“Look here,” de Gier said. “We want to know. And you will tell us. If you don’t, we’ll pick you up. Have you forgotten the dead girl? Maybe we aren’t satisfied with your explanation. You were here, and we can take you with us for questioning. We can keep you twice for twenty-four hours and the public prosecutor is sure to give us permission to keep you for a week, maybe longer. You’ll be in a bare cell.”

“No drugs in a bare cell,” the youth said to himself.

“Exactly,” de Gier said.

The boy thought for a while.

“We had a fellow in a cell some time ago,” Grijpstra said pleasantly. “He was scratching the walls. He got his three meals a day and his tea and his coffee, but that wasn’t enough for him. So he was scratching the walls all the time.”

Koopman looked at him.

“What are you?” he asked “Gestapo?”

“The Gestapo wasn’t interested in drugs,” de Gier said, “but we are. Now make up your mind. Are you going to tell us or do you prefer to spend a couple of weeks in a cell, sitting on a chair that is screwed to the floor? You know that you can’t lie down during the day, don’t you? The bed is fastened against the wall. There’s just the chair and the four walls. And a day lasts twenty-four hours in jail. That’s a long time.”

“All right,” Koopman said, “you win. I buy it from a little shop in the Merelsteeg. They sell Indian clothes and cheap stuff from the Far East.”

“Take us there,” Grijpstra said. “Go into the shop and buy. Then we come in and arrest the shopkeeper. We’ll arrest you as well but we’ll let you go in the street.”

“No,” Koopman said.

The detectives lit cigarettes. The conversation went on for
another few minutes. At one stage, Grijpstra had Koopman by the shoulders and was hissing at him. Koopman trembled.

“All right?” de Gier asked.

Koopman nodded.

“They’ll kill me,” he said. “I’ll be in the canal. Drug dealers never stay in jail long. They carry knives. You carry guns.”

“We haven’t pulled a gun on you have we?” Grijpstra asked.

“Let’s go,” Koopman said.

The Merelsteeg is a narrow lightless street dating back three hundred years. Its houses are on the verge of collapsing and are supported temporarily by thick beams jutting out into the street and put up by the Public Works Department. A few houses are being restored and the alley’s inhabitants are encouraged to paint their woodwork. There are a few small trees and some creepers grow up the gables. The alley almost died and it’s still sickly. Koopman went into the little shop, the detectives counted to five and rushed the door. The small plastic bag was halfway across the counter.

“Police,” Grijpstra said. The tall thin man behind the counter looked resigned. A small child came from the back of the shop and looked at the policemen.

“Hello,” de Gier said but the child didn’t reply. A woman came down the stairs.

“I told you it would happen,” the woman said. “It had to happen one day.”

“Shut up,” the man said. There was no anger in his voice.

“You,” de Grier said to Koopman, “come with me.”

“Can I go?” Koopman asked when they were back in the alley.

“Sure. Here is my card. Don’t change your address without letting us know.”

“This isn’t my day,” Koopman said. “Some people came to tell me last night that I have to shift my boat to another canal.
If I don’t it will sink within three days. They didn’t like that business with the dead girl. And now this.”

“Too bad,” de Gier said and walked back to the shop.

“Why do you sell drugs?” Grijpstra asked.

“Why?” the man asked. “Why do you think? I’ll give you three guesses. Because I like it? Wrong. Because I want to be arrested by the police? Wrong again. Because I want to make a little money to keep my family? Right.”

“Can’t you work?” Grijpstra asked.

“No,” the woman answered, “he’s been in a mental home. He can’t get a job.”

“Doesn’t the state pay?”

“Sure,” the woman said, “and I wanted to go out and do some work as well but he wants me to be here.”

“Grovel about on your knees and mop floors,” the man said.

“What’s wrong with being a charwoman?” the woman asked. “I’d rather mop floors than have you in jail.”

“We’ll have to search the place,” Grijpstra said. “You better give me what you have.”

The man gave him a little tin containing a dozen little plastic bags filled with white powder.

“Any more?”

“No.”

“Where did you get it?”

The man shook his head.

“Tell him,” the woman said. “I am not afraid.”

But the man was and they had to spend a little time on him. The woman helped. Finally the man gave in.

He bought his supplies in a little bar in the red-light district.

“We’ll have to take your husband with us,” de Gier said to the woman.

“Be easy with him,” the woman said. “His mind isn’t right.”

“We’ll see what we can do,” Grijpstra said.

That evening the bar was raided. It was raided very professionally and some drugs were found but there were no arrests. The drugs were in a dustbin in a small courtyard but nobody knew how they got there.

All week the police force worked. Detectives looking like hippies raided the sleep-ins and parks. The bars were combed. People were arrested in tram shelters and under bridges. The stations were full of suspects and the city’s detectives worked overtime night after night. The uniformed police helped and the state police helped, even the military police followed up tracks and caught a few dealers in the armed forces. The net was dragged through several provinces and some echoes were heard in Germany and Belgium. Suspects were charged and taken into custody but no connection with either Beuzekom and Company or the Hindist Society was found.

“I’ve had it,” de Gier said and climbed on a barstool in a small café. Grijpstra had been waiting for him.

“A beer, Sergeant?” the barman asked in a loud voice.

“Please,” de Gier said, “and keep your voice down. You’ve been working here long?”

“All right,” the barman said, “calm down. I didn’t mean any harm.”

“Go and serve the other customers, mate,” Grijpstra said. “Any luck?”

“Nothing,” de Gier said. “Sure, I caught someone, very small fry. The charge will stick, I imagine. But not what we are looking for.”

“We won’t find what we are looking for,” Grijpstra said. “Not this way.”

De Gier looked at Grijpstra over the rim of his glass.

“No? Why not?”

“The man we are looking for isn’t known. He is probably
new to the game, to this game I mean. He’ll be a criminal but he won’t have a record. He is a big fellow, quite detached from the known contacts. He has offered, or sold a bulk lot of drugs. My guess is that Piet Verboom was the only man who knew who our man was.”