This Hester Goldberg lived in a flat above Dag En Nacht, one of the numerous gay bars which were to be found along Kerkstraat, which, in typical Amsterdam fashion, was equally famous for its beautiful churches. For all that it was only just after lunch, the bar leaked a noisy throb of sickly sounds and colours onto the street, the plate glass wobbling to the mellow bass of a trance anthem.
‘You’d have to be a fairly party-orientated person to live here,’ Pieter observed, as he peered up at the upstairs flat.
As it happened, his assessment was completely wide of the mark. As Hester buzzed them in, and they stepped inside her mean, one-room apartment, it was immediately apparent that the last thing on her mind was partying.
The room was almost entirely bereft of furniture. A black-and-white television sat in one corner, a coat-hanger aerial arranged above it. There was a bed, of sorts, which was really little more than a mattress on the floor. There was a sink, a tap dripping constantly into a stained bowl. And a cooker, the oven door dented, the enamel chipped. The walls were of bare white plaster, which had flaked here and there, perhaps in response to the constant pounding from below. The sound was felt, more than heard.
And in the centre of this empty space sat a woman who gave the distinct impression of being even emptier. Her blue eyes – the only spot of colour that Tanja could discern in the room – were wide and staring. Her hair was of a pale, lank blonde, and rested flat, lifeless, against her head.
She was a little older than Tanja, but still within the compass of the Cougar Club’s typical age range.
Tanja exchanged a look with Pieter. Had they got lucky?
‘What do you want?’ the woman asked.
Tanja introduced herself and Pieter. Hester glanced at the proffered badges, without seeming to see them.
‘We are sorry to disturb you,’ Tanja began.
The woman nodded. ‘Yes, and you should be. I am very busy, as you can tell.’
Tanja had seen a great deal, but there was something in Hester’s patently self-mocking bitterness which disconcerted her. She stiffened, thinking that yes, they might have got lucky. If this woman were ever to direct her self-loathing outwards –
‘We are investigating a crime,’ Tanja said. ‘A murder.’
‘And you think I did it?’ Hester laughed, a creaking, grinding sound.
‘We are not saying that at all,’ Pieter interjected smoothly. ‘But it would certainly help us if you could answer a few questions.’
Hester nodded. ‘All right.’
Pieter smiled gratefully. To Tanja’s surprise, Hester offered a little smile of her own. The kid had that way about him. People seemed to like him, as a matter of principle. She couldn’t condone it, but she did recognise that it might prove useful.
‘So,’ Pieter continued, ‘perhaps you could start by telling us where you were on Wednesday night, between, say, eight-thirty and midnight?’
‘I was having dinner,’ Hester answered. ‘With my friend.’
Pieter nodded, and took out his notebook. ‘And your friend’s name?’
‘Heidi Brinkerhoff.’
‘Do you have an address for her?’
‘She lives in Eindhoven, somewhere. I can never remember the name of her street. All I know is I turn left at the Philips Stadion, and then I’m there.’ She turned away, chin in hand, seemingly bored with everything. ‘Anyway, she put me up for the night.’
‘Do you have a phone number for her?’ Pieter pressed.
Hester stared at him for an instant, her lifeless blue eyes momentarily teeming with flecks of shoaling silver. But then she sighed, and grew still again. ‘There’s an address book by the cooker,’ she said.
Tanja moved to retrieve it. She flicked through, noting that it contained just the four names: Hans, Laura, Cornelius, Heidi.
And I thought I was lonely, Tanja mused.
Pieter seemed to be doing all right, so Tanja stepped out onto the landing, so she could ring the number herself. Heidi answered, and soon confirmed what Hester had said. Tanja sighed, knowing that the chance of making a quick arrest had passed her by. Of course, there was always the possibility of collusion; that was a given.
‘Is Hester all right?’ Heidi asked. ‘She’s not in any trouble?’
‘None at all,’ Tanja answered.
‘Only I’m very worried about her. I’m really the only person she has, now that Cornelius – her brother, I mean – is dead.’
‘Ah,’ Tanja sympathised. ‘A recent loss?’
‘A few months back. But Hester can’t let it go.’
‘Well, thank you for your help!’
Tanja hung up, and made her way back into the room. She caught Pieter’s eye. He shrugged, and shook his head a fraction.
They left the grieving woman to her misery. It was a relief, in truth, to get away from her.
*
Hana Huisman and Anita Berger had only met through their student daughters, but they’d quickly developed a quirky friendship of their own. It was an odd mix on the face of it: Anita was brash, and seemed to think of nothing but having as much fun as she could; whilst Hana liked nothing more than to revel in her own downtrodden misery.
At least that was how it seemed to her daughter. Ursula poked her head round the sitting room door, wondering if her mother’s boyfriend – the root of Hana’s unhappiness – was in residence.
No, of course he wasn’t. Lander Brill never came round when her mum had a friend over; he seemed to have a sixth sense in that regard. Anita Berger probably had no idea that he even existed. Hana would certainly never have mentioned him. She was ashamed, and with good reason.
Lander Brill! The sweat-stinking, woman-beating, oath-breaking Lander Brill, for whom Ursula had dreamed up a perfect end – involving a wooden box, and a hungry rat. She’d got the idea from a recent trip to Amsterdam’s Museum of Torture. The idea was that the box was fixed tight to the victim’s stomach, the rat inside: the only way the rodent could escape was to eat its way through the man’s guts.
Anyway, Lander was elsewhere, presumably in a bar. Ursula stepped into the room, nodding greeting. Anita, she saw, was dressed in the fashion of an eighties prostitute; her mother looked like some fifties hausfrau.
So, Anita and Hana were quite different. But then, so were Ursula and Maria. And the girls could hardly have been closer, in Ursula’s mind.
‘Anyone want a coffee?’ Ursula asked as she moved into the kitchen.
‘No thanks,’ Hana answered, without looking up. Her gaze was fixed on Anita.
The sitting room was within earshot of the kitchen and Ursula could easily hear what they were saying. She didn’t pay their conversation much heed, at first – but as the kettle came to the boil she heard a name filter through the whistling.
Mikael Ruben.
‘Of course,’ Anita said, ‘I always thought he was a bad sort. And my Maria, so sweet and trusting! I warned her about him, you know.’
‘It must be awful for her,’ Hana murmured.
‘She’ll get over it,’ Anita responded, somewhat brutally. And then, ‘I was shocked to hear of his death, though. It’s always sad when someone dies.’
‘Do we know how he died, though?’
‘Well, not exactly,’ Anita admitted. ‘The police