‘Gus?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Are you even listening?’
‘Of course, Miriam. We were discussing the fact that the Mayor has been illicitly diverting civil engineering funds into a housing development, which just happens to be run by his cousin. Quite a story.’
She banged her fist on the desk. ‘It would be, if it were true!’
Gus leaned away. ‘My source is very reliable.’
‘Your source has just been fired – by the Mayor himself – for making a series of improper remarks to a colleague.’
‘Ah. He never mentioned that.’
‘And maybe – just maybe – he’s holding a grudge?
‘It’s a possibility,’ Gus conceded.
‘Which hardly makes him a credible informant!’
‘No,’ said Gus.
Miriam tossed a folder at him. ‘It’s all in the open. As you would surely have discovered for yourself if you’d adopted a more diligent approach. There’s nothing illicit about it. The funds were reallocated on the authority of a sub-committee.’
‘But the Mayor has influence, surely?’
‘Look, the housing development is canal-side. The canal was found to have sprung a leak. They do that, from time to time. It’s the Authority’s responsibility to make repairs. There’s no mystery to it.’
‘The Mayor must be up to something, though,’ Gus countered, seizing what he considered to be the nub of moral high ground. ‘Isn’t it in the nature of politicians to abuse their power?’
‘Maybe so,’ Miriam said coolly. ‘But then again, he might just be the most honest man in Amsterdam.’
‘Hah!’
Miriam made a visible effort to rein in her temper. ‘This time you’ve gone too far, Gus. What would have happened, do you think, if we had run this story?’
‘We’d have found a few more readers?’
Miriam was clearly between hot flushes, and was as cold as yesterday’s obituaries. ‘You’re off Crime,’ she said. ‘You’re on Tourism. And try not to screw up this time. The subs are already demanding danger money.’
‘But –’
‘Get out, Gus.’
Gus didn’t protest further. He had his dignity to consider. Besides, he was positive this would only be a temporary setback. Miriam needed reporters like him. Truth was one thing, and of course it was easier when a story was supported with hard evidence, rather than the sort which gave a little under close scrutiny. But the fact of it was that journalists were increasingly a part of the entertainment industry. And Gus understood what his readers wanted to hear.
Shit, though. Tourism? He hated tourists.
There was a buzzing in his pocket. A text message. Elizabeth. One of his informants at the station. Left tit substantially bigger than the right, which offered a useful reference point in the dark, should he lose track of which way was up. She thought she had a chance of marrying him. Charming, really.
Gus was a firm believer in Providence. And a kind of inverse journalistic karma, which no one else seemed to understand. Whatever the truth of it, it seemed there had been a murder out on the Sint Luciensteeg. In a hotel. Well, well.
Hotels, Gus reasoned, were often frequented by tourists.
‘We could cycle,’ Pieter Kissin suggested as he followed his new partner down to the station car park.
‘Exercise is bad for you,’ Tanja countered. ‘Look at joggers – always dropping dead of heart attacks. Or footballers, always rupturing their cruciates or whatever.’
Pieter smiled his easy smile. ‘So why do you spend every other night in the station gym?’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Harald Janssen.’
Jesus, Lucky loved to gossip.
‘And what else did he tell you?’
Pieter shrugged, but didn’t see fit to answer the question. ‘Do you want me to drive, then?’
Tanja fixed him with a dangerous look. ‘What, because I am a woman, and you think women can’t drive? Let’s get one thing straight –’
Pieter offered an apologetic shrug. ‘Actually, Detective Inspector, it’s more that I think you might still be a little intoxicated.’
Tanja stopped and tightened her grip on the car keys. ‘What?’
‘I am sorry. I don’t know how else to say it. But alcohol leaves a certain residue on the breath.’ He sniffed delicately. ‘Wine, I should say. Probably white. I’d hesitate to specify the grape, though.’
There was no dignified response to this allegation. And, now that she’d been caught out, Tanja saw no alternative but to capitulate. She threw him the keys to her battered old Opel, and, dammit, there she was, blushing.
‘Did you perfect your nose at the Academy?’ she enquired, if only to hide her embarrassment.
‘No. We used to holiday in France when I was a child. The Médoc. We always seemed to end up at a vineyard.’
‘Oh.’
He started the car. It fired first time, which to Tanja’s way of thinking was a little disloyal, when in her case it was never better than fifty-fifty if it would start at all.
‘So where to?’ he asked.
‘Sint Luciensteeg.’
‘And which way is that?’ he queried.
‘Turn right out the gates. Oh, and be careful. This isn’t a tractor, or whatever counts as a runabout in the country. You can’t simply drive over things. You have to go around them.’
‘I’ve driven a few tractors in my time,’ Pieter noted mildly as he steered the car onto Elandsgracht. ‘My parents own a farm, near Vreeland. It borders the river. Very pretty. You’d like it.’
‘I doubt that. But I thought your father was Chief of Police?’
Pieter’s tongue played thoughtfully inside his cheek. ‘I asked the boss to keep that a secret.’
‘It wasn’t him. But you’ll learn as you go on that police stations are riddled with snitches. Most of whom are on the payroll.’
‘Ah.’ He flashed her an anxious look. ‘I hope it won’t put a strain on our relationship?’
‘Why would it?’ Tanja answered blandly. ‘You could be our dear Prince of Orange himself, and you’d still have to fetch your own coffee.’
‘I get it.’
‘Anything else I should be aware of? Any other secrets?’
‘Secrets?’ Pieter mused. ‘Oh, I’m allergic to penicillin. Does that count?’
‘Not really.’ The Opel forged a spluttering and environmentally suspect path through a swarm of cyclists, simply belching out those hydrocarbons it lacked