This was useless.
He turned back to fetch help.
He felt something cold brush past his neck.
Peter spun round in a panic. The jerking movement made his headlamp come on again. He took the hardhat off and aimed the light at the tunnel behind him. He couldn’t see anything.
He shone the light on the ground in front of him and saw the end of the rope a few metres away. Tears pricked his eyes, as much from relief as from the dust in the air. He left the rope where it was in case Arnold came back.
This had been such a stupid idea! He had let himself get carried away by that damned Van Tiegem and his insistence on being first! Never, not once, had that man shown the slightest interest in the actual work of digging. But if there was ever a nice find somewhere, he was there like a shot to make sure he was front and centre on the photos.
Above all, Peter was angry at himself. They’d have to come back of course, with more people, more light, and a longer rope.
He reached the opening where they had entered the tunnel. When he was directly under the hole, he shouted upwards. ‘Daniël! Janna! Hey! Can you hear me?’ His voice was hoarse and cracked.
‘We can hear you Peter! We’re here! Did you find—’
‘I’ve lost Arnold! He’s … The bastard kept going, past the end of the rope. We have to—’
‘What!’ Janna and Daniël exclaimed together.
‘You’re kidding,’ Janna said. ‘What happened? I told you! You should never … This is not my respons—’
‘Yes, I know that! Wait, I’m coming up.’ Peter stood on the pile of rubble so that he could reach the bottom rung of the rope ladder. Afraid that something or someone might grab his legs at any moment, he frantically writhed and squirmed his body through the hole. He looked up as he climbed, and although the light was fading as night approached, he could see the worried looks on Daniël and Janna’s faces.
They both held out a hand and helped him out of the pit.
Peter took off his hardhat. His face and clothes were grey with dust, like a miner coming up from the coalface after a long day’s work.
He stooped over with his hands on his knees. Then he straightened up again and told them what had happened. Daniël leaned in as he listened, but Janna drew back slightly, as though she was afraid. When Peter had finished speaking, she gripped him by the collar, pulled him emphatically towards her, and turned him round so that she could examine him. A studious frown appeared on her forehead. She looked at him questioningly, making Peter suddenly feel very small.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked,
‘Come and look,’ she said to Daniël. Daniël moved closer and his eyes widened.
Janna gripped Peter’s arm and squeezed it urgently. ‘What really happened down there, Peter?’
Peter followed their gaze to the spot they were both staring at.
In the middle of his chest was an enormous bloodstain.
Friday 20 March, 6:50pm
The three of them stared at the bloodstain on Peter’s shirt, frozen like characters in a promotional still from an action film.
‘That wasn’t there just now, was it?’ Janna asked.
Peter tugged himself free of her grasp. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. What do you mean by asking me what really happened down there? I’ve told you, haven’t I? He walked into the tunnel ahead of me and then he walked around the corner. There was no rope left, but I went in after him, shouting his name. When he didn’t answer, I came back to get you so you could help me.’
‘And that blood on your shirt? Is it yours?’ Janna demanded.
‘He fell over. We heard a loud noise … You threw the rope down and it gave us a fright. Arnold was stumbling around and his hardhat fell off. He grazed his head on the wall and then he fell against me …’
Daniël stood between Peter and Janna, like a football captain trying to prevent one of his players from attacking an opponent.
‘What do you think happened? That I was down there in the tunnel and thought, oh, I know, I’ll smash Arnold’s brains in, they’ll never find out that I did it?’
‘Well … everyone knows you can’t stand him …’ Janna said.
‘Hey now,’ Daniël intervened, ‘this won’t achieve anything.’
‘We have to go back down,’ Peter said. ‘I didn’t want to go any further on my own.’
‘I’m calling the police first,’ Janna said, taking out her phone and dialling the emergency number.
It was quiet for a moment. They heard her say ‘Police’ and then ‘Leiden’. Peter checked the time on his own phone. It was almost seven o’clock.
Janna explained the situation. After a brief pause, her voice rose sharply. ‘Excuse me, what do you mean by that?’ She listened to what the person on the other end of the line had to say, then said, ‘Yes, I know he’s been reported missing lots of times before, but this is a totally different situation. He was in a tunnel … under the city, yes … was only discovered today … no, just now … with a colleague … no, they went on their own, but … he’s gone yes … l know this isn’t the first time, you keep saying that, but this time … Listen to me! He’s—’ She looked at her phone as though she was wondering what it was doing there. ‘She hung up on me,’ she said with disbelief. ‘She’s not allowed to do that, she’s not allowed to hang up.’
‘Why did she do that?’ Daniël asked.
‘She didn’t take it seriously,’ she answered bleakly. ‘The boy who cried wolf …’
‘Then perhaps we should …’ Peter started to suggest, but he stopped mid-sentence when something in the distance caught his eye. It was already twilight, but the streetlamps gave off enough light for Peter to see a shadowy figure standing just beyond the Hooglandse Kerk, looking at them.
He appeared to raise his hand, as if he was beckoning them over. He wasn’t wearing a coat and his clothing flapped around him as though his shirt and trousers were far too big. When he noticed that Peter had seen him, he abruptly turned around.
‘Hey!’ Peter shouted. ‘Hey! You! Wait!’
Janna and Daniël looked to see who he was shouting at, but the man had already disappeared around the corner into the cobbled alley of the Beschuitsteeg.
Peter ran after him. ‘Stay here!’ he heard Janna shout angrily, but he kept running. He saw the man turn left and run along the Nieuwe Rijn canal. Peter ran past the American Pilgrim Museum. He saw the man cross the canal via the narrow Boterbrug and then turn left again, running towards Van der Werfpark. There was too much distance between them now for Peter to be able to catch up with him, and to make things worse, his knees had started to hurt. He decided to gamble on the man having gone to the park; he’d be able to hide himself easily there at this time of day.
Peter wheezed as he ran along the Mosterdsteeg. Sweat dripped from his brow. I’m going on a diet on Monday, he promised himself.
After crossing the Breestraat, he turned right at De Kler’s bookshop and ran into the Boomgaardsteeg. It brought him out onto the Steenschuur, with the park shrouded in dusky shadows on the other side of the canal. He thought he saw someone go into the park via the left entrance. They were casually sauntering, as though they were enjoying an evening stroll. Was he imagining it?