Mrs. Clayberg nodded.
“Amber,” she said sadly, “had a kind of clock inside. Every evening at the same time she let us know she wanted to go outside.”
“Tonight also?”
“Exactly.”
“What time was that?”
“Half-past eleven... always.”
DeKok rubbed his chin.
“Do you get along with your neighbors?”
Mrs. Clayberg made an uncertain gesture.
“We have a large garden around the house... almost a park. It is Karl’s pride and joy. Karl is our gardener. He’s rather depressed lately. Not his normal self.”
“And why is that?”
“My husband has recently sold a big parcel of land to a developer. He wants to put up a number of houses. Large houses, like this, but much closer together. The neighbors are not too happy about it. They’re afraid the rural character of the area will be destroyed. Zundert, our neighbor on the right, has even threatened to kill my husband if the plans go through.”
“Did your husband take the threat seriously?”
“Certainly.”
DeKok bent his head and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Awhile ago,” he said, “you mentioned that you knew something was about to happen. Did you have reason to assume that... that your husband would be the victim of a crime?”
The woman closed her eyes and sighed deeply.
“I knew it.”
“Intuition?”
Mrs. Clayberg shook her head.
“ ‘Someday I’ll have you shot like an animal,’ ” she said tonelessly.
“Who said that?”
“Gerard... Gerard Bosch, his partner.”
When, around noon, DeKok entered the detective room, he was greeted by Vledder, who was leaning back in his chair, a broad smile on his face.
“This time it’s my turn to ask you how the autopsy went. Usually you leave that nasty job for me.”
DeKok aimed his decrepit old hat at the peg in the wall and missed, as usual. With his raincoat still on, he sat down behind his desk.
“I am well content. The good doctor looked a bit strange when I put the dead dog on the table, but I was soon able to convince him.”
“And?”
A secretive smile played around DeKok’s lips.
“There are professions where it’s difficult to keep your nails clean,” he said mysteriously.
Vledder looked nonplussed.
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
DeKok merely pointed at the telephone.
“Call Mrs. Clayberg and ask if the gardener has had an accident.”
“Why?”
“Just do as I ask,” said DeKok, irritation in his voice. He stood up and walked over to where his hat had hit the floor. He bent over and picked it up. Meanwhile he listened to Vledder’s end of the conversation.
After a few minutes the young inspector looked up at DeKok with a surprised look on his face.
“Karl Nelis, the gardener, has called in sick. He caught his hand in a mower.”
DeKok turned around and prepared to leave the room. Just before he got to the door, he turned around to look at Vledder, who had followed him.
“In winter?”
In the River Quarter, so called because all the streets are named after rivers, they found a place for the car in Maas Street. They exited the car and DeKok looked around. It was a street of brownstone houses, rebuilt as apartments, one family per floor.
“This is where he lives?”
Vledder nodded; he always had all those kinds of details ready.
“Number 812. A little farther down... third floor.”
With difficulty DeKok pressed his two hundred pounds up the narrow wooden staircase. Vledder followed easily.
On the third floor the gray-haired sleuth knocked on a door.
A few seconds later the door was opened by a compact man with a weathered face. His left arm was in a sling.
Politely DeKok lifted his head.
“You’re Karl Nelis?”
“Yes.”
“My name is DeKok... with a kay-oh-kay.” He pointed at Vledder. “My colleague, Vledder. We’re police inspectors and we would like to talk to you.”
The man opened the door wider and led the way to the living room. He made an inviting gesture to a number of straight chairs around a square table near the window.
DeKok placed his decrepit little hat on the floor and took a seat.
Karl Nelis sat down at the opposite side of the table and with his free hand wiped away some invisible fluff from the woolen tablecloth. DeKok looked at him with a stony face.
“I arrest you for the murder of Mr. Clayberg,” DeKok said calmly. He reached into a side pocket and produced a cellophane envelope. The evidence bag was sealed with the coat of arms of the City of Amsterdam. DeKok slid the bag across the tablecloth in front of the gardener.
Nelis looked at it.
A stray sunbeam broke through the window and caressed the bloody ends of an index finger and a middle finger.
DeKok made an apologetic gesture.
“Our pathologist found your fingers this morning in the throat of the Rottweiler.”
Sisters and Lovers
by Natasha Cooper
© 2006 by Natasha Cooper
Natasha Cooper has lived all of her life in London, so it’s no surprise that she sets her novels there. In the U.S., her books are published by St. Martin’s Press, and they have also been translated for sale in several other countries. Ms. Cooper’s most recent novel, Gagged and Bound, has been named one of the best paperbacks of 2006 by Publishing News, which says, “Strong characterization and sense of place put Natasha cooper among the best in current crime writing.”
The flight attendant offered me food. I shook my head. Even if I hadn’t felt sick, I wouldn’t have fancied reconstituted chicken. I’d been dining on lamb cooked with pomegranate juice and pistachio nuts for the past week. She moved on, leaving me to stare out of the window.
All I could think about was what I was going to say to Sally. The breakup had half killed her in itself. How would she bear the whole truth? Some people thought she was tougher than she let on, but I knew better.
When she phoned that night, her voice full of panic, I’d gone at once. I always did. Friends said I’d spoiled her, but how could I help it? She was only twelve when Mum died, and I was sixteen. I’ll never forget the way she shook and clung to me then. I had to look after her.
Her eyes were puffy with crying, and Geoff’s letter was crumpled in her hands.
“So you see, Sally,” he had written in the last paragraph, “I’m off to make a new start in North Cyprus. You’ll hate me for a bit, but in the end you’ll see it’d be worse if I stayed and lied to you.”
“He wasn’t answering any of his phones yesterday,” she said, crying again. “But I never thought... How could he, Kate?”
“I don’t know, Sally. Sometimes when we think we know someone...” I didn’t know what to say so I brushed her fine blond hair away from her swollen eyes and tried again. “You never like seeing the truth about people you love, but sometimes you have to. You hated me for telling you to be careful about those investments of his. Maybe I was right and he wasn’t the trustworthy man you wanted him to be.”
“He was once.” She grabbed my wrist. Her palm felt damp, but her grip was strong as ever. “You could bring him back, if you went out there and talked to him. I need him, Kate. Promise you’ll go. Please?”
What could I say? I couldn’t tell her that I was glad Geoff was gone, that I really hadn’t liked him; she looked so fragile and so trusting, I did as any loyal sister would. I promised to try.