"Death by guilt," Grijpstra said. "You have a charge. The doctor said that Boronski could have been saved if he had been taken to hospital straightaway."
"The charge has already been laid. Now for the Prime Punk himself." He picked up his phone.
Within a minute the suspect was brought in. The young man's face was made up and his jacket carried a number of gaudy brooches, a bottle opener that had been unscrewed from a bar counter, a framed photograph of Alain Delon, and a German Iron Cross. His short hair was dyed with henna. His fingernails were painted orange. He didn't say anything. His jaw was bruised and bis left ear bandaged.
"You can take him away again. Remove his ornamentation so that he can't hurt himself." The elderly constable accompanying the Prime Punk saluted.
"End of the case," Sergeant Jurriaans said when the door closed again. "I didn't mean to fish in your water, I just happened to be around when the fellow could be caught."
"Another cow catches another rabbit," de Gier said. "Here's money." He counted seven twenty-five guilder bills. "How much did you get, Grijpstra?"
Grijpstra put another sev6n bills on Jurriaans's desk.
"You're not paying me, are you?"
"No, we mugged two muggers. Black Jackets. They were in our way and if we hadn't acted serious, they might have hung about. You probably had a complaint at this station tonight. Somebody must have lost the 350 that the Black Jackets split among themselves. I hope it was only one robbery. If this is the total of several felonies, you may have complications."
Jurriaans laughed. "You must have shaken them. It so happens that I do have a complainant who lost that amount tonight, a parson from the provinces who happened to stray into one of the bad streets around here. Do you remember what your fellows looked like?"
"Perhaps this little matter shouldn't be pursued," Grijpstra said. "Just return the venerable sucker's money, will you?"
"I will," Jurriaans said and tucked the bills into an envelope which he licked carefully. "Perhaps the parson doesn't want to pursue the matter either. He's a married man and the street where he was caught has a prostitute behind every window." He looked at his watch. "Are you free now? I am, and I live close by; I can go home and change. We could meet at Beelema's."
Grijpstra got up. "No, I've been there twice already tonight, and it is a place I'm trying to avoid. We still have some work to do. Some other time, Jurriaans, at another cafe, and thank you."
"The pleasure is mine."
They met Karate at the door. He looked at Asta. "How're you doing?"
"She's fine," de Gier said.
"I'm not," Asta said. "My knee hurts and needs a compress. A wet towel will do. I should lie on a bed. Do you have a towel?"
"He'll have a bed too," Karate said.
De Gier turned on the small constable. "Just for that, you can drive us to Headquarters and pick up my bicycle on the way, and you can drive me home, too, after we're done."
Karate opened the side door of the minibus.
"Be my guest, sergeant."
Grijpstra sat in front. He pushed away the partitioning between the driver's compartment and the rear of the bus and tapped de Gier on the shoulder.
"Rinus?"
"Yes?"
"We have no murder."
De Gier smiled. "Are you sure?"
"No."
The bus drove off.
Asta's hand slid into the sergeant's. "You mean it isn't over yet?"
"No, but we'll have to start all over again and in a different way."
"Good," she said, "I need more time with you, and my knee hurts."
"I have a towel at home," de Gier said and looked at a window where a tall black woman in white lace underwear stared back at him. She smiled; the mauve neon lighting of the small room made her teeth light up. She pulled a hidden string and her bra opened for a moment, displaying a perfect bosom.
Asta's elbow hit the sergeant's chest.
"Uh."
"Did you like her?"
"So-so."
"Did you like me in the bath today?"
"Yes."
"Good," she said. "Let's not spend too much time on Herr Muller." She tapped on the partitioning and yelled at Karate. "Let's go!"
The minibus's faulty siren howled hesitantly, worn gears ground painfully, a profound rattle shook the vehicle. Karate, jaw set, bent down over the wheel and mumbled encouragingly; the car picked up some speed.
It stopped again for some drunks who tottered from sidewalk to sidewalk in the narrow street.
"Sorry," Karate said, "only civilians can speed in Amsterdam."
"Yes," Grijpstra said, "or no. Never mind. Maybe I see it now, but I don't see all of it."
"Beg pardon, adjutant?"
"A chaos."
"It sure is, adjutant. See that respectable lady over there? With the hat in her eyes? A schoolmistress or a welfare worker. Drunk as a coot. How the hell did she fall into sin?"
"I've never accepted the chaos," Grijpstra said. "Perhaps I should. Turn up that siren, constable, we've got to get out of here."
8
"But look here," Grijpstra said, "you were seen opening your case, taking out a small plastic bag, and pulling back your arm with the obvious intention of throwing the bag into the canal. We subsequently searched the case, which you closed again when you were arrested and managed to kick into the water. The case contained plastic bags, and each bag, according to our laboratory, was filled with a quarter of a pound of first-class cocaine. All in all, you had four pounds of high-priced junk in there. True or not?"
Muller's chins moved convulsively in a fluid movement upward until his thick lips trembled slightly. Grijpstra wasn't sure how to interpret this facial agitation. "Are you smiling, Herr Mtiller?"
"I am."
"Why?"
"Because you're wrong."
"You weren't about to throw the cocaine into the canal?"
The fat man's hands shifted slightly on his belly, which was pushed up obscenely and ready to flow over the edge of Grijpstra's desk.
"Your facts are correct but your explanation isn't The case belonged to Boronski. He left it in my room; perhaps he planted the case on me, I don't know. Boronski was a sick man. He chose my car to die in; perhaps that desire was intentional too, again I don't know. We weren't getting on well; I was displeased with the quality of his shipments. I told him that I might find another supplier. He wasn't in his right mind, he was hallucinating, he was causing trouble in the hotel."
"Really?" Grijpstra asked. "So why would you destroy the cocaine, why didn't you give it to us?"
Miiller's face appeared to become more solid. A crafty light flickered in his protruding eyes.
"Tell me, Herr Muller."
"Because you are the police. The police here are no good. The food is no good either. Nothing is good here."
There was a newspaper on Grijpstra's desk. The adjutant glanced at the headlines. Further moves in drug scandal. He had read the article earlier that day. The paper claimed that charges would be pressed against several highly placed police officers.
"Yes," Muller said. "I'm from Hamburg, our dialect is similar to Dutch. I can read your newspapers. What would happen if I gave you four pounds of cocaine?"
"It would be confiscated and in due time destroyed."
"Nein."
"Nein?"
"Nein. It would disappear. It would make you rich. I don't want to make you rich. Cocaine is bad. It would still reach the addicts. I decided to do some good work. I'm an honest merchant, I deal in lumber. My material goes into homes and furniture. I protect society. I took the risk to do away with the poison myself, but you prevented my service to society."