The Good Thief’s Guide to Amsterdam (10 page)

The tour didn’t take me long. There were only two bedrooms
upstairs, a laundry cupboard and a cramped bathroom. Downstairs
there was a lounge that the front door opened into directly and an
open-plan kitchen. I found myself some Wagon Wheels in the kitchen
and returned to the lounge to find a good place to leave the money.
I thought about leaving a note too but then I decided that was a
stupid idea. Better to just get out of there. And that was
precisely what I was about to do when all of a sudden the patio
door flew open and two policemen rushed in, rugby-tackled me to the
floor and pinned me to the ground. They were community officers, it
turned out, and I’d made the mistake of casing for a likely target
in a Neighbourhood Watch Area with a high break-in rate. Needless
to say the police had no interest in my Robin Hood credentials and
after handcuffing me and throwing me into the back of a waiting
panda car, they drove me to the city centre police station, where I
spent the longest afternoon and evening of my life before my father
arrived to post bail and offer me the most distressed look I’ve
ever had the misfortune to experience.

Come to think of it, I suppose those of you who’ve read my
second Faulks novel,
The Thief in the Theatre
, might
recognise much of this, the reason being I used it as back story to
explain how Faulks became a burglar in the first place. There were
differences, of course. For starters, there was no mention of
boarding school, because Faulks is an everyman kind of guy my
readers can identify with. And Faulks took more than just the
money, he was also trying to deliver some new toys for the kid in
the council house. And, of course, Faulks didn’t blub like a child
in front of the officer who arrested him. But one thing was as true
for me as it was for Faulks – from that day on, I vowed always to
keep the things I stole for myself.

The clock above the door to my cell read ten o’clock and I knew
by now that I wasn’t going to be spending the night in my own bed.
I was tired and I was feeling low and suddenly all I wanted to do
was shut my eyes and block out the beige walls for a while. So I
took off my shoes and I lay down on the plastic-coated mattress and
pulled the single, coarse sheet over my head, trying to think of
nothing but how slowly I could breathe. I didn’t ask for the lights
in my cell to be turned off, though, because I knew there wasn’t
the slightest chance I would sleep.

∨
The Good Thief’s Guide to Amsterdam
∧

I
was in the middle
of pushing some processed scrambled egg around my plate the
following morning when the locks turned in my cell door and the
door swung inwards to reveal Burggrave stood in the threshold with
the duty officer by his side.

“The American is dead,” he announced.

“You’d better get me a lawyer then,” I told him. “One who speaks
English, preferably.”

When he arrived, it turned out my lawyer actually was English.
He told me his name was Henry Rutherford and that he’d been sent on
behalf of the British Embassy. Rutherford was short with a large,
beach-ball gut and a chipmunk-like face, all swollen cheeks and
fatty jowls. His balding head had just a few thickets of fair hair
on it and his shirt collar, which seemed at least a size too small,
bit into the loose, rolling skin of his neck. He extended a clammy
hand to shake, and after I’d given him a brief summary of my arrest
and a tailored version of what had led to it, he asked me a more
important question.

“Where did you school, dear boy?”

I told him Kings’ and we had the usual kind of conversation
about it. Then he got around to the task at hand and asked me if
I’d received any legal advice since my arrest.

“They gave me someone Dutch before,” I told him. “He barely
spoke English.”

“Good,” he said, and when I looked at him for an explanation,
added, “It could help us. Unreasonable here in The Netherlands, you
see. I say, how much money do you have?”

“On me? I had around six thousand euros when I was
arrested.”

“Six thousand! My, that’s an awful lot to carry around. But I’m
talking about bail, dear boy.”

“Oh. Enough, probably. Though it might take me some time to get
it together.”

“That’s fine. I dare say we should discuss tactics next. Tell
me, have you told them much?”

“Only what I just told you. They didn’t care for it.”

“Bloody nuisance,” he said, pressing a chequered handkerchief
against his glistening forehead. “Is there more?”

I just looked at him.

“Very well, you don’t have to tell me. You don’t look or sound
like a killer – any fool can see that. But not answering their
questions, that could create problems.”

“Can’t I take the fifth, or something like it?”

“Of course you can. But you have to ask yourself how that will
help your cause. Your aim is to convince them you didn’t slay this
American, surely.”

“But if they can’t build a case…”

“Yes, yes, but why antagonise them?” he asked, flapping his
hand. “This Burggrave, he’s a real career man. Made his reputation
on cases just like this, you know.”

“You’re saying he won’t let go.”

“I’m saying you should think carefully about what you might be
able to tell him. And about what you might not have told him so
far.”

“Let him interview me again, you mean?”

“Oh you’ll have to do that, young man. He’ll insist on it, in
fact. The real issue is what you might be willing to say.”

♦

Not a great deal, as it happened. In my experience, one of the
most convenient things about legal advice is that you don’t have to
take it. So for a number of hours Rutherford sat rather stiffly
beside me in the interview room, making notes on his legal pad with
a quite beautiful turquoise fountain pen, and all the while
Burggrave tried everything he knew to get me to talk. Threats,
lies, promises – they all came my way. And with each question I
ignored or each facile response I gave him, his expression became
darker, his brow more twisted. Occasionally, Rutherford would
interrupt a line of questioning with a timely interjection and
Burggrave would clench his right hand into a fist, dig his nails
into the flesh of his palm, count to ten (or even
tien
) and
try something else. None of it got him anywhere, though, and the
effect this had on him was quite something to behold.

“Tell me the truth,” he demanded at one point, grinding his fist
down into the surface of the interview table. “Answer me.”

“I’m not sure what truth you want to hear,” I replied.

He glared at me and I glared back. Then Rutherford suggested
that it was about time we took a break. Burggrave paused for long
enough to contort his face into an expression of mild loathing,
then stood abruptly and left the room without a backward glance. I
got up from my chair too and stretched my arms and rolled my
shoulders and my neck until it cracked. I wasn’t smelling so great.
The sweaty fug that comes from spending the night fully dressed was
all about me. I turned to look at Rutherford and found him leaning
back in his chair and scratching his temple with the end of his
fountain pen.

“How much longer do you think this is going to go on for?” I
asked.

“Oh, a while yet. Persistent, isn’t he?”

“You might say.”

“You’re certain you don’t want to tell him the whole story? We
could have a statement drawn up and be out of here in an hour.”

“You have a lunch date?”

“Just thinking of you, dear boy.”

“No doubt. How do I get to the men’s room in here?”

It turned out I had to be accompanied by a duty officer. The
officer stood uncomfortably, shifting the weight between his feet,
as he listened to the splash and flow of my urine, and then he
practised his elevator staring-into-space expression as I washed my
face and underarms at one of the grubby washbasins. When I got back
to the interview room, Burggrave was already in there, glaring at
Rutherford over the rim of a plastic coffee cup.

“I hope you didn’t put sugar in mine,” I said, and got a glare
of my own.

The coffee was not so bad, considering. I nursed my cup while
Burggrave repeated the same questions he’d asked me in the previous
session. Why did I really meet Michael Park? What was discussed?
What were my exact movements on the night he was killed?

I wanted to yell at him to stop being so bloody stupid. Marieke
had told him about the thin man and the wide man herself, so why
wasn’t he following that up? Surely my minor criminal record and
the small matter of my lying about meeting the American wasn’t
enough to distract him from the cold, hard fact that the last two
people to be seen with the American had virtually frog-marched him
to his apartment? He didn’t know about the monkey figurines, that
was fair enough, but he seemed to be wilfully closing his mind to
the obvious.

I thought of ways I could bring this up but I couldn’t see how I
could do it without making it apparent that I knew more than I was
letting on. I could imagine the sequence of questions I’d trigger
and the awkward responses I’d have to come up with: How did I know
of the two men?
Because Marieke told me
. Why were you
speaking to Marieke and what were you discussing?
Life in the
twenty first century
. Why didn’t you mention the two men
before?
It only just occurred to me
. What is the connection
between the two men and Michael Park?
Search me
.

Soon, the futility of what Burggrave was doing began to affect
my concentration and, as I moved into a phase where I blankly
ignored everything he said, my mind began to wander to other things
and I started thinking about what I would do when I got out. I
probably wouldn’t be able to leave Amsterdam right away, I
supposed, but where would I go when I did? Italy, was my current
thinking. Away from the constant drizzle and the gnawing breeze,
into brilliant winter sunshine and grand open spaces and terraced
cafés selling fine, dark espresso. Rome was one option I liked. I
could see myself strolling around the Coliseum in the afternoons,
eating near the Tivoli Fountains in the early evenings. Florence
was another contender, and so was Venice. I wasn’t sure about the
canals, though – I might have had enough of canals for the time
being. And Florence had so much art and culture, so many paintings
and artefacts that might very well end up lining my pockets with
lira. Or rather euros. But then again, perhaps Italy wasn’t the
answer. Perhaps I should open my mind to other possibilities.
Perhaps –

The door to the interview room opened, breaking my focus, and a
woman in a navy blue trouser suit marched in. Her hair was greying
and cut in a functional bob and her jaw was set with determination.
She nodded briefly at Rutherford, then leaned towards Burggrave’s
ear and whispered something in a no-nonsense way. As she spoke,
Burggrave’s expression passed through a spectrum of displeasure,
then resolved into a look of aggrieved resignation, at which point
he stood and followed the woman out into the corridor.

“You understand what she said to him?” I asked Rutherford.

“Couldn’t hear a thing, I’m afraid.”

“She didn’t look happy. Maybe they’ve caught the real
killer.”

“You never know.”

“It’d be nice to stop answering these same questions.”

“I wasn’t aware that you’d answered any.”

“Well, I was thinking about it. If only to make him shut
up.”

“I’m not sure that would have the desired effect.”

“Probably not.” I glanced at Rutherford’s legal pad. “You made
many notes?”

Rutherford lifted his fountain pen and showed me the top sheet
of paper. It was covered in doodles, elaborate swirls and
cross-hatching.

“How much am I paying you again?”

“All courtesy of Her Majesty’s Government,” he replied.

We sat in silence for a time and I watched Rutherford add to his
collection of doodles. I wouldn’t have minded a pen and a piece of
paper myself. Especially a nice pen like Rutherford’s. Perhaps I
could draw some doodles and we could get Burggrave to judge our
efforts when he returned. Maybe the winning artist would get a
fruit lollipop and the chance to go home.

I stood from the table and stretched my legs and my arms, and
after that I paced the edge of the room. The room turned out to be
square. Twelve paces on each side. I was going to try it with fairy
steps next, just to be sure, but the door opened before I had
chance and Burggrave and the woman walked back in.

“Mr. Howard,” the woman began, planting her hands on her hips,
“I am Detective Inspector Riemer. Miss Van Kleef has just given us
a written statement. In it, she has sworn that you were with her at
Café de Brug on Thursday evening. She says that you were with her
there all evening. Is this true?”

Burggrave started to say something but the Detective Inspector
cut him off with a wave of her hand. She turned back to me for my
answer. I considered it for a moment and then nodded carefully.

“Then you may go,” she said. “The Amsterdam-Amstelland police
force wishes to thank you for your co-operation.”

♦

Outside in the car park, Rutherford and I shook hands and made
our farewells.

“Just for my own edification,” Rutherford asked, straightening
his jacket and tie, “who is Miss Van Kleef?”

“Damned if I know.”

“But – ”

“Don’t worry about it,” I told him, patting his shoulder and
removing a shred of lint from his jacket. “You did a great job for
me in there, Rutherford. A real credit to your profession.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“I do. In fact, I’d like to give you a little something as a
token of my appreciation.”

I reached inside my coat pocket and removed the brown envelope
the duty officer had returned to me. I pulled the six thousand
euros in cash out of the envelope and placed the bundle of notes in
his hand.