Black Widow. Isadora Bryan
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noted, as they steered a path beside a canal, its bronzed surface silvered here and there with the frothy wake of pleasure cruisers. ‘Part of the Grachtengordel. So, we have the Prinsengracht, the Herengracht, and the Keizersgracht. Each forms what you might term a concentric ring around the city. Except they aren’t really rings. They’re more like decagons or something.’
Pieter looked at her suspiciously, but she seemed quite serene. Was this an attempt at amiability? He gazed up at the row of three and four storey buildings that flanked the canal, and the avenue of trees which added a verdant streak to the slabs of mottled brickwork. ‘It’s very pretty,’ he said carefully.
Tanja nodded. ‘All this was built during our so-called Golden Age. The seventeenth century! When our navy was the finest in the world, and we even gave the English a fright or two. Hard to think it, now! We might as well be Belgians, for all the influence we have.’
‘Don’t say that,’ Pieter protested earnestly.
Tanja shifted gears with a forceful clunk. ‘But there’s no sense in looking back, I suppose.’
It wasn’t far to Enge Lombardsteeg, but the traffic was tightly packed into the one-way system, and the tourists seemed to have no compunction about further clogging the roads. What might have been a comfortable twenty minute walk turned out to be a fractious twenty minute crawl, Tanja’s language growing more Limburgish all the while.
‘So where are you from, originally?’ Pieter asked.
‘Maastricht. We moved to Amsterdam when I was thirteen. But I learnt to swear properly before we left, if that’s what you are getting at.’
They arrived at another roadblock, this time in the form of a broken-down tram. Pieter winced, expecting a further eruption, but to his surprise, Tanja started to hum. He thought he recognised the melody. ‘To Love Somebody?’ he asked. ‘The Bee Gees?’
‘Right song, wrong band,’ Tanja answered. ‘I prefer the Janis Joplin cover.’
‘Are you a fan?’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’
Snippets of civilised conversation aside, being alone with Tanja in her little car wasn’t a comfortable feeling. It was to Pieter’s considerable relief that they finally pulled to a halt outside a coffee shop, Incan Gold, and he was able to take a shot of fresh air.
Actually, it wasn’t that fresh: waves of sweet smoke were oscillating through the open door.
‘Are you sure this is the place?’ he asked as he peered up at the gold-leaf sign. Incan Gold? A hash reference, presumably.
‘It’s the right address,’ Tanja answered as she stepped inside. ‘The Den must be downstairs.’
Sure enough there was a spiral staircase in the furthest corner of the café, leading down into a yet dingier depth, where clumps of second-hand smoke gathered like ghostly muggers.
‘It’s not exactly signposted,’ Pieter observed.
‘No.’
A rope was drawn across the stairs. Tanja unhooked it, and stepped through.
There was a door at the bottom, labelled simply, Private. Tanja tried the handle. Unlocked.
The decor was much classier on the other side of the door, if still imbued with an appreciably seedy aspect. Classical music swelled gently in the background; whilst flickering electrical candles seemed to serve no other purpose than to define the limit of strategically placed shadows. There was a bar, well stocked, flanked with a row of stools. There were paintings on the wall, prints, most likely, of what appeared to be English landscape scenes. Some exotic variety of vine twined itself around a brass pole, twisting hungrily towards a shaft of natural sunlight, which somehow penetrated below ground. Mirrors, Pieter suspected, if not actually smoke.
A woman appeared from the shadows. ‘Welcome to the Cougar Club!’ she said, smiling. She wore an evening gown of palest jade. It didn’t seem to matter that it was still a little early for that sort of attire; she had the look of a woman who tended to draw evening out as far as was possible. She was rather striking, tall, with longish, blondish hair. Her bare arms were thin, whilst her breasts were larger than they needed to be. She was roughly fifty years old, Pieter guessed.
Tanja looked at Pieter confusedly, before turning her attention back to the woman. ‘I’m sorry – we were looking for The Den.’
‘Well, some people might call it that. But not you two, surely?’
‘I’m not sure I follow,’ Tanja admitted.
‘Look, as far as my accountant is concerned, this is indeed The Den. But most of my customers refer to it by its unofficial name.’
‘I see,’ said Tanja.
The woman nodded happily, and took a step towards them. ‘My name is Sophia Faruk. I’m the owner here.’
‘Hi,’ said Tanja, more reservedly.
Sophia diverted her attention to Pieter, slowly, languorously, yet with a great weight of irresistible determination, like a canal bridge swinging open. ‘He’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘Can I touch?’
She didn’t wait for an answer. She reached out a hand, to brush fingers to Pieter’s chest. He was so taken aback, he didn’t move. Sophia sighed wistfully, then returned her attention to Tanja. ‘You know it’s our strictest rule – no hogging the pretty ones!’
Tanja showed her badge. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Pino. And this is Detective Kissin.’
His partner’s scorched-earth gaze met Sophia’s eyes of polder-grey. For a moment an unspoken challenge seemed to rise between them. Pieter wasn’t surprised that Sophia should be the one to break the contact. There was a fire to his partner’s eye that burnt without thinking.
Sophia’s expression flickered, then grew impassive. ‘How may I help you, Detective Inspector?’
Tanja reached into her pocket, to remove a colour photocopy of Mikael Ruben’s security pass. ‘Do you recognise him?’ she asked, tapping the image in the corner.
Sophia looked at the picture. ‘Maybe.’
‘Only maybe?’ Tanja pressed. ‘One of the “pretty ones”, no?’
Sophia shrugged. ‘I never focus on the faces for long.’ She chuckled, but the sound seemed to sit awkwardly.
Tanja shook her head impatiently. ‘Please, this is important.’
Sophia looked at the image again. ‘All right. Now that I think about it, I do recognise him. He comes in a couple of times a month.’
‘And when did you last see him?’ Pieter asked.
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Last night, perhaps?’
Sophia shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
Tanja showed her a copy of the receipt. ‘This would suggest otherwise. You see the date?’
Sophia studied the receipt. ‘Yes. But really, I’ve said too much. My customers expect a certain discretion on my part.’
‘Trust me,’ said Tanja, ‘Mikael Ruben will not care.’
Sophia licked her lips. Pale lipstick glistened, briefly. ‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s dead.’
Sophia put her hand to her mouth. She groped blindly behind her, and settled back into a chair. She started to say something, then seemed to think better of it. ‘Poor Mikael,’ she finally stammered.
Tanja took a step closer to Sophia. ‘So, you will forgive me if I ask you again, Ms Faruk: did you see Mikael Ruben last night?’
‘I have already said that I didn’t,’