DeKok and Murder by Melody Read online

  “Why don’t you wait for the herd,” he said. “I don’t feel like listening to their complaints about two corpses, so close together. Weelen will be particularly upset. They probably called him just after he got home from the last one.”

  Vledder smiled. He knew that DeKok invariably referred to the crime scene investigators as the “Thundering Herd,” an allusion to a famous Big Band. He had been prompted to make that observation because, in addition to the CSI, a number of high-ranking officers always showed up sooner or later. They did not contribute anything to the investigation, appearing solely for the PR.

  “And what are you going to do?” asked Vledder.

  DeKok’s face became hard.

  “I’m going to wish a boardinghouse keeper a good night.”

  With a broad grin on his face, DeKok rattled loudly on the kitchen door. He knew that there was a living room and a bedroom behind the kitchen. Those and a bathroom constituted the living quarters of the boardinghouse keeper. He dug back in his memory and remembered that years ago he had been marginally involved with the investigation of a suspicious fire on the premises. It looked like arson, but nothing could be proved. The evidence was a strange combination of a flaming saucepan near an open container of turpentine. They finally concluded the cause was carelessness.

  While he waited he wondered if the same woman owned the place now. After the fire his colleagues in the criminal branch were convinced she had started the fire, possibly, to collect the insurance. The impression of wrongdoing lingered, even though the investigation was inconclusive.

  He smiled wryly to himself, recalling the many petty and major crimes he had encountered in his long career as a cop. The most distasteful part was the mountain of reports he had written. A real writer would have been able to convert his experience into a series of books. At least, thanks to Vledder and his computer, he no longer struggled to produce piles of paper.

  Meanwhile he drummed another series of knocks on the door. The sound rang through the staircase and landings above, echoing from the whitewashed walls.

  Finally, after several minutes, the kitchen door opened cautiously. Through the crack a set of green eyes looked at him with enmity.

  “Are you crazy?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “No, not yet.”

  “Who are you?”

  DeKok pushed against the door, widening the opening. He recognized the face.

  “My name,” he said with dignity, “is DeKok. With kay-oh-kay. In case you want to complain about me, you’ll be able to spell my name correctly. I insist on that.”

  The woman cocked her head.

  “You are police?”

  DeKok nodded. He saw in her eyes that she remembered him.

  “I’d like to talk to you. Not about a fire, this time, but about a young man who was found dead in your rooms. My colleague said your willingness to cooperate is lacking.”

  She pressed her thin lips together and shook her head.

  “I want nothing to do with it,” she said after a long pause.

  DeKok gave her a winning smile.

  “That will be difficult,” he said reasonably. “You discovered the corpse under your roof.”

  She reacted angrily. Her nostrils flared.

  “I’m not responsible for the behavior of my lodgers. They go their own way.” She lifted a sharp chin. “You ever heard of privacy?”

  DeKok suppressed a sharp retort regarding a coffee pot. He was not here to antagonize her. But he was faced with a set of murders. He needed immediate answers. With a friendly, but insistent gesture, he took her hand from the door handle and pushed the door farther into the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Lyons,” he began mildly, “eh … that is your name, isn’t it?”

  “You know very well.”

  DeKok looked around the kitchen.

  “My memory of this kitchen is an unpleasant one.”

  She grinned with a crooked mouth.

  “It was all much ado over nothing.”

  DeKok smiled shyly.

  “But I do recall you had a cozy living room.” His tone was bantering. “Why don’t we continue our conversation there?”

  Mrs. Lyons gave him a long, searching look. Then she suddenly gave in and led the way to the living room.

  DeKok carefully closed the kitchen door and ambled after her.

  In the living room he looked around. The room was relatively unchanged. The kitsch on the mantelpiece was all there. The carpet had seen better days. The chairs sported the tatty, imitation velvet upholstery he remembered.

  Without being asked, DeKok took a seat and placed his little hat on the floor.

  “How long has that boy been living here?”

  Mrs. Lyons tightened her dressing gown and sat down in the chair across from DeKok.

  DeKok knew she was close to fifty years old. She still looked good for her age. The skin of her face was a bit tawny, but her abundant hair was still a natural black. Her legs, although encased by a set of awful slippers, were still shapely.

  “How long has that boy been living here?” he repeated.

  “About eight months.”

  “Did he pay on time?”

  “His mother paid his rent.”

  “From Heemstede?”

  She nodded.

  “Every month she sent a check. She gave me her phone number … just in case.”

  DeKok looked at her intently.

  “Have you let her know the boy is dead?”

  Mrs. Lyons shook her head.

  “I’m afraid.” She spoke softly, almost whispering. “Between the two of us I just can’t bring myself to make the call. You see, the woman already lost a son.”

  She paused, rested her hands in her lap. Suddenly she stood up and confronted DeKok with an angry look.

  “Besides, what should I do with some whining old bitch.” It sounded cruel and biting. “I’ve got my own troubles.”

  DeKok did not answer but rubbed the bridge of his nose with a little finger. The sudden mood swing was no surprise. Women in Amsterdam’s seamy inner city grew hard and embittered before they reached midlife. He gave her time to get the vitriol out of her system. He could not expect her to share any confidences otherwise. He shrugged it off.

  “Why so hard, Mina.” he asked mildly, after a long pause. “After all, it’s her child.”

  “I’m not hard.”

  DeKok looked disapproving.

  “Then why do you act like a virago?”

  Her face turned red. She gesticulated with both hands.

  “You ever run a boardinghouse? Do you have to fight for every penny? Always on the look-out, so they won’t slip away in the dead of night without paying?” She shook her head sarcastically. “No, not you. The State cuts your check every month, right on time. All you have to do is walk to the mailbox.”

  DeKok gave her an apologetic look and laughed. He held up his hand with the thumb and index finger separated a short distance.

  “It’s just a small check. My wife complains every month she can’t make it on my minuscule salary.” He noticed her smile in response. “Besides,” he added, “you certainly had no trouble with Erik Bavel … I mean, financially?”

  “No.”

  “What kind of boy was he?”

  She crossed her arms and forced a shiver.

  “He was a soft egg. You understand? He was the sensitive

  type, so weak. I bet he was overprotected by doting parents, or a doting mama. That type always messes up, sooner or later. It’s inevitable.”

  “Messes up, how?”

  “Ach, you know what I mean. Kids who are indulged have no resistance to pressures—get hooked on drugs. When the parents catch on the money runs dry. It’s a downhill ride. They start with petty crimes. But they are not suited for purse snatching, let alone real felonies. So the arrests start; with any luck they’re in long enough to get clean for a while—”

  DeKok interrupted.

  “So, you kn
ew he was an addict?”

  She pointed at the phone on the wall.

  “His mother told me. After a while he talked to me. He told me how difficult it had been, admitted there were times he resigned himself to die of an overdose.” Suddenly a soft smile fled across her face, giving her a momentary look of tenderness. “Anyone would admire him for kicking the habit. He was clean and studying hard, lately.”

  DeKok nodded agreement.

  “Do you have any idea why somebody would want to kill him?”

  Mina Lyons shrugged her shoulders.

  “I don’t understand a thing. That’s why I refused to believe he was dead, at first. When I came into his room, he seemed to be dozing off in his chair. I even yelled at him because he had been making coffee in his room.” She shook her head and bit her lower lip. “I’m a bit crazy at times. I go berserk for the silliest reasons. The least little thing can set me off, for no reason at all. I didn’t see he was dead, not at once.”

  “How did you come to realize?”

  “What?”

  “That he had been murdered.”

  She stretched her neck and pointed at her throat.

  “I saw the spots on his neck. That’s why I came back here and called the police. I was in a panic and angry at myself for having yelled at hi … his corpse, at him.” She shook her head, as if to banish a bad memory. “Then your colleague showed up. Just another young punk who thinks he knows it all. He wanted to ask me questions. Well, I wasn’t ready to talk to him, or anybody. So I threw him out.”

  “That wasn’t very nice.”

  She made a dismissive gesture.

  “Those young cops are always so full of themselves. I don’t care for smug, self-important boys. They get on my nerves.”

  DeKok changed the subject.

  “Did Erik have any enemies?”

  She shook her head slowly.

  “Not as far as I know, at least not as long as he’s been living here. Of course, I don’t know what he did while he was still hooked. Addicts are capable of anything—theft, murder, you name it.” She sighed deeply. “I only knew him as a quiet, friendly young man who never bothered anybody.”

  “Did he still have contact with anybody in the drug scene?”

  She hesitated for a moment.

  “No,” she said finally, “I don’t think so—just Jean-Paul.”

  DeKok winced inwardly.

  “Jean-Paul who?” he asked, tension in his voice.

  “Jean-Paul Stappert, he lives upstairs. His room is next to Erik’s room.”

  DeKok swallowed hard.

  “We, eh, we … ” he hesitated. “We found Jean-Paul about an hour ago at the edge of Emperors Canal. Murdered.”

  Confusion filled her face.

  “Murdered?” she gasped, her face ashen.

  “Yes, strangled, just like Erik.”

  Mrs. Lyons stared at the old sleuth. It took a while for reality to hit. Then her mouth fell open and she collapsed slowly. With wide, expressionless eyes she slumped into the chair behind her.

  4

  Vledder pushed the keyboard of his computer aside and looked at DeKok, who was seated across from him.

  “And?”

  “What?”

  “How was it in the lion’s den?”

  “You mean the living room of Mrs. Lyons?”

  Vledder grinned.

  “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  DeKok smiled briefly.

  “Ach,” he said, “it wasn’t too bad.”

  Vledder winced.

  “You should have heard the way she reamed me. It was quite an experience, let me tell you. I’ve heard some ranting, to say the least. I really believe she would have torn me a new one, had I had stayed in that kitchen one second longer.”

  DeKok shrugged.

  “Yes,” admitted DeKok, “That is classic Mina. She’ll lovingly hit you in the neck with a piece of pipe. Seconds later she’ll cry real tears over a ladybug with a broken wing.”

  “She’s colorful, alright.”

  DeKok smiled.

  “I remember her from way back when she sat in the window as a prostitute. They called her Crazy Mina, even then. On warm evenings she’d dance in Old Church Square without panties. As she twirled her skirts lifted. On the front steps of the Old Church onlookers could see everything.”

  “Now that’s entertainment!”

  DeKok nodded.

  “Yes, indeed. I admit to standing among the spectators to take in the show.” The old man fell silent, steeped in memories. “She had a stone cutter among her clients. John, John Lyons was his name. He was almost twenty years older than she. He had inhaled too much marble dust and could work no longer. One day he told her he loved her. No other man had used the “L” word, except in the throws of passion. He was sincere. She left the life, and bought the rooming house with her savings. She worked like a dog from early in the morning till late at night, but the profits never amounted to much. About five years ago John Lyons died—his lungs simply gave out. Mina was hard before; now she is bitter.”

  For a long time both remained silent. It was Vledder who finally broke the silence.

  “She tell you anything?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “What did she say about the murders?”

  DeKok waved vaguely in the air.

  “They were friends.”

  Vledder was surprised.

  “Jean-Paul Stappert and Erik Bavel were buddies?”

  DeKok nodded.

  “According to Mina they were very friendly with each other.”

  “How friendly were they?”

  Again DeKok made a vague gesture.

  “Their rooms were adjoining. Because Erik’s room was a bit bigger and had more light, Jean-Paul used to spend a lot of time there. Actually, he used his own room just for sleeping.”

  Vledder leaned forward.

  “Any, eh, homosexual activity?”

  DeKok rubbed his chin.

  “No, I don’t think so. Mina did not hint at it in any way. I didn’t ask her, but as far as I know our Mina, she would have certainly told me, if there had been anything like that.”

  “If they were homosexual?”

  “Exactly. A secret like that she would have shared immediately. She did say that she found Erik a soft, somewhat weak person.”

  “How candid was she?”

  DeKok did not answer at once.

  “She only really opened up once,” he said thoughtfully. After a long pause he added, “I had barely a brush with her, professionally. It was in connection with the suspected arson, shortly after her husband died. At the time she seemed to have given up hope. She would have liked to see the entire house go up in flames. I reminded her of our encounter, and it helped. In the beginning she was still a bit reluctant, but it didn’t last long. I did detect a certain amount of feeling for both young men.” He paused and then added slowly: “The fainting surprised me, though.”

  “What?”

  DeKok almost smiled.

  “I asked her whether Erik Bavel still had connections in the drug world. As far as she knew he only met with Jean-Paul in the next room. When I told her we had found Jean-Paul Stappert near Emperors Canal she collapsed into her chair.” He paused. “It was a strange sight,” he added.

  “How do you mean?”

  “She didn’t try to keep her dignity intact.”

  “At least she wasn’t acting.”

  DeKok shook his head

  “Certainly not. It took more than a minute before she came to … not with the classic ‘where am I,’ but with a deep sigh and a look of recognition in her eyes.”

  Vledder frowned.

  “Still,” he commented, “it’s peculiar. The murder of Erik Bavel, a murder under her own roof, hardly gets under her surface. She discovers the murder herself, but just acts annoyed. When you tell her about Stappert’s murder, she is deeply affected. She can’t handle it and faints dead away.”

&nb
sp; DeKok nodded agreement.

  “As I said, I thought it strange as well. I told her so.”

  “And?”

  “She said it was cumulative; she was already on overload. Said she had not been feeling well for some time. And the news about Jean-Paul engulfed her, sort of took it over the top.”

  Vledder snorted.

  “And you believed her?”

  “It sounded reasonable,” nodded DeKok. “I really couldn’t argue. It seemed futile to argue about her feelings, so I didn’t pursue it. Still, she knew more than she was telling me. But why would she deliberately hold something back?”

  He paused and rubbed the back of his little finger over the bridge of his nose. After a long pause, he resumed.

  “Frankly the woman looked so distressed I felt compelled to end the interrogation. I offered to call a doctor. She flatly refused—no surprise.”

  “Do you think she’s somehow connected with the case?”

  “With one, or both murders?” There was a tone of doubt in DeKok’s voice.

  “It’s a possibility, isn’t it?” challenged Vledder.

  “It could be,” answered DeKok, deep in thought, “time is the issue.”

  “You mean, how would she have had time to murder one or both?”

  DeKok grinned without mirth.

  “She would have had to get from her boardinghouse to Emperors Canal, or vice versa.” He held up a finger and pointed at the clock on the wall. “There’s just not enough time between the two. According to Dr. Koning it is always difficult to pinpoint the time of death, but we can be reasonably sure each man died around ten o’clock. The killer had a brief window of opportunity to strike twice. The timeframe for both killings was likely a half-hour, maybe less.”

  “Well,” said Vledder, a mocking tone in his voice, “our strangler had quite a busy day. Two young men in such short order …” He did not complete the sentence, looked at DeKok. “That is, if we assume one person strangled both victims.”

  DeKok nodded slowly.

  “In view of the modus operandi —the almost identical marks on each victim’s throat—I think we can call it a reasonable assumption, for now.”

  Vledder stared into the distance for a while.

  “Thus,” he said finally, “we are looking for a man, or a woman, who had some kind of link to both victims.”