A Cold Death in Amsterdam (Lotte Meerman Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

the map that I’d printed out last night – second right, first left – and parked my car behind a dark blue BMW that had the understated look of money. I double-checked the address but found I was in the right place. When I opened the car door, cold air rushed in. It hurt to breathe. I grabbed the folder and my bag and swung my legs out. Someone had sown salt on the path and the snow had turned to mush.
    The white triangle of the house would have blended in with the snow, had it not been for the cedar guardians on either side of the path and the No Entry-sign red front door. I rang the doorbell, which sounded oddly non-electric, like a bicycle bell. Footsteps were approaching – I wished they weren’t. I wished I couldn’t see the door swing inwards. But I did.
    He had changed since the last time I’d seen him, at my wedding fourteen years ago. His short-cropped hair still resembled a newly harvested field, but it had gone from steel to ice. His face was now a roadmap with lines showing which route laughter took and where frowns turned up.
    ‘Hi, Dad,’ I said.
    * * *
     
    My father took my coat and put it on the same hanger as a short scarlet jacket that had to belong to his new wife. My coat embraced hers and my first instinct was to grab it back. Instead I wrapped my hands around my folder. I did my best to stamp the snow off my boots on the rubber mat. I didn’t want to leave traces of myself behind on their sterile off-white ice rink of a carpet. A clump of snow remained stuck in the sole and I gave up, took my boots off and left them by the door.
    My father pointed me to the large L-shaped rat-fur-brown leather sofa. I made sure to sit in the middle of the long leg of the L, leaving him no room to sit next to me. I wanted to see his face as I talked to him.
    ‘Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?’
    ‘Coffee would be nice.’ My hands felt numb and cold.
    He walked away, showing me the slope in his back, the upper half rounded and hunched.
    The loud whine of grinding beans travelled from the kitchen, followed by a hiss and the smell of coffee. It mingled with the hint of lemon that came from fresh cleaning. The place was pristine.
    After a bit, he returned with the coffee.
    ‘Do you take sugar?’ he asked, handing me my cup. He surely must remember I never took sugar. I shook my head. With a click he added sweeteners to his. The cups were from the police station. I recognised the flame, the symbol of the police force, in relief on the white porcelain. The police was the only thing we had in common.
    He sat down.
    ‘You look well,’ he said.
    ‘Thanks.’
    ‘How’s Arjen?’ His eyes moved to my right hand, which for over a year had been ringless.
    ‘Fine.’
    ‘Good, good.’
    I returned the cup to the table and picked up the pink folder. I opened it and took out the first piece of paper.
    ‘Not a social call, then,’ he said.
    ‘We’re re-investigating Otto Petersen’s murder.’
    ‘My last case.’ He smiled and showed perfect white teeth. I was sure they used to be yellow and stained. ‘I read about Wendy Leeuwenhoek. Saw your name. Saw you on the front page of the
Telegraaf
.’ He picked up his cup and took a sip. ‘Almost called to congratulate you.’
    ‘But you didn’t.’
    He rubbed his hand through his white hair a couple of times. It was so short, it didn’t make a difference. ‘I didn’t think you’d want me to.’
    I flicked the page as if I needed to read it. ‘We were disappointed by the work of the Alkmaar police.’
    ‘Sorry?’ The line between his eyebrows deepened from a gully to a full-blown ravine.
    ‘You had the Petersen case for four months and all you did was this.’ I got the six pages out of the folder and waved them at him like a fan. The one with the photos was thicker and snapped against the other sheets with each forward and back motion.
    ‘We worked hard.’
    ‘And only wrote six pages?’
    ‘We nearly closed it.’
    ‘On which page does it say