1
Monday, July 30
With a vexed gesture Alex Soeting pushed out the telly.
"Joost is letting us down tonight! It's twenty to nine already."
"You had a word with him only last night, hadn't you?"
"Yes, at about five. We had a chat and he said: see you tomorrow then, half past eight."
"Stamp your foot on the floor."
"Why should I?"
"He lives right beneath us, doesn't he?"
Alex booted his right foot on the laminated floor a few times. Then he jumped up and landed his ninety five kilos as heavily as he possibly could. "He might be taking a nap, neatly dressed with his tie and all that."
"We could phone him?" Magda suggested hesitantly. She was aware Alex regarded this as a form of squandering.
"No. I'll just pop over."
Alex left the room and disappeared to the walkway.
A moment later the telephone rang.
"Magda, I'm in Joost Duijker's apartment and something strange is going on. His door is open, but he is nowhere to be seen. Could you come over, please? Don't forget your key."
Magda took her cardigan from the hall-stand, grabbed her keys from the side table and hurried downstairs.
"The front door was ajar, the police lock turned out," Alex said. There was an edgy tone to his voice. "I first rang the doorbell and only then I found out the door wasn't locked. He probably went out on the walkway for some reason."
"Have you already taken a look in his bedroom?"
"No." Her husband hesitated. "I rather waited until you were here."
They looked at each other.
"It's not like Joost to be late," Magda said. "Something must have happened."
They went into the bedroom side by side. The twin bed had been made meticulously. They walked on to the kitchen. There was a brown washing up bowl in the sink. Magda carefully fished out a teacup.
"Cold suds," she said. "Nothing but a cup and saucer."
She looked round. "I don't think he has prepared anything to eat."
They went through all the rooms of the apartment together, but they didn't find any sign of its resident.
"I think we should ring his son," Alex thought aloud. "Joost has got a booklet with numbers in the drawer under his phone."
He reached out for it but saw it was not neccessary. There were programmed buttons and on one 'JOEP' had been written in capital letters. Alex pushed it.
"Joep Duijker!" it sounded loud and clear at the other end of the line.
"Hallo Joep, this is Alex Soeting, I am your father's upstairs neighbour. We have arranged an evening for cards but he didn't show up. I called at his door and found it was ajar. He is not at home. Do you have any idea where his might be just now?"
Joep remained silent for a while.
"I haven't the faintest," he said at last. "It certainly seems strange to me. I talked to him only Saturday and he didn't mention going anywhere. What time was he to be at your place?"
"Half past eight. He is always very strict."
"Yes, tell me all about it. There have been moments I got sick to death of his punctual lifestyle."
Alex muttered something indefinably.
"Mister Soeting? I'm on my way. I'll be with you in about ten minutes. See you soon."
2
Magda and Alex walked over to the window of Duijker's apartment and looked out over the sea. Pale cloudy skies slowly moved over miles of greyish waves. Across the water, in Cadzand or even Knokke, long trails of rain descended. The wide panorama effordlessly enthralled the hundreds of holidaymakers on Boulevard De Ruyter. Some of them stopped strolling to keep a pair of binoculars to their eyes. It was an impressive view, but the Soetings had seen it so often before. Alex rubbed a forefinger along his nose. He was thinking.
Magda noticed it and let her thoughts run free. The first months of his retirement she had fought against his meddlesome inclination to run their household as if it were HIS restaurant kitchen. Alex didn't come near realising how her life had been overthrown by his good-bye from bistro The Three Dolphins. The worst thing was that he never seemed to notice her despair. But Joost Duijker had. One afternoon — Alex was off to the MAKRO in Breda — she stood in the elevator with him as he looked at her and sofly said: "You don't seem to be doing allright, I think?" Her throat became thick and she felt the tears prickling behind her eyes. Joost had teken her to his apartment, where she had been overwhelmed by a fit of weeping. He had held her cautiously. When she was able to speak again he had told her about his own retirement. How surprised he had been about the breach in the rhytme of his life after saying good-bye to 'his' branch bank. "The evenings are okay," he had said. "But in the daytime I have a problem. I still seek some kind of exciting interpretation for the mornings and the afternoons."
She wondered what he meant by that. She didn't get an opportunity to ask him, for Joost Duijker went on talking, explaining how Alex probably struggled with the same problems he had. "Your husband fears the black hole of being pensioned off," he said in a serious tone. "He fills it with the familiar things and that, of course, won't work. You will only survive this crisis by drawing your boundaries quite clearly. If you don't, you will be left holding the baby."
"How am I possibly going to tackle this?" she asked desperately. "He doesn't listen. He is only interested in his own worries."
"In that luxury bistro he was used to rule the roost. He was the chef and there was no need to communicate with others on his own behalf. Force him into it!"
"But how?"
"Make him sit up a bit. It will be nasty for a moment, but a fierce impact might do the trick."
She had decided to trust him. That very afternoon Alex found a note on the table, telling him that she was unable to go on with him since he never listened. That she would only return if he agreed to shut up a quarter of an hour, allowing her to do the talking.
At 'The Arsenaal' she sat down on the terrace, frightened to death he would be so pissed off that he would refuse to phone her. A few minutes later the cellphone tingled already. Alex had been rattled and made such a desperate impression that her heart turned and she wondered in despair what on earth she had started. But it had worked out. He had listened to her, his lips tightly shut. To her relief it appeared to be possible to agree on solid 'cooperation terms'. Looking back Magda realised she had chosen the most obvious and simple solution, also because Alex much later offhandly remarked her approach had been the only correct way. About three days after the confrontation she had pressed Duijker's doorbell, embraced him and had pushed a nice bunch of flowers in his hands. He had contently smiled and remained silent. They never touched the subject again. From that moment on they had a silent pact that completely escaped Alex Soeting's observations.
"I pray nothing will have happened to him ..." she said tensely.
"I hope not," her husband said. "I think he is rather a nice chap — as long as he doesn't talk about that bank of his."
"I can't help thinking about when his wife died. Rina. Do you remember how her complete first name surprised us — Rinalda? God, how that man was down in the dumps. Just taken early retirement and all of a sudden alone."
She sighed deeply. The veins in her temples were throbbing.
Alex reached for her hand and held it tightly.
They stood silently before the window until they heard footsteps in the walkway.
3
Joep Duijker came in and shook hands.
"I don't understand at all," he said.
His ever rosy face showed a blushy red complexion. He picked up the booklet near the phone.
"I think I'd better call some realtives." He shrugged his shoulders, as if convinced beforehand the calls were not going to lead anywhere.
"He programmed some names," Alex pointed out.
"Oh yes, I remember. Thank you."
Joep dialled four numbers, but none of these provided the information he was hoping for. He flopped into the armchair near the bookcase. "No one knows his whereabouts."
"Let's take time to do some proper thinking," Alex suggested. "The front door was not locked and the security lock was turned out."
"To prevent it from slamming down behind his back," Joep said.
"In the kitchen I noticed washing suds with a teacup," Magda remembered. "But it was cold. So your father must have had his tea ages ago."
"He usually watches the four o'clock news while having tea," Joep confirmed. "He is a man of habits. It means the front door may have been open from about four."
"But where may he have gone?" Alex asked.
"Wait a minute," Joep thought aloud. "It is the summer holidays! He always takes care of the plants and birds of his neighbour, that Antillian teacher, misses Deemoed."
"Celina Deemoed. Yes, we know her. She lives some doors away from him, on 291," she ackowledged. "I may hope he hasn't become unwell there or anything? I mean — you never can tell, can you?"
"We could at least take a look there and ring the doorbell," Joep said. "Come along, please."
The door to Celina Deemoed's apartment was locked and whichever way they rang, knocked and peerded through the kitchen curtains, no reaction followed. Except by Celina's neighbour at 292, Jantien Keesmaat, who wanted to know what the noise was about. She saw the three people, shrugged grumpily and disappeared inside again.
"Friendliness is all," Alex sneered. "No sign of your father, Joep. If he went inside he had the key in his pocket, I guess. You had better call the police."
"No, thank you very much," Joep fiercely reacted. "I won't start that! All the police do is tell you to wait for the time being. And what's more ..."
He stopped and gestured Alex and Magda to walk back again, to his father's apartment.
"Now look here," he said in a determined way in the corridor between the kitchen and the livingroom, as he turned back the police lock in the upper half of the front door and closed the door. "My father was sent off with early retirement by the bank a few years ago, when a fraud case emerged at the branch. Special branch officers came down here a few times to question him. As it turned out he was innocent, naturally. My father is Mister Precision himself and he really felt he was to blame, as these dirty tricks had taken place right under his nose without him noticing anything. It was an enormous blow to his professional pride. So you will understand I don't want the neighbours to say: look, the police are sniffing around at Duijker's place again."
"That makes sense," Alex agreed, nodding insinuatingly in the direction of Jantien Keesmaat's apartment. "People tend to like gossiping."
"There is of course a chance he 'll pop up again."
"And that there will be a logical explanation for all this," Magda added with relief in het tone.
"Where would your father keep the key to Celina Deemoed's apartment?" asked Alex.
"There is a box with a key rack in his kitchen, with everything in it."
They entered the kitchen and Joep opened the door to the box. There were eight keys with plastic labels in different colours. Joep read each lettering, though he realised it was of no use. Each key showed the marks of his father's neat uniformity. A key of Celina Deemoed's would at least have shown a different label.
"Well, yes," he said. "I could go and search anywhere in this apartment, but the key box is right here and I suppose my father wouldn't keep a key anywhere else."
"This means means that he is carrying Celina's key with him, doesn't it?" Magda said. "Wouldn't it be logical to think that he ..."
The two men looked at her silently.
"I'll first have a look at his notice board in the toilet," Joep said determinedly. 'And then we will have to think how we can get into that apartment one way or another."
Magda and Alex walked back into Duijker's livingroom. It had been decorated in an old fashioned way, with little fantasy. There was a large Chesterfield coach with two fitting armchairs. The wall was completely occupied by a Lundia bookcase, filled to the brim. It nearly reached the ceiling. On the oppsosite wall were three classical Dutch landscape paintings.
"Right!" Joep called out as he opened the door to the toilet. "Here are his reminder notes."
On the notice board were ten memo cards, neatly pinned up into two rows of five by white pushpins. Joep read them all.
"This one is of no use," he said. "File GJL is with Den Hartog. Lent out, I guess. But this ..." He took two cards out with thumb and forefinger and handed them to Magda.
"O. Look at this," she said happily. "Winston Deemoed, her brother, and a telephone number. And the cleaning woman. She lives nearby, as it happens."
"Perhaps the brother has a key of his own," Joep suggested.
For a moment there was an awkward silence.
Joep looked at the number.
"He lives in Middelburg. Would you try right now? The phone is in the livingroom."
Magda pushed the number, but there was no reply.
"Call the working lady. She's bound to have a key," Alex said firmly.
"Isn't that strange? It's quite late already."
"So what? We are worried, aren't we?"
4
It was well over fifteen past ten when Mrs Van Deursen came out of the stairwell and stepped onto the walkway of the first floor. A brisk blonde of about forty, immediately setting off chatting about her daughter attending Mrs Deemoed's school and being taught French by her. She wore a nylon jacket, fitted too tightly. She nodded understandingly at Joep, shook hands with Magda and Alex and said: "Oh, I do understand. I would be worried as well. And by the way — just imagine, that poor little bird of hers getting no food and lying dead in its cage ..."
With routine movements she opened the door to Celina Deemoed's apartment.
Magda Soeting and Mrs Van Deursen shrieked simultanuously as the door to the livingroom of the apartment opened. In the middle of Celina Deemoed's completely ransacked room lay Joost Duijker on his stomach, with his right arm partly bent under the body. His skull had been beaten fiercely, leaving the tidily cut grey hair stringy, coloured red by the clotted blood. There was a deeply red, almost black puddle on the carpet that had crept away from him about four feet.
Both women fled to the walkway, moaning. Joep controlled his inclination of throwing up. Alex stared stock-still at his downstairs neighbour's body, his eyes wide open. Joep grabbed him by the arm an took him away from the room, holding on to him as he grabbed Celina's phone in the corridor and hurriedly dialled 112.
"My father is dead! Murdered!" he yelled hoarsely. He cleared his throat and coughed a few times.
"Boulevard De Ruyter 291. The occupant? Her name is Celina Deemoed."
He hung up and hurried into the kitchen. Indiscriminately he took a beerglass from the cupboard and filled it with water. He pushed it into Magda's hand and said: "Share this with her. The police are on their way."
Then his hands and knees started shaking simultaneously. With both hands he held on to the railing of the walkway. The galvanized metal felt icecold.
Alex still kept silent. He moistened his lips all the time and gazed over the houses in the town centre. Joep watched it with him, panting. Over the rooftops the wind carried cheerful chimes to them. The bells of Saint Jacob's Tower tinkled half past ten.
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©2008 John Brosens
