Angel in the Shadows Read online

  ‘Correct, but Mr Meijer, just like my other drivers, actually worked for the government and, in that capacity, he chauffeured me. That was the extent of it. Like I said: from a to b.’

  Lombard tried to add weight to his ‘from a to b’ statement by moving an invisible box through the air with his hands stretched out in front of him. A gesture politicians love to use during a speech or an interview. Someone must have once come up with the notion that such a gesture was the sign of a strong leader. But it was entirely irrelevant in this context. It was now crystal clear to Radjen. Lombard wanted to show them that he, not the two detectives sitting across from him, was in control here. Radjen straightened his back and immediately took the initiative again.

  ‘When did you last have contact with Mr Meijer?’ he asked.

  Lombard slowly leaned his massive body over his desk towards Radjen. This deliberate, unhurried action had something intimidating about it.

  ‘My last contact with Mr Meijer was on the same night he allegedly ran down that child.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘As I previously indicated to your colleagues, Mr Meijer brought me home around ten thirty that night.’

  ‘Besides you and Mr Meijer, is there anyone else who can corroborate this?’

  ‘My wife.’

  ‘Did your wife see Mr Meijer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where was your wife when you arrived home?’

  ‘She was in the living room.’

  ‘And where was Mr Meijer at that time?’

  ‘Mr Meijer deposited my two heavy briefcases in the hallway, returned to the car and drove away.’

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual about him?’ Esther asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You live in Blaricum, Meijer in Amstelveen. Bit strange, to say the least, that, after leaving Blaricum, Meijer took the route through the Amsterdamse Bos to get home. Why take a detour on a dimly lit forest road, when you can make better time on the motorway? Anyway, less than half an hour after dropping you off, he hits a child at a suspicious location and leaves the scene of the accident.’

  ‘I can’t explain it. Like I said –’

  ‘Your relationship was strictly business.’

  ‘Exactly. And I prefer not to waste time repeating myself, young lady.’

  ‘You need to stop that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stop calling me “young lady”.’

  She said it without raising her voice, without a hint of emotion. Radjen saw the surprise on Lombard’s face and wanted to smile. Lombard now turned his entire body towards Esther.

  ‘I am happy to cooperate with your investigation, but I insist you control your tone.’

  ‘You’re mistaken, sir,’ Esther said. ‘I’m not here to have a pleasant conversation. This is an interrogation. I’m a detective. And that’s how I want to be addressed.’

  There was a pause. Lombard’s confident smile, meant to convey the impression that this was all below him, had shrivelled to a grimace, but he quickly recovered.

  ‘All right, Detective. We both serve the national good. However, the similarity ends there. Best you remember that you operate on a much different level than I do.’

  ‘What do you mean by “different level”?’

  She still sounded confident and calm, but Radjen wondered how far Esther would go in letting someone like Lombard bait her. He was capable of getting her to make statements that would only work against her. Radjen was ready to jump in if necessary.

  ‘What I mean,’ said Lombard, ‘is that you’ll have to explain to your superiors why you made it impossible for a government official to properly execute his duties. While the entire Parliament waits, you’ve kept me here and wasted my time about a matter that doesn’t involve me.’

  Radjen noticed how much Lombard’s voice riled him. It was the tone of a man who was not used to being contradicted. To his surprise, Radjen caught a look of disdain in Esther’s eyes. She seemed impervious to Lombard’s authority.

  ‘I get the impression, sir, that you’re trying to distract me, but, to be completely clear, you’re involved in this case up to your ears. First of all, because in Meijer’s original statement given to us, he asserted without a doubt that you were in the car at the time of the hit-and-run.’

  Lombard remained stone-faced. Even his voice sounded composed. ‘A man who happens to be one of my chauffeurs drives to the Amsterdamse Bos in an official vehicle, for God knows what reason, and runs down a child there. It’s a desperate attempt, by this man, this Meijer, to repudiate his own guilt by pointing the finger at me. Me of all people!’

  That superior, jovial smile reappeared on Lombard’s face. ‘Question: was I behind the wheel? No. Was I present at that moment? No. So there we have it, Mr and Mrs Detective. It’s not my place to tell you how best to do your work, what methods and resources to use. But I would suggest that if you go so far as to implicate a minister as a suspect, and in a case involving a driver from the carpool at that, you’d want to have irrefutable evidence and a substantiated motive.’

  Lombard prepared to stand. ‘Because all these elements seem to be missing, and, despite my earlier warning, you persist in defaming my character. With your permission, I’d now like to bring this conversation to a close.’

  Radjen crossed his legs and calmly stayed in his seat. ‘As my colleague said, sir, this is not a conversation, this is an interrogation. And we decide when this is over, not you. Please sit down.’

  Lombard was perched in an uncomfortable, almost ridiculous position, somewhere between sitting and standing. In bewilderment he glanced at his lawyer, who nonverbally indicated that it would be better to cooperate. When Lombard took his seat again, he looked furious.

  Radjen had waited for this. The moment that would tip the scales. The moment that a man who considered himself untouchable would have to admit that his superiority was based on a lie and there was now the possibility of that lie being exposed.

  Radjen leaned back, and kept his voice as low and neutral as possible. ‘In his first statement, Thomas Meijer indeed said that at the time of the collision you were in the back seat of the car, and, although he revised his story in a second account, it is up to the courts to determine which of the two is based on truth. New facts, however, have emerged that give us more reason to believe his initial statement.’

  Here Radjen intentionally paused. Longer than was necessary. Esther caught his eye, understood and took over from him.

  ‘We have recent information indicating that Mr Meijer was forced into making his second statement,’ she said, calmly glancing back at Radjen.

  ‘Thomas Meijer contradicted his first statement so he and his Ghanaian wife could be reunited with their foster child,’ continued Radjen, who was enjoying the back and forth with Esther as they cornered Lombard.

  ‘You don’t have to respond to this,’ said Weisman to Lombard, almost whispering. ‘You’re not required to answer.’

  Lombard seemed to heed his advice. He leaned back in his large leather armchair and thoughtfully rubbed the flat of his hand over his mouth.

  Radjen saw Lombard’s eyes grow dark. I’ve hit a nerve, he thought. You’re trying to fight back the pain. But I’ve got more in store for you.

  ‘We also have a statement with far-reaching accusations against you, sir,’ Radjen said. ‘A suspect we had in custody claimed that on the night of the hit-and-run you’d arranged a meeting between yourself and the boy.’ He looked Lombard straight in the eye and continued: ‘He gave us your name.’

  Ewald Lombard’s frown seemed etched into his forehead, but a curious smile appeared on Weisman’s face, as if he had tacit agreement to borrow it from Lombard.

  ‘Detective, are you referring to a Russian you had in custody who was allegedly beaten so badly during his interrogation by one of your people that he succumbed to his injuries? I believe this happened on your watch?’

  Radjen had not expected
this. His triumphant feeling turned to dismay and he felt a migraine coming on.

  ‘The matter is being investigated internally,’ he said. ‘But the failure of the detective involved has no influence on the status of the witness’s testimony.’

  ‘I believe you’re mistaken,’ Weisman said. ‘The testimony of your Russian detainee was ultimately obtained using violence and won’t stand up in court. Despite all your bluffing, you’ve got nothing.’

  Being confronted with Weisman’s ruthless truth made Radjen feel completely powerless. Sasha Kovalev’s testimony was as worthless as yesterday’s newspaper. Their key witness, Meijer, who was in the morgue with a broken neck, had revised his statement about Lombard’s presence in the chauffeured car right before he died. And the photos and videos of children being abused on Lombard’s hard drive, which had been copied by forensics, were now buried under a dense layer of digital zeros.

  The immediate effect of all this was inescapable: their trail had hit a dead end. And apparently Radjen wasn’t the only one who knew this.

  ‘There is an old Chinese saying,’ Lombard lectured them, as he stared at Radjen and Esther in turn. ‘ “Those who know, do not speak. Those who speak, do not know.” I have the feeling that the aim of all your talk is to conceal the fact that you don’t know very much.’

  Radjen slowly rose to his feet. He placed both his hands on the edge of the desk and slightly leaned forward. His voice was calm. ‘I’ve heard and seen enough evidence against you, sir, to send you away for years to a place where they know damn well what to do with child molesters.’

  ‘If that is true, Mr Detective, why don’t you arrest me right now?’ Seemingly unperturbed, Lombard stood up and pressed the intercom button. ‘Mr and Mrs Detective are ready to be shown the door.’ Then he went to shake Radjen’s hand.

  Radjen ignored the gesture and didn’t move.

  ‘At this very moment, a boy who was run down by a car and left for dead is fighting for his life, sir.’

  Lombard’s face turned red and a slight smirk appeared. ‘I declare this hearing adjourned. But I have no doubt we’ll speak again soon. Then we’ll see who has the last word. I can assure you it will be the person who knows the most. Namely me.’

  Radjen turned and walked with Esther to the door, where the secretary in chunky heels was waiting for them. Radjen made no effort to react to the threat that Lombard hurled at him as they left the room.

  ‘By the time you’re ready to set foot in my office again, Detective, you’ll find you’re out of a job. That’s a promise. Goodbye.’

  Five minutes later, Radjen and Esther were on the breezy square in front of the ministry complex, with their foreheads almost touching, as Radjen folded his hands around the cigarette lighter and Esther tried to light two Gauloises. He’d quickly become attached to the casual way she handed him lit cigarettes.

  ‘Do you remember, Chief, that I didn’t initially believe he was guilty?’ she said, after exhaling her first drag.

  ‘I certainly do.’

  She chuckled as she put on her sunglasses. ‘Well, I was awfully naive.’

  ‘Naive is not a word I’d use to describe you.’

  ‘Hate to tell you,’ she said, turning towards him, ‘but throw a red cape over my shoulders, give me a wicker basket filled with goodies and there you’d have it: I’d mistake the big bad wolf for my granny.’

  ‘You were really on your toes just now,’ he said.

  ‘We were,’ she said. ‘Teamwork.’

  ‘Take credit where credit is due?’ He gave her a reassuring look and smiled. ‘You did great. A damn good job.’

  She glanced at him, feeling slightly self-conscious. ‘Well, thanks for the compliment, Chief.’

  ‘And it’s Radjen, not Chief.’

  ‘Okay, then, Radjen. Let me ask you about something that’s been on my mind?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘What does this plan of yours actually involve?’

  He inhaled deeply and glanced up at the bright blue sky, with white cumulus clouds drifting by. ‘Well, it isn’t exactly a plan. It’s something I want to try, an experiment. Whenever we discover something new, we don’t immediately share it with the MIT; we keep it to ourselves. Might be for an hour, a day, a week, depending on how quickly and effectively we can move. The idea is to operate under the radar wherever we can.’

  ‘Okay, then.’ It sounded almost casual.

  ‘What okay, then?’

  ‘Okay, Radjen, welcome me to the Order of the Secret Ninja.’

  She grinned as she exhaled the smoke from her last puff, flicked her burning cigarette in the direction of the ministry building and headed back to their parked car.

  Radjen lagged behind, watching her. He couldn’t remember ever being so hard-pressed in a case, while at the same time feeling so excited, as if he could take on the world.

  5

  The Boeing had skidded diagonally on the runway. Nearly forty-five minutes later, Paul boarded the shuttle bus that would take him and his fellow passengers to the terminal. Once inside, after having to join an endless queue for passport control, he informed Anya that he’d landed. Another forty-five minutes later, he finally lifted his bag off the luggage carousel and shuffled past customs into the arrivals hall. To his surprise, he was met by Edward, who was chewing on a liquorice stick in an effort to kick his nicotine addiction once and for all.

  ‘I hope this is a one-off,’ he said, giving Paul a hug. ‘I’m still struggling to get my head around this turn of events.’

  Edward’s voice sounded surprisingly steady for someone who’d been rushed to hospital with chest pains barely a week ago after seeing the YouTube clip of Farah giving her jihad statement.

  ‘You look a lot better than I expected,’ Paul said.

  ‘It was a mild attack, the doctor said. But what would he know?’ Edward placed his arm around Paul’s shoulders and together they walked through Schiphol Plaza towards the escalators in the large central hall.

  ‘For sixty-two years I managed to convince myself that I was immortal. Call it naive or foolish, but I got away with it. Other people were dying. I wasn’t going to get on that train. And guess what? Suddenly I’m on the platform, ready to board.’

  ‘Thank God you forgot to buy a ticket,’ Paul quipped.

  They paused in front of a piece of gleaming DC-9 fuselage outside an airport shop. A little blond-haired boy was standing proudly in front of the rotor blades of a jet engine, waving at them. The scene reminded Paul of his own fascination with flying when he was that age. He waved back. He’d give anything to be that little boy waving at passers-by, in the rock-solid belief that the world was one big playground.

  ‘I feel as if I’ve turned into glass,’ Edward said, as they walked on. ‘And I don’t mean the bulletproof variety. I’m taking blood-thinners, cholesterol-lowering tablets and ACE inhibitors. I’m in charge of a pharmacy instead of an editorial office. And everyone’s saying I got lucky. But it’s the kind of luck that leaves you with a sour taste.’

  They’d reached the escalator to the indoor car park. Edward stood still, turned away from Paul, stretching his back. His posture was reminiscent of a high-jumper about to propel himself backwards across the bar, but Paul knew it had nothing to do with athletics and all the more with a stressed-out mind in a distressed giant’s body.

  ‘I sent her there, damn it. I’ve got that on my conscience.’

  ‘She’s safe, Ed.’

  ‘Safety doesn’t apply to Farah. How can I ever look her in the eye again?’

  ‘She never once implied that she blames you. That’s not who she is.’

  Paul heard grumbling and looked over his shoulder. A group of travellers with suitcases and other bags had gathered behind them. ‘Let’s go – we’re holding people up.’

  He gave Edward a gentle shove in the back and stepped on to the escalator behind him.

  ‘How’s Mum?’ he asked, as they glided up.

  ‘She�
��s been jolting awake at night lately, because she hears footsteps.’

  ‘Is that what she thinks, or –’

  ‘No, she’s certain of it. She hears them. At one point she even thought it was Raylan.’

  ‘More than thirty years and she still refuses to believe he’s dead.’

  They arrived upstairs in the hall with the payment terminals, where Edward jumped off the final step with a ridiculous little skip. The two men continued alongside each other.

  ‘A couple of nights ago she heard those footsteps again. That’s when the penny dropped and she calmly informed me that Comrade Death was shuffling around the farm.’

  ‘The Grim Reaper. That sounds like an anti-climax.’

  ‘Perhaps dying is one big anti-climax,’ Edward said, as he slipped his parking ticket into the payment machine. ‘A fiasco, except a grandiose one.’

  En route to the AND office the Saab’s windscreen wipers were working overtime. Edward pressed play on the CD player. As he heard the opening strains of Tubular Bells, Paul felt a faint smile appear on his lips for the first time in days. He pictured the sleeve: a triangular steel tube floating above a tempestuous sea. For Paul’s seventeenth birthday, Edward had taken him to the Royal Albert Hall, where they attended the performance of Mike Oldfield’s opus. Three years later Edward gave him the symphonic version of Tubular Bells for his birthday and asked him to come to work at the AND as a trainee journalist. With that, Tubular Bells became the instrumental consolidation both of their family tie and of their bond as newspaper men.

  A north-westerly wind swept the autumn rain in implacable waves across the concrete space in front of the AND. Even though Edward had parked as close as he could to the main entrance, they were soaked by the time they made it inside. There they crossed the lobby with the glass walls and took the long escalator all the way up to the fifth floor. Edward flung the door to his work unit wide open.

  ‘Our nerve centre,’ he said proudly, as he ushered Paul into a space that, like the rest of the building, was separated from the outside world by enormous glass walls. Part of Edward’s office was taken up by three room dividers. Resting on reinforced castors, they were set up like a harmonica and served as movable white boards. One of them bore Farah’s name and featured visual and written material she’d gathered before she left for Moscow. Written at the top of the second, otherwise empty, board was Paul’s name in capitals. The third one clearly belonged to Edward, who’d devoted himself to Valentin Lavrov’s life. He’d managed to condense the Russian’s comet-like career into a clear and coherent account.