The Pilgrim Conspiracy

‘Who? Vanderhoop?’ Rijsbergen asked in reply. ‘I don’t know. I think he’s a bit of an oddball, but that’s not much to go on. The only thing he’s really got going against him is that he was in the Masonic Hall last night. But so were sixty or seventy other people. I’ve yet to see anything that looks like a motive. So at the minute, we only know enough to be able to speculate. The same goes for that Peter de Haan fellow and Fay Spežamor … it looks like they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But who knows what might still turn up? Anyway …’

He made a few notes and then put down his pen.

‘What about you? Are you any wiser?’

‘No, not really,’ Van de Kooij replied. ‘They were all very nice people, very helpful. Couldn’t tell us anything we didn’t know already. Took down all their details, obviously, made copies of their passports and so on.’

‘Good. How many names do we have now?’

‘About sixty, I think. That means we still need to find ten, maybe twenty of them.’

‘Well, that’s great progress. There’s not much more we can do now than go down the list and talk to the people whose names we do have. We’ll start with Peter de Haan and his partner. You and I will do them and a couple of others, and you can give the other names to the rest of the team. If we all do five or six, then we’ll get through everyone in two or three days. And we’ll have the test results for the map back from forensics either tomorrow or the day after.’

Van de Kooij jumped up from the chair. ‘Great. I’ll get that organised then.’

At least there was one person who was enthusiastic about the task that lay ahead of them.

Chapter 11

Peter sat in his office. Although it was strictly forbidden, he’d lit one of the five cigarillos he habitually smoked each week. Every Sunday evening, he put five of them in a silver-coloured cigar case, one for each weekday. He’d opened the window wide, and now he sat on the windowsill, blowing the smoke outside. It was a pointless exercise because as soon as he blew the smoke out, the wind blew it right back in. But he hoped it would fool the smoke alarm on the ceiling above him.

He mulled over that afternoon’s lecture. His response to the use of the term ‘genocide’ should probably have been more rigorous. Although you could certainly call what happened to the indigenous population a decimation, the word ‘genocide’ was problematic because it suggested a deliberate plan.

He took a drag on his cigar, held the smoke in his mouth and blew it out through his pursed lips in a long streak.

He was pleased that the other side of the story would also be presented as part of the commemoration of the Pilgrims’ departure from Leiden four hundred years ago. It was an opportunity to show the uglier side of history and to highlight the conditions that the Native Americans were living under now.

Peter had called Chief Inspector Rijsbergen as soon as he’d got back to his office.

Rijsbergen had told him that he would be visiting Fay between five and six and that it would be most convenient if Peter could be there at the same time.

It was almost half past three. Peter usually worked until around six, but right now, he couldn’t focus at all. He felt an overwhelming need to be with Fay.

There was a knock at the door. It opened before he could answer.

Peter hurled the stub of his cigarillo outside and grabbed the aerosol that was on the windowsill. He always sprayed a few puffs of air freshener around the room to mask the smell after he’d had a cigar.

When the door was fully open, Peter froze with the aerosol still in his hand, like a graffiti artist caught red-handed by the police.

It was Mark. He burst out laughing. ‘You know you can smell that cigar smoke all the way down the other end of the corridor, don’t you?’ he said. ‘That air freshener is useless.’ He closed the door behind him. ‘I just came by to see how you were doing. I heard about what happened last night. Judith told me you and Fay went to that open evening.’

‘Thanks, Mark. That’s very thoughtful of you.’

There was a three-seater sofa in Peter’s office that gave it a homely feel. Mark sat down on it.

‘It was awful,’ Peter said. ‘In one word, awful.’

‘Bizarre, too. A murder committed at an open evening with so many visitors.’

‘You’re right, it was bizarre, but … Did you know that Fay and I were the ones who found him?’

‘Seriously? Wow!’ Mark, who had been sitting on the edge of the sofa, fell backwards so that he ended up looking oddly slumped. ‘That’s awful,’ he said. ‘Fay knew him quite well, didn’t she?’

‘Yes, she did. He was the chairman of her lodge, so she’d spent a lot of time talking to him. I only met him a couple of times myself, but still … To find him like that …’

Stop talking, Peter told himself sternly.

But Mark didn’t seem very interested in hearing about how he and Fay had found Coen Zoutman.

‘How’s Fay doing?’

‘Oh, just as you’d expect.’ Peter said. ‘Badly, of course. It’s really shaken her. She’s got no idea who could have done it. A good man, Zoutman. He wouldn’t have hurt the proverbial fly.’

‘So it’s a mystery.’

Peter told him about the Americans he’d met at the American Pilgrim Museum.

‘I came straight back here after the tour. Apart from that man, I haven’t talked to anyone about it … Actually, that’s not entirely true. One of my students was there yesterday too. I talked to him about it, but only briefly.’

‘And what are you going to do now?’

‘Now? I’m going to head home. Well, to Fay’s. See how she’s doing.’ Peter went over to his desk chair to put on his jacket. ‘How about you?’

‘Back to the office, do an hour there, and then I’ll go home too, I think. I want to do a bit of work at home, and then it’s my turn to make dinner. Judith cooked last night.’

Peter was very happy with Fay, but even after all these years, he couldn’t help feeling a hot, almost visceral stab of jealousy at moments like this. He could try all he wanted to resist it, try to reason the feeling away, bring to mind the cosy domesticity he enjoyed with Fay, sitting outside together in front of her house with glasses of wine in their hands, watching Agapé play with a ball in the little courtyard …

But despite all of that, at moments like this, when Mark spoke so easily of cooking for Judith, Peter saw himself in Mark’s place, stirring various pans on the hob with a cold beer next to him on the kitchen counter, condensation glistening on the glass. And Judith, coming in rosy-cheeked from the cool air outside, wrapping her arms around him and leaning into his back, tenderly kissing his neck …

But anyway …

Mark started to get up, but just then, his mobile rang, and he crashed back onto the sofa. He leaned to one side so that he could fish his phone out of his trouser pocket.

‘Hello,’ he said. Then he listened to the person on the other end of the line for what seemed like an unusually long time.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Peter heard him say.

‘Hmm … of course. The Sionshof … Yes, that’s where I live.’ He looked at Peter with furrowed eyebrows, not sure where the conversation was heading. ‘What?’ he said suddenly, raising his voice. ‘They’ve what?’ He listened again as the person explained, then said, ‘Right. I’m on my way.’

‘What was that about?’ Peter asked when Mark hung up.

‘There was something … Uh … It was someone from the housing association that manages the complex. I’m their contact person for the Sionshof residents.’ He paused. ‘Someone’s daubed red paint on the outside wall.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘No. But it’s not just that. That would just be a random act of vandalism. This is something else.’

‘Meaning?’

‘They’ve turned the word “Zion” over the doorway into “Zionists”, and above that, they’ve written “Death to the”.’

‘Where’s the sense in doing that?’

‘It doesn’t make any sense, of course. It’s called the Groot Sionshof, for heaven’s sake.’ Mark hissed the first ‘s’, like a snake. ‘Supposedly, the stonemason who was supposed to chisel the name over the door made a mistake, and that’s why it’s written with a “z”’ rather than an “s”. If protestors wanted to make a point about Israel, doing this makes no sense at all. The Sionshof’s got nothing to do with Jews. There’s nothing Jewish about it.’

Then they looked at each other in horror. They had both just had exactly the same terrible thought. So it was no surprise when they both said the same name.

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