The Mammoth Book Best International Crime Page 26

  But there is another way of looking at it. I have bought them and they are mine now. They have to stay, they have nowhere else to go. Isn’t that what Piers meant when he said being together was the way it always would be? They are my close companions. We have nothing more to gain from each other, we have made our wills, and the death of one of us will not profit the others.

  They have made me happier than I have ever been. I know what people are. I have observed them. I have proved the truth of the recluse’s motto, that the onlooker sees most of the game. And I know that Piers and Rosario love me now as I love them, and dislike Will as I dislike him. No doubt they have recompensed him, I don’t want to know how, and I foresee a gradual loosening of whatever bond it is that links him to us. It began when I sent him back into the hotel to make that phone call, when Rosario’s eyes met mine and Piers pursed his lips in a little moue of doubt.

  Am I to end all this with a confrontation, an accusation, casting them out of my life? Am I to retreat – and this time, at my age, finally, for good – into that loneliness that would be even less acceptable than before because now I have seen what else is possible?

  I have held my dear brother’s bone in my hands. I have seen his clothes that time and decay have turned to rags and touched the ruin of a shoe that once encased his strong slender foot. Now I shall begin the process of forgetting him. I have a new brother and sister to be happy with for the rest of my life.

  Will has come back, looking sheepish, not understanding at all what has happened, to tell us we are dining at the Parador de Golondro, the little house of desire, at nine tonight. This is the cue, of course, for some characteristic British complaining about the late hour at which the Spanish dine. Only Rosario has nothing to say, but then she is Spanish herself – or is she?

  I resolve never to try to discover this, never to tease, to lay traps, attempt a catching-out. After all, I have no wish to understand the details of the conspiracy. And when the time comes I will neither listen to nor make deathbed confessions.

  For I saw in their eyes just now, as I came to their table to reassure them, that they are no more deceived in me than I am in them. They know that I know and that we all, in our mutual love, can accept.

  Out of the Blue

  Carla Vermaat

  His dinner had gone cold. By now, the food was spoiled. Bea had finished hers hours ago. She knew she’d have to throw his away, but something held her back.

  She frowned. The sour smell of the spinach was beginning to irritate her. She knew that reheated spinach wasn’t any good. She really ought to throw it away, but that seemed like such a waste. She could certainly warm up the three leftover meatballs, and the potatoes would be fine. But the spinach?

  She finally began to clear the table. She piled the dishes next to the sink; the washing up could wait for morning.

  The cuckoo on the wall announced that it was 11 o’clock. She went to the window and drew the curtains shut. Aart wouldn’t be home tonight.

  It was strange waking up in an empty bed, but on the other hand not really. Bea rolled over onto her side and laid a tender hand on the unmussed pillow. Aart’s job kept him away from home several nights a week. When he was on the road, he stayed in hotels or bed and breakfasts. He was always home by Friday, though, and every Saturday morning she woke up with him beside her. Except today.

  She sighed. 7:15. She suddenly realized how small and confining her world had become. And now it was even worse. Aart was never coming back. Never.

  She couldn’t make herself feel grief for her loss, just a bottomless bitterness over what had happened to her. And consternation over what she had done, although that feeling didn’t go very deep. It was as if her emotions were being kept at a distance by an invisible wall.

  There was emptiness, too, but that was nothing new. The emptiness had been there for years, though perhaps she’d never really been quite aware of it. She had simply borne it. Now, though, she began to realize that it was entirely her own fault that she’d never done anything truly worthwhile with her life. If she were asked to write her memoirs, she wouldn’t need more than half a page. Born, engaged, married, chief cook and bottle washer for a small household, her maternal instincts never fulfilled . . . and now alone. Her life in a nutshell, a life without high points.

  Until now.

  It was impossible, but she had actually done it. She had stepped up to the plate. Her behaviour was so at odds with her usual meek character that she could barely believe it of herself.

  Restless, she got out of bed and went into the bathroom. No need to look at herself in the mirror. She knew what she would see reflected in the glass: a grey mouse with vaguely blue-green eyes, pale skin and greying dark-blond hair. She was almost fifty, and life had had its usual way with her skin and her shape.

  In the shower, she tipped her head back and let the water rain onto her face and wished it could wash her life down the drain with her tears.

  It was an ordinary Saturday. It must be, because everything and everyone seemed completely normal. At the farmer’s market, Bea stood next to a chattering married couple and listened in on their good-natured discussion about which cheese to buy. Had she and Aart ever talked like that? She thought not. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d gone shopping together. How odd to think of that now. It was as if, somewhere inside her head, the volume had been turned up to a level she could finally hear.

  Bea dawdled. What was she doing here? Aart was gone. There was no point buying his favorite cheese.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  “A pound of Edam, please.”

  The cheeseman nodded. He knew exactly what she wanted, because she made the same selection every week. He didn’t need to offer her a sample to taste – he knew she would politely refuse.

  “Nice day,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  She watched his dexterous hands wrap the brick of cheese in wax paper. She would put it in the fridge, as if nothing had changed. At the nut stand, just like every week, she would buy two little bags of nuts, salted cashews for Aart, unsalted almonds for herself.

  The train sped across a more or less empty landscape of green meadows dotted with sheep and the spring’s first lambs. Doetinchem. What in the world would bring anyone to Doetinchem?

  Bea didn’t really have a plan. After wandering aimlessly around the market, she had walked to the station on impulse and bought a round-trip ticket. When she changed trains in Amsterdam, she still had no clear idea of what she meant to accomplish in Doetinchem. She walked uncertainly through the busy station hall. When the salesgirl at the newsstand offered her a book of crosswords, she took it. She never did crosswords, but she paid for it anyway. Then she boarded the new train and stared blankly out the window till after they’d passed Utrecht.

  The night before, something had awakened inside her. A realization that she hadn’t yet quite settled into the waiting room for the dead. She wasn’t even 50. Now that Aart was gone, she was free to do as she pleased. She could buy whatever she wanted, even take vacations to all the places he’d always been quick to criticize. She’d never wondered at the fact that he wouldn’t suggest an alternate plan. Only now did she finally understand.

  Unconsciously, she sat up a bit straighter. With much noise, the train passed a slower local one, and for the briefest of moments she saw her face reflected in its windows.

  A man had taken the seat opposite her. She turned from the window and met his gaze. There was something hard and cold in his eyes, and she looked hastily away.

  To give herself something to do, she pulled the book of crosswords from her shoulder bag. Frowning, she studied the first page. She knew that she wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the puzzle. But she didn’t want to have to continue to avoid the man’s stare.

  She got out at Doetinchem. She was nervous. The impulse that had driven her from her home in Zaandam to the station had long since given way to regret. She had continued with the journey only
because, having once bought the ticket, her natural thriftiness forbade her to throw it away unused. She felt she should turn around and go home, yet that seemed wrong somehow. Now that she was here, she ought at least to have a look at the house. Just this once.

  She bought a city map and studied it in a corner of a restaurant, where she ordered nothing but a simple cup of tea. Her stomach rumbled, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to eat anything. When she left the restaurant, she was surprised to see that it was already dusk. For some reason, the lateness of the hour set her in motion. The new development she was looking for was naturally on the edge of the city. She didn’t take a bus, because she had the vague idea that, walking, it would be easier to change her mind and turn back.

  She didn’t know how long she’d been walking. A long time. Her feet were swollen, her shoes pinched, and her calves were sore from the unusual exercise. Her bag wasn’t heavy, but the longer she carried it the more it began to weigh her down. She suddenly noticed that she’d begun to giggle at the thought of the piece of cheese she’d bought for Aart. It was in the bottom of her bag, with the two bags of nuts, a pack of string beans and four bananas.

  As she approached the new development, she came to a halt. She looked around her nervously. By now it was almost dark. It must be late, because her mouth was dry and her stomach protested loudly. She had eaten two of the bananas as she walked, and made a start on the almonds.

  There was the car. The light from a streetlamp made the metallic blue paint glitter unnaturally. She had assumed that she would find the car parked in a driveway. She felt a stab of disappointment, because now she had no way of knowing which house it was. Silly that she’d remembered the name of the street, but not the number of the house.

  As if in a trance, she walked up to the car and laid her hand almost tenderly on the glittering hood.

  Somewhere, a dog barked. A flood of hysteria welled up inside her. This was crazy. Here she was, standing giggling like a fool in a deserted parking lot in a suburb of Doetinchem, when she ought to be home, crying.

  Suddenly she dug into her shoulder bag, in the side pocket where she kept the spare set of keys. Of course, why hadn’t she thought of them before?

  She opened the door on the driver’s side. She had gotten a license at Aart’s insistence, but she’d never really taken to driving. It was more comfortable just to relax in the passenger seat beside him and enjoy the ride, without constantly having to worry about the unpredictable behaviour of the other drivers.

  Her hands trembled on the steering wheel. The keys were on her lap. She hadn’t planned it this way, but it was a good idea. She slid the key into the ignition. Could she do it? It had to be two years since her last experience behind the wheel.

  Of course, the whole situation was bizarre. Her life had been turned upside down. She set her mouth in a thin, grim line, conscious that the events of the last few hours had had an enormous impact on her personality.

  With one last cautious look at the row of houses, she started the car and backed away slowly. For a moment, she thought she saw a curtain move, but she decided it was probably her imagination. Nothing happened. No door flew open, no cry of protest that she was driving off in the car.

  Proud of the cool and confident way she turned the wheel and worked the gas and brake and clutch, she pulled out of the parking space and traversed the streets of Doetinchem until she spotted a road sign that directed her out to the highway.

  Somewhere in her subconscious mind, she must have come up with the glimmer of an idea. Otherwise, why had she taken this unnecessary detour? The empty asphalt road stretched out endlessly before and behind her. To one side, a grassy dike protected the highway from weather, wind and sea. On the other side of the road, the black sky dissolved seamlessly into the blackness of the lake.

  What was she supposed to do with the car? Why had she taken it? It had to disappear, just as Aart had disappeared.

  The water.

  She glanced off to the side. In the distance, she could make out tiny pinpricks of light. Was that the opposite shore, or were there ships closer to hand?

  It wouldn’t be a bad idea, she thought. The water. But not here. Not by this godforsaken dike alongside the Ijsselmeer. She would have to find somewhere else, nearer to civilization, someplace from which she could return home without the car.

  A canal. She giggled. She’d always been too frightened to park beside a canal. What if the emergency brake wouldn’t hold, and the car was gone when she came back from shopping? Or if she accidentally stepped on the gas and drove herself over the edge? Now, though, a canal struck her as a fine solution.

  At the end of the dike, she followed the signs for the city center. She thought the city was Enkhuizen, but she was concentrating so intensely on driving that she hadn’t paid close enough attention to the signs. Carefully, she kept an eye out for a spot that was suited to her plan. An industrial park was bordered by a narrow canal. The water was a dark green, and the orange lights that illuminated the outsides of the warehouses were reflected in its calm surface.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, she parked the car facing the water. The trees which lined the canal were far enough apart, and luckily there was no protective low iron fence. As she stared at the dark water, she could feel her heart pounding in her chest. She felt a bit lightheaded, but that she attributed to pure tension. She could scarcely believe that the events of the last few hours had really happened. She had metamorphosed from a virtuous housewife to a resolute woman who was coolly and deliberately covering her tracks. How could this be? Was it all truly only set in motion so recently, when she had so suddenly decided that there was only one possible resolution: that Aart had to die? It hadn’t even been all that difficult. Cleaning up the various loose ends was much more complex. She had to think of literally everything. Everything had to be carefully planned and considered, down to the smallest details.

  She felt a momentary twinge of doubt, and asked herself if she was doing the right thing – but that was soon replaced by other, stronger emotions. She took her shoulder bag, made sure that her wallet was inside, and switched off the engine. The headlights blinked out abruptly.

  She had no idea how deep the canal was, but that was a chance she’d have to take. It was lucky that the night was so dark. She stepped out of the car and leaned in to release the emergency brake. She left the door open, went behind the car and faced away from it and pushed against it with the weight of her body. It didn’t take long before the car slowly began to roll towards the water. At first she had to walk the car forward, but then gravity or inertia took over and quickly finished the job for her. She jumped away and found it hard not to burst out laughing: had she not been careful, she would have followed the car into the water.

  Her heart beating wildly, she stood there and watched the blue colossus dive over the edge of the canal. Its front end hit the water, which immediately streamed inside. Little eddies and air-bubbles formed strange patterns on the peaceful surface of the dark water. For a moment, she panicked. What in the name of God was she doing? She – Aart’s virtuous, obedient little woman, the stupid housewife – had just purposely driven a car into a canal. The dumb, aloof creature who had endured twenty-five years of married life with Aart had now done things she’d only previously read about in books. Eaten up by hate and bitterness, but just as coolly as she’d pushed the car over the edge of the canal, she had taken away Aart’s very existence. His life. He no longer was. What she was doing now was wiping away the tracks he had left in the world. It had to be like this.

  She didn’t wait until the car had gone completely under. With calm and collected movements she returned the spare set of keys to the side pocket of her bag and began to walk through the deserted streets of Enkhuizen.

  As Bea – tired and hungry – stepped over the threshold of her silent house, the telephone shrilled. She hurried to the living room, noticing almost subliminally that the newspaper lay on the little table in the foyer. H
ad she left it there? Her heart again began to pound, and she stood for a moment with her hand not quite touching the receiver to get her breathing back under control.

  “Hi, Bea. It’s not too early to call, is it?”

  Rein, her neighbor. He’d moved in next door five years ago, after he’d buried his wife and couldn’t take the emptiness and especially the memories that filled the home they had shared. “No, of course not, Rein.”

  Had he heard something? Seen something?

  “I’m sorry to bother you so early, Bea. I stopped by last night.” There was a hint of accusation in his voice.

  “I – yes. We were out, Rein.”

  “Oh, nice. Movie?”

  Bea swallowed. She hadn’t expected this. Her body was heavy with exhaustion, her head was splitting. She needed time to rest, to think.

  “No, just – out. Shopping, you know?” She felt satisfied that her answer had been generic enough to be convincing.

  “Aart and you together? I had the impression Aart wasn’t much of a shopper.” There was unmistakable surprise in his tone, and Bea’s mouth stretched into a thin line. Couldn’t the man mind his own business? What difference did it make to him whether or not Aart was a shopper?

  “Is that so hard to believe?” she replied snappishly.

  “No, of course not. Sounds great, Bea.”

  “Ah, why are you calling, Rein?”

  “I was just wondering if you two were home.”

  She swallowed. “I am, yes.” Was this it, then? What in God’s name could she come up with if he were to ask for Aart?

  “Actually, I was expecting a package yesterday, and I was hoping that the mailman might have left it with you. I ordered something, and I don’t understand why it’s taking so long to get here.”