The Amsterdam Chronicles: Trilogy

By Brian Christopher

When New York homicide detective Harvey Wall arrived in Amsterdam for a six month work exchange program with the Dutch police, he thought it would turn out to be a long holiday with plenty of fun. It was, until he encounters the strangest deaths he has ever come across in his working career.
He is assigned to work with a Dutch detective who looks and smells more like a weed smoking hippy, he is! His new boss is nothing compared to his ball breaking screaming Captain back in New York - in fact he seems just as laid back as his hippy partner. But things change when he encounters the first death - never has he seen anything like that back in New York.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Christopher
• Release date: Oct 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005824037

Brian Christopher

Born in Dublin, Ireland. Worked as a producer with various national broadcasting companies. Having created a collection of original stories over the years - they are now gently being released into the real world.

Book preview

The Amsterdam Chronicles

The Complete Trilogy

Copyright © Brian Christopher

2022

Photo Victor Lacken

victorlacken.com

Cover design B. le Ier

www.briannovels.com

The Amsterdam Chronicles Def-Con City is the intellectual property of the author. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form in any manner, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information system, without permission in writing from the author. All characters in this book are the sole invention of the author and have no reference to any person, living or dead, and have no relation whatsoever.

Dedicated to Amsterdam

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to Dick Dekker, whose sound knowledge of the Dutch police force helped me enormously. Louis Lucas whose knowledge of Amsterdam and the tram system was also a great help. Also a

big thanks to Nico Swaan whose sharp eye and lightning speed review helped me get everything ready for print. Floris Bechger & Alejandra Saldana and wonderful Amsterdam that is a treasure for inspiration.

About the author

Brian Christopher was born in Ireland and has worked as a producer for various broadcast companies in Ireland and the Netherlands. He resides near Amsterdam in the Netherlands.

CONTENTS

BOOK 1

Summer in Amsterdam

The Robbery

Running Free

The Chief

The Bath

Being Daddy

The Visit

A New Job

Becoming Famous

The Presentation

The Pickup

A Close Encounter

Pizza

Back on the Rooftops

BOOK 2

The Irish Pub

The Condition

The Meeting

Jeff & Sala

The Truck

Eddie

The Contract

BOOK 3

Back Home

Recovery

Questions

Healing

Therapy

A Surprising Victim

The Return

Hendrik’s Last Stand

The List

Girl Trouble

Calling Dad

The Vondelpark

A New Date

The Truth Revealed

Also by Brian Christopher

THE AMSTERDAM CHRONICLES

BOOK 1

Summer in Amsterdam

The mid-July temperature had dropped to one more associated with February or March. Summer had skipped Amsterdam this year; it rained almost every other day. Travel companies were doing brisk business for those looking for a suntan and an ozone layer that still held up. They would be the lucky ones. Some who remained in the city would regret it for the rest of their lives, or at least for the short time they had left to live.

Monday 2:15 AM.

Frank Brandsma lay asleep when suddenly he grabbed his chest. Rosie, his wife, who lay next to him, awoke instantly. She turned to see him gasping for breath and immediately recognised the problem; his heart. This was not the first time, although the doctor had assured her after the latest check-up, his health had improved tremendously. Since his last birthday, when he turned sixty-eight, Frank had cut down on fatty food and had been exercising. There was panic in his eyes as he lay staring up at the ceiling. Rosie tried to help him into a sitting position, but it was impossible. Even though he had lost weight, he was still far too heavy.

Frank clutched his left arm.

Are you all right, dear? Do you want me to call a doctor?

He gasped for breath - a second surge of pain cut across his chest. He grimaced through clenched teeth. Doctor? Call a goddamn ambulance, and quick.

I’ll call right away. She turned towards the telephone on the nightstand and punched in the emergency number. Frank jerked from a terrific jolt of pain, which shifted him close to the edge of the bed.

Oh my God, Rosie screamed. Please answer quickly. Hello? Yes, ambulance service, please. It’s my husband. He’s not feeling very well. I think he’s having another heart attack.... Five minutes? Yes, I’m sure he can wait that long. Thank you very much.

Another jolt of pain caught Frank so hard it flipped him out of the bed and onto the floor with a heavy thump. The ancient bedside lamps rocked from side to side. Rosie shrieked. From the other side of the bed, she could just see his hand clutch the edge of the sheet.

His eyes were wide open. Frank was dead.

Two hundred meters away, Carola Munk turned restlessly in her bed. A bead of sweat on her forehead rolled gently across her light blond eyebrow and dropped onto the yellow cotton cover of her feathered pillow. For the umpteenth time, she reached out with long, red-painted fingernails to push the nightmare away. Pain and terror filled her face. Her arms swung wildly, powerless in her effort to catch the horrifying images that taunted her. She stiffened and clutched the sheets with a firm grasp; two nails snapped.

Carola immediately awoke in a panic and gasped for breath. The unrestrained aggression she had for the beast that terrorised her sleep had abruptly ended. Not daring to move, she lay in her sweat-soaked white cotton sheets and hoped the pounding in her head would cease.

There were hangovers and hangovers, but never as bad as this. Her stomach felt sick - her chest hurt like hell. Four hours ago, the Spanish wine had tasted like someone had left a rusty nail in the bottom of the bottle. Why her friends had turned it into a trend was beyond her. They even brought their own Rioja to nearly every party. Too acidic, she told them time after time. The bitter metallic tang did not agree with her, and unlike most bad wines that became palatable after the first sip or second or third glass, that one never improved. Carola turned to the left towards the clock, her head throbbed. Her heartbeat seemed to magnify the pain at every pulse. Squinting her eyes to focus, she could just make out it was three thirty-four in the morning; it was going to be a long night.

Ten minutes later, the pounding in her head had increased to a near unbearable measure. The bellyache refused to die down - in fact; it felt worse. Carola quickly concluded that it was time to stick two fingers down her throat to flush out the remnants of wine and gut acid that made her so nauseous. A couple of paracetamol immediately after should dampen the headache, and with any luck, she would feel better within the hour. Then, back to sleep; her brain and body needed it badly before her alarm went off at 7 AM for work.

Having to use more effort than usual, Carola pulled back the covers, sat on the edge, and heard herself groan. Never was she so devastated after a night out with the girls - she had to get to the bathroom. Carefully, with one hand on the bed, the other held out in front for stability, she staggered towards the door. Every motion heightened the agony, draining her strength, and leaving her gasping for breath.

Finally, she made it. She flicked the light switch. The sudden brilliance of the newly installed LED light pierced her retina and hit the back of her head where the thumping pain originated. Hangovers were an accepted part of a night out with the girls, but nothing was ever like this. She wondered if it was migraine. No, it was without a doubt that fucking wine. Never again, she thought.

Grasping the cold tap, the effort of trying to turn it on surprised her. Her head spun, and her legs nearly buckled. Quickly, Carola stepped back before they gave away completely and sat back on the edge of the bath. The moment of dizziness caught her off guard. In desperation, she grabbed the sink directly in front to prevent herself from collapsing altogether. Her head dipped from exhaustion. Trying to correct her balance, she struggled to pull herself high enough to see her reflection in the mirror. The image staring back made her gasp.

A week ago, she had turned twenty-five. Compliments didn’t go higher than eighteen or nineteen. The lines under her bloodshot eyes were deeper and darker, her face was haggard and pale; she now looked like a deathly sixty-year-old.

The squad room was a buzz with detectives doing their work. Not that it had always been like that, but since the renovation and removal of a few walls, it gave the impression of a very busy station. However, that was where the deception ended. During the last twelve months, most police stations in Amsterdam had been modernised and refurbished, but when they started on the Marnixstraat station, the money had run out. To save face, the contractor tore down a few dividing walls, opened up some small confined rooms, painted over what was left, and moved on to another project. The effect was astounding. They could now watch each other work, and it gave them room for eight extra desks. The grumpy air-conditioning, the bad lighting, and the creaking floorboards all remained.

Rain still trickled in through cracked windows and ran down and onto stacks of unimportant files placed on the windowsill. The idea was to move these old files to a filing cupboard, but nobody bothered.

Next to the files, Detective Frank Bakker sat eating breakfast - a dried-out two-day-old pizza slice while reading the local city newspaper, the Parool. He scratched his long, unwashed shaggy hair. Frank was a born-again hippie in his early thirties whose greatest pleasure in life was catching criminals. He grew up in a poor neighbourhood where most gangs terrorised anyone over sixty, or younger or different to themselves; Frank fell into the latter category. His long hair, and flared multi-coloured patched jeans, which was the hippy trend of the day, was their excuse to pick fights with him every chance they got. Strangely enough, either through silence or pity, he usually got out of it, but that never stopped them from trying. Even the day he left home on his nineteenth birthday to study criminal science at the University they tormented and bullied him as he headed to the bus stop. After graduation, he joined the police while their delinquent form of terror branched out from the local neighbourhood to heavier strong-arm tactics and serious criminality in the rest of the city.

Bakker swore revenge for the torment and grief they brought to people. In his eight years on the force, he had convicted many of them for various offences ranging from burglary to assault. His personal knowledge of their friends, family, and general hangouts was invaluable. Daily, he would scan the newspapers to see if they made the headlines or, better still, the deaths column. Names found there would ensure a celebration down at the local coffee shop. Once his regular hangout during his student days, it was now the only excuse he had left for such a pit stop.

Bakker ran his finger down the deaths column and stopped when an item caught his eye. If he had not concentrated with any intensity, he would have missed it. He placed the near mummified slice of pizza between his teeth, took his newspaper in one hand and coffee in the other, and then carefully weaved his way through the bustling squad room.

Sally, a young, dark-haired admin officer, stopped him along the way.

On your way to the Chief?

Her smile was so rare it took him by surprise. Yeah, Bakker mumbled. She slipped a sheet of paper between his fingers.

He’s in a bit of a mood. If we both rush in, he’ll freak. Do you mind?

Not at all, he muffled through the sagging pizza slice. Maybe we can have coffee together sometime.

She looked at him with a certain amount of repugnance. No chance, she said just loud enough for him to hear, then took off in the opposite direction.

Partitioned by glass, the Chief Detective’s sparse office was at the back left-hand corner of the large squad room. Unlike others of his rank, Chief Harry Ribb was liked by everyone on the force, mainly because he ran a well-oiled station, had an uncanny gift for keeping track of everything, and was good-humoured in nature; a characteristic few men in his position managed to achieve.

Ribb sat on the edge of his desk with the telephone in one hand and ran the other through his hair in frustration.

Why are you asking me? he shouted. You’ve got the photo. He is tall, black, and comes from New York. What more do you want? Hold the board up higher. If he can read, he’ll see it. You are detectives, for god’s sake, find the man. Ribb slammed the phone down.

Bakker, handicapped with the pizza, coffee, newspaper and Sally’s note, cautiously nudged open the door with his foot and went to the front of Chief Ribb’s desk. Carefully he manoeuvred himself to the first of the two chairs, leaned over and bit through the pizza, which landed next to a small stack of files marked classified, then carefully lowered himself into the chair, trying not to spill his coffee.

Do you know, Bakker said, his mouth full, how many people die of natural causes in Amsterdam each night?

Chief Ribb ran his hands over his face and took a deep breath. Can’t imagine.

Bakker swallowed the rest of the pizza and washed it down with a slurp of coffee. On average, between thirteen and sixteen, and spread evenly throughout the city. He wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve. Now let’s say if two people died in one area, wouldn’t it be a little more than coincidence?

Is there a hospital in the area? I’m not underestimating you, Bakker, but sometimes people miss the obvious.

No, that’s not it. He laid the newspaper and the e-mail on the desk. Look at the deaths column.

Chief Ribb knew all about Bakker’s fascination with the deaths column. To an outsider, it seemed harmless enough, although he knew better. He scanned the newspaper and noticed two deaths on the different streets in the same neighbourhood.

So?

That’s what I thought first, but if you look at it another way? Bakker went over to the large map of Amsterdam on the wall. Two deaths. One in the Eerste Constantijn Huygensstraat here, and the other in the Bilderdijkstraat here. It’s the same street but changes name after a couple of hundred meters. He marked out the two spots with little red flags on the map.

Chief Ribb studied it with curiosity, then sighed. Interesting, he whispered, bordering on tedium, then scratched his dark curly hair, which had turned grey at the sideburns. He took a step back to get a better view. Coincidence, I’d say.

Like I said, on average, sixteen people die in Amsterdam every day. But these two live so close to each other...

Not next to one another, just close. Chief Ribb reminded him. A couple of hundred yards. This has never happened before?

Well, at least not for a while. I’ve checked out deaths in Amsterdam during the last five years.

Five years?

Exactly. Bakker carried on, not realising his chief’s surprise at the admission. I made up a little filter script, and that did most of the work. Bakker went back to his seat and took another bite of pizza.

Right, Chief Ribb said, knowing that combing the data in the computers was one of Detective Bakker’s better qualities. He would have been just at home working in the IT department of any large corporation. But he chose the police. So no one has ever died this close to one another of natural causes. Is that what you are saying?

That’s it. You’ve got it.

Who’s saying it could never happen? The probability of people dying of natural causes within half a kilometre is not high, I agree. This may not have happened before, but statistics do not guarantee it could never happen.

That’s my point. It hasn’t happened before, so that makes it an unusual occurrence and, therefore, suspect.

Suspect in your eyes, Detective Bakker, not mine. Forget it. It’s a coincidence, so move on to something that is relevant and can deliver results.

Ribb’s blank stare indicated their little talk was over. Time for the young detective to get out of his office. Bakker remained seated, his stare still fixed on the map of Amsterdam.

Chief Ribb took a deep breath. If they were right next to one another, he continued. I’d say we had a problem. But that’s not the case, so I wouldn’t worry about it if I was you.

Finally, Bakker got the hint. He got up out of the chair and was about to head for the door when he turned. Oh, I nearly forgot. He handed Ribb the sheet of paper he got from the admin officer.

It was an email from Detective Wall’s commanding officer in New York.

Without warning, the door burst open and Ruby, Ribb’s most recent girlfriend, entered. Long-legged, with short jet black hair, she wore a tight-fitting black leather outfit, which bordered on the edge of punk. A multitude of bangles dangled and tinkled in distinct tones on each wrist. Ruby looked very much younger than 29 years, 15 years younger than Ribb. Bakker couldn’t take his eyes off her.

You devil, she said, sounding vexed.

Ribb looked up at her with surprise. Why? What’s up?

Eyes fixed on Ribb, she moved towards him with the grace of a large Puma and joined him behind his desk.

Ribb looked bewildered. Ruby was the wildest, most evocative and erotic woman he had ever met. Never in his life had he come across anyone with such a thirst for life, and him. Why and how they started a relationship was still a mystery. His only concern was how long the fun was going to last.

Confused, he shook his head. What did I do?

You left this morning without saying goodbye. She leaned over, pulled him by the collar towards her, and kissed him deeply.

Bakker, embarrassed, looked away. He scratched his shaggy hair and was about to leave when she broke away and headed for the door.

That should help you through the day. Her devilish smile was exaggerated by the dimple on her left cheek. See you tonight.

The door closed, and she was gone. The only evidence left of her presence was Ribb’s bewildered look and the sweet fragrance of perfume that hung in the air. He sucked in the breath of much-needed oxygen. New girlfriend, he said.

Bakker’s eyes were fixed on the door. Christ, he muttered, any sisters?

The telephone rang. Chief Ribb grabbed it quickly, thankful for the distraction. What’s the problem now...?

He rolled his eyes. What do you mean, he wasn’t on the flight? I just got an email from his captain saying he personally put him on the plane...

He listened attentively to their argument, then shouted. No, his file didn’t come in yet. I don’t care how you find him. Just don’t come back here without him. Ribb slammed down the phone. Those two... Harry Ribb looked up - the room was empty.

Bakker sat down opposite Rikkie Corso, a tall uniformed patrol officer who spent most of his time cruising the streets of Amsterdam. Bakker got to know him during the first couple of months as part of his training. He was one of the few who would talk to him, although he felt there were two sides to the friendship. Sometimes Corso seemed like an actual friend, but the next day it was like he never knew him at all. His lack of empathy was surprising. Bakker felt he was only at his desk whenever he needed something done or probing for information. Now it was information.

What do you want to know? Bakker asked, playing to the expectant look on Corso’s face.

Name, number, address? Corso smirked.

Oh, that.

Yes, that.

Bakker tried to concentrate on the flat screen, checking the information he had just presented to the Chief. Bosses new playmate, he muttered, then began work on a new search algorithm.

Damn, Corso growled. Lizzie is not going to like her.

Bakker turned away from the screen. Are you kidding? Don’t you remember his -ex and what she was like?

Yeah, maybe you could be right.

Lizzie is at the learning stage of adolescent girls, Bakker said. She’ll want to break away from all that sweet little girl stuff and become a fully-fledged woman as soon as humanly possible. Believe me, she’ll be wanting to learn everything the Chief’s new girlfriend has to teach her.

How do you know? Corso sneered. You have no kids,

Adolescent psychology, part of my university study.

Which is all bullshit. Out there on the streets, that’s the real University.

Corso reclined lazily back in the chair, his jacket opened up to reveal his gun and handcuffs. I could handle that little fox for sure, but I don’t think the Chief is going to last the full fifteen rounds.

Give the man a break. He hasn’t had it easy since the divorce. It’s about time he enjoyed himself.

Corso laughed. You don’t enjoy yourself with a woman like that. You make her enjoy you.

What do you mean by that?

Didn’t you get a good look at her? She’s the type who wants to dominate. You’ve got to turn that around and teach her to enjoy you. I would..... Corso suddenly stopped talking. Officer Charles Boddin, the administrative controller, came up to Bakker and stopped next to him at his desk.

Corso stared at how the light shone off Boddin’s head. Waxing that dome of yours?

Boddin ignored Corso and looked sternly at Bakker. Boddin always had a way of looking solemn and grim. He placed two forms down in front of the shaggy-haired detective. The deductions you made for meals last week are not acceptable.

Bakker, suddenly alert, sat up straight and turned to look up at Boddin. I was on duty and working undercover.

Boddin peered down at him. I need a receipt. Otherwise no deductions.

I gave you the receipts, all of them.

Boddin held up several crumpled pieces of stained paper. I do not call these receipts.

They were when I got them.

It looks as if you were chewing on them.

I was, Bakker confirmed.

Boddin immediately dropped them onto the desk.

It was the situation. I was told to eat everything I had in my pockets or die. So I ate them. I know it sounds like something you’d hear in a film, but it’s true. I had no choice.

Either have I. No receipts, no refunds. Boddin turned and walked away.

Bakker jumped up and shouted. I’m entitled to those deductions.

With legible receipts, Boddin said over his shoulder as he headed back to his desk.

You can’t do this, he yelled, then turned to Corso. The man is a pen-pushing senseless asshole, he said bitterly. People like that should be put on an island with thousands of other pen-pushing idiots. God, I hate that man. What do you do with someone like that?

I can think of a few things, but you really don’t want to know, Corso muttered, they’re all illegal.

At Schiphol Airport, fifteen kilometres south of Amsterdam, crowds gathered around arrival gate number 3 waiting to greet family and friends. Amongst them, company representatives held up signs with the name of their company, or contact. The arrivals door slid open and a small group of freshly tanned passengers sporting sombreros, T-shirts, and loose-fitting shorts came out and were greeted by equally enthusiastic friends and relatives wearing winter coats, a mark of the depressing weather that held Europe in its grip for the last two weeks.

Detectives Klaas Dop and Frans Kaps looked on tired and frustrated. They stood next to business representatives holding printed name boards waiting on clients while Kaps held up a large board with the name Harvey Wall scribbled on it; the same board they took turns in holding up for the last hour and a half.

We’re wasting our time here. Dop moaned. His flight arrived more than an hour ago from New York. I don’t think he was on it.

The Chief told us to wait, so we wait, Kaps replied, steadfast and decisive.

Dop shook his head in disagreement. Everybody on that flight passed through customs more than a half-hour ago. There is no way he could have passed us. He was definitely not on the flight.

We wait, Kaps commanded.

Although they both held the same rank, Kaps always took the leading hand. Dop never rejected. His only interest was to let the day pass with as little trouble or exertion as possible. The burger and fries he had while waiting eased the monotony. Now he just wanted to get home and relax on the sofa with a beer and watch a movie on his new 8k HD TV.

We’re wasting our time, he moaned. There is no point in hanging around any longer.

You just want to go home to a beer and watch TV, right?

Well, nothing is happening here, so I can’t see the point.

Kaps shook his head. You’ve got to be the laziest guy on the force.

In a cafe, a short distance behind the waiting crowds, and directly across from the arrivals gate, people relaxed, waiting for friends and family. Leaning against one of the pillars at the edge of the bar was a tall black American, Detective Harvey Wall.

He smiled as he watched Dop and Kaps bitch at each other. A half-hour ago, he spotted them holding their trivial makeshift notice as he came through the arrivals door. Even though he towered over most of the other passengers, they never noticed him. His welcoming party were busy eyeing up a group of scantily clad women who had just arrived from Mexico. It was then he decided to play his little game.

He walked right past them and headed for a currency exchange counter where he exchanged dollars for euros and browsed the large variety of airport shops before he returned to watch them bickering. If these two clowns were typical Dutch detectives, then he was going to have fun in Amsterdam, for sure. In fact, the fun could begin right now. Harvey Wall picked up his large sports bag and headed for the terminal exit.

Outside the main building, a long row of taxis stood ready and waiting. First in line was a brand-new deep blue Mercedes. The driver quickly jumped out and placed his one piece of luggage in the trunk, then held the door open and closed it when he got in; a service cab drivers in New York would never dream of doing.

The driver was young, middle twenties, had a quick smile and judging by his enthusiasm not long on the job. Harvey knew Europeans had a love-hate relationship with Americans. They hated their bragging and loudness, but loved their tips. Sitting back in the spotless seat, he glanced at the driver’s identity card stuck to the dashboard. It was all Dutch but looked legitimate enough.

City Centre, Dam Square, Wall ordered. As the taxi raced away, Wall took his iPhone out of his inside jacket pocket and photographed the ID.

Clearing the maze of roads around the airport took a few minutes before they got onto the motorway. Traffic seemed like rush hour, bumper to bumper, but at a much higher speed than he was used to back home. The biggest difference was the smoothness of the ride. No bumps or potholes to cripple the suspension, or your back, in fact, the road was smooth and silky. If only they didn’t drive up everyone’s ass, it would be the perfect ride.

Half an hour later, Harvey Wall stepped out of the taxi on Dam Square, right in front of the same palace Napoleon Bonaparte visited in 1811; a fact he read about in the guidebook on the flight over. The word Dam seemed to conjure up something hellish, but it looked different than it sounded. He didn’t know what to expect, but impressive it was not. No parading guards in fancy uniforms or ornamented railings like Buckingham Palace in London, one of the cities he visited on his whirlwind honeymoon tour of Europe ten years ago. A year later, they divorced.

The sandstone walls were dark and stained. A cleaning job might do the trick or a serious makeover with a coat of white paint. Shrubbery would look nice or a barrier along the front, or maybe a tower on each corner. Soldiers in full military regalia, stuff like that. But then again, he wondered if it really would make a difference - its grand depressiveness would probably defeat any enhancement.

Harvey Wall sucked in the air through his nostrils and shook his head disapprovingly.

Too clean – there was no big city smell like there was back home. No exhaust or petrol fumes with a mix of rubber and industry. Definitely not New York, he grumbled.

The taxi driver looked expectantly up at the tall American with a look of confusion and curiosity. He was about to place his baggage next to him when he handed the driver two 50 euro notes and a piece of paper.

Take the luggage to my hotel. I wrote the address down there and keep the change.

The taxi driver was more than surprised at the amount. He looked at the address, nodded, then placed the baggage back in the taxi.

Thank you very much, sir, no problem. I know that hotel very well, he said, stuffing the notes into his wallet.

According to Google maps, the hotel was only a ten-minute drive from Dam Square. Maybe he had tipped him a little too much.

As the taxi sped away, he took another photo of the registration plate, then turned to watch flocks of pigeons jostling for space on the large cobblestone square in front of the palace. He saw tourists feed them with bits of hamburgers, French fries, and other morsels, while friends and family took photos of them perching on their hands, shoulders and heads. Rats with wings the Dutch called them in his travel book, mostly because of the diseases they carried. He wondered how much physical contact these people would make with others before they washed their hair, hands, and clothes again.

He turned and looked at the large white marble monument on the opposite side of the square; again not exactly impressive. A white stone pillar to commemorate the Second World War. Another snippet he remembered from the tourist book, but he could not remember the details. What did stick in his mind was the information about the small street to the right just past the monument; it led straight into the Red-Light district.

Hard to believe a royal palace was just around the corner from the most famous prostitution neighbourhood in the world. What would people say if the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue was within a couple of hundred meters from streets full of prostitutes and pimps, and legal. That nugget of info caught his attention.

So this is Amsterdam.

He turned back to look at the palace. Crowds streamed out of the busiest shopping street in the city, the Kalverstraat. During the six-hour flight, he had plenty of time to study the maps and guidebooks and knew exactly where he was, and which direction to take. Harvey Wall checked his wallet in his breast pocket and headed towards the shopping street to the left of the palace. Inching his way past the queues at the Rabo Bank ATMs on the corner, he submerged into the masses of shoppers and tourists.

Administration officer Boddin added up the receipts on this calculator, wrote the total on the blue form, double-checked it, gathered everything neatly into a folder, and headed for Chief Ribb’s office. A female clerk with a file in her hand joined him as he entered the ‘aquarium’ as many of the detectives called it.

Chief Ribb was on the telephone. Listen and listen very carefully, he said, doing his best to control his temper. Check airport security. They could have spotted him. It’s possible they could have contacted him for some reason or other and took him through another door. Maybe he fell asleep on the toilet? Whatever! All I know is he’s a tall black American who got on the plane and did not disappear on the flight halfway across the Atlantic. Just find the man, he shouted and slammed down the phone.

Boddin, with the female clerk directly behind him, stood in front of the chief’s desk.

God, give me patience, he moaned, then turned to Boddin. They’re not the worst on the force, but they do their best to make my blood boil. Ribb got up from his desk to study the markers on the map. Bakker was not an idiot, and in the past had come up with credible suggestions, but was he imagining things? Could he be on drugs?

The clerk passed Boddin and held out the file to Chief Ribb. The file on the American has just arrived, sir.

He took it, and then she left. Ribb observed how Boddin failed to notice the clerk brush past him, her breast touching his elbow, and offering him a gentle smile. Opening the folder, he removed Detective Harvey Wall’s photo and studied it while Boddin laid his paperwork on the desk, along with the blue form.

Receipts for last month. Do you want to sign? Boddin said in a near whisper.

Ribb, who seemed more frustrated than ever, went back to his black leather swivel chair. You mean I have a choice?

Boddin, expressionless and calm as ever, pulled up a seat and settled slowly into it. I’ve known you since you joined the force and watched you work your way up the ranks, Boddin said, in his typical low relaxed tone that bordered on tedium. You know when you need a little coaching or personal advice regarding the station, I’m always there, even those times when you don’t realise you need it yourself. This is one of those moments. What’s up?

Ribb tried to focus his attention and massaged his temples with his index fingers. I’m used to getting frustrated at criminal cases that do not tie up, and there are times I want to explode because some judge has let the shit of the earth walk free. But days like this bring on total bewilderment - and unmerciful headaches.

Okay, so what’s the problem?

Bakker’s got this idea about the deaths column. He is either turning neurotic or on drugs, and I’m not talking about the shit he likes to smoke. All the signs are there. Apart from that, I sent two baboons to the airport to pick up a guest cop coming to Amsterdam on an exchange program from New York. They lost him before he stepped off the plane. Ribb handed Boddin the photo. Here, look at this.

Harvey Wall was an African American born to an Afro Jamaican father and Chinese mother. With high cheekbones and smiling eyes, he looked more like a model than a police officer. He stood 6 foot 4 in uniform, next to, and smiling down at his captain, who did not look amused.

They also have got the same photo. Look at the guy. How could you miss someone built like that? He slumped back into his chair.

Is that all?

No. Last night, my new girlfriend just about drained me of all my energy, and ten minutes ago she stormed in here to finish me off. And, if that’s not enough, I got a call from Bakker, who claims you won’t accept his receipts.

Boddin remained relaxed, and for what seemed like an eternity to Ribb, finally spoke. Did you see them? Boddin asked.

I did.

And?

Normally he would have to go back to the restaurant to pick up new receipts.

That’s what I thought, case closed. I’ll process them when I get them. Boddin said blandly, with a feigned smile.

Chief Ribb shook his head. He can’t. The owner is in jail, and the restaurant has been boarded up, which means you have to accept them.

But they are illegible.

I don’t care. He paid for food and whatever else and we should refund it. Deal with it. Make out new receipts yourself if need be.

That is neither normal procedure nor legal, Boddin firmly replied.

Ribb was not in the mood for an argument. I don’t care. What do you want me to do? Arrest him for not following procedure because of soiled receipts?

Boddin arose from the chair and pointed at the blue form. Just sign, please.

Ribb signed. Boddin left without saying another word.

Ribb could remember when he used to take on the biggest crimes in Amsterdam, spending months on surveillance, sifting through mountains of information and nothing phased him. But these stupid little incidents at the station drove him crazy. What was he turning into? Where had the action gone? It seemed like years since the adrenaline from being a street detective flowed through his veins.

Although he had control over all the major operations, there was no real fieldwork and no feeling of an active contribution to crime-fighting. He had become a coordinator, a regulator, with meetings on top of meetings, which had become mundane and bureaucratic, and unbelievably boring. How long would this continue? How long could he go on nursing a bunch of overgrown boy scouts?

Time seemed to pass at a snail’s pace as Dop and Kaps continued to wait for their lost passenger at Schiphol International Airport. At least one hundred and thirty planeloads of travel-weary passengers had passed through the arrivals gates in the last two hours, and Kaps had had enough.

Come on, he moaned. Let’s try security.

We could have done that an hour ago.

Shut up. Just move it.

Dop had difficulty keeping up with Kaps as he hurried towards the airport security office. First, they checked with airline staff to see if Wall had been on the flight. That was quickly confirmed, but there was no extra information as to where he went after he stepped off the plane.

They checked customs to see if they had held him for any guns, drugs or whatever he might have been carrying. He was not. Finally, they were referred to the security department, who monitored everything on camera that came and went throughout Schiphol Airport.

The CCTV surveillance room was large and impressive. It comprised a curved table two meters deep and at least twenty meters long. Five surveillance officers sat behind groups of three monitors directly at eye level, while on the wall in front, lines of flat screens spanned the width of the room. Above them, extra monitors showed the arrival and departure times of all flights. Directly behind the surveillance officers, three supervisors in enclosed desks scrutinised flags put on movements of special interest by the first group.

Dop and Kaps were introduced to the supervisor, a tall, thin man in his early forties with dark deep rings under his eyes. He held up a USB stick.

I copied the CCTV recordings of passengers from that flight. They lead out into the arrivals building where you were waiting. He stood up and headed away from his desk. Follow me.

In the small, darkened viewing room behind the main surveillance room, the supervisor settled down in front of a couple of monitors and slipped the USB stick into the computer. Two monitors lit up automatically.

This shows the entrance and exit points and the various arrival and departure halls in Schiphol. This is arrival hall number three, he said, pointing to the monitor on the left. And I think that looks like your man.

The supervisor pointed to a tall black male coming out of the arrivals door while Dop and Kaps could be seen concentrating on several scantily clad women in the opposite direction. They watched the tall black American stroll directly up to them, stall for a moment within arm’s length, shake his head, and then carry on walking. Kaps and Dop realised they had failed to notice him at all.

Oh shit, Kaps moaned and raised his eyes towards the dark ceiling, and muttered something incomprehensible.

It seems, the supervisor continued, that after this he went to exchange some dollars for euros, then came back to where you were. He typed another couple of keys. This is a shot about fifteen minutes later.

The monitor showed Wall leaning up against a pillar at a coffee bar, staring at Dop and Kaps only twenty meters away, whose interest remained on a couple of beautiful women in the direct vicinity.

He’s not all that difficult to recognise, the supervisor casually remarked. I Don’t know how you could have missed him.

They then watched the American Detective pick up his bag and walk away in the opposite direction towards the exit and taxis waiting outside the main terminal.

What the hell? Dop said, astonished. That is criminal.

I still don’t know how you could have missed him. The supervisor muttered with a certain undertone.

All right, Kaps moaned. We heard you the first time.

The supervisor pressed some more keys, and another monitor flickered into action. This is a shot from outside the main building.

Kaps watched dumbstruck at the sight of Wall getting into a dark blue Mercedes taxi and driving away. Kaps slammed his fist on the table and jumped up.

Why the hell did he do that? He saw us waiting. He could have just walked over and we’d have been back at the station hours ago.

Dop slumped in the chair. And I could have been home, putting my feet up. The Chief is going to kill us.

But we know where he’s going, Kaps said excitedly, then took out his mobile. We’ll find him, don’t worry, I’ve got the number to his hotel. He dialled and a male desk clerk answered.

The Alfred hotel. Good afternoon. How may I help you?

This is Detective Kaps from the Amsterdam police. I am looking for a guest, a fellow police officer who has just arrived from New York. His name is Detective Harvey Wall.

I’m afraid he is not in the hotel at the moment. However, his luggage arrived just a short while ago, the clerk replied.

What do you mean, his luggage arrived? Kaps shouted.

As I said, only his luggage arrived. No Detective, Detective. I believe he got out somewhere along the way. He told the driver to drop his luggage off at the hotel. That’s all I know.

Listen, you jerk. The driver...

Thank you for calling. Good day, the clerk abruptly replied, then hung up.

Dop looked on, waiting for an answer.

What did he say?

Kaps left the chair and headed for the door. He got out of the taxi somewhere in the city.

We’ve got to find him before he gets lost, Dop said. You know what Amsterdam is like for the average tourist. A maze of canals, bridges, and streets, that all look alike. If you don’t know your way around, you disappear into a black hole. Besides, if we arrive back at the station without him, Chief Ribb is going to skin us alive.

Lost? Kaps threw up both hands. Are you kidding me? He’s a detective from New York, for Christ’s sake.

Boddin was, as usual, at his desk, which, unlike many of his colleagues, was meticulous. Next to the ruler, placed on the very edge, lay an elaborate holder for pens, pencils, scissors, and paper clips in various sizes. Behind him, a purposely built cabinet appeared to contain an array of forms in every colour ever issued by the police during the last hundred years and stacked to the brim. Chief Ribb appeared in front of his desk and took a seat as Boddin was filling in a green form.

I’m sorry, Charles. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you like that.

Boddin glanced up for a second, then without acknowledgement of his Chief’s presence, continued to fill in the form. You let that sort of nonsense nitty-gritty get under your skin, Boddin said, in his usual tone; the same tone that drove many of his co-workers to despair. You should learn to relax, keep your work under control, and most important of all, at a distance. Never let it get too personal. The worst you can do is let the insignificant pile up and get into your head. Concentrate on the things that matter. The rest is, believe me, irrelevant.

Ribb knew he was right. He could never handle the petty stuff; that was Boddin’s’ forte. There’s something I always wanted to ask you, Ribb said.

Boddin, in his usual manner, stopped writing, put his pen to one side, and looked up.

Do you enjoy doing the administration, the paperwork, chasing after everyone, checking receipts?

Boddin immediately took up his pen and went back to filling in the forms. I don’t mind. It’s a job. I put in a good day’s work, he said, sounding uninterested.

And the only thing you look forward to at the end of the day is your pension, Ribb replied.

Boddin stopped writing, put his pen to one side, and stared directly at Ribb.

There’s nothing wrong with that.

No, but it’s a fact, right?

Not the way I look at it.

But it is true, Ribb said, pressing his point.

I am looking forward to a pleasant retirement, yes.

Charles, have you ever wondered why you never made promotion?

Boddin packed the papers in front of him into a neat bundle, took a medium-sized paperclip out of its little compartment, attached it to the papers, and then dropped them in the outbox. It never really bothered me.

Ribb leaned towards him and raised his index finger. That’s it. Nothing bothers you. Nothing gets you going. You couldn’t care whether you had a job here or the tax office or social welfare. You’ve got no drive.

Boddin grabbed another bunch of neatly stacked envelopes, stood up, and was about to walk away, then hesitated and turned to Chief Ribb.

Do I need it in my line of work?

No, but... Suddenly, Ribb was out of words.

Boddin was gone.

Ribb realised he had once again gone too far. Talking to Boddin like that was a mistake. Shit, he muttered under his breath. When would he learn to be more diplomatic. Once again, he felt he was the wrong man, in the wrong job.

At lunchtime, the station canteen was, as ever at this time, full. There was seating for roughly sixty men and women who usually gathered in groups according to their rank or work. Uniform sat with uniform detectives with their own.

After grabbing his usual afternoon snack, a hotdog covered with a layer of mustard and ketchup, and black coffee, Chief Ribb looked around for a place to sit. Most senior officers never dined in the canteens. Meals were usually brought to their offices, or they lunched outside. The idea behind it was to create a distance of command, which many believed was to generate more respect. The lower ranks would not look up to a senior officer who lunched with the regulars. Ribb never cared for that type of protocol. For him, it was outdated and an insult to the people he worked with.

Ignoring empty tables close by, he found what he was looking for, right at the back - away from others, in the quietest area of the canteen.

Mind if I sit down?

Boddin looked up with a slight hint of surprise at Chief Ribb beckoning to a stool opposite him. Without waiting for an answer, he sat down. Boddin gently wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and then continued to cut into the schnitzel on his plate.

I apologise for what I said earlier, Ribb said. I’m not in a position to tell you what you should or should not do with your life.

With the precision of a surgeon, Boddin cut the schnitzel into little squares, then put down his knife and fork.

Listen, Harry, he said, in his relaxed, deep tone. No need to apologise. You are just doing your job. But I enjoy my work. For most people, it would be boring and dull, but I like it. It suits my way of life. And when I look at the rest of the other people who work here, even you, I’m a happy man.

Ribb shook his head. I don’t get it. You could have a lot more going for you. You could have had my job. You’ve got the intelligence and more.

Boddin stared at him blankly, then leaned towards Ribb. Let’s weigh up the balance, okay? You’ve got a broken marriage, a fourteen-year-old daughter who needs your attention, a new girlfriend who seemingly needs even more attention, and a station demanding constant nursing that has you frustrated as hell. Compare all that to my life, I don’t think I’ve too much to worry about.

Ribb shook his head in disbelief. You don’t miss much, do you?

It’s part of my job. I like to keep my finger on the pulse.

Yeah, while I’m getting heartburn and blistering headaches trying to keep everything up and running.

I remember you telling me the only ambition you had after spending so many years in the field was to take charge of the station and get everything running the way you wanted it, like a well-oiled machine.

Ribb was about to give Boddin a reply when his mobile rang and saw it was the city pathologist. He pressed the answer button. Boddin went immediately back to eating his schnitzel.

Jim, what’s up?

In the mortuary, Dr Jim Conver, the city pathologist for the last nine years, stood over a female body laid out on the stainless steel table. Her chest cavity was wide open, and on the small tray next to her lay her heart.

I’m working on a young female that supposedly died of natural causes. But the more I look into it, it does not seem to be so natural after all. Could you come over?

I’m just in the middle of lunch. But okay, give me half an hour.

The Robbery

Just around the corner from the Leidseplein in the heart of Amsterdam, Dop and Kaps got out of their unmarked police car.

Where do we go from here? Dop asked.

Kaps studied the bustle of tourists in the surrounding streets. If you were a tourist who just arrived in Amsterdam, where would you go?

The red-light district I’d do later, Dop replied. First, I would get acquainted with the city, look around, take in the sites, probably keep to the shopping areas, Leidsestraat, Kalverstraat, something like that. Maybe look for a museum.

Kaps took the photo of Harvey Wall out of his jacket and held it up in front of Dop’s face. This does not look like the type of person who would go straight to a museum on his first day in Amsterdam. He stuffed the photo back into his pocket. But you’re right about the red-light district. Tourists don’t go there immediately when they arrive. They need a day or two to build up confidence. Let’s get a quick bite and a beer, then work our way down to the Kalverstraat.

In a Mexican restaurant in the Korte Leidsedwarsstraat, not more than two hundred meters from where Kaps and Dop had just stepped out of their unmarked police car, a waiter brought Detective Harvey Wall a large plate of spare ribs.

Here you are, sir.

Looks good. Tell me, where does a man go to have a good time around here?

The waiter smiled and moved a little closer. Wall noticed more than he wanted to. The sight of stains on his threadbare waiter’s jacket reminded Wall of a rat-infested restaurant he once raided in the Bronx years ago. His appetite for the ribs suddenly vanished.

Depends on what you’d call a good time, sir, he said, smiling, showing his two front gold-capped teeth.

His breath reeked. Harvey opened a map of Amsterdam and handed the waiter a pen. Just mark the spots buddy, and let me worry about the rest.

Thirty minutes later, Harvey Wall was out on the street. Around the corner from the restaurant, he eyed up a pair of Nikes in a store window, and tried to figure out the exchange rate, then took out his iPhone. The conversion app calculated the Euros into dollars. To his surprise, they were less expensive than in New York, but would they have a pair in his size? Fourteen? Probably not. Even in the US, he had to order online or go to exclusive shops.

Just then, on the other side of the Leidsestraat, three youths ran out of the pizza restaurant, turned right and up the busy shopping street and past a tram coming down the middle in the opposite direction.

A waiter rushed out and shouted. Stop... help me, somebody. I’ve been robbed.

Wall turned and automatically reached for his gun. Gone. He forgot he had packed it with his luggage, which was now back at the hotel. Further up, he saw them split up. Keeping an eye on where they ran, he quickly checked his other pockets and found all the equipment he needed. Without further hesitation, he took after the one who remained in view, the weakest. A small white kid, about seventeen, blond hair, black t-shirt, scruffy jeans hanging down his ass and strutting his Bjorn Borg underwear.

The man from the restaurant shouted as Wall rushed past. They took all my money.

Unaware of Wall behind him, the thief ran towards the Leidseplein then turned to the right at a theatre and into a narrow street, the Lijnbaansgracht.

After passing the Melkweg music venue halfway down, the thief suddenly slowed to a walking pace. Difficult to figure out why at first, Wall did the same but kept his distance. He quickly realised why the sudden change in pace. The thief passed a police station on the right further down the street. The kid was either incredibly stupid or had a ton of guts, Wall thought. He should have known about the station, just as all the kids in New York know exactly where the local precinct is. Stupid, he thought. At that moment, four uniformed police officers rushed out and jumped into two police cars.

The thief hesitated for a second as the engines started up and they sped past. He cautiously carried on, extraordinarily stupid, he concluded. Wall thought briefly about getting their attention as they drove past but decided against it. Trailing him was always the better option in a situation like this. It could lead to the others, and quicker than waiting for him to rat on his friends if he arrested him now and brought him into custody. Back home, research had shown that groups committing similar robberies usually met up within an hour after the crime. The money would be shared out, then go their separate ways. He hoped the same statistics applied to Amsterdam.

Heading past the police station, he followed the young thief over a small bridge and continued to tail him through a maze of streets. After twenty minutes of dodging in and out of the narrow streets - some not much bigger than the width of a car - he watched the three thieves meet up in the middle of the Jordaan district. He checked his position on his iPhone. The name of the street he was on was called ‘Vuileweespad’. They sure had the weirdest names here. He marked it. It was essential information when or if he had to write up a report about the robbery.

In the shelter of a doorway, he watched them share out the money. Minutes later, they split up once again. Making a mental note of the directions they took, he studied the surrounding buildings and noted the different doors, parked cars, and anything that made an impression. It would save him from getting lost. Long before smartphones appeared, this was the way he worked to prevent getting lost - a habit he enjoyed and did not intend to give it up because of the wonders of electronics. If he moved quickly, he knew his plan would work. Thieves who felt secure had little reason to run. They would slow down, relax, and take things easy: that was when he would make his move.

Suddenly, the kid turned around and headed back toward him.

Wall was not ready for the encounter. He stopped, reached into his jacket pocket, took out a yellow post-it paper block and wrote on it. The thief drew close. As he passed, Wall reached out and grabbed him from behind. The thief screamed something in Dutch when the American’s huge hand pinned him up against the red brick front wall of a house.

He stared up at Wall with a look of fear on his face.

Sorry, pal, I don’t understand a word. Where I come from, I would have shot you between the eyes as soon as you came out of that pizza joint. But I’m a guest here, so I’ve got another surprise for you.

From his inside jacket pocket, Wall took out a long plastic tie wrap. He pulled the thief’s hands behind his back and quickly locked his wrists, securing it with a second tie-wrap to a drainpipe.

Well, how do you like that? Wall laughed. With all your newfound wealth, you have just bought yourself a brand new pair of bracelets, all the way from the US of A.

The thief attempted to pull his hands out of the tie wraps, but quickly realised it was impossible. Wall took out his pre-written post-it, peeled it off and slapped it on his back.

Wall flashed a bright smile. Bye-bye now, then ran back down the street.

The stunned thief looked on in disbelief. What the fuck? He screamed in English. You can’t just leave me here. Who do you think you are, Batman or something?

Wall turned while continuing to jog backwards and pointed to his face. Do I look like Batman? He pointed to the kid. In my book, you break the rules, then you lose the right to walk the streets, boy, Wall shouted back, then turned and disappeared down the small street.

Come back here. Where are you going? The thief tried to break free. You can’t just leave me here? He slumped in shock, then cried for help.

Acting like a typical tourist, Harvey Wall stared up at the century-old houses, as if studying the architecture, while he kept his eye on the second thief fifty meters further up. He had followed him to the Rozengracht, a broad street with heavy traffic, bicycles, and trams going each way in the middle. He had crossed over the street and into the Akoleienstraat on the opposite side.

When the thief took a right turn at the Bloemstraat, Wall quickly doubled back towards the Rozengracht and turned left – then broke into a run. He turned left again at the next corner and ran up to the end of the Bloemstraat, where the suspect should be. As if on cue, the thief appeared. Looking relaxed and unconcerned about the day’s events, Wall took out the post-it block and wrote on it. As the youth grew near, he became aware of Wall, who seemed out of place in the quiet alley. Within reaching distance, Wall slipped the block back into his inside pocket and took out the tie wraps, but seconds too soon. The moment the thief saw them, he darted