The Pilgrim Conspiracy

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.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.