Jake Woodhouse
AFTER THE SILENCE
Contents
Prologue
Day One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Day Two
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Day Three
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Day Four
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Day Five
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Epilogue
Follow Penguin
PENGUIN BOOKS
AFTER THE SILENCE
Jake Woodhouse has worked as a musician, winemaker and entrepreneur. He now lives in London with his wife and their young gundog.
For Zara, and my parents
Prologue
‘Move.’
The voice shot out from behind him in the dark, and the cold touch of a gun, his own gun, jammed into the back of his neck.
This was not how he imagined it would be.
He’d been shoved to the hard, freezing ground, where something – a stone, a shard of glass? – had jabbed into his right kneecap, a trickle of blood cooling fast. He twisted his head up towards the sky, his breath rising plumes, stars piercing the dark, and somehow the pain made it all seem more beautiful, more precious, more real.
He had to play it cool, had to make sure he didn’t give in to the fear wrenching his gut, pulsing right through him. But, he thought as he fought down the rising panic, he wasn’t a soldier, a commando trained to kill with his bare hands, or a martial arts expert who could whirl around, kick the gun away and deliver a fatal blow to a secret place on the side of the neck.
No, he was just a police officer, an Inspector, specializing in homicide, dealing with crime after the fact, after murder had been committed.
His work began where someone’s life ended. And he’d seen enough of those to know he wasn’t yet ready to be a mere job for someone else, for some other Inspector to arrive at the crime scene, piece together his life, and the events which had led to its close.
How could I have been so stupid, he thought, letting them catch me?
The people he was supposed to be chasing, bringing to justice. Who’d tied up the old couple and let them burn alive in their own home …
‘I said move.’
Increasing pressure from the gun barrel, pushing on the spot – the same spot as the earlier impact just on the back of his skull – made him rise up, both knees cracking like pistols.
‘Take it easy,’ he said, and couldn’t believe how scared his voice sounded.
He moved forward, step by step, the odd patch of ice shooting his feet away until he learnt to just shuffle along. Steel from the cuffs cut into his wrists.
He pictured the man behind him, the leather face mask with the zip where the mouth should be.
Is this it, am I going to die now?
Part of his mind screamed at him to engage his captor, he seemed to remember that was the key to surviving these situations, making them see you as a human being, not just a target, a kill – and where exactly did he know that from, a film? He was pretty sure he’d never received any such training from the Amsterdam Police Force – but he didn’t know what to say.
‘Stop.’
That voice. Harsher now, more guttural, as if the freezing air was corroding his vocal cords.
He thought of his wife, at home, her belly swollen with the life he wasn’t going to see. Doubling up, he vomited bile.
A kick to the back of his legs made him fall to his knees again. The feeling of being trapped rushed over him, crushing the air from his lungs, and making his head spin so badly he jerked sideways before managing to right himself.
It was then he heard the car, moving slowly, behind him off to the left. The sound grew, headlights streamed out of the darkness and his elongated shadow spilled forward on to the ground, a monk kneeling at prayer.
Prayer, he thought, the last resort.
He took a moment to scan his surroundings; it was a concrete drainage ditch – he’d thought as much – the shallow, sloped sides leading up to the trees which he knew must be all around.
The car stopped, engine turned off and ticking gently, but the headlights stayed, blue-white lasers slicing the dark. Doors opened then closed with soft thuds. Footsteps from the road, difficult to tell how many people, soles grinding grit against concrete, then quieter steps on grass, before more hesitant footfalls on the ditch’s sides, each one carefully placed to avoid slipping.
Voices, in a language he didn’t understand, grating, sinister.
He was shivering now, his whole body shaking as if every muscle had simultaneously gone haywire, but he didn’t know if that was the cold or the sheer terror, or maybe both.
Someone walked round his left side and flicked a torch directly in his eyes, dazzling him. Instinctively his eyelids closed tight, protecting, even though part of him wanted to see who it was. He squinted them open just in time to see a figure in silhouette, wearing some kind of trench coat. The man’s arm moved, checking the time on a large wristwatch.
Then the light was off, one word uttered behind him and the footsteps retreated, doors opened and closed again, and the car, its engine roar splitting open the silence of the night, reversed away.
He listened until he could no longer hear it.
Was that it? Was this just a warning?
I’ve got to warn Jaap, he thought, his knees aching, stomach loose. He forced himself up and started to turn around.
A shot rang out, and faded into the darkness.
a world of dew,
and within every dewdrop
a world of struggle
(Issa)
DAY ONE
1
Monday, 2 January
07.34
‘Just ’cause you’re police doesn’t mean you don’t get broken into.’
Inspector Jaap Rykel glanced out of his houseboat’s porthole, across dark water to the trees lining the opposite side of the canal. He could see their naked boughs, heavy with Christmas lights, each orb glowing like a strange winter fruit.
‘Is there really no one else?’ he switched the phone to his other ear, bent down and peered at the jimmied door again, scratches in the black paint revealing raw wood underneath. ‘I mean, I know I’m on the rota for today, but as I said I’ve been up most of the night and –’
‘I hear you, but there’s no one available. And it’s not straightforward, it needs someone who knows what they’re doing.’
‘So you’re resorting to flattery now?’
‘Whatever it takes.’
It’s either that, he thought looking at the door, or dealing with this.
‘Okay,’ he sighed into the phone, ‘I’ll take it. But I need you to get someone over here right now to clean this mess up. And replace the lock.’
‘No problem, but don’t hang around. And I’ve sent Kees Terpstra –’
‘Not Kees …’
‘Express orders, you’re to hold his hand on this one.’
‘Anyone trying to hold his hand is likely to get it bitten off.’
‘So fill out a form, wounded in action. Look, I’ve gotta go –’
‘Wait, check a name for me. Friedman.’
‘First name?’
‘I don’t know, just run it, call me if anything jumps out. And try and get hold of Andreas, I’m not having any luck.’
Jaap dropped the phone on the kitchen table. He’d only answered thinking it might be his partner, Andreas, calling to explain his text message last night.
Call me, I’m on to something. A guy called Friedman is our way in.
Maybe I should have gone with him when he asked, he thought as he tried to call him. It just rang out again, as it had before.
He pulled up Andreas’ home phone number and was just about to hit the call button when the thought of Saskia stopped him. She’d never been an early riser, and he was sure being pregnant hadn’t changed that.
I’ll wait a bit, he thought, pocketing his phone.
He spent a few minutes checking what had been stolen, and found that nothing had gone. Not even the most valuable thing he owned, his nihonto, the ceremonial sword he’d been given when he left Japan.
He looked at the silver dragons sinuously coiling round the black lacquer scabbard.
It’s right there on the wall, he thought, how could they not have seen it?
He figured it would take a while for anyone to arrive so he pulled out his battered I Ching and the three two-euro coins he kept with it. He threw the three coins together on to the table’s surface, noting down the result each time. Each throw corresponded to one line, and he threw six times to form a hexagram.
He recognized the bottom three lines, the symbol for Lake, and the top three represented Thunder.
He looked up the combination and read ‘Do not argue with how things are’ just as he heard footsteps clanging on the metal gangplank.
A uniform stepped through the door, bending down to avoid hitting his head, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Jaap could see the glistening trail it left on the dark blue fabric as he slipped the coins and book back.
‘What have they nicked?’ asked the uniform.
‘Weirdly, nothing.’
‘Maybe you’ve got nothing worth nicking.’
Jaap pointed to the sword and the uniform studied it for a moment.
‘Hmm. Probably got disturbed then.’
Jaap thought it unlikely. Most break-ins were done by drug addicts desperate for cash. Having got in they’d leave with something, disturbed or not.
‘Maybe.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to go. Get the door replaced, and drop the new keys off at the station,’ he said as he stepped outside.
On deck he had to pause for a moment as he struggled with the zip on his jacket – it kept jamming just below the throat and he had to strum his hand up and down to release it – before moving off across the narrow gangplank, swaying gently until he reached the shore.
The distant rumble of a tram came to his ears, and then the splash of an early water bird, landing in the canal off to his left. He shivered, then set out east, his steps like gunshots on the laid brick road, shooting across the water and back again.
I hope Andreas has got somewhere, he thought, we need to close that gang case down.
They’d been working on a murder which had led them to a gang who called themselves Zwarte Tulpen, Black Tulips. They were from a variety of ex-Soviet states, and were vicious, secretive and well-organized. As Jaap and Andreas had started investigating they’d begun to understand the sheer reach of the gang. In the four years since the Black Tulips appeared on the scene they’d virtually taken over the ports; if it went in or out and it was illegal you could be sure they controlled it.
And they didn’t get to be the major players by being lax. In the two weeks since they’d started on the case he and Andreas had been continually frustrated by the lack of a way in. They kept hitting a brick wall. And it’d begun to feel like the wall was never going to crack.
Ten minutes later he turned the last kink in Herengracht, one of four canals which cupped Amsterdam’s centre. He could make out an ambulance and a patrol car, their blue lights strobing. Red-and-white-striped tape reached from a house out to a leafless tree on the canal’s edge, fluttering in the icy breeze which had just started up.