Wolf Angel, Mark Hobson [best free ebook reader for pc .txt] 📗

Things like heart attacks, strokes, dementia, or death. Have you been feeling unwell lately? Or perhaps depressed?”

Pieter shrugged. “I’m fit as a fiddle. No coughs or sneezes. My digital prostrate check came back all good.”

“Well, it’s all to do with the power of suggestion of course. Spells and curses. It’s not the fact that you may or may not have had a curse put on you, but whether you believe it or not. If you firmly believe that you have been crossed, then that in itself is enough for you to talk yourself into feeling unwell, convinced that every ache and pain is a sign that you have some fatal illness.”

“And me being a cynical, world-weary, non-believing copper rules that out?”

“Naturally.” Prisha handed him the sheet of paper, trying to smile but still looking frazzled and nervous. “Nothing for you to worry about then.”

As he left, Pieter wondered why he’d failed to mention the vivid and terrifying nightmares haunting him at night.

Pieter climbed back into the car and told his driver to head over to HQ. But the driver, a bald cop called Joos, shook his head.

“Another lead’s come in, sir. A witness.”

*         *          *

Amstelsluizen was a series of huge locks on the river Amstel. It comprised of five massive concrete sluice gates, each about 75 metres long, running parallel with the river. Every twelve hours, the sluice gates were opened, allowing a flow of fresh water to pour into Amsterdam’s canal system from the eastern side of the city, whilst over on the west a similar set of locks allowed the old water to gush out. It was supposed to ensure that the water in the canals was constantly fresh and clean enough to drink – or so they claimed. It worked as regular as clockwork, so much so that the average Amsterdammer never even noticed it was happening.

Joos pulled up in the parking area near the riverside, and Pieter climbed out. He stood for a moment, enjoying the relative quiet in this part of the city, away from the hustle and bustle of the centre. A few gulls swooped down onto the broad river, and further upstream was the distinctive shape of Skinny Bridge.

He breathed in a couple of lungful’s of unpolluted air, and then leaned back into the open window.

“Are you carrying your gun Joos?” His own was still at work, left there overnight.

“Sure am sir. New orders, every officer is to be armed as from today. Even the traffic cops are carrying their side arms again.”

“Ok, well keep an eye out will you? But hang back a little. If this witness is a crusty old sea dog type he might be more inclined to talk more if I see him alone.”

“Locked and loaded sir.” Joos patted the holster on his waist belt.

The lock-keeper in charge of the sluice gates was way past retirement age, Pieter estimated. But considering his main task was to press a button that operated the gates just twice a day, the job probably wasn’t too taxing.

Pieter found him sitting in a deck chair just outside the main control building – actually a small tin Quonset hut. He was wearing a life vest and had a pair of wireless headphones clamped on his head, and even though it was not yet eleven in the morning he already had a bottle of Bud Lite in his hand. He did not hear Pieter approach, and when he tapped him on the shoulder, the old guy nearly levitated out of his chair. He belatedly tried to hide his beer, and then thought, what was the point?

“What the heck you doing, sneaking up on me like that?” He talked loud, because of the headphones. “Coulda’ shit my pants.”

Pieter flashed his badge, which set off another futile attempt to slide the beer out of sight.

“You not gonna breathalyse me are you? I got no puff, not with these clapped out old lungs.”

“The sun’s just about over the yardarm, so I think you’re allowed.” Pieter moved over to the railing alongside the hut and leaned back. “I understand you gave us a call? That you may have seen something important, in relation to the attack.”

“Aye, that’s right. I called last night. You guys took your time.”

“Well I’m here now, so why don’t you tell me?”

The lock-keeper, feeling more relaxed, took a swig from his beer and then removed the headphones. “It was the hooligans. In the boat. Damn ruffians.”

Pieter smiled his friendly smile, which encouraged the old man to explain further.

“They came right along the river at full speed. Straight under Skinny Bridge over there, and then right through the locks, without slowing. Not only is it illegal to break the speed limit, but anybody passing through the locks has to get permission. From me. I have to carefully note all of the vessels that pass through, who they are registered to, and if anybody disobeys then they are apt to have their boat seized. I take my job very seriously you know.” He took another sip.

Pieter looked back over his shoulder at Skinny Bridge and the city skyline beyond, the direction from which this boat came from. “What kind of boat was it?”

“A speed boat! And it was moving like they were in a real big hurry. Bugging out, I think they call it.” The lock-keeper seemed to be enjoying himself now, loving being the centre of attention. “I thought at first they were shooting another one of those James Bond movies or something. Was going to see if I could get Daniel Craig’s autograph. But then they swerved in to the side, and everybody on board jumped onto that small concrete jetty down there and rushed up the staircase.”

He was pointing to a tiny landing tucked into the high side of the river, just a little further upstream.

“They didn’t tie it up, just leaped out. And they were armed. I could see that clearly, they had rifles and big