A State Of Sin Amsterdam Occult Series Book Two Mark Hobson (romantic novels in english TXT) 📖

area of the country to the north of Amsterdam was known as Waterland. Driving towards the village of Ransdorp, Pieter could see why it was christened thus. With the lightening of the sky the flat expanse stretching off to the horizon seemed to sparkle with ribbons of silvery ice as far as the eye could see, the thousands of frozen canals and ponds and lakes and marshes creating the illusion that he was driving along a narrow causeway straight out into the North Sea.

He enjoyed getting away from the smothering claustrophobia of the city, if it were only for a few hours like this morning’s little trip. Whenever he did, it always gave him a feeling of lightness, like he was walking on the balls of his feet and bouncing along, light as a feather, which was wonderful, until it came time to return. Then he would feel his mood darken, his body would draw into itself like a boxer flinching and waiting for a punch, and his mind would switch back, from day-tripper back to city cop.

Ransdorp itself was tiny, a hamlet rather than a village if truth be told, with beautifully painted houses and neat gardens behind white-picket fences. It was little more than just a one-street kind of place, with a small Brown Café pub and a guest house, a hardware store, a few shops selling postcards and fridge magnets during the summer season, and not much else.

It was too tiny to warrant its very own police station: instead, the three police officers assigned to this part of the Waterland region worked from out of the town hall, just across from the church.

Pieter had arranged to meet the most senior officer in the car park, and when he pulled across the gravel he immediately spotted Geert Blom waiting for him. He couldn’t really miss him because he was grossly overweight, the buttons on his uniform threatening to burst free and become lethal projectiles.

He was sitting at the top of a very high set of steps that led to the town hall’s front entrance, looking down on the village like he was expecting a flood at any second. He had a shock of blond curly hair on the top of his head, and a pleasant face with a full smile.

Geert came down the steps to greet him, lumbering across to the car as Pieter climbed out.

He held out his hand, and Pieter shook the sweaty palm.

“Good morning. I’m Geert Blom, but you can call me Barry if you like.”

Pieter raised his eyebrows.

“After Barry Foster, the actor? He played Van der Valk in the TV series? Some people say I look like him.”

Pieter nodded and smiled.

“You’ve come to see the crime scene, you say?”

“If it was a crime and not just a road accident.”

“Oh, it was definitely deliberate, my friend. We’re sure of that. Come along, we’ll take my car. It’s not far, but I wouldn’t want you getting yourself lost and in a dizz.”

He led Pieter to a small police patrol car parked alongside the church. Pieter climbed into the front passenger side, and when Geert dropped his bulky frame behind the steering wheel the car on that side dipped right down and Pieter’s head nearly hit the roof.

They drove down the narrow lane past the church and turned left at the end, passing over a swing-bridge. Geert drove surprisingly fast in spite of the covering of snow, almost racing down Ransdorp’s main street, flashing by the guest house and yet more colourful houses, their red-tiled roofs shining brightly in the morning sunlight. Pieter had the impression that he was doing it for his benefit. If he could get away with it, he’d probably like to switch on the light and siren as well.

Five minutes later and they were away from the village and driving through the countryside, the road here narrow and straight, with a frozen ditch running parallel with it. Then Geert was pulling over and he pointed past Pieter through the passenger window.

“That’s where he was found, just there. You can see where we had to smash the ice to get him out.”

Pieter climbed out just as a snow flurry threw itself at him, and the icy wind took his breath away.

Geert sensibly decided to stay in the car, so their conversation was conducted through the open door.

“Who was he?”

“A chap called Eric Fischer, a house painter. Forty-eight years old, married with twin boys.”

“Was he local? Did you know him?”

“Oh yes, he’d lived around these parts all of his life. One of the good ones he was, and his missus, but his lads can be a pair of cheeky monkeys, I tell you. They go around the place spraying graffiti everywhere, thinking they are ghetto kids - out here?” He shook his head with a rueful look on his jowly face.

“So he would have known the area well then, even late at night? Enough to find his way around in the pitch dark?”

“Oh, you can bank on that, Officer Van Dijk. He had eyes like a wily old fox did Eric.”

“What was he wearing at the time? It’s Inspector Van Dijk by the way.”

“Oh yes, sorry. What was he wearing? A coat and scarf, I think.”

“Was it a dark coat? Did he have any reflective armbands on, or those running shoes that light up? Was the light on his bicycle switched on at the time?”

When there was no response, Pieter turned back from gazing at the icy ditch and glanced back into the car. Geert Blom just looked at him and shrugged.

“Well, you need to find out. Perhaps it was an accident, and the driver failed to see him if he was dressed in dark clothing.”

“But I’ve already told you it wasn’t an accident,” Geert responded defensively. He pointed ahead through the windscreen, and Pieter followed where the stubby finger indicated. “You see that lay-by up ahead? That’s where we saw the tyre marks where the van driver swung around to face back the way