Girl in the Dark Page 3

  I wondered what I was in for; I was almost certain that Peter van Benschop had lodged a complaint about me. Walking out on a client was indefensible, and I had a feeling a trip to the day care wouldn’t count as a worthy excuse.

  There are few, if any, law firms that are in business to serve their fellow man out of the kindness of their hearts. Bartels & Peters certainly wasn’t one of them. It was all about billable hours. Though working here was a great improvement over my previous place of employment, an international mergers and acquisitions firm. There I’d regularly been woken in the middle of the night on account of some foreign client needing to get something done before close of business in whatever time zone they were in. I slogged away many a night with a slice of congealed pizza on the mouse pad. Canceled many a vacation.

  When Aaron was on the way, it became clear I’d have to dial it back a bit. Then, as if someone up in heaven had taken a personal interest in my situation, I was offered a job at Bartels & Peters. A stone’s throw from my apartment, and I’d have to come in only three days a week, virtually unheard of in the legal profession. It should have made my life a lot easier. But all I can say is: the front lines of the law are a cakewalk compared with the demands of a three-year-old.

  Lawrence had an office befitting a successful law partner. A desk the size of a pool table that made him look even smaller and chubbier dominated the room, and an antique Persian carpet covered the marble floor. A baffling but doubtlessly priceless work of art hung on the wall.

  “Sit, sit!” Rence boomed, as if he were standing on a stage and had to muster the rapt attention of two hundred audience members.

  “Are you going to chew me out?”

  “What are you talking about? Peter van Benschop just called me, and he’s wildly enthusiastic. He told me he’s seldom encountered such a tough female. Which may not be all that surprising, considering the nature of his oeuvre, let’s say. He’s crazy about you.”

  “So he didn’t mention the fact that I had to leave?”

  Rence’s face fell. He waved his hand, irked. “I don’t want to know about it. Haven’t I told you over and over again not to be so damn honest? Being believable, that’s what it’s about. Honesty’s a bad trait in a lawyer. Don’t you know that?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He burst out laughing. “And don’t ever admit you’re sorry either. Just don’t do that. Ever!”

  “If I’m not here to be raked over the coals and beg forgiveness, why am I here?”

  “Because, dear Iris, I wanted to compliment you on your success today. That’s the one and only reason for this little tête-à-tête—no need to get all anxious. All I wanted to say was: Well done. I don’t care what it is that you did; whatever you did, it was a good job, and that’s all that matters.”

  “In that case, thanks.”

  “Now. Peter van Benschop is coming to the office tomorrow to hear the strategy we’re proposing. He’d like to get the whole business behind him by the end of the week.”

  “Impossible, I’m afraid.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I considered telling him the truth, but decided to simply stick to the facts. “I can’t come in Wednesday and Thursday, and Friday is my day off anyway. I can work from home. But I can get less done there than here.”

  “Had this been discussed?”

  “No. Circumstances beyond my control, I’m afraid.”

  Rence silently shook his head of unruly gray curls, or what was left of them. He stubbornly refused to acknowledge that he was balding.

  “I’m sorry,” I added.

  “I’ve already told you I don’t want to hear any excuses!” he burst out. “Fuck it, Iris. Fuck it all.” A ball of spittle was stuck to his bottom lip. With a theatrical flourish he got up, walked over to the window, and stood with his back to me. Eccentric. Flamboyant. Exhausting.

  “Then I’m not sorry. Actually, I’m not sorry at all. Haven’t you ever heard of emergency leave? Maternity leave? Or should I take all thirty of my outstanding vacation days in one go?”

  Rence was speechless. “Okay, then,” he finally said. “I’ve already told you I don’t care what you do as long as you’re doing a good job. So even if you have to do your work from the North Pole, just do what you have to. As long as Peter van Benschop is happy, and as long as I’m happy with the bill I can send him when it’s done.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “You’ll never guess who my latest client is . . .” It was evening, and since Aaron was sleeping over at my mother’s, I was in a bar having a drink with a girlfriend. Like any normal lawyer.

  “No idea. The Pope? Oh no, wait a minute.” Binnie held her forefinger in the air. “Your mother is finally being charged with irreformable iciness toward others.”

  “Ha, ha.” Binnie and I had known each other since elementary school. Ever since my mother had asked her to say “Good afternoon, Mrs. Kastelein” instead of her usual elated “Hellooooo!” those two had never gotten along. My mother was as prim and proper as Binnie was exuberant and messy. Binnie’s real name was really Brigitte, but she hated that name. No one could remember how she’d first come up with “Binnie.”

  “Go on, tell me.” Binnie took a big sip and placed her empty glass on the bar with a bang.

  “Peter van Benschop.”

  “Who?”

  “Peter van Benschop of the fabulously wealthy shipping family Van Benschop.”

  Binnie’s eyes began to gleam. “Is he single?”

  “No idea.”

  “But surely that’s the first thing to find out when you get a man like that as a client. What’s he look like? How old? How tall?”

  “In his forties . . . around six feet . . . Now that I think of it, he may be your type. You like a man to be dominant, don’t you?”

  “Love it.”

  I almost lost my footing because some guy trying to order a drink at the bar jostled me. He struck me as the type who works in a realtor’s office. Ugly suit and an insolent look on his face. White wine spilled out of his glass and onto my chest, right at nipple level. Whether he knew what had happened or not, he pretended to be unaware of what he’d done.

  “Hey, watch it,” Binnie snapped at him. “You’ve just splashed your wine all over her shirt.”

  Turning to face us, he inspected Binnie from head to toe. “Jesus, you’re a tall one.”

  “No? Really?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Wow, are you ever tall,” the guy repeated.

  “Tall enough to notice you’re already getting pretty thin on top. What do you think, Iris? Will he look good bald?”

  “Oh, let it go.” I took a napkin and started dabbing at the wet spot. I looked like someone who’d forgotten to stuff a bra pad into her nursing brassiere. Lovely.

  “I don’t think it’ll suit him.” Binnie put her finger to her chin and looked thoughtful. “He’s got such a funny round little head. I’m sorry, but someone will have to tell him. Five years from now, I’m afraid you’ll look like a little piglet.”

  I couldn’t help laughing.

  “If I were you I’d try to make the best of the few good years I still had. I’d start by trying to act a little less boorish. Watch where you go, and if by chance you should cause a little accident and spill some white wine on a lady, make sure you apologize.”

  He stared blankly at her for a few seconds. “Cunt.”

  “I, too, very much enjoyed making your acquaintance.” Binnie turned toward me. “Peter van Benschop the millionaire. I can already picture it. I’m so ready for a rich man. Because being a journalist is great—it’s all that I expected it to be. Yes, I have shaken Nelson Mandela’s hand, and yes, George Clooney is gorgeous in real life, and yes, I’ve written exposés about fraud and written impressive articles about shar-pei amphetamine abuse. But I hadn’t taken into account that I’d have to get my rocks off on the prestige and the top journalism awards that will undoubtedly be heaped upon me some day. Because
the pay is a pittance. How long do I have to keep sharing an apartment with a roommate? And having to cope with tanning product smeared all over the sink or listening to Marie-Ellen screwing noisily at two in the afternoon while I’m trying to make a deadline? Oh, Iris, if Peter and I get married, you can be my bridesmaid.”

  “Are you also willing to get chained up in an S&M dungeon?”

  “What?”

  “And get a prick rammed down your throat until you choke, be forced to drink piss from the source, engage in strangle-sex . . .”

  “What?”

  I paused a moment, for the effect.

  “Tell me! Tell! Tell!”

  “Peter van Benschop makes very twisted movies. Try Googling the name ‘Pissing Peter.’ Can’t tell you more than that—client-attorney confidentiality.”

  “Hmm. But is he good looking?”

  “If you like a Geraldo Rivera type.”

  “To tell you the truth, I prefer Mediterranean men with fine, elegant hands. Only they never like me back and it isn’t very sexy to feel their erection poking into your kneecaps while you’re French-kissing. How’s your love life, anyway?”

  “The pits.”

  “Oh, come on. You, who are constantly meeting men in need? If you ask me, lawyer and dental hygienist are the best professions for snaring a man.”

  “Oh, come off it.”

  “Men who find themselves in a helpless situation and are completely dependent on you. Vulnerable and scared, they yearn for safety and warmth.”

  “I can assure you that they don’t have romance in mind.”

  “No, darling, it’s you who doesn’t have romance in mind. Ever since you had a kid, you’ve decided you’re permanently retired from the relationship scene. Wake up! You’re young, pretty, independent, funny, and you don’t have any obvious physical handicaps. In ten years’ time, Aaron won’t want to be mothered anymore; he’ll be all consumed with motorbikes and girls, and then you’ll think: ‘What the hell did I do all those years?’ Why not try online dating?”

  “Oh, please.”

  “If you ask me, you’re not at all happy.”

  I shrugged.

  Binnie looked at me with concern. “Are you all right?”

  I shrugged my shoulders again. “Problems with Aaron. I’m afraid he’s going to get kicked out of day care.”

  “How come?”

  “Never mind. I’m just glad not to have to think about that right now.”

  Binnie place her hand on my arm. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “That’s what I keep trying to tell myself.” Except that it’s getting harder and harder to do.

  CHAPTER 5

  RAY

  I’d been to see shrinks before. Several times, in fact. They’d evaluated me at the Peter Baan Center for Behavioral Health. After days of interrogation by cops screaming their heads off at me, I’d been prepared for the worst. But these shrinks acted like I was their friend. They said they were trying to understand me. They’d nod at anything I said, or they’d make approving mm hmm noises.

  Those conversations were nice. I’d never been much of a talker, but after everything that had happened, I liked getting it all out.

  The report was read out at the trial. How could I have known they’d turn against me? The only shrink I’d ever seen before had been the one at the Mason Home. And that one had been real nice. He’d ask questions like “How are you?” Though I never knew how to answer that. I did feel pretty okay, generally. Sometimes I’d get angry or scared. But usually I felt fine. So that’s what I’d tell him, and then we’d talk about the birds in the woods and which shark species was the most dangerous, the great white or the bull. But he never told people behind my back that I was crazy. Because they can come up with all the difficult words they like, but that’s what it’s about: Are you crazy or aren’t you?

  Dr. Römerman shook my hand and made me sit down on a chair across from him. There was a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses on his desk. And a thick file.

  “You’ve been here for several hours, Mr. Boelens. What’s your first impression?”

  I had no idea what to say.

  “Do you know why you are here?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Can you explain it—in your own words?”

  “Who else’s words would I explain it in?”

  He smiled. “Fair enough, Ray. In that case I’ll ask you simply to tell me why you are here.”

  “Because I was sentenced by the judge. And because my prison term is based on me coming here.”

  “And what were you convicted of?”

  “The murder of Rosita and Anna Angeli. On May 17, 2003. I don’t know what time it happened.”

  He jotted something down on a piece of paper. I tried to read what he wrote so I wouldn’t be unpleasantly surprised later by words like psychotic, compulsive, obsessive, or dysfunctional.

  “Do you know today’s date?

  “Sure do.”

  “Can you tell me what it is?”

  “June first.” I glanced at my watch. “It’s three P.M. or, to be precise, two minutes and twenty-three seconds past three. What else do you want to know?”

  “You are very exact.”

  I nodded.

  He wrote something down again. His handwriting was cramped and illegible. That in itself was worrying.

  “Do you have any questions?”

  I was briefly taken aback. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might be allowed to ask questions, too. Once I got used to the idea, I could think of only one question.

  “Is keeping fish allowed? I have a saltwater aquarium.”

  “I’ll have to check on that. Do you like taking care of animals? Are you a caring sort of person?”

  “I am.”

  “Are you good at taking care of people as well?”

  It was a red-flag question. The kind of question the people at the Peter Baan Center had asked. An apparently casual question, but later they’d draw all kinds of terrible conclusions from your answer. I decided not to respond and focused instead on the horn-rimmed glasses.

  “Whom have you taken care of in the past?” the doctor tried again.

  “Dunno.”

  Dr. Römerman leaned back, arms crossed. “I see. Don’t you know, or would you rather not answer the question?”

  “All I want is my aquarium. That, or to get out of here as soon as possible.”

  “Of course you want to return to your normal life. And that certainly is a possibility, but in order for that to happen, quite a few things have to happen first.”

  “Quite a few things?”

  “To start with, I need your full cooperation. So when I ask you a question, you must try to answer it.”

  “I’ve answered thousands of questions, but the answer stays the same: it isn’t my fault Rosita and Anna are dead. And yet I’m still here.”

  “Mr. Boelens, I’m not here to play the judge. We could spend ages debating your guilt or innocence. However, we both know perfectly well that something’s not quite right with you.”

  I shook my head. If I’d tried to make one thing clear since Anna’s and Rosita’s murders, it was that I was normal. Normal enough, anyway. “There’s nothing the matter with me! When will you all finally get that through your heads!” I slammed my fist on the desk. Dr. Römerman’s horn-rimmed glasses jumped in the air.

  The doctor didn’t move a muscle. “Again, we are not detectives. We aren’t going to revisit the work of the police or the judge. So whether you are guilty or innocent is not pertinent. I will tell you, however, that it’s not advisable to keep denying your offense. It might lengthen your stay here even more.”

  I tried to take in what he said.

  “If you are convinced of your innocence, you can of course file an appeal with the Supreme Court. If there is reasonable doubt, the judge may find in your favor. But even in that case, good behavior will count. That means going to therapy, taking your medicine, and no aggressive
outbursts, verbal or physical. And that applies doubly during our sessions. You don’t want me to give you a negative write-up, do you?”

  I had to go along with something I didn’t agree with. But if I didn’t go along with it, things would get even worse. It was always the same story.

  “Your first evaluation hearing will take place in two years. And if indeed there is nothing wrong with you, as you claim, you will be allowed to leave the hospital.”

  Two years was a long time. But less time than eight years in prison. “What do I have to do to get out of here?”

  “You’ll have to follow the rules.”

  I could do that. I could do that no problem, in fact. “And what else?”

  Dr. Römerman gave it some thought. “You like writing letters, don’t you? I understand you are very good at it. Your first assignment, then, is to write a letter to your neighbor”—he rummaged through his papers a moment—“Rosita.”

  “She’s dead. Why would I write a letter to someone who’s dead?”

  “Just pretend you’re writing a letter to her in heaven.”

  “But she’s dead.”

  He sighed. “Just pretend she’s alive, then.”

  “What am I supposed to write?”

  “That’s your decision. Just write whatever comes to you. Tell her what you think about her. What you’re feeling. How you are holding up. How you feel about . . . what transpired.”

  I nodded.

  “You may hand in the letter the day after tomorrow, at our next session. But if you need more time, later in the week or next week is fine, too.”

  More time. The last thing I needed was more time. But I thought about the full cooperation I’d be showing him and said, “I’ll get it done.”

  CHAPTER 6

  IRIS

  My meeting with Peter van Benschop was scheduled for ten thirty. He arrived right on time, dressed in jeans and an expensive-looking sky-blue jacket.

  I had an intern bring him a coffee and took the seat across from him.

  “Right, Mr. Van Benschop. I have gone over your case thoroughly.”

  “So? What did you think? Have you watched the DVDs finally? Can I interest you in a nice little part in my next production? MILFs are a hot seller these days.”