Shadow Sister (17 page)

‘I want to know if there are any fingerprints on the letter,’ I say. ‘And if there are, I want to know if they are Bilal’s.’

‘Then they’ll have to get him in to take his fingerprints,’ Raoul points out.

‘Not necessarily. I’ve got a pile of test papers at home, one of them is his.’

‘That’s indirect evidence,’ Winsemius explains. ‘Your husband is right, we’d have to bring the boy in to take his fingerprints.’

I look down at the anonymous letter and sigh. ‘So you’ll have to detain Bilal whatever happens.’

‘Yes, if we want to help you.’

I close my eyes. What’s the best thing to do? Let them pick up Bilal and hope he leaves me alone afterwards, or wait until he gets fed up with intimidating me?

‘Madam,’ the sergeant says, and I look up at him. ‘The young man in question hasn’t done anything to you yet, but he has committed a punishable offence. We can hold him on those grounds, but for no longer than six hours. You can also have us take down what happened and keep it on file. Then we’ll be able to keep an eye on things and intervene if you need our help.’

‘Next thing he’ll set fire to our house,’ Raoul says. ‘How do you know what’s going on in his head? There’s a good chance you won’t get the opportunity to intervene. Lydia, you have to press charges and have them pick up that bastard.’

I shake my head. ‘I think he’d just be even angrier. He’s just venting his anger. If I don’t react he’ll stop of his own accord.
But I am reassured that you know about everything now, Sergeant.’

Winsemius nods and hands me his card. ‘Here’s my direct line, if there are any problems.’

Did I do the right thing by not pressing charges? I don’t know. Now that I’ve got over the initial shock of the letter, it doesn’t seem as serious.

‘I think you made the wrong decision,’ Raoul says in the car. ‘You’re letting that kid get away with it.’

‘I just don’t want to make things any worse.’

‘No, you’re letting yourself be indoctrinated by the school. Really Lydia, I don’t understand your game plan.’ Raoul turns into our street, his eyebrows knitted.

‘But I did tell the police about it, didn’t I? They’ll keep an eye on Bilal, and at school they’ll think that I did the right thing by keeping quiet. That’s perfect, isn’t it?’

‘I hope so.’

Luckily, the next day proves to be a good distraction. The weather is lovely, the barbecue lights. I’m not going to bring up Bilal. I don’t want to think about school, Bilal and all the
problems of the past week anymore.

I put on summery clothes, a pink skirt and sleeveless top, and I dress Valerie in the sweetest lime-green dress. I bring along a change of clothes just in case she gets car sick. It’s rare that she doesn’t cover the back seat in vomit on longer car journeys. Before we leave, I give her a travel sickness pill.

‘If you feel sick, you’ll say, won’t you?’ I tell her, once we’ve set off.

She nods. ‘I’m already feeling a bit sick, I think, Mummy.’

Raoul opens Valerie’s window a little and she leans her cheek against the lower part of the window to breathe in the fresh air. We’ve just got onto the motorway when there’s a muffled ‘Mummy’ from the back seat and I look around in alarm. Valerie is resting her chalk-white face against the headrest and holding her hand in front of her mouth.

‘Do you need to be sick?’

She nods with growing panic in her eyes.

‘Get the salad bowl then. Where is the salad bowl?’

‘On the back shelf,’ Raoul says with a glance in the rear-view mirror. He pulls over to the side of the road, but it’s already too late. Unsettling noises and a sour smell fill the closed space of the car. I almost throw up myself. I cast open my door then Valerie’s. The damage is worse than I thought. I’ll have to boil those cuddly toys and I don’t think we’ll get that MP3 player working again. Thank god I’ve got a clean skirt for Valerie, and a bottle of water to clean her off and rinse her mouth out.

I take a deep breath of fresh air, bend over Valerie and free her from her seatbelt, which is sticky with lumps.

‘My throat hurts!’ Valerie wails.

Raoul surveys the disgusting mess on the backseat and turns to me. ‘Why did you let her eat that biscuit before we left? You know it’s all going to come out again.’

‘If you were so sure about it, you should have put the salad bowl on her lap,’ I snap back. ‘And perhaps you should drive
more slowly. Anyone would get sick from all that accelerating and braking. I don’t feel that well either, and I never get that when I drive.’

We continue our journey in pleasant silence. Thank god my parents live close by. My old neighbourhood drowses in the sun, awash with young foliage. This area used to be heavily populated with children, but these days it’s quiet and the residents are mostly elderly.

We turn into my parents’ street and, as usual, emotions wash over me when I see the white house. The sight rouses precious memories. This is where I grew up, I played here, that’s where I used to throw marbles, there is where I drew on the pavings with my chalks, and here’s where Elisa and I used to push the doll’s pram around.

I get out and survey the surroundings.

‘Mummy!’ Valerie knocks on her window and I help her out.

‘I’m thirsty,’ she complains, but then her face clears. ‘Grandad! Grandad!’

I turn around and see my father. He’s a tall man with a full head of grey hair. A burst of love and pride rushes through me.

‘Hello!’ my father calls out. He catches Valerie, who flies at him, and comes over to us, carrying her. We take the garden path together.

‘Where’s Mum?’ I ask.

‘In the garden. Isn’t it lovely weather?’

‘Perfect barbecuing weather,’ Raoul comments.

He hates visiting people, but messing around with a barbecue and sitting in the garden with a glass of beer is something he loves.

It is wonderful to be in their enormous back garden, sitting in the shadow of the trees. I used to climb these trees with Elisa; we’d build dens and play Barbies endlessly on a rug on the lawn. In the winter, we’d ride our sleigh and in the summer we’d lie
around the pool that my parents built at the bottom of the garden. It was a fantastic childhood.

I kiss my mother, and as usual my instinct is to handle her like she’s made out of china. Rosalie van Woerkom is a handsome woman in her fifties. She’s well groomed and elegant, always taken for younger than she is.

‘How are you, darling? You look a bit peaky.’

‘Oh well,’ I say.

My mother carries on studying me. ‘What happened?’ she asks in a no-nonsense tone.

Sometimes I don’t feel like one of a pair of identical twins, but the third in a set of triplets. My mother has the same telepathic gift and can see right through me, in the same way as I can see through Elisa. But while Elisa always remains calm, my mother gets hysterical at the slightest hint that either of her daughters is in trouble. I’m certain that she won’t be able to sleep if I tell her what the problem is.

It’s better not to say anything. Luckily, pouring drinks and serving canapés is enough to keep her occupied for the moment.

A while later, we are chatting and drinking. Raoul is at his best, he can be very charming if he wants to be, but I wonder whether he’d be so relaxed if I’d decided to drink and he was driving home.

‘What time is Elisa coming?’ He looks around as if he’s expecting my sister to jump out from behind a tree. ‘I thought we were quite late.’

‘She’ll be here soon. She had another shoot with an actor and today was the only day he could do,’ my mother says.

‘An actor? Who?’ Raoul asks with interest.

‘Oh, I don’t know. She did tell me but I never remember names,’ Mum answers. ‘Someone from one of those soaps.’

‘Are you gossiping about me?’ calls out a friendly voice from near the house.

I turn towards the direction of the sound and see my twin sister coming down the path towards us. It’s perfect weather for the new outfit we bought yesterday, but my twin sister – how is it possible that we’re twins! – is wearing a dark blue pair of work trousers instead, with a white jumper and chunky shoes. She looks as though she’s moonlighting as a builder. It’s spring for god’s sake. I meet her halfway across the garden and give her a hug.

‘How are you?’ I ask, kissing her on the cheek.

Elisa returns my kiss. ‘It’s me who should be asking you. Has anything else happened?’

I shake my head as we make our way slowly over to the others. ‘I haven’t told Mum and Dad, so don’t bring it up.’

‘Why not?’ Elisa smiles and waves at our parents.

‘They’ll only get worried, and they can’t do anything about it.’

We’ve reached the table and chairs under the trees and Elisa hugs Mum and Dad and then Raoul before she bends down to cuddle Valerie. ‘Beer please, Dad,’ she replies to his question.

‘How long have you been drinking beer?’ Mum asks.

‘For ages,’ Elisa answers. ‘But not constantly!’

Raoul grins and takes a sip from his bottle. ‘Good choice, Elisa. Nothing nicer than a cool beer on a hot day.’

‘Did you come on the train?’ Mum frets.

‘No, I’ve borrowed Thomas’s car.’

Dad fetches a beer from the kitchen and puts the bottle and a glass down on the table.

‘So, sweetheart, how are things? Taken any good photos recently?’

‘I had to do the new actor from
Good Times,’
Elisa says. ‘A young guy, lots of chitchat. Thought he’d got it made in his new role, never stopped talking.’

‘That’s often the best way to get good shots, better than people who sit there waiting for the flash,’ Raoul says.

‘True, but he was really posing. He was talking but he was very aware of how he would appear, you know?’ Elisa rests her elbow on the arm of the chair, rests her chin on her index finger and stares mysteriously towards a single point, as if there were a camera there. ‘Would you like to see them?’

She gets her camera out of her bag and fiddles with it. At that moment I remember something and grab for my own bag. ‘That’s right! I’ve got photos with me too. We’ve finally had the pictures of our skiing holiday developed.’

Mum and Dad shuffle their chairs towards me and soon they are smiling away. Almost every photo features Valerie: Valerie in her pink ski suit on the piste, Valerie in the local restaurant, Valerie on the balcony of the chalet.

‘Were you and Raoul there too?’ my mother jokes. ‘Wow, that’s a nice one! Can I have that too? Could you get me an enlargement?’

‘Of course.’ I turn to my sister and give her the photos that our parents have just looked at. Elisa is silent, glaring. I’m about to ask what the matter is, when she puts her camera back in her bag and takes the photos from me.

My mind at rest, I walk away from Night City towards the station. The evening air is chilly. This is a part of Rotterdam I never venture into and I don’t feel entirely comfortable, but that’s probably got more to do with the late hour than the area. It’s half past eleven.

A taxi turns into the street. I wave it down. A dark-skinned young driver winds down the window.

‘Could you take me to Kralingen?’

He nods and I climb into the back and give him my address. As we drive, I stare out of the window at the dark streets of Rotterdam, not really seeing them. We drive over Hofplein, across the Pompen Bridge and towards the Goudse Canal.

My thoughts wander as the taxi drives through the night. After a while I begin to concentrate and I realise that I don’t recognise these streets. Where in god’s name are we? Shouldn’t we have got to Kralingen ages ago?

I frown and peer through the window trying to orientate
myself. All these dark narrow streets…Why is he taking these rather than the well-lit main roads?

‘Excuse me, aren’t we making a bit of a detour?’

The driver doesn’t reply. He slows for a speed bump, imperturbable. He changes up to third, turns into a dark side street. I try to look at his face in the rear-view mirror, but it’s too dark to make him out. My fear grows with every foot we drive.

We cross Maas Boulevard, which runs next to Kralingen. I try again, my voice trembling. ‘If you turn off here, we’ll be there. Why aren’t you turning?’

I don’t get any reaction and my panic increases. I lean back against the seat, drenched in sweat, and look out of the window. Where are we going? What does he want from me?

The tall square buildings of the Erasmus University loom up against the dark sky. We turn into Burgermeester Oud Avenue. The driver stops at Graven Road and looks left and then right.

Left, I think feverishly. Please, left.

He accelerates and goes straight, towards the Kralingse Woods. My hands are ice-cold and I can smell my own sweat. My eyes shoot from left to right, in the hope of seeing another car. Then I could jump out of the car and scream for help.

We are the only car at the black edge of the woods.

The car crawls through the woods. I could jump out now. Should I do that? If I run into the woods, I could hide. But I’d have to take my shoes off first because I won’t get far in these heels.

I bend over very carefully and remove my right shoe. The driver glances at me in the rear-view mirror. I ignore him, pretend to be scratching my ankle and lean back again with the irritated expression of someone who believes she’s being conned into paying more. I hold the shoe discreetly in my hand then work off my left shoe with my bare right foot.

Okay, now open the door. Carefully? Or suddenly?

I opt for the careful option and look in the opposite direction
as I fumble for the door. My trembling fingers find the handle and I pull on it. There’s a small click, but the door doesn’t open. I try again and break out into a sweat – the door’s locked. Locked! That shithead has turned on the central locking. Oh god, I’m in trouble. What can I do? Hit him on the head with one of my heels? My whole body is shaking. My legs have turned to jelly.

I fish my mobile from my bag. One text and the whole Rotterdam police force will be here. Why didn’t I think of this sooner?

I cough a little to cover the sound of my fingers keying in the message. I won’t have to write much: HELP! KIDNAPPED! K. WOODS!