Amsterdam ranked fourth on the list of fastest marathon cities. The famous TCS Marathon was known in Europe as the best World Athletics Platinum Label Road Race. For years, it caused significant hardship for the patrol, small businesses, and local authorities.
Each October, everyone, from the aspirant to the Chief of the Dutch Police, remained alert and ready for anything that might happen on the streets of Amsterdam by day or night. TV sports experts were overexcited, predicting the upcoming event to be the largest in the last five years.
Even though that was true, Nura couldn’t see why the investigation into Maryssa’s death and the marathon could not continue simultaneously. The police’s core mission was to control and solve crime. Was the TCS Marathon so important that Eggert would let a potential serial killer roam the streets of Amsterdam?
Nura sat on the tram she took to the station this morning. She looked back at an old, brown, sleepy labrador on the passenger seat behind her. She loved dogs, but her stressful job didn’t provide any opportunity to get one.
The streets were filled with angry cyclists, wild motor scooters, sluggish moms with coffee cups in one hand and baby strollers in the other, noisy tourists taking photos of the colorful buildings, grumpy locals talking loudly as they rushed to work, and skateboarders surfing lazily across Dam Square.
The tram passed the HEMA shopping mall by jerking over a low dike. Gazing through a dusty window, Nura saw a group of women with colorful makeup, dressed in orange leggings and low-cut blue jackets, dancing wildly outside a Dunkin’ Donuts shop. On the left was a police car with three surveillants. They stared at the laughing girls, not sure what to do. Marathon fever had started to pick up its course.
The tram stopped, the doors hissed open, and more people joined the ride. Nura fought through the army of busy faces and continued on foot to the police station. She walked by an ornate white house with a newly built parking lot, then past a sign that read “Burgwallen’s Police Station,” walked up a steep flight of stairs, and entered her second home for the rest of the day.
The station was an oasis of stress and tension, with a current flow above 11,000 volts. Gail’s tired face appeared around the corner. Wearing the same clothes as yesterday, he rubbed his hands together and asked, “What did the old man want from you yesterday?”
“Who told you we spoke?”
“Frankie.”
“Not much. Panetta wanted me to help him secure his pension. What else?” Nura smiled. “You don’t look well. Did you sleep at all, Gail?”
“I guess. I can’t remember falling asleep, but when I woke up at 4:00 a.m. with a hangover and a sore butt, I was shocked because I saw Benedetti running out of your house. Are you not lesbian anymore?”
“I‘ve never been lesbian, Gail.” While observing Panetta’s empty office, Nura sat at her desk and logged in to her computer. “Do you mind if we start working? I mean, today. Lots to do, Sergeant.”
Gail nodded, but the curiosity couldn’t leave him. “What about the girls, then?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid,” said Nura. “I never had sex with them, if this is what you are asking. I’m honored you are so interested in my private life, though. Do you want to know anything else?”
Gail shrugged. “No, just kidding. Do whatever you want.”
Sergeant Gail was of Angolan descent. Nura was unsure to whom he owed his heritage, and Gail never bothered to tell them more than that. His first name was Hanameel Kwame Pereira (which meant “the grace that comes from God”), but nobody ever called him by his name. He was a Black man in a white world; even if that world was more liberal and eclectic than any other place in Europe, the most important decisions were still made by people full of prejudices.
Gail was street-smart; he had connections in Amsterdam's underworld. He knew people who knew people who could find anything and anyone. Panetta always praised Gail’s ability to bring crucial information to their group or set a trap for the killer. Frankie loved Gail’s sense of humor, and Rocco liked his ability to relax and seize the day. Gail knew how to do what one wants when there’s a chance, instead of waiting for a later time or opportunity.
Nura envied Gail’s laziness, respected his freedom, and was fond of his odd, funny voice. She would often tease him when he got serious about a particular subject or got too excited after an arrest he had made, because his voice would become as rough as sandpaper.
Gail reappeared behind Nura’s screen with a hot coffee mug in his hand. He studied his mug before asking, “So, you think it wasn’t a suicide?”
“According to the old bag of bones, it is nothing more than a suicide,” Nura said in an attempt to lighten up the atmosphere.
“I know what Panetta said. I am asking what you think. And why a journalist, let me check her name,” Gail checked the information via his computer. “Here it is—Leye Ogundamisi—is on the list of visitors today. It seems Rocco Benedetti is her interrogator. I wonder…” Gail reiterated, refusing to be moved off-topic.
“I can’t say if it’s a serial killer or not without further investigation. All I know right now is this, Gail: first, it is a murder. Second, leave it to Benedetti and let him do his job. Third, now I need to take a walk and clear my head with the tame ambiance of Amsterdam’s streets.”
“I can tag along with you. We can discuss Goldsmyth’s case further,” Gail chuckled.
“If I wanted to fill my head with noise, I would have asked you to come.”
“That hurts, Nuralain,” Gail laughed.
“Hearing the truth hurts, but lying to yourself hurts even more,” Nura said, picking up her leather jacket from behind the chair and hanging it over her forearm. “If I'm needed here, you know how to reach me.”
“Can I sit with Rocco? Is it all right with you, Detective Inspector Cocasse? I want to hear what that journalist has to say.” Gail’s voice struck a deeper, more solemn chord.
“Sure. I hope it will change your mind. I get back in an hour,” Nura replied with a faint smile.
She took the step downstairs because at this time of the day, the elevator was filled with people she wasn’t ready to deal with. While she walked down, Nura wondered why Gail slept in his car all night and how he felt after his recent divorce—they never talked about it.
She cast negative thoughts of divorce and addiction out of her mind as she walked to the streets of Central Amsterdam. She took a deep breath, in and out—leaving the void of a certain mustiness that filled the Burgwallen’s station.
Nura had rarely taken any walks since her sister, Remi, died. She remembered how Remi would lead her to a different café to test the quality of the new coffee they made. Nura had not been an avid drinker of coffee before, nor did she remain one after Remi’s death, but she bought an occasional latte here or there, mainly because it reduced her hunger.
Neiuwejids Kolk led her past various tattoo shops, vegan restaurants, and endless water canals. Because of that, the city was often compared to Venice and earned the nickname “Venice of the North.”
Nura’s attention was drawn to the people around her. She listened to how different couples spoke and laughed at each other’s jokes. She wondered if the joke was funny or if the laughter was just a token of affection given to someone who didn’t deserve it.
She didn’t notice how it happened (and if we asked her now, she would not be able to give a clear answer), but she ended up in the Dutch Pancake Masters store. She ordered crepes with banana and chocolate and a pumpkin latte. Remi would have liked it, Nura thought.
On her way back to the station, she leaned over a railing and looked at the water. It started to drizzle. Nura took the old, rumpled scarf out of her pocket. She caught a sight out of the corner of her eye—a familiar shadow—someone she had seen before, but she couldn’t recall where.
With a flick of her wrist, Nura pushed herself off the railing, slowly sank her hand behind her jacket, checked her gun, and began moving in the opposite direction of the station—to the Rederij Plas, situated on the Damrak at the former confluence of the Amstel river. It was open year-round, enabling people to discover Amsterdam’s many surprises from the water during organized boat tours.
Nura slowed her pace to ensure her follower was within her reach before she could apprehend whoever it was. The person following her had odd proportions: they were neither male nor female, with a big brown hat and a sizeable, upturned collar obscuring most of their face. Nura led her follower to a less crowded spot—behind McDonald’s via Haringpakkerssteeg Street—before the person noticed what she was doing. She had a feeling her follower was a man; he turned left to run, and Nura gave chase.
She imagined she was Joshua Belet, who won the 47th TCS Amsterdam Marathon the previous year, while slowly, but surely closing the gap between her moving fists and the obscure shape of the unknown runner. She jumped atop the man, knocking him flat on the ground.
WOULD YOU LIKE to be the first brave soul to receive my completely unqualified "How NOT to LIVE" advice? Send your life story/or question to: noclueadvice@proton.me
“Get off me, you crazy bitch!” the young man yelled and flared his hands at the woman.
“Shut up!” Nura ordered.
“I didn’t do anything… What do you want from me? I did not do anything. Help!”
“We both know that is a lie. What’s your name? Why were you following me?” Nura asked. She got up, still holding the man in her grip.
“Are you fucking mad? I wasn’t following you,” the man shouted.
“You’ve been following me since I left the Pancake Masters. Don’t try to deny it. I saw you,” She lied, but soon realized she had seen this young man in a big brown hat before. “Wait a minute, didn’t I see you near Maryssa Goldsmyth’s house?”
“No! Leave me alone!” The man continued to resist.
“Yes, I did,” Nura insisted. “Listen, stay still… You were at the scene that early morning two days ago, weren’t you?”
“What scene?” the man whined.
Nura presented a pair of handcuffs.
“This kind of scene. If you don’t remember, I’ll refresh your memory at the Central Police Station,” Nura said as she brought her phone out and dialed Gail’s number.
“Gail, I need you to pick me up behind McDonald’s, close to Damrak. I’ll drop a location pin.”
“What happened? Why can’t you come back by yourself?” Gail asked. “We’ve got some interesting news.”
“I can’t. I made an arrest, and the guy is twitchy as hell.”
“Okay, I’ll be right there. Give me five minutes.”
Nura finished her call and asked the man again, “What’s your name? Don’t wanna talk? It’s fine; we are going to know very soon anyway.”
“What do you want from me? I refuse to go to the station. I know my rights,” the man hissed through his teeth.
Nura flashed a sarcastic smile. “Nothing serious. First, we’ll ask you a couple of questions about Maryssa Goldsmyth. And then we’ll check your fingerprints and alibi if you have one.”
The man became pale. He began to cry, and Nura felt sorry for him. He was young, perhaps not much older than Maryssa Goldsmyth, their victim. And then, when Nura didn’t expect it, the man pushed her away with Hulk-like strength and ran away.
Nura tried to maintain balance but ended up with her knees in a puddle. She was about to get up and chase him when something on the ground caught her. It was a wallet. She picked it up and flipped through the contents while waiting for Gail to arrive with the car. Nura could have walked back to the police station or even called a cab, but she thought getting out of the station would do Gail some good.
Her phone beeped. It was a text message from Gail: Parked around the corner. Bring your criminal.
“Nice... Twelve minutes. I could be dead by now. What took you so long?” Nura frowned when she saw Gail standing outside, leaning on his car and sipping Coke.
“I needed to get something on the way here. I apologize. Ehm, where is the guy you said you arrested?”
“He got away.”
“Do you mean I drove all the way here for nothing?” Gail asked.
“You said you needed some exercise the other day, right? And don’t forget, you were late. It’s only a five-minute drive, Gail,” Nura replied.
“Okay, I hear you. What’s that in your hand?”
“A wallet.”
“You picked a nice time to settle your finances,” Gail chuckled.
“It’s not mine.”
“Then whose is it?”
Nura rolled her eyes. “You’re a detective, aren’t you? Detect.”
“The guy that got away had dropped it, right? What am I always saying? Kids…”
“Yes. His name is James Pascus. According to the ID card, he lives somewhere in Mijdrecht. It’s quite far. I haven’t been there in a while.”
“Why are you lying, Nuralain, dearest? You mean, you haven’t been there before?” replied a smug Gail.
“Well…I’m too busy with my work,” Nura smiled, knowing that Gail had caught her flat-out in a lie. “What do you think I should do? Meet him at home? What if he’s not home yet?”
“We wait. What else can we do if not wait? We could grab a meal; it’s lunchtime. I know a perfect little spot, a noodle bar near Speeltuin de Waag,” Gail patted his belly.
“Maybe. Did you speak to Benedetti? How did the interview go with Leye Ogundimisi?”
“When I left, they were still sitting in the interrogation room. What is this for, by the way? What did James Pascus do?” Gail asked.
“I’ve seen him lurking in the crowd near Maryssa Goldsmyth’s house. I think he had been following me from the station today. I don’t know what he thought he could achieve by that, but I’ll find out.”
“It seems like you got yourself a fan. Soon enough, it will be lights, camera, and action.”
“And fingerprints. First of all, we have to meet James and return his wallet. I mean, he has…” Nura quickly riffled through the wallet's meager contents. "42 euros. I am a good police officer, Gail.”
“You are forgetting, Nuralain, dearest, we are going to a noodle bar,” Gail winked.
“Okay, okay, 2 euros then…I’ve always been bad with math.”
On the way to the noodle bar, Nura wanted to ask Gail how the aftermath of the divorce was, but she restrained herself. Instead, she picked up her phone and reviewed the pictures Michael Svenson, the computer forensic technician, had sent her yesterday.
Almost as if sensing something was off, Gail asked, “Where is your mind?”
“Yesterday evening, I received the pictures they took outside the crime scene. Michael Svenson, from the DFI lab, sent them. Drive, Gail, drive... I need a minute to go through them.” She paused. “I am sure I saw that boy in the crowd the day Maryssa was murdered.” Nura passed the phone from her right hand to her left and, after a few scrolls, showed Gail a blurry photo. “Do you see the guy in a brown hat? This is our James. I was right; he was there.”
“Well done. Let’s take him to the station for more formal questioning this evening,” Gail said.
“Are you sure? You weren’t so keen yesterday.”
“A lot has changed in the past hour. Leye Ogundimisi told us who the woman in the blue wig was.”
“Whoa! That’s huge, Sergeant. Who is she? Why didn’t you tell me at once?”
Gail sighed, “Because the woman in a blue wig was Maryssa’s mother. It was Lydia Wilhelmina Aschwin-Goldsmyth.”
WOULD YOU LIKE to be the first brave soul to receive my completely unqualified "How NOT to Live" advice? Send your life story/or question to: noclueadvice@proton.me
Early critics supposedly called Ferdydurke "the ravings of a madman," which is unfair because it's clearly the ravings of a madman who has done the reading...
Sometimes a minute feels like forever, especially when you're chillin' in a hammock with Mrs. Tamara GRRR Diablo Thrill of the Balance de Razor Perditis Yo Legarto
CHAPTER 5
Amsterdam ranked fourth on the list of fastest marathon cities. The famous TCS Marathon was known in Europe as the best World Athletics Platinum Label Road Race. For years, it caused significant hardship for the patrol, small businesses, and local authorities.
Each October, everyone, from the aspirant to the Chief of the Dutch Police, remained alert and ready for anything that might happen on the streets of Amsterdam by day or night. TV sports experts were overexcited, predicting the upcoming event to be the largest in the last five years.
Even though that was true, Nura couldn’t see why the investigation into Maryssa’s death and the marathon could not continue simultaneously. The police’s core mission was to control and solve crime. Was the TCS Marathon so important that Eggert would let a potential serial killer roam the streets of Amsterdam?
Nura sat on the tram she took to the station this morning. She looked back at an old, brown, sleepy labrador on the passenger seat behind her. She loved dogs, but her stressful job didn’t provide any opportunity to get one.
The streets were filled with angry cyclists, wild motor scooters, sluggish moms with coffee cups in one hand and baby strollers in the other, noisy tourists taking photos of the colorful buildings, grumpy locals talking loudly as they rushed to work, and skateboarders surfing lazily across Dam Square.
The tram passed the HEMA shopping mall by jerking over a low dike. Gazing through a dusty window, Nura saw a group of women with colorful makeup, dressed in orange leggings and low-cut blue jackets, dancing wildly outside a Dunkin’ Donuts shop. On the left was a police car with three surveillants. They stared at the laughing girls, not sure what to do. Marathon fever had started to pick up its course.
The tram stopped, the doors hissed open, and more people joined the ride. Nura fought through the army of busy faces and continued on foot to the police station. She walked by an ornate white house with a newly built parking lot, then past a sign that read “Burgwallen’s Police Station,” walked up a steep flight of stairs, and entered her second home for the rest of the day.
The station was an oasis of stress and tension, with a current flow above 11,000 volts. Gail’s tired face appeared around the corner. Wearing the same clothes as yesterday, he rubbed his hands together and asked, “What did the old man want from you yesterday?”
“Who told you we spoke?”
“Frankie.”
“Not much. Panetta wanted me to help him secure his pension. What else?” Nura smiled. “You don’t look well. Did you sleep at all, Gail?”
“I guess. I can’t remember falling asleep, but when I woke up at 4:00 a.m. with a hangover and a sore butt, I was shocked because I saw Benedetti running out of your house. Are you not lesbian anymore?”
“I‘ve never been lesbian, Gail.” While observing Panetta’s empty office, Nura sat at her desk and logged in to her computer. “Do you mind if we start working? I mean, today. Lots to do, Sergeant.”
Gail nodded, but the curiosity couldn’t leave him. “What about the girls, then?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid,” said Nura. “I never had sex with them, if this is what you are asking. I’m honored you are so interested in my private life, though. Do you want to know anything else?”
Gail shrugged. “No, just kidding. Do whatever you want.”
Sergeant Gail was of Angolan descent. Nura was unsure to whom he owed his heritage, and Gail never bothered to tell them more than that. His first name was Hanameel Kwame Pereira (which meant “the grace that comes from God”), but nobody ever called him by his name. He was a Black man in a white world; even if that world was more liberal and eclectic than any other place in Europe, the most important decisions were still made by people full of prejudices.
Gail was street-smart; he had connections in Amsterdam's underworld. He knew people who knew people who could find anything and anyone. Panetta always praised Gail’s ability to bring crucial information to their group or set a trap for the killer. Frankie loved Gail’s sense of humor, and Rocco liked his ability to relax and seize the day. Gail knew how to do what one wants when there’s a chance, instead of waiting for a later time or opportunity.
Nura envied Gail’s laziness, respected his freedom, and was fond of his odd, funny voice. She would often tease him when he got serious about a particular subject or got too excited after an arrest he had made, because his voice would become as rough as sandpaper.
Gail reappeared behind Nura’s screen with a hot coffee mug in his hand. He studied his mug before asking, “So, you think it wasn’t a suicide?”
“According to the old bag of bones, it is nothing more than a suicide,” Nura said in an attempt to lighten up the atmosphere.
“I know what Panetta said. I am asking what you think. And why a journalist, let me check her name,” Gail checked the information via his computer. “Here it is—Leye Ogundamisi—is on the list of visitors today. It seems Rocco Benedetti is her interrogator. I wonder…” Gail reiterated, refusing to be moved off-topic.
“I can’t say if it’s a serial killer or not without further investigation. All I know right now is this, Gail: first, it is a murder. Second, leave it to Benedetti and let him do his job. Third, now I need to take a walk and clear my head with the tame ambiance of Amsterdam’s streets.”
“I can tag along with you. We can discuss Goldsmyth’s case further,” Gail chuckled.
“If I wanted to fill my head with noise, I would have asked you to come.”
“That hurts, Nuralain,” Gail laughed.
“Hearing the truth hurts, but lying to yourself hurts even more,” Nura said, picking up her leather jacket from behind the chair and hanging it over her forearm. “If I'm needed here, you know how to reach me.”
“Can I sit with Rocco? Is it all right with you, Detective Inspector Cocasse? I want to hear what that journalist has to say.” Gail’s voice struck a deeper, more solemn chord.
“Sure. I hope it will change your mind. I get back in an hour,” Nura replied with a faint smile.
She took the step downstairs because at this time of the day, the elevator was filled with people she wasn’t ready to deal with. While she walked down, Nura wondered why Gail slept in his car all night and how he felt after his recent divorce—they never talked about it.
She cast negative thoughts of divorce and addiction out of her mind as she walked to the streets of Central Amsterdam. She took a deep breath, in and out—leaving the void of a certain mustiness that filled the Burgwallen’s station.
Nura had rarely taken any walks since her sister, Remi, died. She remembered how Remi would lead her to a different café to test the quality of the new coffee they made. Nura had not been an avid drinker of coffee before, nor did she remain one after Remi’s death, but she bought an occasional latte here or there, mainly because it reduced her hunger.
Neiuwejids Kolk led her past various tattoo shops, vegan restaurants, and endless water canals. Because of that, the city was often compared to Venice and earned the nickname “Venice of the North.”
Nura’s attention was drawn to the people around her. She listened to how different couples spoke and laughed at each other’s jokes. She wondered if the joke was funny or if the laughter was just a token of affection given to someone who didn’t deserve it.
She didn’t notice how it happened (and if we asked her now, she would not be able to give a clear answer), but she ended up in the Dutch Pancake Masters store. She ordered crepes with banana and chocolate and a pumpkin latte. Remi would have liked it, Nura thought.
On her way back to the station, she leaned over a railing and looked at the water. It started to drizzle. Nura took the old, rumpled scarf out of her pocket. She caught a sight out of the corner of her eye—a familiar shadow—someone she had seen before, but she couldn’t recall where.
With a flick of her wrist, Nura pushed herself off the railing, slowly sank her hand behind her jacket, checked her gun, and began moving in the opposite direction of the station—to the Rederij Plas, situated on the Damrak at the former confluence of the Amstel river. It was open year-round, enabling people to discover Amsterdam’s many surprises from the water during organized boat tours.
Nura slowed her pace to ensure her follower was within her reach before she could apprehend whoever it was. The person following her had odd proportions: they were neither male nor female, with a big brown hat and a sizeable, upturned collar obscuring most of their face. Nura led her follower to a less crowded spot—behind McDonald’s via Haringpakkerssteeg Street—before the person noticed what she was doing. She had a feeling her follower was a man; he turned left to run, and Nura gave chase.
She imagined she was Joshua Belet, who won the 47th TCS Amsterdam Marathon the previous year, while slowly, but surely closing the gap between her moving fists and the obscure shape of the unknown runner. She jumped atop the man, knocking him flat on the ground.
WOULD YOU LIKE to be the first brave soul to receive my completely unqualified "How NOT to LIVE" advice? Send your life story/or question to: noclueadvice@proton.me
“Get off me, you crazy bitch!” the young man yelled and flared his hands at the woman.
“Shut up!” Nura ordered.
“I didn’t do anything… What do you want from me? I did not do anything. Help!”
“We both know that is a lie. What’s your name? Why were you following me?” Nura asked. She got up, still holding the man in her grip.
“Are you fucking mad? I wasn’t following you,” the man shouted.
“You’ve been following me since I left the Pancake Masters. Don’t try to deny it. I saw you,” She lied, but soon realized she had seen this young man in a big brown hat before. “Wait a minute, didn’t I see you near Maryssa Goldsmyth’s house?”
“No! Leave me alone!” The man continued to resist.
“Yes, I did,” Nura insisted. “Listen, stay still… You were at the scene that early morning two days ago, weren’t you?”
“What scene?” the man whined.
Nura presented a pair of handcuffs.
“This kind of scene. If you don’t remember, I’ll refresh your memory at the Central Police Station,” Nura said as she brought her phone out and dialed Gail’s number.
“Gail, I need you to pick me up behind McDonald’s, close to Damrak. I’ll drop a location pin.”
“What happened? Why can’t you come back by yourself?” Gail asked. “We’ve got some interesting news.”
“I can’t. I made an arrest, and the guy is twitchy as hell.”
“Okay, I’ll be right there. Give me five minutes.”
Nura finished her call and asked the man again, “What’s your name? Don’t wanna talk? It’s fine; we are going to know very soon anyway.”
“What do you want from me? I refuse to go to the station. I know my rights,” the man hissed through his teeth.
Nura flashed a sarcastic smile. “Nothing serious. First, we’ll ask you a couple of questions about Maryssa Goldsmyth. And then we’ll check your fingerprints and alibi if you have one.”
The man became pale. He began to cry, and Nura felt sorry for him. He was young, perhaps not much older than Maryssa Goldsmyth, their victim. And then, when Nura didn’t expect it, the man pushed her away with Hulk-like strength and ran away.
Nura tried to maintain balance but ended up with her knees in a puddle. She was about to get up and chase him when something on the ground caught her. It was a wallet. She picked it up and flipped through the contents while waiting for Gail to arrive with the car. Nura could have walked back to the police station or even called a cab, but she thought getting out of the station would do Gail some good.
Her phone beeped. It was a text message from Gail: Parked around the corner. Bring your criminal.
“Nice... Twelve minutes. I could be dead by now. What took you so long?” Nura frowned when she saw Gail standing outside, leaning on his car and sipping Coke.
“I needed to get something on the way here. I apologize. Ehm, where is the guy you said you arrested?”
“He got away.”
“Do you mean I drove all the way here for nothing?” Gail asked.
“You said you needed some exercise the other day, right? And don’t forget, you were late. It’s only a five-minute drive, Gail,” Nura replied.
“Okay, I hear you. What’s that in your hand?”
“A wallet.”
“You picked a nice time to settle your finances,” Gail chuckled.
“It’s not mine.”
“Then whose is it?”
Nura rolled her eyes. “You’re a detective, aren’t you? Detect.”
“The guy that got away had dropped it, right? What am I always saying? Kids…”
“Yes. His name is James Pascus. According to the ID card, he lives somewhere in Mijdrecht. It’s quite far. I haven’t been there in a while.”
“Why are you lying, Nuralain, dearest? You mean, you haven’t been there before?” replied a smug Gail.
“Well…I’m too busy with my work,” Nura smiled, knowing that Gail had caught her flat-out in a lie. “What do you think I should do? Meet him at home? What if he’s not home yet?”
“We wait. What else can we do if not wait? We could grab a meal; it’s lunchtime. I know a perfect little spot, a noodle bar near Speeltuin de Waag,” Gail patted his belly.
“Maybe. Did you speak to Benedetti? How did the interview go with Leye Ogundimisi?”
“When I left, they were still sitting in the interrogation room. What is this for, by the way? What did James Pascus do?” Gail asked.
“I’ve seen him lurking in the crowd near Maryssa Goldsmyth’s house. I think he had been following me from the station today. I don’t know what he thought he could achieve by that, but I’ll find out.”
“It seems like you got yourself a fan. Soon enough, it will be lights, camera, and action.”
“And fingerprints. First of all, we have to meet James and return his wallet. I mean, he has…” Nura quickly riffled through the wallet's meager contents. "42 euros. I am a good police officer, Gail.”
“You are forgetting, Nuralain, dearest, we are going to a noodle bar,” Gail winked.
“Okay, okay, 2 euros then…I’ve always been bad with math.”
On the way to the noodle bar, Nura wanted to ask Gail how the aftermath of the divorce was, but she restrained herself. Instead, she picked up her phone and reviewed the pictures Michael Svenson, the computer forensic technician, had sent her yesterday.
Almost as if sensing something was off, Gail asked, “Where is your mind?”
“Yesterday evening, I received the pictures they took outside the crime scene. Michael Svenson, from the DFI lab, sent them. Drive, Gail, drive... I need a minute to go through them.” She paused. “I am sure I saw that boy in the crowd the day Maryssa was murdered.” Nura passed the phone from her right hand to her left and, after a few scrolls, showed Gail a blurry photo. “Do you see the guy in a brown hat? This is our James. I was right; he was there.”
“Well done. Let’s take him to the station for more formal questioning this evening,” Gail said.
“Are you sure? You weren’t so keen yesterday.”
“A lot has changed in the past hour. Leye Ogundimisi told us who the woman in the blue wig was.”
“Whoa! That’s huge, Sergeant. Who is she? Why didn’t you tell me at once?”
Gail sighed, “Because the woman in a blue wig was Maryssa’s mother. It was Lydia Wilhelmina Aschwin-Goldsmyth.”
WOULD YOU LIKE to be the first brave soul to receive my completely unqualified "How NOT to Live" advice? Send your life story/or question to: noclueadvice@proton.me
Read Next
The Chaotic World of Witold Gombrowicz
Early critics supposedly called Ferdydurke "the ravings of a madman," which is unfair because it's clearly the ravings of a madman who has done the reading...
Bullet's Adventure: Chasing Sobekneferu - chapter 30
I turned Auntie Cactus on her back and began analyzing her purple wrinkles. With sadness in my heart, I realized that she was still alive...
Bullet's Adventure: Chasing Sobekneferu - chapter 29
Sometimes a minute feels like forever, especially when you're chillin' in a hammock with Mrs. Tamara GRRR Diablo Thrill of the Balance de Razor Perditis Yo Legarto
Bullet's Adventure: Chasing Sobekneferu - chapter 28
Mr. Harmless Bullet doesn't recognize his wife, but maybe you can? And is she really his wife?