A Cold Death in Amsterdam (Lotte Meerman Book 1) by Anja de Jager

seemed professional enough. Bit over-controlled.’
    ‘I thought he was older, this – what’s his name . . . Piet Huizen?’
    I turned back to the floor and my tidying. ‘Oh, him – yes, he’s retired.’
    ‘Interesting . . .’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Well, retired guy, missing witnesses, missing records – it’s worth investigating, that’s all. We should look into that.’
    I made a show of checking my watch. ‘I thought you wanted to interview Lantinga. We’ve got some time – he’ll still be at work.’
    A smile bloomed on Stefanie’s face and I sighed with relief, hoping I’d managed to drive any thoughts that linked my father to missing records from her mind.

Chapter Nine
     
    The shiny copper plaque by the door read simply:
Omega
. The seventeenth-century houses on the Herengracht did their best to bend themselves around the semi-circle of the canal. Their facades leaned forward and back as the subsidence of Amsterdam’s peat and sand foundations had tipped them centimetres this way and that. Shops, businesses and living accommodation stood in non-uniform individuality side by side along the wide water, each house slightly different from its neighbour: some had three storeys, some four; a different style of gable, a different colour paintwork; some with steps leading up from the lower-ground floor, others with ground-floor entrances. Despite the variations, they still formed a coherent row.
    We went up the flight of stone stairs above the basement entry – ten steps that probably took us over the partners’ bicycle storage. The steps had been swept clear of snow. When the receptionist buzzed us in, I pushed open the door, which had been painted the green of old 1,000-guilder notes.
    A model of a sailing ship, its white sails stained nicotine-yellow by age, sat in a glass display cabinet to the left of the reception area. The wallpaper was of a pale green fleur-delis pattern. The girl behind Reception and her desk with the computer on it seemed to have landed by mistake in a period drama.
    ‘Police, Financial Fraud department,’ Stefanie announced, showing her badge. ‘We’re here to see Anton Lantinga.’
    ‘Mr Lantinga? I’m afraid he’s in New York this week. Did you have an appointment?’ The dark-haired, latte-skinned girl checked her screen and typed something. ‘Yes, he’s back on Wednesday.’
    ‘What about Karin Petersen?’
    ‘I don’t think we have someone of that name . . . Ah, you mean Karin Lantinga, of course.’
    Stefanie and I exchanged a glance. So Karin had married Anton. How soon after Otto’s death?
    The receptionist dialled a number and looked at us. ‘What may I say is it regarding?’
    ‘I’ll have to tell her that in person,’ Stefanie said.
    The young woman shrugged. ‘Mrs Lantinga,’ she said to the phone, ‘I’ve got two police officers here for you . . . I don’t know, they wouldn’t say . . . OK . . . OK, I’ll ask them to wait.’ She put the phone down. ‘She’s in a meeting right now and will see you as soon as she’s free. Please take a seat.’
    I turned and sat down gingerly on a vulnerable-looking green and white striped settee. I didn’t dare rest against it. Stefanie stayed standing, admired the ship and then went back to the receptionist.
    ‘Do you have any brochures on Omega? For investors,’ she said.
    The receptionist moved a sheath of straightened black hair from her shoulder to her back with an imperious gesture. ‘Omega is closed for new investors,’ she said, ‘and even before that there was a ten-million euro minimum investment. I can take your name and have our Investor Relations department contact you if and when we do accept new investors.’
    ‘Any material on fund performance?’
    ‘Karin Lantinga will give you everything you need. She’ll be with you shortly. Please take a seat.’
    Stefanie didn’t. She walked up and down, picked up a copy of
Het Financieele Dagblad
and looked at the front page, then turned to page