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

two at a speed that made it clear that she’d read no more than the headlines. How long would Karin Petersen, now Lantinga, make us wait?
    Just then, a door opened and two men, both in suits, probably in their late forties, walked through accompanied by a slim woman who looked of similar age. She shook their hands, and I heard her say, ‘Thank you so much for your time. Sonja will get your coats.’ Sonja the receptionist opened a hidden panel to a closet and handed the men their overcoats. Throughout, we were ignored.
    The woman opened the front door, shook their hands again and closed it before turning to us. ‘You’re the police, I suppose.’ Her smile had disappeared and she looked older, but still younger than the fifty-three I knew her to be.
    Stefanie introduced herself and showed her badge. Karin was a little taller than Stefanie but needed ten-centimetre heels to help her. Her hair was golden-blonde with streaks of silver grey. It was tied in a bun at the nape of her neck, the weight of it tipping her head slightly back, removing any slackness under the chin and giving her a Grace Kelly-like poise and elegance. She faced me and said, ‘And you are . . .’
    I got up from the sofa and said my name.
    Karin threw one look at the receptionist and led us through the door. ‘We won’t go to my office,’ she said, walking down the corridor lined with Dutch Golden Age oil paintings on either side. I didn’t recognise the artists – we were moving too quickly to have a good look – but they seemed to be originals. I was reminded of Wouter Vos’s apartment, where modern works decorated the hallway. ‘We’ll use the boardroom instead.’ Karin opened a door and over her shoulder I got my first glimpse of true opulence. The ceiling was painted to show a sea battle in which large ships, one identical to the model downstairs, sailed at full mast in the kind of sea that got surfers excited. Grey thunder clouds looked even darker in contrast with the red, white and blue of the triumphant Dutch flag.
    ‘Admiral Michiel de Ruyter,’ Karin said. ‘The ceiling shows his famous victory over the English at Medway. We based the decorating scheme for the entire office on this room.’ She sat down at the head of the cherrywood table, looking regal, powerful and in absolute control.
    Stefanie pulled out a chair to the right of Karin. I would have liked to remain standing, preferably in a corner where I’d have a perfect view, but Stefanie pointed at the chair next to hers and gestured for me to sit down. At least I didn’t have to sit between the two of them; I could watch both women at the same time. I stroked my fingers over the wood, which was glossed like a new conker. Between the painted ceiling and the green and white striped wallpaper, there were signs of the modern era in the room as well: the star phone in the middle for conference calls, microphones sunk in the table and a projector at the far end. A small stand in the corner carried a tray with bottles of Spa water and a teapot as well as a selection of chocolate biscuits. We, however, were not offered anything.
    ‘What can I help you with?’ Karin said. As she spoke, she took her BlackBerry out of her bag. Its red light flashed and she scrolled through the emails with a French-manicured finger, her eyes glued to the little screen.
    I couldn’t place her accent. It sounded flat, studied, as if she’d had a regional accent that she’d worked hard to get rid of. I tried to imagine her speaking in the softer tones of a southern accent or the farm-like cadences of the north – but neither suited her. A delicate perfume, with notes of apple and jasmine, floated over the table.
    ‘We’re re-investigating the murder of your husband, Otto Petersen,’ Stefanie said, unsmiling and professional.
    Karin put the BlackBerry on the table, sat back and folded her hands. The right was only adorned with a plain golden wedding band, but on the left the entire bottom