Janwillem De Wetering - Outsider in Amsterdam

"Are there still any Harley experts around?" Grijpstra asked.

De Gier was glad Grijpstra asked the question for the blood was throbbing in his veins and he might have sounded too eager if he had asked the question himself.

"Not many," the man said.

"I have a friend," Grijpstra said, "who likes old motorcycles and he has some money as well. He was telling me he would like to have a Harley. I wonder where he should go."

"Seket," the man said. "He is the best man I know. And he is in Amsterdam. There's another fellow in Rotterdam and there's one in Gouda I believe but maybe this man is better. Lou Seket. His workshop is on the Bloemgracht, you can't miss it. It has a big sign on the door and he has a nice poster in his shopwindow, two naked girls sitting on a green Harley. I wouldn't know the street number but it is close to the end of the gracht, near the Marnixstraat."

"Thanks," Grijpstra said. "I'll remember it. We'll have to be on our way now."

He asked for the bill.

"No, no," the man said. "You police fellows can't make a guilder on the sly. Let me pay. I've just done a nice little job, built a kitchen for somebody I know. Couple of hundred tax free."

He winked and paid. The detectives thanked him.

"Doesn't declare his full income," de Gier said in the street.

"Who cares?" Grijpstra said. "Let's go and see this Seket. Right now."

"I have to go to the station first to write a report on the fight."

"Never mind that report. I'll phone. If they want a report they can have it tomorrow. They may not even need one. Come."

"This Seket fellow's probably spending the weekend in the country somewhere," de Gier said.

"Doa'tfiiss," Grijpstra said. "He'll be somewhere and we'll find him. We only want to ask him one question. Just one."

It didn't take long to find the shop. De Gier admired the poster. Two attractive girls, both naked, faced each other. Their legs straddled the heavy frame of an old Harley. One girl was leaning back on the handlebars, the other leered lustfully at her inviting friend.

"Nice," de Gier said. "Two lesbians taking a sharp corner."

"They aren't lesbians," Grijpstra said, "they are just trying to do what the dirty photographer tells them to do. Stop ogling."

The shop was closed.

"You see," said de Gier, "he is spending the weekend in the country. On an island in the North I bet."

"If he is we'll go there."

"There's only one ferry a day."

"We'll get a helicopter from the air force," Grijpstra said.

"Ah here," de Gier said, "look. He is living above his shop. There's his name on the door."

He pressed the bell and the door opened.

A short fat man, in his early sixties, with a mane of white hair, was looking at them from the staircase.

"Mr. Seket?" Grijpstra asked.

"I am. But if you want anything done to a motorbike you'll have to come back on Monday. I have locked up for the day."

"Police," Grijpstra said. "Can we see you a minute?"

"I have nothing to do with the police," Seket said and came down the stairs. He stopped in front of the detectives and glared at them.

"Well, what is it? Not a stolen Harley-Davidson I am sure. Nobody steals a Harley."

"Why not?" de Gier asked.

"Too hard to start."

Grijpstra didn't understand.

"Too hard to start? But what if you know how to start a Harley, then you could steal one couldn't you?"

Seket smiled, showing broken dirty teeth, as dirty as his overalls.

"No mate, I see you don't know about Harleys. If you know how to start one you would be a member of the brotherhood. Harley owners stick together, they would never steal from each other."

"How nice," de Gier said.

"So what do you want to know, friend?" Seket asked and glared again.

"All I want to know," de Gier said, "is if you ever built a motorcycle for a man called van Meteren."

"I did," Seket said promptly, "the best I ever built. Brand new parts, new accessories, the lot. A riding advertisement. A beauty. About a year and a half ago. I still service the machine, there's nothing, absolutely nothing, wrong with her. But that van Meteren fellow knows how to look after her. Polishes her up like a baby."

"One more question," Grijpstra said. "How much did he pay?"

"A lot of money. A hell of a lot of money. Close to seven thousand it was, but she is worth it. I didn't overcharge him, in fact I undercharged him for I liked the man."

"Cash? de Gier asked.

"With me everything is cash. I wouldn't even take a bank check."

"No bookkeeping, hey?" Grijpstra asked.

"You aren't from the Tax Department?" Seket asked and stepped back.

"No," Grijpstra said. "Don't worry."

"Shit," Seket said. "I shouldn't have told you nothing. Fuzz. Bah. Now van Meteren will be in trouble, I suppose. I was wondering where he got the money, but I didn't ask. I never ask."

"He is in trouble," Grijpstra said, "and so you will be if you warn him."

Seket closed the door in his face.

"Let's go," de Gier said.

"We need a car," Grijpstra said.

"What for?"

"We need a car," Grijpstra said stubbornly. "Headquarters is close. We'll get it and then we'll go and see him."

"What's Van Meteren's new address?" Grijpstra asked as they were getting into their car in the courtyard of Headquarters.

"Don't know," de Gier said.

"What do you mean 'don't know'? You should know. It's in your notebook."

"Yes," de Gier said, "but my notebook is in my other jacket. It's Saturday today."

"What," Grijpstra asked, "has Saturday got to do with it?"

"On Saturday," de Gier explained, "I often wear another jacket. This jacket. My old corduroy jacket. And its pocket is too small for the notebook, so I leave the notebook behind, in my other jacket, at home."

"Ach no," Grijpstra said, "now what?"

"You look in your notebook," de Gier said, "simple."

Nothing happened for a while. They sat in the car. De Gier had started the engine. The engine turned over, quietly.

"Well?" de Gier asked.

"My notebook," Grijpstra said, "is at home. In my other jacket. I was fishing this morning. When I go fishing I put on this windbreaker. It hasn't got an inside pocket."

De Gier switched the engine off.

"I'll be right back," he said.

Constanze answered the phone herself.

"It's you! she said. "I was hoping you would call."

"Yes," de Gier said nervously. "I mean no."

"What do you mean?" Constanze asked.

"I don't know what I mean," de Gier said nervously, "but do you have van Meteren's new address? He gave it to us by telephone some time ago and I wrote it down in my notebook but I left my notebook at home. I remember that it was Brouwersgracht but I can't remember the number. I thought maybe he had told you?"

"Why should he tell me?" Constanze asked, an icy note creeping into her voice. "Are you cross-questioning me again? I have told you that there is nothing between him and me."

"No, no," de Gier said. "I am not cross-questioning you. Sorry I bothered you."

"Just a minute," Constanze said quickly, "you aren't ringing off are you? Don't you want to see me tonight? Shall I come to your flat?"

"No," de Gier said, "no, not tonight. I am busy. Work, you know."

"You don't have to see me," Constanze said, her voice now definitely icy.

"No," de Gier said. "I mean yes. Later maybe. Next week. Yes?"

"Find out what you mean first," Constanze said and hung up.

"Please…" de Gier said but the telephone gave its two-toned note.

He slammed down the phone.

He ran back to the car.

"You know it?" Grijpstra asked.

"No. Let's go to your house."

"So now we know the address," Grijpstra said. "Anything else we need? You have your pistol?"