Death on the Canal by Anja de Jager

Author:Anja de Jager [Jager, Anja de]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9781472126276
Google: dwxsDQAAQBAJ
Amazon: B07CWNBR2D
Barnesnoble: B07CWNBR2D
Goodreads: 40143967
Publisher: Constable
Published: 2018-11-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

I called the prosecutor’s office and got a search warrant. I looked around me. Did the place seem different now that it was no longer the flat of a potential suicide but that of a potential murderer? What did it mean that the woman who might have killed Piotr Mazur was the sister of a woman who had died of a heroin overdose?

‘I’d better tell the pregnant neighbour that we haven’t found a dead body,’ Tim said.

‘Sure.’

He left the flat, leaving the door open.

A few posters adorned the wall. One was of an icy wasteland; another was a set of intertwined letters forming no words that I could decipher. Then there was that row of plastic pot plants. Had they been placed there to make the flat look inhabited from the outside? Who would care about that? I heard Tim knock on the downstairs neighbour’s door. A car went past. Otherwise there was silence and my footsteps were loud on the wooden floor as I paced the length of the flat.

I opened the bathroom door again and examined the inside. It was entirely covered by photos of all sizes. What they initially screamed at me was that there was no gap. If Katja had given Piotr a photo of a child, it hadn’t come from this door.

There was something significant about these photos. The effect of the mosaic of dozens of pictures was intense. As I studied them, I heard Tim talking to the neighbour. He asked her if she knew where Katja could possibly have gone. Did she have any friends who could have put her up? The neighbour answered that she couldn’t think of anybody. Was there a boyfriend? Not that she knew. Nobody steady.

There were no men in any of the pictures. No boyfriends. No photo of Katja and her sister with their parents. I wasn’t too surprised about that. The photos weren’t in chronological order. The one in the centre seemed to be the most recent one of Katja and Sylvie. It could be a few years old. I started to recognise Sylvie in other photos.

I sat down on the toilet, turned on the light and pulled the door closed. The photos filled my entire field of vision.

Sylvie was everywhere: on a donkey, on a bicycle, in the forest, with a couple of other girls, in a primary school portrait. The topmost photo on the left-hand side showed two teenagers on the beach. They were close in age but didn’t resemble each other. Sylvie was tall, pretty, with sun-kissed hair and a willowy body. She was the kind of girl who would turn heads in the street. She was smiling broadly, laughing at the camera. Katja was smiling too; not at the camera but at her sister. Katja’s hair had darkened since childhood. She was stocky. The girls’ arms were around each other. They’d been fifteen and seventeen maybe? According to her parents, it was around this time that Sylvie had first started using cocaine and speed.

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