“Then what, may I ask, is the purpose of your visit?”
“Background information only.”
She gave him a skeptical look, then indicated an empty chair. “Have a seat, Detective Inspector.”
She swiped a keycard through a reader and disappeared through a doorway. For several minutes there was no sign of her, long enough for Peel to entertain the possibility that she might never return. Finally the door opened and together they climbed a flight of crooked stairs to the second floor, where four twentysomethings sat staring at computers in cramped cubicles. The book-lined office of Dr. Rutger Timmerman, the organization’s longtime executive director, overlooked the Raamstraat. Gray and professorial, he wore crumpled corduroy trousers and a cardigan sweater with shiny patches on the elbows. He smelled of pipe smoke and faintly of curry.
He shook Peel’s hand warily. “Inspector Peel, is it?”
“Close enough,” he said with a disarming smile.
Timmerman looked at the woman, who was still standing in the doorway. “That will be all, Greet. Thank you.”
The woman withdrew, closing the door behind her, and Timmerman appraised Peel over a pair of half-moon reading glasses. “What seems to be the problem?”
“We’re hoping there isn’t one.”
“I can assure you there isn’t.” Timmerman sat down behind his desk. “But how can I be of help?”
“It concerns the rather large donations that were made recently to a number of British-based relief and human rights organizations.”
“Nearly three million pounds in all,” said Timmerman. “A remarkable sum of money that will make life a little better for thosewho have nothing. But since when is generosity a crime in the eyes of the British police?”
“When it involves corrupt actors with corrupt intentions.”
Dr. Timmerman offered Peel a condescending smile. “In my experience, Inspector, such individuals tend to spend their money on themselves rather than on others.”
“Do you know the identity of the individual who made the donations?”
“Who says it was an individual? And even if it was only one person, which is not necessarily the case, I have no intention of divulging his name to you.”
Peel took note of Timmerman’s use of the male personal pronoun. “So it was a man, was it?”
“I don’t know who the donor was, Inspector. Nor do I know whether the donor was a man or a woman. I dealt exclusively with an intermediary.”
“I’d like the intermediary’s name, please.”
“I’m sure you would. But you’re not going to get it. Oh, I suppose you could attempt to obtain a warrant from the Dutch Ministry of Justice, but I’m quite confident you won’t get one. The minister is a good friend of our organization and knows that we are completely above reproach.”
“But surely you must have done some sort of background check before accepting the money.”
“We always do.”
Peel adopted a confiding tone. “It didn’t come from some dicey banking center, did it?”
“Like London, you mean?” Timmerman gave a wry smile. “No, Inspector Peel, there were no obvious red flags.”
“And you maintain records for each transaction?”
“Yes, of course. We have copies of the paperwork for every anonymous donation we’ve ever facilitated.”
“And how are they stored, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Digitally, of course. This is the twenty-first century, after all.”
With that Peel wished Rutger Timmerman a pleasant day, and the magenta-haired girl happily saw him into the Raamstraat. He walked to the café at the end of the street and sat down at Gabriel’s table.
“How did I do?” he asked.
