Into the Night: Inspector Rykel Book 2 (Amsterdam Quartet) (13 page)

Sunday, 9 May
11.42

Jaap stood, itching to get on.

Smit had caught him just as he was leaving the station and demanded an update. But then he’d asked him to wait outside his office for ten minutes. Jaap had paced around, finally sitting in a chair and trying to read a newspaper he’d found on it. It’d been the business section, a long article about an aggressive takeover bid by some large company. Jaap’s eyes had glazed before Tanya had called to say the knife and holster had been checked and the answer had come back. They matched.

When Smit had finally been ready for him, Jaap had stepped into his office and briefed him on the current status.

‘So you think the victims might be involved in growing cannabis on an industrial scale?’ asked Smit when Jaap had finished.

Jaap nodded, that was exactly what he’d just told him.

‘But why are they then being killed?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out, and I’ve got to get—’

‘You’ve seen the media coverage. We –
you
– need a result on this quickly,’ said Smit as if he’d just laid out the answer to a philosophical question which had been bugging mankind since the dawn of time.

‘I know,’ said Jaap. ‘Which is why I really need to go now. And I could use some help.’

‘What do you need?’ asked Smit, shooting his cuffs.

Jaap paused for a moment. What he was about to request would, if she ever found out, make Saskia angry.

Well, angrier
, he thought.

‘I’m meeting de Vries from the drug squad. He got a tip-off on another farm, and I want to be there, but I need some help. As it was Kees who came up with the photo of the two victims and the two other men they were hanging around with, I think it should be him. And I know he’s working on another case, but …’

‘Okay, you can have him. I’ll give the order he’s taken off Isovic and put someone else on it. Not sure he’s up to it anyway. But I want a result, preferably before we get another body.’

As Jaap stepped out the front of the police station, he glanced up, looking at the faded blue
POLITIE
sign jutting out from the building.

For a second he wondered if any of it was worth it.

He heard shouting and watched as two uniforms attempted to bring in a man wearing jeans, T-shirt and an orange clown wig.

The man didn’t appear too keen on entering the station.

Once they’d managed to get the clown inside and booked, Jaap co-opted one of the uniforms to give him a lift, and twenty minutes later he was dropped off on a street in Nieuw-West. He spotted an unmarked car midway along.

‘Hey, long time,’ said Hank, offering up a soul shake as Jaap got into the passenger seat.

He was more compact than Jaap, but lean and muscular. His blond hair was short, the same length and colour
as his full beard. He was wearing a stab vest, a short-sleeve T-shirt and gold-lensed wraparounds. Veins coursed along his arms, and Jaap noticed a scar, knotted with stitch marks, cutting across his left forearm. From the pink scar tissue it looked recent.

‘So what brings you here?’ Hank asked once Jaap was settled in.

‘Two dead bodies without heads.’

‘Oh man, you got that one? Sometimes I’m glad I got out of homicide.’

‘Tell me about it. The thing is Tanya’s come up with a possible link between the men that were killed and all these cannabis farms.’

‘You have my full attention,’ said Hank, turning his head to face Jaap, who could see himself distorted in Hank’s sunglasses.

‘She found a knife at a grow house which matches a holster one of my victims had, and she reckons the reason you keep getting there too late is they’re getting tipped off somehow.’

‘They’re sure as shit getting tipped off,’ said Hank. ‘Unless they’ve smoked so much of their own product they’ve developed psychic powers.’

A fly started buzzing round the back of the car.

‘Fuck, that thing’s been driving me crazy,’ Hank said as it flew between them and hit the windscreen. He tried to swat it, but missed, his hand leaving a smudge on the glass.

‘Tanya’s smart,’ said Hank, trying to rub the mark off but only making it worse. ‘Smart and pretty hot. If I wasn’t married I’d slide her on to the bonnet and—’

Jaap didn’t want to hear. ‘Recognize any of these?’ He
handed Hank the photos of the two victims and the CCTV shots from 57.

Hank glanced through them, shook his head.

‘So do you have some idea who runs these things?’ asked Jaap as he took them back.

‘I’ve got a hunch. There’s this—’

Hank’s radio crackled into life.

‘Two men entering the address now, what’s your call?’

Hank turned to Jaap. ‘It’s a couple of streets away. Wanna join us?’

‘What I really need is the name of whoever you think might be behind this.’

‘Tell you what. Help me with this, and one of the people there might be able to tell you themselves.’

Jaap weighed it up. He suddenly remembered he needed to let Tanya know that Kees was now working with them. She wasn’t going to like it.

‘Okay,’ he said, pulling out his phone. ‘I’ve got to make a call on the way.’

‘I’m moving now,’ said Hank into the radio. ‘And I’ve got someone with me. Repeat, I’ve got someone with me. I don’t want one of you morons shooting him. Position yourselves at the back. I’ll give you the signal when we’re going in.’

He reached over to the back seat and handed Jaap a stab vest like his own.

‘Just in case,’ he said, as he fired up the car. ‘You armed?’

‘Yeah,’ said Jaap, pulling out his gun.

There’d been a time when he’d thought he’d never carry a weapon again. But last year had changed all that, and he’d got over his reluctance.

‘Your arm, that happen on one of these raids?’ Jaap asked as Hank fired up the motor and yanked the gearstick.

‘This?’ said Hank, holding it up laughing. He swung the car out and accelerated faster than Jaap thought was strictly necessary. Sun streamed through the windscreen and they both reached for the sun-guards at the same moment, flipping them down in unison.

‘Nah,’ he said. ‘This was the wife.’

Sunday, 9 May
11.44

Kees was splashing water on his face when his phone started ringing.

‘Inspector Terpstra,’ said Kees, eyeing himself in the mirror. He’d been trying to get over the shock of seeing that the homeless woman was dead, but the face shower wasn’t really doing it.

‘Yeah, hi. We spoke yesterday. At 57?’

‘You’re the barman right?’ said Kees, unable to recall his name but recognizing the voice, picturing the goatee.

‘Yeah, and I just wanted to say I thought I saw one of those guys last night. From the photo you showed me?’

‘What time?’

‘I’m not totally sure it was him. It was only this morning I kind of placed him. So I checked the camera we’ve got on the exit, and I reckon he left just after 10 p.m.’

‘You there now?’

‘Yeah, just cleaning up, but—’

‘I’ll be there in five minutes,’ said Kees as he headed down to the carpool at a run, water still dripping off his chin.

He managed to secure something a bit more butch than the electric car he’d had yesterday, and was outside the club in less than seven minutes. All the while his mind was racing, faster than the car.

He might be back on track. If this was a sighting of Krilic it could improve his chances of getting to Isovic.

The place where Isovic had hit him yesterday, right on the back of his head, throbbed.

The fact that everyone at the station had heard about it wasn’t any less painful.

This time he didn’t even bother trying to parallel-park, he simply skidded the car halfway across the road and left it there, siren screaming, lights going berserk and the driver’s door hanging open.

People coming off the free ferries which linked the old city to the new northern section were watching him as he ran towards the club door, wondering what was going on. He toyed with drawing his gun, just for show, but decided it might freak the barman out a bit.

But he couldn’t resist hammering on the doors and yelling ‘Police’ as he slapped his ID badge up against the glass.

‘Jesus,’ said the barman when he let Kees in. ‘What’s the rush?’

‘Let’s just see the tape,’ said Kees.

Sunday, 9 May
12.15

Hank grinned at Jaap as he nosed the car into the street. He slowed to a stop, leaving the motor running. It sounded like someone had souped up the engine.

The scene out the windscreen was classic Nieuw-West, state housing which ran in terraces. Moroccan and Tunisian flags hung from windows on some of the buildings. A black bin regurgitated junk on to the street for a crowd of unruly gulls, their heads jabbing and pecking in a frenzy of yellow and white.

This was the area that Mohammed Bouyeri, killer of filmmaker Theo van Gogh, was born and raised in, and it was known for immigrant unrest, many of its residents unhappy that the promised land hadn’t quite turned out like the dreams which had lured them, or their parents, in the first place.

Jaap had called Tanya as Hank had driven, and told her about Kees, but his reception had gone and he wasn’t sure she’d got the message. He tried to send a text but he still had no coverage. Giving up he pocketed the phone.

They’re adults
, he thought.
They can sort it out themselves.

‘Position?’ Hank asked the radio.

‘Covering the rear exit,’ crackled the response.

‘Then we’re going in,’ said Hank as he lurched the car forward, skidding it to a halt right in front of one of the houses midway along the terrace.

Gulls flapped into the air with angry shrieks.

Jaap sprang out, ran round the front of the car and joined Hank by the door to the property. Hank drew, and Jaap followed suit.

Hank finger-counted down from three then stepped forward and kicked right by the lock. Wood crunched. The door gave.

‘Police,’ he yelled in a death-metal voice as they ran in.

A short corridor ended in a room to the back, and stairs led to the first floor. The rooms to either side were empty, Jaap clocked as they ran past. Hearing movement above them they took the stairs two at a time, Hank out in front.

On the first floor there was a small landing and two closed doors. It was dark, the one window above the stairs blacked out. Jaap could hear an electrical hum. They picked the room on the right where the hurried footsteps had come from, and positioned themselves either side of the door.

‘Police. Come out slowly,’ shouted Hank.

Noises from the inside again, whispering.

Jaap caught a herbal hit.

‘Come out now,’ Hank shouted again.

This time just silence.

He looked across to Jaap, motioned for him to cover and stepped into position ready to kick in the door.

Jaap watched as he raised his foot.

Then he watched as the door seemed to erupt, splinters of wood flying towards Hank, light trailing each individual piece.

It was then he heard the shot. His ears imploded.

Hank fell back, slamming his head on the wall behind
him. Jaap found he’d shifted position, about thirty degrees off the door, his gun held out in front of him. He could hear Hank groaning on the floor.

Through the high-pitched ringing Jaap heard the unmistakable click and pump of a shotgun being reloaded.

He ducked across the doorway, light blaring out of the holes in the door, dust swirling in the solid rays, and pulled the trigger, emptying the clip before he got to the other side.

One of the eight must have hit home; there was a muffled scream and the sound of someone toppling over like a sack of earth dropped to the floor.

He squatted down, out of line of the door and grabbed Hank’s left arm, pulling him towards him. Hank groaned again, tried to help by scrabbling with his unhurt leg, but his foot kept slipping in a slick of blood.

Once Jaap had managed to manoeuvre him further away from the door he quickly went over the wound. Multiple shot in the foot and calf. It was messy, and it needed attention.

Quick.

He hoped Hank’s men covering the back had heard the shots.

‘I’m going to secure the place, then we’ll get you an ambulance,’ he whispered to Hank, who nodded and handed him his own gun. Jaap took it and moved by the side of the door. With one hand he reached out and gave it a shove, retracting his hand at speed. The door flew inwards, but there were no more shots.

He could hear his own breath, rough as sandpaper, and under that the techno track of his heart, pounding fast
and hard. The grip of the gun suddenly appeared to be covered in moisture. He took a deep breath, then burst into the room, gun ahead of him.

It was hot inside, and there was a forest of weed, leaves clustered thick. The hum was louder now, overhead. He looked up to see high-power grow lights hanging from the ceiling. Jaap’s eyes were adjusting too slowly. A man lay slumped on the floor about four feet from the door, shotgun just out of his reach. There was a second man, standing several plants deep.

He had his hands up in the air like he was hanging from a cliff.

Sunday, 9 May
12.21

It hadn’t taken Tanya long to establish that the girl who’d worked at the estate agent, Esther, had done a runner.

Her housemate, a particularly grim specimen who’d opened the door, bare stomach drooping down over low-slung jeans, had seemed more upset that he was going to be short on the rent for next month. No, he’d not really known her, he’d said with one hand on the door frame, the other fiddling with his outie belly button.

Tanya’d asked to see her room, and had been forced to squeeze past the man to get in. She was sure he’d got some kind of thrill from it. The room itself hadn’t yielded much, Esther had either taken everything she owned, or hadn’t owned that much in the first place. Just as she was leaving something had caught her eye by the doorway; she’d bent down to look, finding it was a small silver cross on a thin chain. The clasp was broken. She’d bagged it up, then left.

Then she’d talked to someone at the tram company. She explained what she needed and he’d agreed to put the word out; any drivers on the route she specified seeing a man in a wheelchair were to call her.

Now she was in the tech unit reviewing every sighting on Centraal’s CCTV of the man who’d killed the homeless woman. The heavy metal T-shirted tech said they’d been through everything.

At no point was his face visible, his cap covering his
features in the few moments when he was actually on camera. There was one short sequence of him, leaving once he’d pushed the woman in front of the train, when the camera caught the back of his head. Tanya could see the man’s hair was short. Much shorter than Kees’.

‘You okay?’ asked the tech.

Tanya realized she must’ve sighed.

‘Yeah, fine,’ she said, getting up.

So it wasn’t Kees.

Which didn’t mean he wasn’t involved; he was still the only one who could have made the calls, and she was sure he’d reacted when she’d aired her theory.

She made her way up the stairs from the basement, and just as she turned a corner she heard a man yell out from above. Toilet rolls cascaded down the steps towards her, several unspooling as they came. A man in white overalls stood on the landing, a two-wheeled trolley in his grip, now half empty.

‘Sorry,’ he called out. ‘Not hurt, are you?’

‘I’ve had worse things thrown at me than toilet paper,’ she said, picking up a roll. ‘At least this looks relatively unused.’

‘Normally it’s wrapped up, but for some reason when I picked it up at the depot today it was all loose,’ he said, starting down towards her, grabbing up rolls as he did, throwing them back up the stairs behind him.

Tanya stood and watched him for a moment. Something had just struck her.

The logs she’d requested had been for police staff only; she’d not thought of civilians. But there were loads of people who came in and out of the station on a daily basis.

Could it be someone from outside?
she thought.
Could they have got access to a computer?

It would be a risk, a huge risk, for someone to take. But then she thought of the night cleaners. There was a crew who passed through, cleaning not only the desks but the computers themselves. She remembered one night she was in late watching a man sitting at one of the inspectors’ desks wiping a computer keyboard.

And the calls had all been made at night.

She turned and ran down the stairs, a roll of paper chasing down after her.