Little Sister (23 page)

‘Kaatje’s being transferred,’ Veerman broke in. ‘To sheltered accommodation in the city. Dr Visser agreed this yesterday. I just need you . . .’ He was struggling
with something. ‘We’ve got to go through some papers first.’

There was a brief silence. Then Kaatje Lammers slapped her cheek, opened her mouth wide and said, ‘Stupid me! How could I forget something like that? See!’ She tapped her skull,
grinning. ‘All wrong up here.’

‘Then why are they letting you out?’ Bakker asked.

Kaatje shrugged and looked at Veerman.

‘These are clinical decisions,’ he said. ‘I don’t intend to discuss individual cases with the police. Do I have to call your superiors and explain that?’

He summoned a uniformed guard walking out of the canteen and told him to show Bakker to Visser’s office.

‘You can interview who you want, but only with my permission,’ he added. ‘And I will be present. We’ll get your things, Kaatje. Sign those papers. Then I’ll find
you a car.’

‘Great.’

The girl wandered off with him, waving her fingers at Bakker as she walked.

Fifteen minutes later the gates of Marken opened. A black Mercedes took her beyond the iron barrier for the first time since her incarceration. She sat upright in the back, waving at the camera
crew through the car window.

Back in the city Kim Timmers crouched in front of the TV set watching the live news, mind alive with possibilities.

She followed the black car as it edged out of the familiar Marken gates, saw the dark-haired grinning figure in the back. Mouthed one delighted word, ‘Kaatje.’

Mia was upstairs trying to deal with Vera. The day ahead looked empty and boring.

Those trapped in Marken went to one of only three places: the outside world, another hospital, or the safe house in Amsterdam, the place they were headed when Simon Klerk drove his yellow SEAT
up the lane with other ideas. She had to recall the timing now. It was early Monday evening that they left the island. Now it was Thursday morning and the world seemed no clearer at all.

Mia was no help. The Englishwoman was getting more awkward by the hour. Soon she’d be mobile and there’d be decisions to make.

She thought of Kaatje Lammers, smiling in the back of the car. When Kim got cold feet about anything in Marken Kaatje was always there to put some steel into her spine. She was more fearless,
more ruthless than either of them. A sight more sneaky too.

An excellent ally. A partner in crime.

The world. A hospital. Or that house.

It was a guess but that was all Kim had. She found the bag they came with. Inside was the address Simon had given them. A quiet place near the museum. No locks on the doors. No bars on the
gate.

The note went into her pocket then, quiet as a mouse, she let herself out, map in hand, working out the geography of the city as she walked.

Twenty minutes later she was there, a narrow curving road of tall houses not far from the Rijksmuseum. A black car that looked like a taxi turned up not long after. As Kim watched, a security
guard from Marken got out of the passenger seat, went to the back door and helped Kaatje Lammers out. She had a bag like the one Simon Klerk had given them. A child’s one with Disney
characters on the side.

Kim stayed in the shadows of some bushes on the far side of the street. A friendly-looking man came down from the hostel and said hello to Kaatje, taking her bag. A complete stranger. A halfway
house they called it. Somewhere you could be free some of the time.

Kaatje stopped on the steps of the red-brick building, turned, smiling, looking sweet the way she could. Kim walked out into the bright day and stared across the road. Their eyes met. It took a
moment for the figure opposite to recognize her. Then Kaatje’s smile grew bigger and she did that subtle wave with her fingers, a tiny gesture she used a lot.

She mouthed something and vanished inside.

One word, easy to read.

Later.

Jaap Blom looked every inch the politician. Trim, smart in a sleek grey suit, a full head of blond hair that almost didn’t look dyed. He was at ease as he walked into De
Groot’s office and found a seat for his wife. Lotte Blom fitted the picture too. An elegant woman, more casually dressed than her husband in black trousers and a white silk shirt. She was
perhaps a good ten years younger than him though both possessed the timeless, suntanned look of the wealthy so Vos found it hard to tell. Politics was Blom’s world now but there remained a
patina of show business glamour about the couple, Jaap with his yellow locks and masterful manner, Lotte with her perfect black hair set in a Loren cut to match her dark Mediterranean features.

Vos recalled the last time he’d seen Gert Brugman, trying to entertain a bored and rowdy audience in one of the Jordaan music bars. Time had been kind to this pair in a way it had never
reserved for one of the musicians who surely helped put them where they were now. He recalled Rijnders’ words about Blom’s management style and reputation. It wasn’t difficult to
see a powerful, controlling individual behind the politician’s mask. Perhaps intimidating if the occasion warranted it.

Lotte Blom said, ‘I told Jaap you people had been around in Volendam asking questions about The Cupids. And that horrible thing that happened. After all these years. I thought you might
want to talk to us.’

‘Where did you hear that?’ Vos asked.

Blom took a seat next to his wife and nodded at De Groot.

‘All that stuff on the TV,’ Lotte Blom went on. About the Timmers girls. How you idiots set them free—’

‘That wasn’t us,’ De Groot intervened. ‘We knew nothing about their release. Had we been asked—’

‘It was a medical decision,’ Vos said. ‘They wouldn’t have consulted us anyway. I don’t understand, Mrs Blom. Why are you here?’

‘Did I not say?’ she asked with a wave of her tanned and neatly manicured hand. ‘Jaap’s in The Hague most of the time. Working all hours, not that anyone appreciates it.
I prefer to keep house for him in Edam. It’s quieter. So I hear what you’re up to.’

Only a few kilometres separated the elegant and upper-class town the Bloms made home from the more rowdy and working-class Volendam. Vos could appreciate word would get around. He still
didn’t think they’d made that much noise.

‘My wife heard you were reopening the case,’ Jaap Blom cut in. ‘The family. Poor Rogier’s death. All that crap the papers tried to push his way. He just loved kids. That
was all. I don’t spend as much time up here as I’d like. So we thought . . . while I’m here I’d make myself available. In case I can help. So?’ He gestured with his
open hands. ‘Any questions?’

‘We’re not reopening the case,’ De Groot told him.

‘In the sense that it was never closed,’ Vos added. ‘We still don’t know who murdered Gus, Freya and Jo Timmers.’

‘Do you have new information?’ Blom asked.

‘We’re trying to find the surviving Timmers girls,’ he said very carefully. ‘It wouldn’t be proper for me to discuss an investigation in progress—’

De Groot leapt in quickly.

‘Mr Blom has some responsibility for justice issues within the House of Representatives. He’s not someone who’s just walked in off the street.’

‘All the same . . .’

Blom stared at Vos and said, A good friend of mine died that night. Another vanished and I still don’t understand why. As for Gert . . .he was a mess anyway. But what happened then marked
us all. Cost me a damned lot of money too.’ He checked himself at that. ‘Not that money’s important. I made that band. Put them together. Told them what to play and fixed it so it
sounded good. Kept them in the charts longer than they deserved, too, when we shifted the sound a bit.’ He winced and pulled at his hair. ‘Not that you hear some of that later shit on
the radio any more, thank God. Just the old stuff. The originals.’

‘As I said,’ Vos replied, ‘our focus is on finding Mia and Kim Timmers. And trying to understand what happened to Simon Klerk. And their uncle.’

Lotte Blom snorted.

‘Huh! Stefan Timmers? I grew up in Volendam. I can tell you about him. An out-and-out criminal. A thug for hire. Gus was scared of him. Everyone was. As for Freya . . .’

Her husband was squirming in his seat.

‘What about her?’ Vos asked.

‘She’d do anything men wanted to get her own way. As for what happened—’

‘Love, love,’ Jaap Blom said, putting a hand on her arm. ‘Enough. They’re dead. Whatever they were like—’

‘And to think those she-devils of hers murdered poor Rogier.’

She stared at Vos and asked, ‘They did, didn’t they?’

‘So it would seem,’ he replied. ‘I didn’t handle the case.’

‘Do you not have an opinion?’

De Groot intervened and said, ‘We’re dealing with today. Not what happened ten years ago.’

Blom shrugged.

‘As you can see, gentlemen, it was my wife’s idea to come here. I think she’s probably said what she wanted. Can I help in some way? If so—’

‘What happened?’ Vos asked before De Groot could stop him. ‘That day in Volendam? The talent contest?’

Blom laughed and said, ‘Surely you know. Brigadier Haas investigated everything very thoroughly as far as I recall.’

‘I’d just like to hear it.’

What followed was short and plain. Freya Timmers took her three daughters to sing on the stage by the harbour during the summer fair. All three Cupids, Glas, Brugman and Lambert, were the
judges, though most people thought Blom would tell them which way to vote. As soon as the contest was over and the prizes handed out Lambert caught a cab to Schiphol to go on holiday in the Far
East, never to return. Rogier Glas and Blom went to the recording studio to work on some new songs. Gert Brugman stayed around the waterfront drinking with the locals.

‘What time did Glas leave?’ Vos asked.

The politician frowned.

‘I went through all this with Haas. We packed in about eight. I drove home to Edam. Rogier went to pick up his van. He had a cottage out of town. Next thing I hear . . .’

‘Haas told us,’ Lotte Blom said firmly. ‘That Timmers girl and their parents got killed the moment they set foot in the house. Someone was waiting for them. One of the
neighbours heard some screams.’ The memory seemed to amuse her. ‘Did nothing of course.’

‘Why not?’ Vos wondered.

She stared at him as if the answer was obvious.

‘Gus Timmers was an animal. Like his brother. There were always lots of screams. Him. Her. Those kids of theirs. I doubt you people would even have turned up if someone had
called.’

Freya was furious the girls had only won a runner-up prize, Blom said. She’d gone home with Jo and her husband, leaving Mia and Kim to pick up whatever bauble they got. They’d left
just before eight, found the door to their home open, walked inside . . .

Vos asked, ‘Why did Mia and Kim think Rogier Glas was responsible?’

Lotte Blom laughed in his face and said, ‘I can’t believe you’re asking us that. I don’t know why we came here. Truly.’

De Groot huffed and puffed and then said, ‘Freya Timmers had tried to lodge a complaint with Haas the previous week. She said someone connected with The Cupids had . . . abused the
girls’ trust.’

‘Who?’

Blom shook his head.

‘Haas took this up with me. It was all a fairy story. She was trying to get me to sign up the girls. A recording contract. Everyone knew The Cupids were finished. Except them. The best I
could fix them up with by then were a few holiday camp gigs. Maybe an Eighties revival tour. She thought those kids could take their place. I might have signed them, but not for the kind of money
she was after. It was ridiculous. I assumed going to Haas was her way of trying to force things. Maybe she talked those kids into believing it too. They adored her. She was the loving mother. They
were her three darling angels. There wasn’t anything they wouldn’t have done for Freya.’

‘That bitch slept with half the men in Volendam trying to get what she wanted,’ Lotte Blom muttered.

‘No, no.’ Her husband tried to calm her down. ‘It wasn’t that bad. She just . . . liked to get around. And they’re dead. Whatever we think of them . . .’

‘I still don’t understand why the girls thought it was Rogier Glas,’ Vos pointed out.

De Groot glanced at his watch. Jaap Blom did the same.

‘The truth is we don’t know,’ the commissaris said. ‘When they were taken into custody they wouldn’t talk at all. Not that it mattered. They were there. They had
the knife. There was no one else around.’

Vos considered his options then looked at Blom and asked, ‘Where were you on Monday night?’

‘At home. With Lotte.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I was watching TV,’ she said. ‘Jaap spent the evening dealing with government papers. Ministry papers. As he usually does. No time off—’

‘What are you suggesting?’ Blom snapped.

Vos sighed.

‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just asking the questions police officers always ask.’ He smiled. ‘If we didn’t I expect we’d be in trouble with the
ministry. Wouldn’t we?’

No answer to that.

‘You didn’t go—?’

‘I drove back from The Hague in the morning. We had lunch at a restaurant in the town. We never set foot out of the house after—’

‘Where were you last night?’

Blom was getting mad.

‘This is ridiculous! The same! At home! Why—’

‘That’s enough,’ De Groot barked.

‘Last night someone assaulted an officer of mine,’ Vos continued. ‘In Volendam. And stole what I believe to be crucial evidence from Stefan Timmers’ cottage.’

There was a steely, arrogant glint in Jaap Blom’s eyes at that moment.

‘I am an elected member of the House of Representatives. Not a common criminal.’

‘We’re done here,’ De Groot announced.

‘Have you ever been to Marken?’ Vos asked.

A long silence. Lotte Blom muttered something inaudible under her breath. Then her husband said, ‘I’m a politician. I live in Edam. I visit lots of places all the time. Of course
I’ve been to Marken—’

‘I meant the institution. Not the village. Did you ever visit there? In an official or a private capacity? Have you ever met Kim and Mia Timmers since that night ten years ago?’