Little Sister (41 page)

Aisha shrugged and killed the videos.

‘This is going to take days. Weeks.’

She found another folder. One of the files had the name of a local TV news programme. Aisha clicked on it.

The recording was shaky and old. A bright sunny day, summer on the Volendam waterfront. A news reporter’s voiceover was talking about the charity talent contest supported by The Cupids.
They were all there on three chairs set apart by the stage. Rogier Glas looking confident. Frans Lambert, a tall, powerful man with lots of hair who didn’t smile much. Gert Brugman,
red-faced, clutching a beer.

It was impossible not to watch. A tall, striking blonde woman led three young girls onto the stage. She was wearing a tight, short skirt. The kids were in scarlet shirts and skimpy hot pants. A
few of the men were catcalling as they walked onto the platform.

Freya Timmers introduced herself and then the girls: Kim, Mia, Little Jo. Then said a brief thank you and waved at a stern-faced man in a fisherman’s smock by the side of the stage. Her
husband, Gus.

They watched in silence. A cruel and bloody fate was waiting for these people around the corner. And here they were, alive, engaged, seemingly happy, thinking a bright and starry future lay
ahead.

‘I can’t take this either,’ Van der Berg said and picked up the spare laptop then went to the adjoining table to start work.

Freya sashayed off the stage. The band got louder then the girls began to sing in perfect harmony, each voice clear, sweet and angelic. With the first few notes the crowd became quiet, listening
to the song, lost in its curious, perfect loveliness.

The camera turned to the front row of the audience. Jaap Blom and Frank de Groot sat next to one another. There was no sign of their wives.

Laura Bakker sighed and put a finger against De Groot’s head.

‘Is that why we’re not in Marnixstraat with all this stuff?’

It wasn’t a question Vos wanted at that moment.

‘Let’s look at what we’ve got,’ he said. ‘Then take it from—’

Aisha’s slim dark fingers were moving across the keyboard like crazy.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Moving all this stuff somewhere safe. A place of my own. Didn’t you hear? It’s a public folder. Anyone with that link can see it.’

Vos put his hand on hers.

‘How about we move it somewhere safe. And leave it where it is as well. There’s a word for that.’

‘It’s called copying,’ Bakker said.

‘Copying,’ he agreed. ‘That’s what I’d like.’

Ollie Haas was alone in one of the tourist bars near the harbour. None of the locals spoke to him. They hadn’t much since he left the police. No reason on his part. No
desire on theirs. Tourists were different though. He could easily engage them in conversation. Spin them some local yarns. Get a free drink, not that he needed the money.

This wasn’t going to last much longer anyway. He’d put the house on the market. The agents said it would sell too if only he could bring himself to lower the price a shade. Haas
didn’t like cutting corners. He wanted what he wanted. After that he’d take his savings and vanish from the Netherlands for a while. The Caribbean. Florida. Italy. Wherever he felt
like. He was owed a break. There’d been too much in the way of awkward questions of late. He’d known the Timmers kids were going to come out of Marken around now. That was a matter of
simple arithmetic. The place couldn’t keep them much beyond the age of twenty-one.

It was by no means certain the past would rise up to greet them all when that happened. But it was a possibility. If he’d been smarter he’d have taken the opportunity to scoot out of
Waterland months before. Now he couldn’t wait. And perhaps wouldn’t. If the agents couldn’t clinch a quick deal he’d take what money he had and run anyway.

A small glass of beer and a jenever sat in front of him on the counter. An American couple from Oregon had allowed themselves to be engaged in conversation earlier. Then they gave him a look and
said their taxi back to Amsterdam was waiting.

He’d watched them walk off to their hotel along the harbour road wondering if it was something he’d said. Or perhaps an awkward, needy air just hung around him these days. Either way
this wasn’t going to trouble anyone for long.

Haas didn’t drink much but tonight could be an exception. He finished his beer and jenever and walked outside, then along the waterfront to the public car park where he’d left his
Volvo. The place was deserted. All the Friday action happened elsewhere in Volendam, and would go on well into the morning.

By the car he stopped and fumbled for his keys.

‘A man like you,’ a bold, strong local voice said, heavy with sarcasm. ‘Driving when you’ve got strong drink inside you. Brigadier Haas. What are you thinking?’

Sometimes the natives got heavy. They remembered him from when he was running the police here. Plenty of enemies. None with the guts to do much but wheedle and whine.

‘I’m thinking you’d better piss off home, chum,’ he said, still running through his pocket for the keys. ‘Before your life takes a nasty turn for the
worse.’

There were two of them, both in front of the car.

Haas looked up and they came out of the darkness into the light cast by a car park lamp.

‘Tonny and Willy Kok,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t you two be tucked up in your cots by now? I know your old mum isn’t around to read you bedtime stories—’

It was Tonny who was on him first. A big punch to the gut. Haas bent over, winded, scarcely able to believe it. No one had dared touch him in Volendam in years.

‘It’s other stories we want to hear, Mr Haas,’ Willy hissed in his ear. ‘We’ll give you a night to think it over.’

Haas coughed, gasped for breath, wondered if he was going to retch.

‘What the—?’

Tonny had him then, held him while his brother rifled his pockets for the car keys. A few more punches. He heard the boot fly open with a pop. Before he could shout or scream they’d belted
him some more and thrown him inside.

Ollie Haas was just finding his voice when the world turned black and close, became nothing more than a cramped compartment that smelled of dust and diesel.

Then the engine started and they were moving God knows where.

Two kilometres away Jaap Blom was packing his small travel case. His wife watched him, smoking a cigarette, a look of distaste on her narrow, lined face.

‘You’re really going to drive all the way to The Hague? You’ve been drinking, Jaap. Is that wise?’

‘Don’t have to stay in this house. Not when I’m not wanted. Don’t have to put up with you looking at me that way all the damned time.’

She laughed and asked, ‘What way would that be?’

His shirt was open and sweaty under the armpits. He came up and poked a finger at her face.

‘I’ve kept you. Paid for your life. Ten years. Ten miserable years. And what gratitude do I get?’

‘I’m still here, aren’t I? What more do you want?’

‘Let it go, Lotte. Just let it go. All that shit’s over and done with.’

She stubbed the cigarette into a vase by the door.

‘If you say so.’

‘We need to talk to lawyers,’ he grunted. ‘Can’t keep on with this. Not any more.’

‘Lawyers?’ She put a finger to her cheek. ‘That would be interesting. Whenever you like.’

He swore at her then she opened the door and he lurched out into the dark warm night.

The black Mercedes coupé was kept in a lockup on the far side of the canal. It was the nearest parking space he could find in this cramped, genteel corner of Edam.

He marched across the iron bridge still cursing. When he got to the garage a filthy Datsun pickup was parked across the entrance blocking his way. Someone was in the cab listening to music on
the radio. Old music. The Cupids.

Blom swore, went to the door and yanked it open.

‘Just move this piece of junk, will you? I’ve got places to go.’

No answer but the music did get turned down. A big man climbed out and stood by the driver’s door. A beard he didn’t recognize, almost hiding a face he did.

‘Jaap,’ Frans Lambert said. ‘Been a long time.’

Across the water he could see the back of his house. Beyond the summer house and the palms the lights were still on in the kitchen.

‘Get in, please. We need to go somewhere and talk.’

Blom laughed.

‘Ten years since you ran away. And now you’re back? Telling me what to do?’

He moved closer and said, ‘Just get in, will you?’

Blom jerked out his arm and pushed him hard in the chest. Lambert stumbled against the Datsun, cursing. He was taller, stronger maybe. But Blom had always been the boss. He’d beaten him to
a pulp when he was a mouthy kid, good at the drums, lousy at everything else. Things hadn’t changed so much.

Lambert was coming back for more. A single, hard punch to the stomach stopped him, left him winded and gasping for breath.

‘What the hell is this?’ Blom yelled, getting mad, feeling aggrieved. ‘Did you start all this crap? The police. Marken. For Christ’s sake . . .’

‘I didn’t do anything,’ Lambert moaned. ‘None of us. Not me. Not Rogier. Not Gert. Just—’

Blom brought up his knee and caught the crouching figure hard in the gut. Lambert went down.

‘You pathetic worm. Get the hell out of here. Crawl back to whatever shithole you came from.’

The figure in black lurched towards the pickup’s cab.

‘I don’t want to see your face round here again,’ Blom spat. ‘Don’t ever . . .’

He felt something cold then, hard against his neck. Heard a trigger cocked. A gun against his neck. Soft and certain breathing behind. There were two of them.

Lambert got to his feet. Courage found. By someone else.

He jerked back his arm. Big fist. Strong man. It was just that most of that strength went into stupid things like yoga and tai chi and other such crap.

‘Think about this,’ Blom mumbled. ‘Just think . . .’

The punch was hard and cruel. He was half-conscious as they dragged him into the pickup. Gone completely when a second blow came to keep him quiet.

They didn’t leave the Drie Vaten until three that Saturday morning. Even then Vos and his colleagues had only dealt with a fraction of the information Henk Veerman had
left stored in a cloud folder for all the world to see . . . if they had the right address.

By that stage they were exhausted. Depressed. And full of anticipation. From the hours spent going through the files it was clear they could prove the basis of an extended investigation. Most of
the information was old, pre-dating the death of Maria Koops, which appeared to mark a significant turning point in the Marken story. But a decade wasn’t distant history. Vos felt sure there
was enough promising material here to raise the prospect of conviction for anyone connected still alive. Photos. Names. Lists of visitors to the institution, politicians, people from the media and
entertainment world, local councils, the police. The guilty liked to hide behind the innocent. It was inconceivable that every individual named in the records turned their visits into nights at the
cabin called the Flamingo Club. But there was sufficient smoke to convince Vos he could make this case catch fire with some effort, a spot of luck and support from on high.

The key would be persuading the victims to talk and that was never easy. A good number would have been released already. From previous experience he knew how difficult it was to persuade the
victims of historic sex crimes to reopen their wounds. For former inmates of an institution like Marken, frightened of another engagement with the legal system, it could be even harder. Others,
like Kaatje Lammers, might be seen as unreliable witnesses, vindictive, inconsistent and proven liars. His best bet could be the Timmers sisters themselves.

It was obvious there’d been systematic abuse over an extended period. Perhaps even murder. The case to come might turn into one of the most protracted and difficult the department had
faced in years. Marnixstraat would, for one thing, have to prise responsibility for the investigation from the ministry’s own team now looking into Marken as if it were simply a case of
institutional failure. Finding Kim and Mia Timmers and persuading them to talk had to be the first step.

In such situations a single false move early on could so easily scupper criminal charges months or years down the line. He needed legal advice, specialists, a detailed, reliable game plan to
take the case forward. And all he possessed was a massive stack of leaked material, some of it the police’s own, illicitly deleted to keep the incriminating information out of the hands of
those who might use it.

Vos returned to his houseboat and watched Sam fall sleepily into his dog bed in the cabin aware he was terribly out of his depth. In the normal way of things he would have simply taken what he
had to De Groot, asked for advisers to be assigned to the investigation, and followed their expert counsel to wherever the evidence led.

Now he felt stranded. Lost.

His head swimming with images of Waterland – endless green fields, dykes full of dark water where thick weed hid what lay below – he fell below the duvet. The next thing he knew his
phone was ringing. Bright sunlight streamed through the houseboat’s thin curtains. Ducks were quacking outside. Sam got up from his bed, yawned then ambled to the cabin door and started
pawing at it.

Still in pyjamas Vos let him out, picking up the phone along the way.

‘Pieter. Are you OK?’

It was De Groot and he sounded worried.

‘Of course.’ Sam had developed a habit of peeing off the side of the gangplank. Vos was torn over whether this was a good idea or one more offence to get him into trouble with the
authorities, already cross with the ruinous state of the boat. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘Last night—’

‘Last night we had a candid talk. It’s done with.’

Silence, then De Groot took a deep breath and said, ‘I’m glad to hear it. Something’s up.’

Vos listened to his rapid explanation. De Groot had phoned Haas first thing. There was no reply. When he sent a patrol car round to the house they found it empty.