The House of Dolls (17 page)

‘A bed for a couple of nights. A beer or three . . .’

She laughed at that and the sight cheered him.

‘Some fresh herring and sausage. And cheese. And . . .’ He got up and kissed her hair again. ‘. . . your company.’

The sudden tears formed two shining rivulets down her pale cheeks. He wished they weren’t there, that there was something he could do.

‘God knows I’ve missed that and I wish Rosie were here to enjoy it too.’

‘Beer and herring,’ she said getting up. ‘I’ve got the cheese.’

She looked stiff. Old. Not ugly old like him. Good old. A different kind of beauty, more impressive by far than the eye-catching, flirtatious allure that first trapped him.

‘I’ll do what I can,’ she said, and reached out and touched his bristly chin. ‘You look nice without that stupid beard and hippie hair. Like a new man.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘But you’re not, are you, Theo? New?’

He glanced out of the window, trying to avoid her eye.

‘I’ve got to see Maarten later. About money and that passport.’

She nodded, expecting this.

‘I won’t involve you,’ he promised. ‘I won’t do anything to bring trouble to your door.’ He thought about this and knew he meant it. ‘Lord knows I’ve done that enough already and I don’t deserve your forgiveness. Do I?’

‘No,’ she agreed as she went for her coat, picked up her purse, looked through the money in it. ‘But then if you only forgive the worthy . . . what’s the point?’

Van der Berg turned up with the forensic team. A heavyset man of forty-five with a pock-marked face and fading salt and pepper hair. He smelled of aftershave strong enough to cover the fragrance of beer to come. An old and unsuccessful trick.

‘Crazy out there,’ the detective said after they put on white bunny suits. ‘Theo Jansen back on the streets.’ They were in the first-floor room with the double bed, the chandelier, the sheets and towels. Everything pink and smoke-stained. ‘All this . . . What the hell’s going on?’

Vos asked how Jansen got out.

‘Theo was on his own,’ the detective said. ‘Hit some uniformed kid in the toilet. Got his gun.’

The forensic team were taking photographs. Vos turned to the team leader, pointed at the bare floorboards and said, ‘Forget about pictures for now. I want luminol.’

Then he went to the high window and started to draw the heavy curtain.

‘It’s a little early for that,’ the forensic man replied.

‘Katja Prins could still be alive. I don’t have time.’

The officer in the white suit looked ready to argue then thought better of it.

‘Let’s do this properly then,’ he said.

He opened up the curtain. Talked to his team. Told the three cops to wait outside while they went about their work.

On the landing Van der Berg handed over the report Vos had asked for earlier.

‘Did you look at it?’ Vos asked.

‘Why would I do that?’

Vos shrugged, went into a corner, began to read.

They watched him. Watched as he walked downstairs out into the cold, dull day. Lost in something they couldn’t begin to guess.

‘What was it?’ Bakker asked.

‘Something he asked for about his kid’s case. Technical report. I don’t know.’ Van der Berg scowled. ‘I don’t care what Frank de Groot says. Pieter shouldn’t be doing this. It nearly killed him before.’

‘Do you expect him to sit at home on that stupid boat twiddling his thumbs? Or in the Rijksmuseum staring at a doll’s house?’

He glowered at her.

‘I went there a couple of times. Tried to get him out of that place. For a beer or something. Do you think that’s what he was doing? Looking at a piece of wood?’

‘What else?’

The old detective gave her a kindly glance, just short of condescending.

‘It wasn’t the house he kept staring at. It was the dolls. I don’t know if he thought there was some kind of answer there. Or if his girl was like that or something . . .’ He leaned against the smoke-stained wall. ‘He wouldn’t talk to me about it. Look . . . this is fine if it all works out. But what if it doesn’t? What if we lose the Prins girl too? And we still don’t find out what the hell’s going on?’

He had a lugubrious face, one that smiled easily, but not for long. Van der Berg looked at the wall, drew a long line in the smoke dust. Pink wallpaper underneath.

‘Something here doesn’t feel right.’

‘You worked on Anneliese’s case?’

‘Damned right I did. Every last one of us tried to help there. But this . . .’ He moved out of the way as a couple of forensic people walked into the room carrying aerosols and fluorescent tubes. ‘The guy before just taunted Pieter. Never asked for anything. Just wanted to make his life hell. She was probably dead all along. We knew that. So did he.’

‘He thinks Katja Prins is alive,’ Bakker said.

‘Yeah. And usually Pieter Vos is right. In the end.’ He nodded down the stairs. ‘If a dumbo like me gets an inkling this isn’t the same he knows it. Knows a lot more than he’s saying too. He always used to drive us nuts with that.’

Bakker went downstairs and found him outside seated on the wall, a cigarette in hand.

‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ she said. ‘Ordinary stuff anyway.’

His eyes were glassy. She wondered about him.

‘I don’t,’ Vos said and threw the thing into the gutter.

‘Are you all right?’

He was staring at a report, a single sheet on his lap. Vos put it back into the envelope when she started trying to see.

‘Anything I should know?’ she asked.

‘Til Stamm told us Katja was going to a rehab place. Her father paid. It’s called the Yellow House. It’s a charity. Regressive therapy. Facing up to things from your past.’

Bakker leaned against the plastic sheeting and the scaffolding on the burned-out front.

‘Why would forensic send you a report on a charity?’

‘They didn’t.’ He got out a twenty-euro note. ‘There’s a really good
friteshuis
round the corner. Get us some chips, will you?’ He pulled a puzzled face. ‘Which sauce? Which sauce . . .?’

She folded her arms.

‘Curry if they have it. Get one for Van der Berg too but he’ll want mayonnaise. Something for you. Drinks. I’ll have water. Still. Not fizzy. I hate—’

‘You hate fizzy.’

‘How do you know?’

Laura Bakker looked at the money.

‘Just guessing. I don’t get it. One minute you treat me almost as an equal. The next I’m like your servant. What is this?’

‘Saté,’ he said, waving the note. ‘Changed my mind. If they do saté I’ll have that instead.’

In the office, the two of them at his desk, Prins told Margriet Willemsen about the reporter. She looked unhurried, self-possessed. Almost as if none of it were a surprise at all. Then she took Anna de Vries’s business card, glanced at it.

He leaned back in his leather executive chair by the window, trying to feel composed.

‘You know her?’ she asked.

‘The woman’s a crime reporter. Why would I know her? What else have you done?’

A young woman police officer had picked up the photos and the ransom note. Prins had kept copies. He’d told her the documents were pushed through the council office letter box some time that morning.

‘That’s really smart, Wim. The police will want CCTV from the building. When they realize there’s no one on it . . . what are you going to say then?’

‘Jansen busted out this morning. De Groot’s got bigger things to chase.’

She picked up the copies, flicked through the photos, stopped at the one of Katja in her underwear, cowering at someone out of view.

‘This could still be her playing a game. What are you going to do?’

‘I can just about get the money. If I have to. I want . . .’ He put a hand to his temple, felt the pressure there. ‘I want Katja back. Maybe this time we can make something work . . .’

‘How often have you said that? This de Vries woman . . . has she shown anyone else the video?’

‘She said not,’ he answered, and wondered how Margriet Willemsen had managed to put him on the defensive so easily.

‘Do you believe her?’

He’d already asked himself that question.

‘She’s ambitious. She wants to cut a deal. They can’t write the story anyway, not with De Groot’s blackout. If I play along and give her an exclusive at the end then she’ll be . . . understanding.’

Willemsen nodded, thinking about this.

‘Which means you admit to an affair with me, go back to Liesbeth, hand-in-hand with your daughter, and ask the city’s forgiveness?’

‘For now . . .’

‘While I get labelled the scarlet woman. Marriage breaker. Harlot. Do you think I’ll survive that?’

He shook his head.

‘I think we can negotiate something . . .’

‘She’s got a video of us in bed, Wim. Do you honestly think she won’t use it?’

He didn’t have an answer.

Margriet Willemsen took out her phone, made a call to Alex Hendriks. When she finished she looked at Prins and said, ‘Listen to me. We can both survive this. Come out stronger maybe. But you’ve got to trust me. You’ve got to do what I say. Go along with everything that happens now. I wasn’t going to raise this today. But I guess this bitch from the paper’s forced our hand.’

He wanted to laugh. But he couldn’t. Something was slipping away from him here.

She looked at her watch. Didn’t speak until Hendriks turned up. With him was Danny Smit, deputy leader of Prins’s Progressive group, a nervous, skinny young accountant from the suburbs. Too shy and too stupid to do anything unless he was told.

‘Danny,’ Prins said as they sat down. ‘Alex. What is this?’

Willemsen stared at him.

‘I took Danny into our confidence. About Katja and the police investigation.’

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘You’ve been under a lot of pressure over De Nachtwacht. That’s been obvious to all of us,’ she went on. ‘Hasn’t it?’

Smit nodded obediently.

‘Now . . . with the police investigation . . .’

Prins was getting the message.

‘Wait a minute. You can’t have these discussions without me—’

‘We can,’ Hendriks broke in. ‘And we must. You have responsibilities to your family. We all understand that. But we have duties to the council too. It’s important to bring down the shutter on this before it goes too far, Wim. We’ve all come to realize that over the last twenty-four hours.’

A red flame flickered at the back of Prins’s head.

He pointed at Willemsen.

‘She was trying to get me to fire you only yesterday. What the—?’

‘I don’t remember that conversation,’ Willemsen interrupted. ‘Where did it happen? When?’

Prins closed his eyes and laughed.

‘Oh for God’s sake. Is this a palace coup or something?’

Hendriks had a document folder with him. He pulled out a sheet of paper, placed it on the desk.

‘It’s for the best,’ Willemsen insisted. ‘You stand down from the vice-mayor’s office for personal reasons. You keep your seat. You can focus on your family. When things are settled there, come back. We’ll find you a good place . . .’

‘And De Nachtwacht?’

Danny Smit finally found his voice.

‘The consensus in the group is that perhaps we went a little too far. The ideas you were pursuing were more ambitious than we originally agreed.’

‘Who got to you, Danny?’ Prins snarled. ‘Menzo? Jansen? Some other cheating crook who’s flooding De Wallen with whores and dope pedlars?’

Smit bridled at that.

‘This is for your benefit too. We all think it’s best you stand aside for a while. Margriet will take the presidency.’

Prins laughed out loud.

‘I’ll be the new deputy,’ Smit added. ‘Then, after six months, when I’ve got the experience, I’ll take the presidency in turn. Unless you’re well enough to come back.’

‘You think?’ Prins demanded.

Smit looked offended.

‘You should consider your family. We are.’

Hendriks pushed the sheet of paper closer.

‘It’s a formality,’ he said. ‘The decision’s already made. We don’t need your signature. It’s in everyone’s interest there’s no fuss. De Groot’s expecting you in Marnixstraat. That’s where you should be. We’ll all be thinking of you. Praying—’

‘Fuck you,’ Prins snarled. ‘Fuck every last one of you.’

‘We can give you a little while to collect your things,’ Hendriks added.

‘No we can’t,’ Margriet Willemsen said instantly. ‘You need to go, Wim. No fuss, please. We’ll handle the media from now on.’

They sat there, staring at him.

‘I’d rather not call security,’ she added after a while. ‘Don’t make a difficult situation worse.’

He laughed. Got up. Looked at the three of them. Hammered his fist on the chair.

‘I want this back.’

She nodded and said, ‘There’s plenty of time to talk about that later. When things calm down.’

Danny Smit looked as if he was stifling a laugh. Prins didn’t say another word, just walked quickly from the room.

A long silence.

‘Do I get your office now?’ Smit asked. ‘Today?’

She walked over and took the big leather chair by the window. Revolved in it once.

‘No. Tomorrow. You can leave too.’ Smit thought about arguing then got up. So did Hendriks. ‘Not you, Alex.’

Margriet Willemsen waited till the young politician had left the room.

‘I didn’t realize we were going to spring this on him so soon,’ Hendriks said. ‘I thought he might have fought a bit more.’

‘Did you?’

She was rummaging around her briefcase.

‘What do you want to do about his diary events?’ he asked. ‘The meetings on De Nachtwacht. The traders. The unions. You want me to cancel?’

‘I’ll deal with them. It’s business as usual. Make sure everyone knows. Wim’s taking temporary leave on compassionate, family grounds. That’s the story.’

He’d got his iPad out, was checking his messages as she spoke.

‘You do love your toys, don’t you?’ she said with a smile.

Hendriks laughed.

‘Yeah. I guess.’

She pulled out the little video camera she’d found in the bedroom.