The House of Dolls (22 page)

‘Come in, Theo. Let me buy you that beer.’

‘Why?’ Jansen snapped and Vos knew he was losing him. ‘Because we’ve lots to talk about? We’re the same now. That’s what you said. So maybe I will call again. Maybe not.’

Then hung up.

Anna de Vries waited close to the bar in Singel. She’d put the video and Wim Prins to the back of her mind. This was a better story all round. The disgraced politician’s fugitive daughter, pleading for help.

Why?

She knew the stories. How Katja was a dumb Amsterdam schoolgirl who went off the rails after her mother committed suicide.

There were plenty of places to get lost in the city if you were looking. Anna de Vries could see the spread already. Page after page. All she needed was to find Katja, talk to her, get her somewhere safe, bring in the newspaper lawyers, let them negotiate something with the police.

Once the piece was written. Once the exclusive was put to bed.

De Vries stood in the cold street near the canal, getting frantic waiting for an answer.

She’d need pictures. A solid, reliable photographer. There was a freelance on the paper’s books. A quiet, discreet man who took paparazzi shots on the side. She made a quick call, found he was at a loose end, put him on the alert.

‘Where?’ the photographer asked. ‘When?’

‘I’ll get back to you in a few minutes,’ De Vries promised. ‘I need to talk to someone first. When she’s happy. Then I’ll call.’

He didn’t like that much. But he wanted the job so she could live with it.

Twenty minutes after that first message the brief exchange began.

Katja writes,
Who are you?

Anna writes,
Pieter’s friend. He’s worried about you. He wants to help. Can we meet?

Katja writes,
Too scared.

Anna writes,
We can take you somewhere safe.

Katja writes,
They’ll kill me.

The woman in the skimpy raincoat shivered, wondered what she was getting into.

Anna writes,
No one’s going to hurt you, Katja. That’s a promise
.

She leaned back against the damp grimy wall. Felt excited. A little scared too. The crime beat was a good one. Produced plenty of front page stories. Brought her into contact with people on all sides of the law. But mostly it was pursued in the bright light of day. Not in the shadows of the rainy city at night.

Katja writes,
Slaperssteeg. After the Oude Kerk. Go to the end.

Anna writes,
How do I find you?

Katja writes,
I’ll find you.

She put away the phone, started to walk. Thought about texting again and asking the obvious question . . .
How?

But her mind was made up by then. That run-down part of De Wallen was less than ten minutes away. It wasn’t somewhere she’d usually go at that time of night. But this was her story and it was there for the taking. Like Katja Prins.

They got back to Marnixstraat at nine thirty. Vos was insistent she go home, get some rest. Bakker wasn’t in the mood.

Standing in reception he asked, ‘Are you hungry?’

‘After what we’ve just seen . . .’

‘Where do you live anyway?’

‘You asked! Finally, you asked!’

He nodded, waited.

‘Near Westermarkt.’

‘Sounds swanky.’

‘You haven’t seen it . . .’

‘I’ve a dog who needs a walk.’ He tugged at his hair. ‘Sofia’s going to have to keep him for a while.’

Mulder’s team had drawn a blank on Theo Jansen. There was no new development in Rosie’s murder, nothing on Katja Prins since the apparent ransom demand.

‘If you buy me a beer and sandwich,’ she said, ‘I’ll walk Sam with you.’

‘I like that idea,’ Vos agreed.

They cycled down Elandsgracht side by side through fine drizzle. He talked quite brightly to begin with, of the Jordaan, the years he’d spent living in the neighbourhood. But as they drew closer to his houseboat, just ten minutes from her home, Pieter Vos’s answers became shorter, until he barely responded to her questions at all.

Instead of going into the bar he went to the canal and chained his bike. The wrecked dinghy had gone into the hands of forensic who were slowly tearing it apart with little success. The team was finished with his boat, which had proved equally unyielding. Two uniformed men stood at the head of the steps. Vos talked to them, told them to go back to Marnixstraat.

For ten minutes they walked Sam in silence along the Prinsengracht. Then they came back and sat beneath the poster of Casablanca: two beers, a couple of cold boiled eggs with salt on the side, two toasted cheese sandwiches, some ham and crisps. She looked at the plain, cheap food and shook her head.

‘What’s wrong?’ Vos asked.

‘Do you ever eat in a restaurant?’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘For something . . . nice?’

He picked up an egg, sprinkled some salt on it, took a big bite then said, ‘I suppose you got spoilt in Dokkum.’

‘Nah . . . Mostly we just scavenge and live off road kill.’

Sam sat at his feet, staring up all the while, looking a bit baffled. Vos told her off for feeding him crisps.

‘Not good fora dog.’

But the ham was OK so she gave him that. Then asked, ‘What do we know? Really?’

The bar was empty but he looked round to make sure their conversation was private all the same.

‘We know Theo Jansen killed Menzo and his girlfriend. He thought they were responsible for Rosie’s death. To begin with anyway.’

‘Does he still believe that?’

‘Not after we talked.’

‘And that’s it? One word from Pieter Vos. That’s all it takes?’

There was a brief, bright sparkle in his eyes.

‘Not really. I suspect Theo knew already. He’s an impetuous type. Angry. Violent. But an admirable man in some way . . .’

‘Admirable? He’s a murderer and a crook.’

Vos nodded.

‘And lots more besides. But he has a kind of moral code. He’s an Amsterdammer. A practical man. He knows we’ll always have criminals. He just thinks they’re better home-grown.’

He rolled up a piece of meat and passed it to the dog.

‘Menzo would never have murdered Rosie anyway.’

‘Why not?’ she asked.

‘You said it yourself this morning. Nothing to gain and lots to lose. It brings a different kind of blood into the equation. One that spills on everyone in the end. Menzo was no fool.’

‘You make it sound so logical.’

The comment surprised him.

‘It is. We’re dealing with intelligent men here. Businessmen. It’s just that their business . . .’ He shook his head. ‘It’s the mirror image of ours. They liberate, in their own terms. While we try to tell people what they mustn’t do.’

‘We’re not in the wrong, Vos.’

He shook his head.

‘Sometimes we are. Sometimes we overstep ourselves, like Wim Prins and his stupid scheme. Which is about nothing but power by the way—’

‘His daughter’s missing!’ she cried, too loud.

Sofia Albers gave them a hard look from the bar.

‘His daughter’s missing,’ she said quietly, almost a whisper.

‘I’m aware of that,’ Vos said with a mournful shrug. ‘Do you think Menzo was responsible? Any more than he murdered Rosie Jansen? Or maybe someone employed by Theo, a man who was about to be released from a prison sentence he didn’t deserve?’

She finished the beer.

‘Search me. Do you have no idea?’

‘None,’ he said immediately. ‘But we know what we don’t know. Which is a start.’

There was something he wanted to say but didn’t.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘We need to look past the obvious,’ Vos said, and drained his own glass. ‘What if this apparent vendetta . . . it’s just manufactured?’

His eyes grew unfocused, tired.

‘I honestly don’t know. Any reputation I’ve got is exaggerated and largely undeserved.’

‘Don’t tell Frank de Groot. He’s counting on you.’ She hesitated. ‘And so am I.’

‘For what?’

‘An education,’ she said straight away.

Something in that made him think. Vos got up and nodded then went to the bar, asked Sofia Albers to keep Sam for one more night and paid.

He looked her in the eye, alert again.

‘If I took you off this case and sent you back to shuffle parking tickets in Marnixstraat tomorrow . . .’

She screeched. The dog stared at the pair of them. So did the woman behind the bar.

‘If I did that . . .’ Vos repeated.

‘You can’t! They might as well fire me now.’

‘You could go home to Dokkum.’

‘I don’t want to! I want to be here.’ She stamped her boots on the wooden floor, one after the other. ‘Here.’

‘Fine. Then there’s something you need to see. In my boat,’ he said and without a word she followed him out into the night.

A narrow dead-end alley. Spikes on the windows. A sign in English above the entrance: NO SEX.

At the canal end a single street lamp flickered erratically. A few foreign drunks lurking outside a bar in the main street. A couple smoking weed, arm in arm, as if they were on honeymoon. The big bulk of the old church lay round the corner. But this part of De Wallen was firmly in the grip of the red-light business. Cabins alive with fluorescent tubes, bodies writhing at the window. Dope cafes. Bars and cheap restaurants.

And in Slaperssteeg . . . nothing.

Anna de Vries walked the length of the grubby passageway, from the canal towards the dead end behind Warmoesstraat. Her head was spinning from the beer. She was hungry for some proper food. And tired. It was hard to think straight after a long and eventful day like this.

She slung her bag more tightly over her shoulder, thought of the precious iPad in there. Muggings weren’t common in this part of De Wallen. But they weren’t unknown.

Phone out, one more message.

Anna writes,
Katja? Where are you? I’m here. Where you said.

She looked at the screen. Waited. Nothing. Then the letters faded, as if out of boredom.

‘Screw this,’ De Vries muttered. ‘I’m going home.’

Someone had been jerking her around. That was for sure.

Then it rang and the sound made her jump so much she nearly dropped the thing on the filthy cobbles.

One short curse. She looked at the name there and answered.

‘It didn’t work out,’ she told the photographer. ‘Sorry.’ The inevitable question. ‘No. You don’t get paid. Nice try.’

When she finished the call she heard footsteps. The street light flickered. She pulled back a step. A man was there, scaring the life out of her for a moment.

Then De Vries saw his face, laughed with relief and said, ‘Jesus Christ. What are you doing here? I could have wet myself . . .’

Thought about it.

‘Ah.’ Finger in the air. ‘So Katja called you too. Of course she would. I’m sorry. It makes sense . . .’

She looked at him again. There were plastic bags on his hands. Plastic bags on his shoes.

In the dark and narrow passageway of Slaperssteeg Anna de Vries shook her head. He held something in front of him and it glittered in the waxy yellow light.

The houseboat was neater than she remembered. And touching too, like a teenager’s room, plastered with posters, pairs of jeans and socks neatly folded in random piles. Forensic must have done some tidying up after they went through his things, finding nothing at all to suggest who broke in and played an old jazz CD on his stereo. And dumped a body next door, in a way that seemed designed to draw him back into Marnixstraat and a murder investigation.

Bakker felt done in but she wasn’t looking to going home. The tiny studio apartment near Westermarkt was a dump, all she could afford. Some of the neighbours stayed up late, playing music. Looked down on her because of the job, her Friesland accent. Because she wasn’t like one of them and never would be.

But she wanted to know how this city worked. Wanted to learn. Pieter Vos seemed a good place to start.

He was rummaging around in the bows where two large doors blocked off what looked like a storage area. Bakker went and joined him, helped clear a few pieces of old furniture out of the way as he tried to find something at the back.

‘I don’t remember it being like this,’ Vos said.

‘Like what? A mess?’

He turned and looked at her.

‘I don’t remember it being this tidy.’ Then he shifted an old record player to one side and said, ‘Ah . . .’

Bakker found she had to retreat a step or two, find a chair, sit down hard.

The thing Pieter Vos had brought her to see was a doll’s house. A metre high, perhaps more. An exact copy of Petronella Oortman’s, down to the open rooms with their tiny furniture and miniature figures.

‘What’s this?’ she whispered, feeling a sudden chill in the hot, stuffy cabin.

‘Can you give me a hand? It’s quite heavy.’

She squashed next to him in the bows, both jostling for grip on the dusty wooden walls of the miniature wooden house. Finally Vos managed to half-roll, half-bounce it sideways out of the storage area. She got her fingers under the roof and the two of them lifted it over the edge of the compartment out into the open cabin.

‘What is this?’ she asked again.

‘It’s Anneliese’s,’ he said, as if she should have guessed. ‘I had it made for her tenth birthday.’ He grinned. ‘She loved it for all of three weeks. Then it was kid’s stuff and she never looked at it again.’

Vos brushed the dust from the roof with his elbow, peered inside.

‘I kept it when we broke up for some reason. I don’t know why.’ He shrugged. ‘You do that with dolls, don’t you?’

Laura Bakker reached out and touched his sleeve for a moment.

‘Pieter. You should let it go.’

‘Why?’ he asked, puzzled. Bakker had no answer.

‘You see,’ he went on, ‘life’s like this. A series of rooms. You open one. You walk through.’ He poked around the ground floor with his fingers. Picked up the tiny doll from the floor, placed it on the minuscule wicker chair. ‘You always think you know what to expect. But sometimes you go through the next door and . . .’