The Wrong Girl (13 page)

‘We don’t get all that poor shit around here,’ the man said. ‘You need to go . . .’ He gestured to the area east of them. ‘Few of them around there.’

‘Lived in?’ Vos asked.

His big shoulders heaved.

‘I guess. If you want to make money you sell them to the speculators. Rent them out to dumb tourists for fifteen hundred euros a week. Let them bang their head on the roof and deal with all that damp.’

Vos said thanks.

Bakker followed him back to the bikes.

‘If you were going to kidnap someone would you take them home?’ he asked.

‘No. I’d rent a place somewhere.’

‘Quite.’

He called Van der Berg and asked him to get someone in Marnixstraat looking at the web rental sites for any houseboats in the Westerdok area. Then they cycled over the Bickersgracht bridge, into Galgenstraat and started poking around. There were more uniforms working the canal. But the man on the yacht was wrong. Hardly any old houseboats here. And every one of them had checked out.

Ten minutes more fruitless searching. Night had fallen, cloudy and dark. They were pedalling down narrow, ill-lit streets getting nowhere when Van der Berg called back with news. There were seven boats out for short-term rental on the web. Four of them were empty. Two others had been checked already and cleared. The last was in Realengracht to the north.

‘I’ll send someone round,’ Van der Berg said.

‘Don’t bother,’ Vos told him. ‘We’re nearly there.’

Fransen and Thom Geerts had to wait outside De Groot’s office until he was clear of a management meeting elsewhere. That didn’t help their mood. The moment he returned they followed him into the room squawking all the while.

Koeman had accompanied De Groot up from reception, warning him along the way. Updating him on what little they knew of the situation in Westerdok too.

De Groot liked his office. There was a view of the canal from the window and the broad thoroughfare of Elandsgracht down to Vos’s houseboat. It was a place he could think. But not with two intelligence monkeys whining in his ear.

He listened to Fransen’s moans, glanced at Koeman and said, ‘What is this? We’re chasing a lead. That’s all. We don’t have anything of substance. No address. No—’

‘We’ve got a phone call with ducks, trains and a station announcement, for God’s sake,’ Koeman told him. ‘We’re guessing it’s Westerdok. We could be completely wrong. The bastard might have taken the kid out of the city for all we know.’

Fransen sat down. Geerts did the same. He looked as if he mirrored her every move.

‘You need to keep us in the picture,’ she said. ‘This is the second time today Vos has marched off without telling anyone.’

‘What?’ Koeman squealed. ‘We don’t have time to call you every time someone farts around here. What about this Alamy guy? The ransom? What do we do when this bastard calls back tomorrow and gives us a deadline?’

‘There’ll be no ransom,’ Geerts insisted. ‘We told you that already. The Dutch government doesn’t give in to blackmail.’

De Groot waited. That was it.

‘So what do we do?’ he asked.

‘Stall,’ Fransen said. ‘Spin it out for another day. We’re expecting a final court ruling on his appeal tomorrow. Maybe that will change things.’

Koeman scratched his head and asked, ‘How?’

‘Tell him there are problems arranging the plane,’ Geerts suggested, ignoring the question. ‘Get one more day out of him. Then another if we need it.’

‘And in the meantime find him,’ Fransen added. ‘How about that?’

Koeman rolled back his head and said, ‘We’re trying.’

‘Whereabouts are you looking in Westerdok?’ Fransen asked.

‘All over,’ De Groot said. ‘Nothing to report yet. If there is . . .’ He looked at the door. ‘I’ll pass it on.’

‘Do you have anything to tell us?’ Koeman asked them. ‘Any little thing that might help?’

‘If we did you’d know it,’ Fransen told him. She didn’t look ready to move. ‘Where’s Vos? Where
exactly
?’

Koeman kept quiet. So did the commissaris.

‘Enough,’ Fransen said. She nodded at the detective. ‘Out of here. I need to talk to De Groot alone.’

The narrow old house in the Herenmarkt felt cold. Winter was coming on the night wind, brought in from the chilly waters of the IJ and the sea that fed it.

They ate the food she put on the table: spaghetti carbonara, bought from Marqt around the corner, made with the sauce they provided. Everything in the place came from somewhere, she thought. None of it was made. Was hers.

The pregnancy was an unwanted surprise but when the child turned out to be a daughter she was hopeful. Together they’d be a joint buffer against his forceful, demanding personality. But then Henk stepped in somehow, not long after Saskia was born. Before she could forge a bond between them he was there. Pushing the pram, talking to her, singing to her. Keeping her for his own. Another possession to be put in place for the moment she’d be needed.

He liked everything in order. Filed away. Predictable. So she went down to the organic supermarket with orders about what to buy: the right kind of food, nothing from China, nothing mass-produced. Though it all tasted the same in the end. That pickiness on his part was just another facet of his need to control her.

And criticize. That was important too. Already he’d informed her the Parmesan tasted a little stale. She’d grated it carefully two days before, the last time they ate like this. Kept it in an airtight container. But Henk, with his fine, discerning palate, could taste something old and dry, not that she noticed. So in future she’d have to grate it afresh on every occasion and get the quantities wrong as usual, which meant he could scold her when he found her trying to empty out the unused dregs into the food recycling box without his noticing.

She watched him curl the pasta round his fork and spoon so carefully, with a precision and neatness she could never emulate. Saw that Saskia did the same now. Copied him, always.

Her mind wandered to the Georgian woman again. Hanna Bublik. She’d asked the name at the police station and for some reason the young woman detective Bakker had told her.

What kind of life had she led with her daughter? How did poverty feel? What measure of desperation would drive a woman to sit in one of those glass cabins of a night, trying to entice a stranger to her hard single bed, to service him like a living machine? All for no more euros than she might spend in a single shopping expedition down Marqt making sure Henk got the wine he liked, the cheese he preferred, the right kind of pasta, meat from a guaranteed organic farm and salad leaves so odd and exotic that she’d no idea what they truly were.

The woman and her child must have lived in a kind of hell. But there were other sorts too.

She looked at Henk and said, ‘How did you find Saskia in Leidseplein? I still don’t understand.’

The girl sighed, looked at her plate of food. Put her knife and fork on the pasta that remained and got up muttering something about going to read in her room.

‘You know,’ he said lazily when she’d left, ‘I long ago accepted I’d never get any thanks for what I do. But ingratitude seems a touch boorish in the circumstances.’

‘There’s a little girl missing. If we can help . . .’

‘It’s called observation,’ he broke in. ‘You should try it.’

‘That’s not fair,’ she muttered. ‘I do my best.’

His hand came out and patted hers.

‘I appreciate that.’

He grabbed the bottle of wine. An organic Amarone. Too heavy for her and he knew it. The glass he filled very precisely, swirling it under his nose before taking a sip.

‘I take it you no longer want to get away,’ he said. ‘If you do the offer’s still open.’

It struck her then: he desired this. Wanted her out of the house. Perhaps never to come back. That way he’d have Saskia forever. The battle would be won for good.

‘I changed my mind. I’ll stay and see this through.’

‘Good,’ he said with no conviction.

‘I saw your father this morning. He’s a kind man, Henk. He doesn’t deserve your hatred. He—’

‘Kind?’

‘That’s what I said.’

His eyes were on her. She could see the drink in them.

‘You always think you know people,’ he said, with a half a slur. ‘You never really do.’

‘Is that me you’re talking about? Or are you just speaking for humanity in general?’

More of the blood-red wine went down.

‘Why do you hate me?’

‘I don’t have the energy for hatred,’ he said with a sudden savage glance. ‘That’s for children. I really think after all this time you might have realized. But . . .’

His phone buzzed. The thing seemed a part of him. It was out in a flash, his fingers racing over the screen as if they knew every millimetre.

‘Work?’ she asked lightly.

‘I have to go out for a while.’

This was new.

‘Out? You mean . . . in the real world?’

He grinned then winked at her.

‘Good one that. You’re sure you don’t want to take a break somewhere for a week or two? We can cope. I’ll look after Saskia. She’ll look after me.’

‘I’m fine here,’ Renata said.

He picked up the Amarone. Two thirds full. Placed it in front of her.

‘Leave me half a glass for when I get back.’

She pushed it back over the table.

‘All yours,’ she said. ‘Just for a change.’

The boat was a klipper. Not that different to Vos’s own but smarter, a little less old, a lot tidier. It sat near the junction of two channels of water beneath a line of trees shedding their leaves into the winter wind. There was a light on in the main cabin. Behind closed curtains they could make out a figure moving to and fro inside. Then a second, smaller shape came into view. Words they couldn’t hear were exchanged. The diminutive silhouette vanished as if ordered somewhere.

Vos parked his bike against the house opposite. Bakker did the same.

‘Maybe there are things we could put on the walls?’ she said. ‘Microphones? And listen in.’

‘I imagine,’ he agreed and set off for the waterfront.

‘Pieter!’ she said and put a hand to his arm.

He turned and smiled.

‘I live on a boat, Laura. I know what it’s like. Not a house. It sits below everything else. You don’t look out. You can’t easily. That’s one reason I liked it in the first place. It’s like a . . . a cocoon.’

The long road looked empty. No one observing them.

‘They’re not looking out for us. Besides . . . it’s probably a waste of time.’

He walked on. Bakker joined him. A few steps from the gangplank she went ahead. Before Vos could stop her she was taking out a forensic glove, putting it on her right hand, dragging something out of a smouldering brazier near the steps to the houseboat.

Vos pulled out his torch. It was the burned remnants of a Black Pete costume. Green fabric, smoke-stained and charred. A ruff. A black hat.

‘We’ll bring in a team . . .’ Vos started to say. Then froze. There was a sound from the boat. Lights there. A voice. Male. Commanding.

Bakker had her handgun out already. Fresh from firearms training a couple of weeks before. She was more at home with the things than he’d ever be.

The door opened. The shape of a man there, barking orders. A big man.

Vos turned, told her to wait.

But she was young and keen and quick, soon dashing over the gangplank, weapon out. No stopping her.

Koeman closed the door behind him. The two AIVD officers stared at De Groot. The commissaris leaned back in his chair and rubbed his black walrus moustache.

A smart, intelligent man. Easy with his own people. Hated dealing with anyone outside the service. Especially faceless agents who’d never worn a uniform, never quite said who was pulling their strings.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘In a couple of minutes you’ll be getting an email from The Hague. The minister’s taking a personal interest in this case. She requires a happy outcome.’

‘Don’t we all?’ De Groot asked.

‘The minister wants the lines to be clear,’ Geerts cut in.

These two worked like a double act. It was hard to see daylight between the two of them.

‘The lines are clear, aren’t they? You deal with national security. We pursue criminal investigations. Kidnapping’s a crime. Finding that young girl’s our job. I want your help. If there’s something you know that can assist us I want to hear it. But . . .’

‘Not as simple as that,’ Fransen said with a sigh. ‘This is about Ismail Alamy. He’s in play. Between us. Between the people in the Middle East who want him.’ She paused for effect. ‘The Americans would like a chat too.’

‘Then let the Americans talk to him in that cell in Schiphol.’

‘This man could take us to Barbone if he wanted,’ Geerts said. ‘That’s about as precious a prize as we could get right now. Vos should never have been out there this morning. Did you know he was in Schiphol?’

A weak point. He wasn’t going to give them an answer.

‘Thought not,’ the AIVD man said. ‘You’re out of your depth here, De Groot. It’s best you know it.’

‘Careers die at times like this,’ the woman added. ‘It’s a kind of suicide usually.’

De Groot looked at them, shook his head and laughed.

‘Are you really saying you don’t want us to find this girl?’

‘There’s more at stake than the life of an illegal hooker’s daughter,’ Fransen answered. ‘More than you could begin to imagine.’

‘Do you have children?’ he asked.

‘That’s irrelevant,’ Fransen snapped. ‘I’ve got a job to do.’

‘So the answer to my question is . . . yes. You want us to stop looking.’

They glanced at one another. Then Fransen said, ‘I want to know where you go. I want to hear what you find. I want to be told what you plan to do. Before you do it. And if I say you do nothing. Then nothing’s what you do.’

The commissaris folded his arms and kept silent.

‘Where’s Vos?’ she asked.

‘Pieter?’ De Groot said brightly. ‘Most talented man I’ve got. And the most infuriating. Very difficult to manage. Goes off on his own. Doesn’t say where. Doesn’t answer his phone. And then . . . when you’re about to bite his head off . . . he comes back with everything you want, neatly wrapped and tied. Sometimes anyway. So you just want to give him a big hug instead.’