The Wrong Girl (35 page)

She sounded tired and mad at him.

‘Not always. How’s Saskia?’

Another silence.

‘Puzzled. As am I.’ He could hear the deep breath she was taking. ‘She told me. About the game. In Leidseplein.’

‘Oh.’

‘And all that crap about orang-utans. The lies you tell so easily . . .’

A tramp was drifting aimlessly across the square, stopping passers-by, begging for money. Kuyper watched him, wondered.

‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘Do you know?’

Five years he’d been living this lie. Trying to break through. To convince the contacts he’d slowly built up he was what he said: a former spook turned angel. Theirs.

‘Sometimes. When I get to step away.’

‘Is that what you’re doing now?’ she asked with a sudden sharpness.

The tramp lurched on, a can of Heineken in his grubby fist. This wasn’t one of Mirjam’s.

‘Jesus, Henk! How can you play with a child’s life? Saskia’s? That girl’s?’

‘I wasn’t playing with Saskia. I made sure they wouldn’t get her.’

‘You got me to take her there!’

‘I had no choice. They were watching. If I’d just . . .’

So many operations in training. Real life was different. He’d thought this through as much as he could. It was important Saskia was in the square. Important that Bouali picked her up at first. And then, on his instructions – kept strictly between them – let her go and call the others. Tell them to look out for a girl in pink.

‘You lose sight of things,’ he murmured. It sounded so pathetic. ‘It was never meant to be like this.’

‘Well it is,’ she barked. ‘We’re paying the ransom. Hanna Bublik’s got some money from somewhere too.’

‘The police?’

‘She doesn’t trust them. She called me last night. Vos got suspended and he’s the only one she had some time for. She doesn’t even know who’s running the case now.’

He thought about that then asked her for Vos’s number. Tapped it into his phone when she came back.

‘Why did you do it?’

Such a short sentence. Such a big question.

‘Because I was supposed to. I wasn’t going to let them take Saskia. That was never . . .’

The grey day closed on him. His mind went blank.

‘Are you still there? Henk? I tried your father three times this morning. He’s not even answering his phone. What the hell’s going on?’

Life, he thought. The kind he’d chosen. Or had chosen for him.

‘Later. I’ll tell you everything. I promise.’

‘Promises . . .’

That sour, disappointed tone had never been in her voice when they first met. It came from him. Another unwanted gift.

‘You’re going to give them the money?’ he said.

‘That’s the idea. What else can we do?’

He didn’t know.

‘When are you coming home?’ she asked.

‘Soon.’

He said goodbye. The wind was getting lively. White clouds dotted the bright horizon. Change on the way.

‘Stay safe,’ she said and cut the call.

Henk Kuyper looked at Vos’s number.

There was one name he had to deal with first. The only link to Barbone he had.

Vos had watched the slow winter sunrise from a wobbly chair on the front deck of the boat. Pale rays chased around the tatty tinsel on the silver dancer as if amused. He found a stray cigarette from somewhere. Lit it. Tried to think. But all that came was the realization he didn’t much like smoking any more.

Not long after he heard a familiar pitter-patter across the gangplank. Sam trotted over, his lead trailing behind him, sat on his haunches on the deck, nose in the air, sniffing, staring intently.

He kept looking at the cigarette until Vos responded.

‘I can do this. OK?’

The terrier’s long nose stayed where it was.

‘Wonderful,’ Vos moaned. ‘Now I’m being nagged by a dog.’

He threw the cigarette into the canal. Sam listened to its dying hisses then wagged his tail.

‘We don’t want you starting that again, Pieter,’ Sofia Albers called from the pavement.

‘I threw it away, didn’t I?’

‘And don’t take your hangover out on me and Sam either.’

‘Don’t have a hangover,’ he grumbled.

There was a sound from inside the boat. The door was thrown open. Hanna Bublik stuck out her head. A towel round it. She was wearing Vos’s black bathrobe.

‘Sorry,’ Sofia muttered. She looked shocked, embarrassed. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’

Vos got up and led Sam back to the pavement. The dog grumbled with every step.

‘One more day.’ He held out the lead. ‘Then it’s back to normal.’

‘Do you know what normal is?’

Hanna Bublik was watching them as she towelled her blonde hair in the morning sun.

‘I can’t explain,’ he told Sofia.

‘You don’t have to. Not to me.’

She took the lead and tried to coax Sam to the Drie Vaten. The dog dug in his toes until she mentioned the word ‘treat’.

When he got back to the boat Hanna nodded across the street.

‘She likes you.’

He’d spent the night on the sofa in the bows, leaving her to the bedroom. Vos was determined he wouldn’t let her out of his sight. Not until the ransom was paid. By him if he could manage it.

‘Everyone likes me. I’m a popular kind of person.’

She didn’t laugh.

‘I want to hear Natalya’s voice when he calls,’ she said. ‘I want some . . . proof.’

Vos gestured to the cabin. It was time to go inside.

‘What’s wrong with that?’ she asked when he kept quiet.

‘Nothing.’

‘Then why don’t you want me to do it?’

He started up the coffee machine. Pointed out a couple of pastries he’d bought earlier that morning as the little bakery in Elandsgracht was opening.

‘Why . . . ?’

‘Let’s be careful,’ he said. ‘We might not get any more chances after this. Just give them what they want. Get her back. Forget the rest. I have.’

‘And all those others? In Marnixstraat?’

They’d been through this the night before while she got dressed in the cabin in Oude Nieuwstraat. A surveillance team would probably turn up in the morning to try to track her movements. That was one more reason he got her to scuttle off with him to the boat.

‘Don’t complicate anything. Don’t press them. Don’t argue. We’ll hand over the money. Find Natalya. After that De Groot can go hunting. AIVD too for all I care.’

She scowled, started to take off the bathrobe then grabbed her clothes. Vos sighed and shielded his eyes.

‘Christ,’ Hanna muttered. ‘I forgot there are still prudes in the world.’

‘Never been called that before,’ he complained then got his phone, walked to the cabin door and checked his messages.

Nothing new except a short, awkward text from Laura Bakker.

This is wrong and we all know it. If u want 2 talk just txt. Me an Dirkll come.

Kids. Living in a world devoid of punctuation, syntax and grammar. Just the thought made him feel old. He deleted the message, checked the phone had charged overnight then put the handset in his jacket pocket.

She was dressed by the time he went back inside. Finishing her coffee and pastry.

He wondered what to say. Hanna Bublik didn’t do small talk. Didn’t want to discuss where she came from. What brought her here. The life before.

Her hair was wet. He found a dryer from somewhere, one he never used. She plugged it in. Nothing happened.

He apologized and found her a fresh towel.

Tried conversation again. Got nowhere.

Then she asked, ‘Why do you do this?’

‘This being . . .?’

‘Helping. Me of all people.’

‘Can’t think of anything else to do. It passes the time.’

‘That’s a reason?’

‘Seems to be. I thought you might understand. The bit about not thinking of anything else to do.’

The briefest wry smile in return.

‘Ah. I see what you mean.’

He had to ask even though he knew she didn’t want to hear.

‘After this . . . if there was a job. An ordinary job. Would you take it?’

She closed her eyes and looked ready to scream.

‘I’m sorry,’ he added quickly. ‘I suppose you hear that kind of thing a lot.’

‘Helps ease the guilt, I suppose. I mean . . . you can’t feel that bad if you’re acting nice afterwards, can you?’

He didn’t say anything.

‘OK,’ she admitted. ‘This isn’t an afterwards.’

‘I just wondered . . .’

The towel went down. Her blonde hair curled round her neck.

‘Natalya and me have been on the road for the best part of seven years. All her little life pretty much. Scraping a living here and there. I went begging when I needed to. Not her. Never her. Been homeless a few times. This is all I know, Vos. What else am I good for?’

‘Maybe lots of thing if you try—’

‘Don’t say that!’ she yelled. ‘Don’t you think I’m trying now? We’ve got a home. Some money. Some security or so I thought. Maybe one day if I save I can break out of all that crap. But not yet. Not now. Maybe not ever.’

Her voice had faded almost to silence.

‘Hanna . . .’

Then the phone rang.

‘This is how it stands,’ Mirjam Fransen said. ‘I’ve got absolute authority from the ministry. It’s important you all understand that. This is our operation. It has been all along if only you’d realized.’

Eight o’clock in De Groot’s office. Bakker, Van der Berg, Fransen and Lucas Kuyper in a grey suit and heavy grey overcoat. He’d given them a business card when he turned up, making a point. Consultant to AIVD. Might have read ‘untouchable’ the way he presented it.

‘The law . . .’ Bakker began and got a sour look from the commissaris.

‘The law’s for ordinary people,’ Lucas Kuyper cut in. ‘None of this is ordinary. It wasn’t from the start. If you people had acknowledged that we’d all be in a better place.’

Even Van der Berg bristled then. The photos from Ferdi Pijpers’s phone were on the table. Kuyper and the late Thom Geerts talking to Bouali, showing him what looked like a grenade.

‘We should arrest both of you,’ he said.

Fransen swore.

‘You can’t. We’re in the middle of a very delicate situation. Lives at risk. Years of work in jeopardy.’

‘And a little girl missing,’ Bakker added.

‘She’s probably dead by now,’ the AIVD woman said with a shake of her head. ‘You made sure of that the moment Vos barged into Westerdok.’ She looked at De Groot. ‘Where is he?’

‘Suspended,’ the commissaris told her. ‘I’ll deal with Vos later. That farce with Khaled yesterday—’

‘They knew!’ Bakker cried, jabbing a finger at Fransen. ‘They knew we were wasting our time.’

‘But not ours for once,’ Kuyper muttered.

De Groot glowered at the AIVD pair.

‘I don’t like this. Any of it.’

Mirjam Fransen leaned forward.

‘It’s not yours to like. Henk Kuyper belongs to me.’ She glanced at his father. ‘This investigation too.’ A pause. ‘And you now.’

He stayed silent.

‘I want you to keep your team downstairs pretending there’s something to chase with the Bublik girl,’ she went on. Then she nodded at Bakker and Van der Berg. ‘These two can liaise with me. Anything I share doesn’t go any further. Ever.’

Still Frank de Groot kept quiet.

‘Good,’ she added. ‘Now that’s understood. Lucas?’

Kuyper folded his arms, leaned back, closed his eyes and for the first time since that Sunday in Leidseplein Laura Bakker thought she just might be about to hear the truth.

Hanna Bublik answered the call. Voice hard and determined again.

She asked all the things Vos had told her to avoid. Demanded to talk to her daughter. Got nothing but angry when they said no.

He waved a hand. Mouthed, ‘Calm down.’

A furious stare came back at him.

‘Let me talk to her, you bastard, or I don’t give you a cent,’ Hanna barked.

Vos put his head in his hands.

When he looked again she was somewhere else. Eyes bright, fixed on a sight in her imagination.

Listening
.

Then she spoke a few words in a language he couldn’t understand.

A handful of short sentences and the phone went down.

She looked at him and said, ‘Centraal station midday. They want all the money in a bag. From me. No one else.’

His heart sank. The station was massive. Always busy. The best place from their point of view. They could take the ransom and vanish into the crowds.

‘Whereabouts?’

‘Don’t know. He said he’d call me when I got there.’ She went for her coat and her bag. ‘I need to get the money. You’re not coming.’

‘Hanna . . .’

‘Forget it, Vos. This part’s mine.’

He knew some of the cash was coming from the Kuypers. But there was another source and he was in the dark about that. Where she wanted him.

‘I don’t think it’s safe. A lot of money. You on your own.’

‘I’m used to being on my own. Besides, we agreed last night. There are things I have to do you shouldn’t know about.’

‘Did Natalya tell you anything?’

‘They made her speak in English. All she could say was what they let her.’

Then nothing.

‘Which was?’ he asked.

‘She’s fine. She loves me. Can’t wait to be home.’

‘And you?’

He watched the way she picked up the green plastic and canvas holdall she’d brought. He hadn’t looked inside. That was a stupid omission.

‘I told her the same. What do you think?’

On the gangplank she checked her watch.

‘When I get the money I’ll phone. Don’t come looking. Where’s the nearest cheap hairdresser? I want to look different.’

‘Why?’

The sullen stare.

‘To make it harder for your people to see me.’

He took her two streets from Elandsgracht to the first one he could think of. She went in and he heard her argue for the cheapest trainee they had.

Vos went to the cafe opposite, a place where they didn’t know him. Watched through the window. Checked his phone again.

Something was happening in Marnixstraat. Maybe they had a lead.

That thought nagged at him.

Twenty-five minutes later Hanna Bublik came out. He barely recognized her. The long blonde hair was gone. Short now, dyed brunette. When he walked over she pulled a pair of old-fashioned spectacles out of her pocket and put them on. In her right hand was the green holdall, cheap and battered.