The Wrong Girl (42 page)

‘Get the syringe, Jean. Your touch is so much better than mine.’

‘Where did you put it?’ Thomson asked.

The other sighed.

‘In the coffin. As usual.’

Then he glanced at her.

‘We’ll get you some nice new clothes, poppet. But first you have to go to sleep. No fuss please.’

Vos called Lotte de Jonge again and put her on speakerphone. The room had cleared. Just a couple of detectives, Bakker, Van der Berg and Hanna Bublik. De Groot had gone back to Marnixstraat with the prisoners. AIVD were milling around outside waiting on an intelligence team to come and scan the office for documents and traces of the missing Barbone.

‘We don’t have an address,’ Lotte de Jonge insisted. ‘Nor do we have anything to connect Volkov to Cem Yilmaz. Or any terrorist group. I’m sorry but—’

‘I saw him there!’ Hanna insisted. ‘The same man in your photo.’

‘He’s a bit-part player,’ De Jonge insisted. ‘An ageing rent boy. Really . . .’

Bakker started messing round with her own smartphone.

‘If you give me time,’ the woman in Marnixstraat said, with little enthusiasm.

No one spoke. Bakker was getting frantic keying in text into her phone. They all watched and then she looked at Hanna Bublik and said, ‘You speak Russian?’

‘Why?’

‘Volkov is Russian for wolf. Is that right?’

Hanna frowned.

‘Kind of.’

‘And he’s a male prostitute. So he’s got to be on the networks. This is the closest I can find . . .’

Her thumbs flew on the screen. Then she held something up.

So small they had to crowd round to look. It was a Twitter feed in the name @dimka_volkova. The profile was a cartoon of a grinning wolf and the words, ‘You got money? I got fun’.

‘Dimka’s short for Dmitri,’ Hanna said. ‘Volkova means she-wolf.’

Bakker scrolled through some earlier tweets until she found one with a photo. She clicked it, filled the screen with the image.

A grinning man with a crew cut. He was holding a can of beer and showing his biceps. In a club somewhere.

‘That’s him,’ Hanna said.

‘Who’s on Twitter?’ Bakker asked. ‘Because I’m surely not.’

Silence then Van der Berg took a deep breath and pulled out his phone.

‘It’s for the beer, you understand,’ he said. ‘Me and the lads. We like to know when new stuff turns up.’

The profile photo was a bottle of Chimay Cinq Cents. His username @bier_stofzuiger.

Beer Hoover.

Van der Berg took a deep breath and typed . . .

@dimka_volkova I got money and ket. Lots. Want some fun. Where you?

They watched Laura Bakker’s phone.

They waited.

Thomson didn’t go straight for the syringe and the drugs in the coffin. Instead he sat up front in the long black hearse making a phone call. More than one. At least three Dmitri guessed.

‘You might at least pay for her before you sell her on,’ the Russian moaned.

‘Business always works forward,’ Thompson replied. ‘What do you expect?’

‘Not much,’ he grumbled. Then his phone made a chirping sound.

He looked at the tweet. Thought for a moment. A good night’s work might bring in some extra. He wasn’t joking about Yilmaz having a base price. It was five thousand. The balance had to come from his own pocket.

A hit of ketamine wouldn’t go amiss either.

His big thumbs stumbled over the screen.

@bier_stofzuiger not now man. Busy. I get back to you in an hour.

Thomson was still in the front of the hearse looking at his handset, about to start another call.

‘Now you’re taking the piss,’ Dmitri moaned.

Van der Berg showed them the answer. Vos kicked the desk. Hanna Bublik swore.

Bakker retrieved the phone from Van der Berg’s fingers.

There was a little symbol at the foot of the message. A circle with a pointer at the bottom.

She started walking for the door. They followed, not knowing why.

‘He’s left the location on,’ Bakker called back as she marched outside.

Pulling up the map from the tweet she climbed into the back of the first car. Van der Berg and Hanna Bublik squeezed in next to her. Vos took the front passenger seat next to the driver.

The map filled the screen. Bakker zoomed in.

‘How accurate . . .?’ Van der Berg began to ask.

She showed them. A street. A pin that ran over just three houses on it.

‘He’s there,’ she said. ‘Joop IJisbergstraat.’

The driver put on the lights and the siren.

‘I want them off when we’re close,’ Vos told him as they lurched out into the road.

Marnixstraat.

De Groot called in the specialist team they used for terrorist work and handed them the man they’d seized in Rapenburg. AIVD would liaise alongside that.

Kuyper and Mirjam Fransen were in adjoining cells for all of twenty-five minutes before the call came through.

He sat in his office, watching the control room log. Aware that Vos was now headed for the address they’d got near Sloterdijk. Might be the last chance they had for all they knew.

From his window he could see Elandsgracht. There was what looked like a school party, kids no older than ten, giggling as they wandered down the street carrying brightly coloured parcels.

He listened to the firm voice on the line and knew there was no point in arguing. A spot of negotiation though . . .

‘There are crimes committed here,’ De Groot said when the man from The Hague was done. ‘Conspiracy. Kidnap. We’ve probably got a dead child on our hands . . .’

‘All the more reason to bury this,’ the voice on the end of the line said. ‘Don’t be naive, De Groot. This isn’t a battle you can win.’

‘There’s a condition.’

The man grunted.

‘Please. Don’t play these games with me.’

‘It’s no game. Agree to it or this will blow up in your face.’

A pause then, ‘Which is what?’

Just a small thing to them. And that was it.

He checked with the control room. Vos and the team would be there any minute.

Somehow De Groot didn’t want to know any more. He had a bad feeling in his gut about this case. It had been there ever since AIVD warned him to stay out of their way the previous Sunday, especially around Leidseplein. He wasn’t a man to rely much on instinct. That was a fallible, deceptive route to take. But ever since that first day, aware the security services were making their shadowy rounds of Amsterdam, he’d suspected this would end the way such matters usually did. In the grey mist of uncertainty, with victims, innocent ones, waiting to be counted.

He told control to call him the moment there was news from Vos. Then he took the lift down to the holding cells. Mirjam Fransen was still shaken but couldn’t wipe the look of victory from her face when he ordered her release. Henk Kuyper, to his credit, appeared a little shame-faced. Both asked about Barbone. They didn’t seem surprised when De Groot said it seemed clear that bloody bird had flown.

Fransen smoothed down her business suit and said, ‘Now that nonsense’s over I want a full brief on what you’ve got. Those officers you had working for me. Bring them back. Vos too—’

‘No.’

She looked at him and laughed.

‘You really don’t learn, do you?’

Kuyper hung his head.

‘I do actually,’ De Groot said. ‘You need to call The Hague. They’ve news for you.’

She blinked and said, ‘News?’

‘You’re on their payroll. Not mine. They can tell you.’

Her skinny finger jabbed at him.

‘I’m the head of AIVD in Amsterdam. When I ask for something—’

‘Not any more you’re not.’ He glared at her, then Kuyper. ‘If I see your faces in my station one more time I swear I won’t be responsible for the consequences.’

He turned to the custody officers, checked his phone.

‘See these two out,’ he said.

The street was short and deserted. Suburbia. Everyone was at work. The location from the tweet fell between two terraced houses. Vos’s car switched off the siren and the light the moment it entered the road. Then they cruised slowly down, checking the windows, the drives.

There was a long black car parked awkwardly outside one of the targets. It took Bakker a moment to realize it was a hearse.

They drew up and saw a man at the back door. He was beside a pale polished coffin, lid up, clearly empty. There was a black doctor’s bag by the casket. His gloved hand held a hypodermic. As they watched liquid spurted from the top.

‘Don’t see that every day,’ Van der Berg said opening his door before they even came to a halt.

The man turned and looked round. Froze when he realized what was happening. Then raced for the front of the vehicle. Bakker got there first, folded her arms. Smiled.

He started to babble in French.

A second car followed full of uniform. She handed the curious undertaker over to them.

They were all out now. Hanna Bublik and the driver too. Marching down the path to the half-open door of the nearest house.

She caught up with them.

‘Best show them your gun,’ Vos said. ‘I don’t have mine.’

Van der Berg got to the door first, weapon out too. Yelled, ‘Police.’

Vos told Hanna Bublik she had to stay outside.

Dog poop on the grass of the tiny lawn. Curtains closed even though it was the middle of the day. Bakker was sure she’d remember this moment.

Then they were in. Van der Berg in full rant. The first time she’d seen this and she realized: this man can be scary too.

As could Vos when he wanted.

Two men cowering back, shocked, scared. One much like the undertaker outside. He had a shaking teacup in one hand. A sandwich in the other.

A couple of strides and Van der Berg was on the other, the Russian, pushing his face into the wall. Cuffing him so quickly and easily Bakker felt envious. She often stumbled awkwardly over that particular exercise.

A small slight figure on a chair.

Grubby pink jacket. Dirty blonde hair.

She walked over, bent down, smiled.

‘Hi, Natalya,’ Bakker said. ‘Your mum’s outside. We’ve been looking everywhere for you.’

Nothing in return except for a wriggle of her legs. Bakker looked down, saw the scarlet sash tied around her ankles. Found the knife she’d used in Khaled’s office, slashed through the fabric.

The girl stood up. Bakker held out her hand.

Natalya took no notice. Straight-backed and serious she walked out of the room, out of the house, onto the little lawn.

Hanna Bublik was there, choking up, but only a little.

Bakker watched, fascinated.

In her mind she’d played this scene so many times. The emotion of the reunion. The joy that the kid was still alive.

But that wasn’t their way. Something had changed these two already. Perhaps forever.

The mother bent down, held out her arms. The girl walked inside them and they held one another, silent for a moment, then whispering words Bakker could only just hear. And even then they were in another tongue.

A long moment she left them. When she came close they stood side by side, Hanna holding her daughter’s hand. Tears in her eyes. Ones she wiped quickly away.

‘We need to have her checked by a doctor,’ Bakker said. ‘To see she’s all right.’

‘She’s all right. She told me.’

‘All the same . . .’

Vos and Van der Berg were taking the two men out of the house. More police vehicles were arriving. This was going to be a big and busy scene soon.

Hanna Bublik forgot about her daughter at that moment. She watched the Russian and the undertaker get marched past her, heads down, hands cuffed behind their backs. Bakker understood for the first time that saying . . . if looks could kill.

If it were possible these two would be dead on the spot.

The tears were brief. Now almost gone.

Vos came back and looked as he always did at these moments: a touch embarrassed.

He crouched in front of the girl, held out his hand for her to shake it. Puzzled, she did.

‘Is there anything I can get you, Natalya Bublik?’

She looked at the filthy pink jacket and said, ‘Clothes. Real clothes. My clothes.’

Hanna Bublik was watching him. Anxious. Needy for once.

‘Vos . . . can’t we just go?’

‘Soon,’ he promised.

6

Four hours later. Hanna Bublik stood at a first-floor window in Marnixstraat watching the last of the day disappear. Statements made, statements signed. A stream of doctors. Specialists. Social workers. Well-meant but unwanted attention. She was insistent throughout: all the two of them needed was time. Space. An escape from this drab grey building and the prying attention of well-meaning strangers.

But Vos’s superiors wouldn’t allow that and she owed him. Debts were there to be paid. Money to be earned. Nothing came for free.

A paediatrician had looked at Natalya and declared her physically unharmed. She was hungry and ate a police canteen meal of fish cakes and chips with gratitude. But that was it and when it came to her mental condition the puzzled psychiatrist they brought in found, to her chagrin it seemed, little to report.

A robust, strong-minded girl the woman said when she’d put Natalya through a series of tests and questions her daughter had found tedious if not downright demeaning.

Hanna would have laughed if she was in the mood. Told a little of their story and asked . . .

What else do you expect?

Then Laura Bakker turned up with Van der Berg, the big cheery detective. Two more to whom she owed a debt.

Vos wanted a private word. Bakker and Van der Berg would take Natalya outside for ice cream. They would meet up soon after. And finally go on their way.

It felt odd to watch Natalya leave with the two police officers, reluctantly allowing Bakker to hold her hand.

Vos brought coffee. Took her to a private office. They sat at a table by the window. She saw Natalya and the cops cross the busy road then walk down Elandsgracht. Hanna had a good idea where they were headed.

She turned to him and said, ‘Thanks.’

He nodded.

‘No need. It’s what we do. And we were lucky. Finally.’