The Wrong Girl (17 page)

She didn’t move.

‘Wait,’ he said and walked away from the door.

She could see a little of the space beyond. It looked like a low, narrow living room. A television set, a computer on a desk. Chairs and a sofa. In the corner a small kitchen hob and a tiny fridge. The windows were bigger here and clear. Through them she could see the walls of the canal and just make out the bare trunks of trees above the black brickwork.

And a set of steps rising to what had to be an open door, judging by the flood of light pouring down to the timber planks of the boat.

She looked.

He looked.

A big man. Between her and the world outside. Natalya was quick and lithe and smart. But she couldn’t get past him, not at that moment. And both knew it.

A supermarket bag stood by the little gas hob. Not Marqt any more. The man bent over the shopping, roughly hunting for something. There was a mirror on the wall. Through that she could watch him closely even though his back was turned. Bad-tempered, worried. He was going through the things someone had bought. The balaclava didn’t fit well. He couldn’t see. Still with his back to her he pulled up the front of the balaclava to peer at the groceries.

One moment then, so short she didn’t know herself how much either of them saw.

A face in the glass. Dark-skinned. Unusual. Black eyes glaring back towards her. Beard like a pirate.

Natalya retreated into the bathroom and waited out of sight behind the door.

A few moments later he came back, the balaclava pulled down. In his hands a pot of yoghurt, a croissant, a carton of orange juice.

She took them and said, ‘I told you. The Dutch man promised me a book.’

Which was a lie. A little white lie. Perhaps he’d know. But grown-ups lied all the time. How else did children learn to copy them?

He handed her the food. She placed it on the closed toilet lid. Then he went back to the bag, rifled through it again. This time he kept the balaclava on.

When he returned he had a new colouring book and a fresh set of crayons. She looked at the cover.
My Little Pony.
Like the jacket she’d got. Too girly. Too young for her. But she took it anyway, watched as the man closed the door and seemed to bolt it.

That must have been new, she thought. No one locked a toilet from the outside.

Natalya Bublik wondered what that meant and whether it was any use to her. Then she waited a few minutes, ate the yoghurt, then the croissant, drank the orange juice. Took out the new book and the crayons. Couldn’t think of a thing to write.

Koeman got called to reception in Marnixstraat to deal with the visitor causing trouble there. He took one look and thought:
Why is it always me?

The man was wearing a suit that must have been smart once upon a time: dark blue with grey pinstripes. A pipe stuck out of his right-hand pocket and a bulge that must have been a tobacco tin. He smelled like an eighty-year-old who lived in an ashtray.

As he started to talk he offered two ID cards. One standard EU issue. The second an old soldier’s card showing he’d been discharged three years earlier, not long after the Royal Netherlands Army pulled out of Afghanistan. Sergeant with the Regiment Johan Willem Friso.

His name was Ferdi Pijpers and he’d just seen the TV news. Koeman did a double take on the ID. Pijpers was thirty-nine but looked a good ten years older. His leathery face was lined and tanned, either from dirt or pipe smoke. There was a tic in his right eye and an anxious timbre to his deep voice. War debris, Koeman thought. He knew this type. How they came out of the forces and never managed to make their way back into civilian life.

He listened as best he could then said, ‘Ferdi, Ferdi . . . calm down. Please.’

‘I am calm,’ Pijpers said. ‘Got a coffee?’

The incident with the Bublik woman still bothered Koeman. He didn’t like to appear rude or unhelpful. It was just that the job brought it on sometimes.

So he went to the downstairs machine by reception and paid for a cup then watched Ferdi Pijpers take it with shaking fingers.

‘There are service charities, you know. People who can help.’

‘Who says I want help?’ Pijpers snapped, stung by the remark. ‘You’re the people who need it. Not me.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because those fools in Strasbourg are going to let that bastard Alamy back out onto the streets. And then we get even more crap like we had in Leidseplein all over again.’

The detective tried to think this through. The papers had run plenty of pieces about the attack the previous Sunday. Most had extensive profiles of Martin Bowers, the young Englishman who’d changed his name to Mujahied Bouali, fallen into extremist circles then travelled to Amsterdam to die in a back alley not far away from Marnixstraat. But that was it. Thanks to AIVD’s blackout Ismail Alamy wasn’t part of the story. Not for the public.

‘Ismail Alamy’s been in custody for eighteen months. He can’t have had anything to do with what happened in Leidseplein. We’re looking into that. I can’t elaborate. You wouldn’t expect me to. Unless you’ve reason to believe he had some connection—’

‘I shed blood for this country,’ Pijpers cut in, tapping at his chest, coffee spilling all over the table. ‘I saw what these animals are like when you let them loose. All the same. They’ll kill you as soon as draw breath. Fucking ragheads—’

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa,’ Koeman interrupted. ‘You can’t go around talking like that. We’ve got sensitivities these days. And besides . . .’ This was true and worth saying. ‘Most of the bad men I’ve met think they’re good Christians. Or Muslims. Or whatever. People like Alamy . . . like that kid AIVD shot on Sunday . . . they’re just the lunatic fringe.’

‘You’re a fool,’ Pijpers told him. ‘All of you. Clueless. No idea what’s round the corner.’

Koeman glanced at his watch then back at the stairs to his office. There was real work still to be done.

‘Which is what?’

‘Sharia courts. Treating our women like scum. Telling us what to do in our own country’ He tapped his forehead. ‘I’ve seen it. I know what it looks like.’

Koeman sighed and briefly closed his eyes.

‘We’re really busy right now. Chasing the very things you think we should be looking at. Bad people. Ours. Theirs. Sometimes a little of both.’

‘Idiots,’ Pijpers added.

‘Reception called me down because you told them you had something useful to tell us. I would be really grateful if you could pass that on. Then go back to talking to Mr Heineken and his friends. Because frankly they’re probably better listeners than me right now.’

There, he thought. The nice-guy act didn’t last.

‘You can’t let that bastard Alamy back out on the street. I know these people. Better than you ever will. I’m done listening to monkeys. I want to talk to your boss.’

‘About what?’

Pijpers brushed down his old, battered suit as if getting ready for a job interview.

‘That’s for him to hear.’

He took the ancient and smelly pipe out of his pocket, sucked on the end, then pulled out a can of tobacco.

‘I’m waiting,’ Pijpers said.

‘You’re not actually. And you’re not lighting that stinking thing in here either. If you’ve got something to say you can say it to me.’

The man glared at him. Then he muttered a curse and got to his feet.

‘I should have known I was wasting my breath on you morons,’ he muttered with the pipe still stuck between his teeth.

Koeman tried to smile.

‘I really recommend you try one of the charities. If you like I can find you some names. A number.’

‘I don’t need your pity. You know what I did in the army?’

‘I can guess.’

‘No, you can’t. I was military intelligence. I did your job. Only better.’

Koeman stood up, took out a twenty note and waved it in front of Pijpers’s unwashed, surly face.

‘Promise it goes on food. Not booze or something worse.’

The man just stared at the money.

‘Cretins. Shit for brains.’

‘Well I tried,’ Koeman sighed and watched him go.

Henk Kuyper took them to the first-floor dining room. Through the long windows they could see the playground across the street. His wife sitting glumly on her own. Saskia barely talking to the other kids.

‘You want me to fetch them?’ he asked. ‘I have to say I’m getting really sick of this. Shouldn’t you be looking for that child?’

‘We are,’ Bakker said and sat down.

Vos glanced at her, a look that said, ‘Mind the tone.’

Then took the chair opposite Kuyper and asked him what he did. The answer didn’t add up to much. Environmental consultancy. Liaison. On the side he offered voluntary political advice for anyone who needed it. He made it clear that money wasn’t his first concern. He came from a ‘good’ family. Finances weren’t a problem.

‘You volunteer for radical causes?’ Bakker butted in. ‘People like Ismail Alamy?’

‘I support people the rest of you ignore. I don’t pick and choose on the basis of religion. Or skin colour.’

‘Didn’t answer the question,’ she pointed out.

He frowned.

‘I’ve never worked on Alamy’s case. A few similar. But not that one.’ He stared straight at her. ‘But if his lawyers had come to me I’d have done what I could. From what I’ve read we’ve no reason to hold him. Or to hand him over to people whose idea of justice comes nowhere close to our own. If they were our enemies we’d never dream of it. So why change when they’re supposedly our allies?’

Neither answered. He smiled a sarcastic smile and said, ‘It’s OK. I wasn’t expecting a response on that one. You do your job. I know. That’s all that matters.’

‘As best we can,’ Vos answered. ‘The thing is you weren’t always on the side of the oppressed were you, Henk?’

The tall man in front of them wasn’t smiling any more.

‘In fact you were, in their terms, an oppressor. You worked for AIVD as one of their agents.’ Vos paused, watched him closely. ‘What happened?’

‘I’m a Kuyper. We’re a military family. Going back generations. I was pushed into that job. Wasn’t even asked about it.’

‘And then you leaked something to the papers and they kicked you out?’ Bakker added.

He thought about his answer, shrugged and said, ‘There are things the public have a right to know. AIVD came to accept that. I was never prosecuted. Never named in public’ He gazed at them both. ‘You shouldn’t be aware of this. It’s classified.’

‘There’s a missing girl out there,’ Laura Bakker told him. ‘We’re turning over every stone to find her.’

‘No stones here,’ he said easily. ‘I worked for AIVD for two years. My father got me the job. I didn’t have much choice. What I saw there . . .’ He stopped, frowned. ‘Do we really have time for philosophical discussions?’

‘So what you saw in AIVD turned you?’ she asked. ‘Radicalized you? Just like that British kid your former colleagues shot two days ago?’

‘Not quite like that,’ he answered with an edge. ‘But I saw things . . . learnt things . . . that altered my view of the world. We fool ourselves we’re a liberal democracy. It’s a lie. The richer get richer. The poor get poorer. And all the time we turn our backs on those who need us. If—’

‘We don’t need the lecture, Henk,’ Bakker interrupted. ‘We’re looking for a missing girl. The daughter of a Georgian sex worker. We’re not turning our backs. Where were you when Saskia went missing?’

‘I was on my way to Leidseplein,’ he said. ‘Renata was pissed off with me because I didn’t have time to see the parade earlier. I thought I’d try to make it up. I was just getting there when she called and said she’d lost her.’

‘And then?’ Vos asked.

‘Then I looked around and found her. I was fortunate I guess. So was Saskia.’

‘Good fortune,’ Bakker murmured.

‘Exactly,’ he agreed.

‘Was it good fortune that made you give Hanna Bublik that pink jacket?’ Vos added, watching him, following every move, every tic. ‘After you’d paid her for sex? A second time?’

A long moment. Henk Kuyper looked at him, at Bakker, then returned to Vos. And laughed. Just for a second.

‘She saw me, didn’t she? Going into Marnixstraat yesterday? I should have guessed.’

He got up, glanced outside at the playground. Saskia was playing finally, with a little boy. Bossing him around it looked like. Her mother sat and watched, clutching a paper cup.

‘Coffee,’ he said and went into the kitchen.

One customer. A surly American kid who didn’t know what he wanted and haggled over everything. Hanna Bublik saw him off in twenty-five minutes, waited another quarter of an hour. No one passed her window except a street cleaner picking up stray beer cans from the night before.

She was prevaricating and knew it. So she wrote off the remaining three hours she had on the cabin, got dressed and walked outside.

A beautiful early winter day in Amsterdam. The remorse hit her straight away. She’d have taken Natalya down to the canal and fed the ducks. Watched her play in the park. Bought chips and sauce in little paper cornets, eaten them in the street.

Instead she walked across town to the main red-light district, cast a professional eye on the girls working there. More business in this part of the city. A higher price to seek trade here too. Different people to negotiate with. At least in Oude Nieuwstraat she knew mostly where she stood.

Spooksteeg was quiet at this time of the morning. She rang the bell on Yilmaz’s building and waited for an answer. It took a while. Then she was buzzed in and took the lift to the top floor, wasn’t surprised this time when it opened directly into his living room.

The Turk was half-naked in baggy trousers, his barrel chest covered in what looked like oil. He wasn’t alone. There was a muscular blond man in the same room. Younger. Covered in sweat and oil too. Both of them breathless.

She stared. The younger man had the most extraordinary tattoos all over his torso. A pair of eyes on his stomach either side of his navel. A skull in a basket on his right shoulder. A bleeding heart inside a triangle on his back.

‘We’re not finished,’ Yilmaz said when she started to speak. ‘You can wait.’ He grinned. ‘You can watch.’