The Wrong Girl (27 page)

Cem Yilmaz’s living room was too hot. She could smell the logs on the fire. Taste the dense smoke they were putting out. In the bottom of her bag the stolen gun sat whispering to her. She knew how to use it now. Had looked that up on a PC in a cafe not far from home.

It was obvious he wanted something. An act. Proof of her devotion. Pimps all did and Yilmaz was one of the busiest, most powerful, in the city. Not like the rest, or so he thought. A ‘businessman’. Legitimate. There to give other men what they wanted.

She sat down and drank his too-strong coffee. Listened as he outlined what he was going to do. Put out feelers to his contacts offering to pay the ransom direct, without any police intervention. None of them, Yilmaz emphasized, were part of the criminal community. But they knew people. Heard things.

If she was lucky one of them would come back with a link into whoever was holding Natalya. And then they could try to set up a handover.

She told him what Vos had said about the new demand. Not once did he question Vos’s assumption that the original kidnappers had passed Natalya over to criminals more versed in the complexities of extortion. Either he knew something or wasn’t saying. Or it really was as obvious as Vos seemed to think.

‘I’ve a little sister back home,’ Yilmaz said when she finished. ‘I know about family. What else is there?’

‘I just want her back.’

He nodded.

‘Of course. I’ll do what I can.’

‘The money . . .’

‘This sum they ask for’s ridiculous and they surely know it.’

‘They’ll want something. Now that preacher’s dead.’

He smiled. Big teeth. Round face. A muscular, commanding man.

‘Everyone wants something. That’s what makes the world work. Let me see if we can establish a line of contact. Get them to talk to you direct. Then . . .’ He turned his dark, intelligent eyes on her. ‘You’ll have to come up with something?’

‘I’ll try. Can you help?’

‘You want a gift?’

‘No. A loan.’

Yilmaz looked her up and down.

‘You’re an attractive woman. All the more if you could learn to smile. You’ve four, five, maybe seven years of work left in you. For my purposes anyway. How much do you think you could earn in all that time?’

She wanted to fly at him.

‘No idea.’

The searching eyes again, as if she were a business proposition being examined.

‘You might net me ten thousand a year in pure profit. If I give you a living allowance would you turn over every cent to me? To save your child?’

‘Every cent,’ she said without a moment’s hesitation.

‘And work as a waitress in the evening if I ask? You don’t make private calls. That I won’t allow.’

‘If that’s what it takes.’

‘Good.’ He thought to himself. ‘Seventy thousand euros is a lot of money.’

‘Not enough,’ she mumbled.

‘Then find some more. And I negotiate.’

Yilmaz got up and stood in front of the fire, warming his backside. She knew that look.

‘I need to know what I’m paying for,’ he said with a wry shrug. ‘I’m sure you understand.’

She took off the black jacket and said, ‘What do you want?’

He pointed to a low leather chaise longue set back in an alcove, out of sight of the window.

‘Take off your clothes. Lie there. On your front.’ He reached up to the mantelpiece and retrieved what looked like a jar of cream, examined it in his fingers then replaced it on the wooden shelf. ‘I’ll be quick.’

In a little cabin she had a measure of control. It was her place, for an hour or two. She could choose, say no if she wanted.

Not here.

The sweater came off. The boots and socks and jeans. Soon she was looking at her naked limbs. Seeing all the imperfections, the blotches, the stretch marks, the odd scar. Skin and hair. Touched and mauled time and time again, not that she thought about that much any more.

You never knew what they wanted. In different circumstances she’d always ask and say, ‘Do this, don’t do that.’

But she recalled Yilmaz wrestling with the hefty young blade here the day before. No way of guessing what he’d desire by way of proof, of entry fee. No point in wondering.

The chaise longue looked expensive and cheap at the same time. The leather shiny but soft with frequent polish. She lay down, put her arms under her chin, kept her head up, didn’t even try to look back. Opened her bare legs just a little.

She hoped he wasn’t lying when he said it wouldn’t last long.

A sound she couldn’t quite place. As if the logs in the fire were shifting position, trying to get a better look. Then footsteps. She sensed him over her, heard the soft, rhythmic sound of his wheezing breath.

‘A man must leave his mark,’ Cem Yilmaz said and his big knee rammed down hard on her back, pushing her face sideways, right cheek hard into the leather.

Then came an agony so intense, so unexpected she started to shriek and wail, squirming, fighting as something hot and excruciating seared and scorched her.

There was a smell it took a second to recognize amid the agony. Then it came. Burning flesh and skin.

Not long, he said. Just a few agonizing seconds. He let go, stood up, short breath coming in snatches.

She turned to her left side. It hurt the least.

He went back to the mantelpiece and placed a long iron rod in the blazing grate. It looked like a thin sword with an emblem on the end, just fading red. He picked up the jar of cream again and pulled what looked like a surgical pad out of a wooden box above the fireplace.

Then a vanity mirror. The kind upper-class women used in British movies.

‘Sit up,’ he ordered and she did, half-choking with anger and hate.

The burning smell wouldn’t go away. It was her.

Yilmaz walked round with the mirror and told her to look backwards.

One glance towards the window and she knew what she’d see in the oval glass. Seared into the skin by her right shoulder blade was an ornate figure, the source of all that stinging agony. It looked like the letters ‘CY’ in a curious script. Bloody and brown ridges in the flesh where he’d branded her.

She should have guessed. Not that it mattered. She still would have allowed him to brand her anyway. Knowing would only have made the anticipation worse.

‘Here,’ he said and threw her the cream and the dressing. ‘There are some painkillers in the bathroom.’

Her head wasn’t working right. She couldn’t even think of Natalya at that moment. Just how small and frail and damaged this man had made her feel.

‘Put your clothes on. Go take those pills like I ordered. You’re one of my girls now. Like all the others. They’ll know you. So will the men I send.’

Shivering, mouth open, bent over, shoulder shrieking with pain, she clutched at the cheap jacket as if it offered some kind of protection.

‘Get out of here!’ he cried. ‘I don’t want to look at you like this.’

Yilmaz reached into his pocket and took out a fifty euro note.

‘You won’t work until Friday. This can keep you. Someone will call and tell you what to do, who to meet.’ His finger jabbed towards the livid mark on her back. ‘If a man sees that and he didn’t come through me I’ll know. Remember. Now move.’

She scooped up the money and ran into the bathroom. The wound was too tender, too fresh for the cream. So she attached the dressing very lightly, washed down her face, got rid of the tears. Sat on the toilet.

Sobbing.

Fearing.

Hating.

And finally . . .
thinking.

She had her bag with her. Took out a ballpoint pen. Scribbled the codes for the front door and the lift on the inside of her left wrist.

He didn’t look at her as she walked out fifteen minutes later, went down to Spooksteeg, tottered along the cobbles on unsteady feet.

Then did something she’d never tried before even though so many men had offered her the opportunity. Walked into the nearest coffee shop, one owned by Yilmaz for all she knew, and asked for some dope. Ready-rolled.

She didn’t know how to handle it or what she was paying for. How strong it was. How quickly it might call up an oblivion she craved.

They didn’t allow you to light up inside any more. She didn’t even smoke. Hanna Bublik walked out and sat in the cold, damp winter air, next to a couple of stoned idiots on chairs in the street. Got one of them to pull out a lighter, drew the thick, heavy smoke inside her.

Closed her eyes. Found herself looking into a black empty place inside. One that seemed to go on forever.

Saif Khaled lived in a narrow pedestrian street not far from Zeedijk. Chinese shops and supermarkets. The exotic fragrance of a nearby restaurant filled the air.

Bakker parked her bike by the grubby brick front wall and pressed the bell. Vos stood back and looked the place up and down. Four floors and a cellar with a blacked-out window and a separate door at the foot of some stairs.

It took a minute then someone answered. Khaled looked much as he did in the pictures Ferdi Pijpers had taken. Full black beard, wavy shiny hair. Late forties, calm. He grunted when Bakker showed her ID and then, on her tablet, the photos from the previous weekend.

‘I’m amazed it took you so long,’ he said and showed them in.

A neat house. Clean floors. Clean rooms. The smell of disinfectant mixed with incense. He led them to a front room, went to the kitchen and came back with three glasses of mint tea.

Vos sipped his, struggling with the too-hot glass. Bakker pointed out Bowers in the shots.

‘Bouali,’ he corrected her when she spoke his name. ‘That’s what he called himself.’

The story came out. Pat and straightforward. Khaled occasionally took in Muslims in trouble. Broke, lost, looking for help. Temporary accommodation to get them back on their feet. No questions asked usually. None stayed for more than a week. That was a strict, unbreakable rule.

‘Who pays for this?’ Bakker wondered.

‘I’ve got relatives who can afford it. Many times over.’ He raised his glass in a kind of toast. ‘Charity doesn’t cost much. He said he needed somewhere to stay. He wasn’t asking for money. Just a bed.’

Khaled looked at the images on Bakker’s tablet again.

‘Who took these? Your people?’

‘A deranged soldier,’ Vos said. ‘The man who shot dead Ismail Alamy last night.’

He looked at them again.

‘Was he following me? Or Bouali?’

‘We don’t know.’

He didn’t believe that.

‘Really? This Englishman got my name from somewhere. He called and asked to see me. I wouldn’t let him in here. So we met in the street. I listened. I said no.’

‘Why?’ Vos wondered.

‘He wasn’t being honest with me. I don’t ask many questions. But when I do I expect good answers. He wasn’t long in the faith. Wouldn’t say what brought him here . . .’

‘So why were you expecting us?’ Bakker asked.

The pleasant facade vanished.

‘I do read the papers. I saw what happened to him.’

‘You could have come forward,’ Bakker suggested.

‘And say what? I met this man for ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Once. All I knew was he wanted somewhere to live. Someone to talk to maybe.’

‘You should have told us,’ Vos said.

That got to him.

‘Why? Out of some misplaced duty? This lunatic was taking photos of me. Am I truly supposed to believe you didn’t know? Just because I’m Muslim. Then you shoot Ismail Alamy—’

‘We didn’t shoot him,’ Vos cut in. ‘I told you. It was a disaffected soldier. We think he picked up your name through the newspaper. If Alamy had accepted our offer of protection it would never have happened.’

‘Protection?’ Khaled scowled at both of them. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Very,’ Vos said. ‘Did you know Ismail Alamy too?’

The veneer of friendliness had disappeared altogether.

‘I knew of him. We never met. I wish we had. But then you people threw him in jail. For no good reason, as the courts said in the end.’

‘We’d like to look around,’ Bakker said.

‘Do you have the authority to do that?’ He laughed. ‘No. If you did you wouldn’t be asking, would you?’

‘If there’s nothing to hide . . .’ Bakker began.

‘The basis of your law, as far as I understand it, is that you must show my guilt. Not that I must prove my innocence. It didn’t happen for Ismail Alamy, of course. But why stop trying?’

He got up and took their glasses.

‘Where were you on Sunday?’ Bakker said, watching him.

Khaled thought for a moment.

‘I don’t have any guests at the moment. I went down to the canal and watched a little of the nonsense. A man in a white beard. Little blacked-up elves running round doing his bidding. The things that amuse you people . . .’

‘And then?’

‘Then I came home and read. On my own. I didn’t bother with Leidseplein if that’s what you mean. There’s only so much pantomime a man can take.’

‘On your own?’ she repeated.

He put their glasses on a tray.

‘I’ve answered your questions. I met Bouali for a few minutes. I’ve never spoken or communicated with Alamy at all. And now they’re both dead.’ He stared at her. ‘Are you happy?’

‘There’s a young girl missing,’ Bakker snapped. ‘Kidnapped by people associated with them. Don’t you even care?’

A shrug.

‘There’s so much to care about in the world. I try to focus on matters that are close to me. Things I can affect in some way. There’s nothing I can do for that child. I’m sorry.’

He gestured at the door.

‘Perhaps you’ll have better luck elsewhere?’

Outside Bakker was fuming. Vos looked at the house again. A big place for one man. In front of the nearby restaurant a couple of Chinese waiters were starting to argue with a customer. Someone who’d rushed outside without paying. Not a good idea in this part of the city. He was going through his pockets for money, trying to stay out of sight.

‘What do you think?’ Vos asked.

Bakker took the lock off her bike.

‘I think he probably enjoyed wasting our time. We don’t have enough for a warrant. Do we?’

He shook his head, walked over and looked at the menus. The fleeing diner threw some money at the waiters then scuttled off down the street.