He stood up and pushed through a crowd of Japanese tourists and made his way towards the man. He was about fifty, with a high forehead and a grey pony-tail and only about two square inches of his visible skin wasn’t covered in tattoos. Including his face. Paul watched him drill ink into the wrist of a young woman who shrieked and wriggled until the man told her to shut up and keep still or he’d stop. The girl’s boyfriend gave her a hit from a bottle of genever and she sulked until the tattoo was done.
Paul watched the man clean his instruments.
“Hi.”
“Hi, you want a tattoo? A piercing?”
“Not right now. I’m wondering if you can help me…”
“You got a cigarette?”
“Sure.”
Paul gave him one and they both lit up.
“I’m looking for someone who might have made a piercing like this…”
He brought out the photo again.
The man admired it.
“Nice, do you think the scale’s right? It looks big…”
“Yeah, I think so, it was about that size.”
“Original piece, for sure. Nobody mass produces that kind of stuff. Do you know what it was made of?”
“Titanium, maybe.”
The man nodded.
“Logical, for the weight. I reckon Bob made that…”
“Bob on Tichelstraat?”
The man looked surprised.
“Yeah, did you know him?”
“I know he’s dead…”
“Right. His daughter, Vera, she took over. Good work she does too.”
Paul didn’t know what to say.
“She could make one for you, no problem.”
“I don’t want one made, I’m trying to find the person he made it for.”
“It wasn’t the girl in that photo?”
“Not exactly.”
“Well, I know Bob took photos of all his work. Every single customer. He had a little booth set up in his shop. I think he had a website at one time… hundreds of pictures. But I don’t think it exists any more.”
“Would his daughter have kept the photos?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you know where I can find her?”
“Try the shop…”
“I have.”
“Can’t help you then, I don’t know where she lives.”
“Do you anybody who does?”
A couple of people were waiting for the man and he was getting impatient.
“Vera Scheffert. She’ll be in the phone book.”
He turned away to his customers.
“Thanks.”
He went on line and tried various sites for the Amsterdam white pages and then the yellow pages and finally found a number for a Vera Scheffert. He punched in the number and it rang and rang but nobody answered. He headed back towards Tichelstraat and tried the number again. It kept on ringing…
He was walking along Prinsengracht when he finally got through.
“Hello?”
“Hello… is this Vera Scheffert?”
“Yes, who’s this?”
“My name’s Paul. I’m near your shop on Tichelstraat, are you open today?”
She laughed.
“I’m on a boat and I’m drinking tequila sunrises and there’s no way I’m working today, sorry.”
“Do you still have all the photographs your father took of his customers?”
“How did you know about that? Never mind… Yes, probably, somewhere. Come back tomorrow…”
Paul heard laughter and a burst of music and he thought she’d gone…
“It’s important”, Paul said.
There was more noise.
“… question of life and death is it?”
He heard her yelling at someone and more laughter.
“Yes it is. It could be. Really… I need your help!”
His voice was urgent and sharp and he realised he was shouting.
He heard a sigh.
“Jesus… Look, I’ll be there at three. For five minutes. Don’t be late!”
She hung up.
Paul turned out of the narrow street he was in and onto the bank of Prinsengracht. He saw a large screen erected at a corner and pushed his way through a mass of bodies and edged towards the railings along the canal. On the screen he could see thousands of people in Dam Square in front of the Nieuwe Kerk, where the investiture of the new king, Willem-Alexander was about to take place. Queen Beatrix had officially abdicated that morning. Holland was between monarchs. He thought of the new King of Calderwood Hall and of the woman who had disappeared on a train to Venice and then magically resurfaced, ready to stand alongside him as his reign began…
He pushed on, feeling the heat of the bodies around him, smelling sweat and beer and deodorant and smoke and then there was an open space in front of him and he breathed in and hoped Vera Scheffert could help him.
He sat down next to the T-shirt boutique opposite The Skinshop and lit a cigarette and waited. A covers band was playing down the street, blasting out the Pistols’ ‘God Save the Queen’ in heavily accented English. He bought a sandwich and ate it and waited some more. Three o’clock came and went and he saw no-one approach the shop door. His phone rang, but he didn’t recognise the number so he didn’t answer it. It rang again a minute later and it was Dave.
“Hey.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in Amsterdam.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m looking for a woman called Kristel van Vliet.”
“They’ve just shown a bit on TV about Morgan and Sarah arriving in Malaysia.”
“Oh yes?”
“The press are hassling them. Mostly the Italians.”
“It figures, she led them a merry dance…”
“They gave a quick interview. And Sarah took her glasses off…”
“And?”
“And she has green eyes.”
Paul could hardly hear him with the racket and the music all around him.
“Probably coloured contacts, Dave…”, he said.
There was silence.
“What did you say?”, said Paul.
“I didn’t say anything.”
He saw a woman with red hair across the street taking a key from a purse and looking around.
“I’ve got to go…”
“Take care, Paul…. Really….”
Paul hung up and dashed across the street, colliding with a pram and almost knocking it over. A couple gaped at him and he mumbled an apology and caught up with Vera Scheffert as she slid up the metal blind and opened the shop door.
“Vera?”
“Yes, are you….?”
“Paul, yes, thanks for coming.”
She was about 35 and thin-faced, heavily made-up, with six or seven rings in each ear and a stud in her nose. She was dressed entirely in black and she looked a little drunk.
“Come in, I don’t have much time.”
He followed her into the shop and she flicked on some lights.
It looked like an old-fashioned barber’s shop, with the same big chairs and sinks and mirrors and white tiles on the walls.
“This way”, she said and she led him through a narrow door, past a vast store-room and into a snug office at the back of the building. She pulled open some curtains and pointed to a wall of shelves to one side. They were covered in what looked like photo albums.
“What is it you’re looking for and why is it so important?”
“The why’s a long story. Someone’s missing, someone who looks like this.”
He showed her the re-touched photo of Sarah.
“This was taken maybe 15 years ago. I’ve been told your father might have made the arrow…”
She produced a pair of glasses and looked at the photo.
“He might have, he did stuff like that. Not many people did.”
She looked up at the shelves.
“He took photos of everyone, from about 1975 till
2005. Thirty years worth. The albums should be more or less in chronological order. Help yourself, I’ll be next door.”
It took him twenty minutes to find it. Vera popped her head round the door a couple of times and tutted and asked him what was keeping him, but he kept wading through page after page of nose, ear, nipple, navel, tongue, clitoris and penis jewellery until he found it. He almost missed it because it wasn’t exactly the same framing. The photo he had seen at Mme Rosa’s must have been cropped compared to the original, because Kristel wasn’t alone in this picture.
Vera came back.
“I’ve found it.”
She came over to look at it. She turned the picture over.
“June 7th 1998. No name.”
“Did he usually write down the customers’ names?”
“I don’t know. Some maybe, if they volunteered their names. Some people may have wanted to remain anonymous.”
He looked at the other people in the photo. Behind Kristel were two girls of about her own age. One of them had on a Levi jacket covered in badges. The other one was wearing a sweatshirt with an insignia of some kind. He pointed to it.
“Do you know what that is?”
Vera peered at it.
“Looks like the badge from the Barlaeus Gymnasium.”
“A gymnasium?”
“Actually, it’s the name of a school, on Weteringschans, near the Paradiso.”
“Ok. Thanks.”
“Does that help?”
“I’ve no idea. Can I get a copy of this?”
“Keep it. It’s ok. You’re on a bit of a wild goose chase aren’t you?”
“I don’t have anything better to do.”
Chapter 45
Tuesday April 30th 2013 – Koninginnedag
As he stepped out of the shop and Vera locked it up, he was assaulted by the noise again. People were singing and dancing like whirling dervishes and he suddenly felt dizzy from the clamour and the barrage of sounds… bells ringing, radios broadcasting royal music, children screaming and adults laughing and talking and shouting out on all sides.
He dived into the crowd and lowered his head and stepped over feet and dog-leads and canes and felt shopping-bags and bottles and a hundred other objects hit his legs and his sides as he tried to pierce the wall of bodies and find some air. At the street corner he ducked into a shop and caught his breath and then fought on through the swarm, heading towards Singelgracht.
It would take him hours to get to the Barlaeus Gymnasium at this rate. It was across the other side of the Leidsegracht, and the Leidsplein area would be the busiest in the city. People would be packed together like sardines and getting from one place to another would be nigh on impossible.
He remembered Sacha Hejkoop saying that there was a free concert at Museumplein all day, and that transport had been organised along Singelgracht, with boats shuttling up and down.
He fought his away along the bank and found a queue of people waiting for a boat and joined them. It was bedlam. It was Babel. He heard dozens of languages and everyone seemed to be screaming at each other. His head was booming and he took another pill and washed it down with a swig of beer someone offered him. Everyone suddenly realised that three queues were forming into one and a whole wave of people surged forward just ahead of him and pushed their way towards the boat dock. There was scuffling and barging and someone was getting trampled just in front of him. He fell forward and felt a kick against his head as he hit the ground. He struggled to his feet, feeling dizzy again and then a police whistle blew and three officers arrived and tried to form a calm and organised line. But then a boat pulled in and there was another surge forward. Paul slipped to his right and jumped over a bench and climbed over some railings and stepped onto the boat. Other people followed him and there was yelling and swearing and the cops turned round to see what was happening but it was too late. The boat guys were already roping off the access and the boat pulled out and Paul breathed in and sat down on the deck and relished the relative calm.
The canal was jammed with pleasure boats and barges and all of them were overflowing with people getting wasted and dancing to deafening music. It took three quarters of an hour for the boat to travel less than 2 kilometres to Museumbrug where everyone disembarked. They all hurried forward, heading for the park. Paul could hear loud music echoing from the other side of the Rijksmuseum, but he turned and swung back the other way, over the bridge towards Weteringschans.
The Barlaeus Gymnasium looked more like Buckingham Palace than a school. It was a fine stone building with ornate statues over the main door and Paul thought back to his own school, pre-fab blocks and grey pebble-dashed walls covered in graffiti. This was a state school, but a pretty fancy one. The school was having an open day and the crowds were here too. He pushed through the doorway and saw signs and arrows indicating a concert hall and an art exhibition. He heard children singing somewhere. He saw an office to one side down a short corridor. Through a window he saw a woman working at a computer. There was a door, but it was locked. He tapped at the window. The woman inside looked up at him and shook her head. He tapped again. She glared at him. He put his hands together, praying, trying to look friendly. She raised her eyebrows and shook her head and got up and unlocked the door. She peeked out. Short tightly-curled hair, dark eyes close together, 40 something. A faint moustache.
She said something in Dutch that he didn’t understand, although he could guess.
“I have an emergency. I need to find someone who can help me locate a missing girl, a former pupil of the school, from 15 years ago.”
“15 years ago? This is not a good time, really… come back tomorrow.”
She started to close the door. Paul wedged his foot against it.
“Please. Is there anyone around who was here 15 years ago? A teacher, perhaps?”
She thought for a moment.
“You wouldn’t believe the staff turnover we have here. 15 years? There’s only one person I’m sure was here 15 years ago, but he’s not here today.”
“Do you have an address for him? I can go there…”
She hesitated. She wanted to tell him where to go and what to do with himself when he got there but somehow she knew he wouldn’t.
“Hang on.”
She went back to her computer and tapped a few keys and scribbled something on a Post-it and came back to the door and handed it to him.
“Thanks.”
She said something else in Dutch and he didn’t think it was ‘you’re welcome’.
He turned away and she called out to him.
“I said your head’s bleeding!”
He put his hand to his head, to the wound above his ear, and it came away red.
It was almost six o’clock when he stepped outside the school and the city seemed quieter now. The clamour had dropped to a steady murmur, but Paul knew it was just the calm before the storm. People would be tired now after a long day, and they wouldn’t have found their second wind yet for the long night ahead. But they would, soon enough.
The address was across the Vondelpark and Paul started walking. His feet were hurting and his back was sore and his head was thumping. He felt a bit faint. He stopped at a street vendor’s stall and bought a can of lager and some crisps and ate and drank as he walked on. He crossed a bridge and looked down and saw a boat passing and thought of the time he thought he saw Sarah on the canal… He saw a couple of skinheads wearing Bayern Munich shirts and that induced another flashback and he hoped Barca would cream them in the second semi-final… when was that? Tomorrow? It was Tuesday today, wasn’t it? He pressed on.
He felt the alcohol kick in and looked at the tin: 12 degrees. It seemed to be mixing nicely with whatever it was that Desmond had given him. He sat down for a minute on a bench and felt a bit sick but the moment passed and he walked on some more.
He finally came to a three-storey block of flats on the edge of the park and checked the street number: 73.
He walked forwar
d to the door and saw a list of names alongside some buttons. He saw the name Martens and pushed the button next to it. Nothing happened. He pushed the button again. Silence. He looked at his watch. 6.45. He sat down on a step and leant against a wall and closed his eyes and wondered where Sarah was and if she was dead.
He felt a tap on his shoulder and jerked awake, startled, and saw an old man looking down at him.
He said something but Paul didn’t hear it.
“Do you speak English?” he said.
“Yes. Are you waiting for someone?”
“Mr Martens.”
“Dirk? Oh, I believe he’s helping with the children’s show in the park. You have blood on your neck.”
“I know. Where in the park?”
“By the Tea House. Are you all right? You look very pale?”
“Thanks.”
He pushed himself up and looked across at the park and headed towards it. A car screeched to a halt as he stepped into the road and it blasted its horn and a man leant out of an open window and swore at him. It was the first car he’d seen all day. Weren’t they banned here?
He saw a sign for the Tea House and followed a path and heard music up ahead. He came to a clearing and saw about 500 seats arranged in neat rows in front of a stage with a canvas awning and spotlights illuminating about twenty children playing out some kind of pageant, a royal wedding or a coronation or something.
He saw a man with a walkie-talkie and a clipboard and went up to him.
“Do you know where Dirk Martens is?”
The man looked at him and at the blood on his neck and collar.
“Martens? The old teacher guy?”
Paul nodded.
“I think he’s back-stage.”
Paul wandered off to the right of the stage and tripped over some wiring attached to a generator. He picked himself up and saw three people staring at him. Two women and a man.
The King's Shilling Page 24
