by David Hewson
‘Very. Carry on like this, young man, and you’ll earn yourself a job.’
The Syrian grinned then returned to working the passing crowd.
Schrijver went to the pavement and watched him. He’d never been easy with customers. His father had once told him he couldn’t sell a fifty guilder note for five cents. You either had that talent or you didn’t. Annie possessed it, and her mother’s winning smile. This stranger had it too.
His phone rang.
‘Where are you?’ Nina asked.
‘Work. How is she?’
‘Sleeping. They say we have to wait.’
Waiting.
‘Bert. The news is saying they got someone last night.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. They didn’t say. He’s dead.’
‘Good.’
‘Have you heard from them? That detective and the woman we saw at the hospital?’
‘No. You?’
‘Not a thing,’ she said with a rare note of bitterness in her voice.
‘Well, isn’t that a surprise? You don’t think they’re bothered about us, do you?’
Little people. Dregs of the market. What did they matter?
‘You can be very unkind sometimes,’ she said. ‘When they let us back into the hospital, you behave.’
At the end of the street he saw the van heading off into the city, Hoogland on his rounds. Maybe he could get rid of him altogether. Use the Syrian instead.
And that would save the Schrijver castle. Just the idea of it made him want to laugh.
‘When are we going?’ he asked.
‘When they let us. I want a promise. No more fights. No more arguments.’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’m going for a coffee in the Schaapskooi. Two euros a cup. Don’t have to pay stupid tourist prices. I’m buying.’
‘Can’t,’ she said, so quietly he could barely hear. ‘Call you later. Bye.’
A smiling Jillian Chandra took the press conference in Marnixstraat’s media centre, standing room only for the hacks among the camera crews. She’d learned how to work the press when she ran the public relations team in Zoetermeer. One thing mattered above all else: control.
This came courtesy of the publicist she’d brought with her from headquarters. A tall, officious man, grey-haired though in his early thirties, steely-eyed behind rimless glasses, always in a smart dark suit, Den Hartog was the slickest manipulator of news she’d ever encountered. No one knew better when to leak and when to stay silent, the moment to cajole, the instant to pick up the phone and threaten a hapless reporter.
He’d arrived two weeks after she took control in Amsterdam and already disposed of two long-serving locals from media relations. Now he was in the front line. And loving it.
Den Hartog had rapidly taken charge of his own little publicity empire while she still struggled over the grander stage at large. There was, for her, a more delicate balance to be struck between old and new. To kick out too many established Amsterdam officers might signal a reckless impetuosity. Caution was required. Over the months to come she’d slowly bring in more civilian support from Zoetermeer. Before long they’d be followed by serving police officers too.
The locals had to know their place. One, at least, was hers. Vos’s friend, Dirk Van der Berg, a genial man, known to the press, probably a drinking companion for a few. Now he was tamely seated by her side, a familiar face required, Den Hartog said, to show she was at one with the existing team.
In his scruffy, ill-fitting suit Van der Berg looked out of sorts. Not that she cared. He’d bend or break. As would Vos eventually. By Christmas Marnixstraat would be transformed.
She smoothed down her jacket and looked straight into the gleaming eyes of the cameras as Den Hartog introduced her. Then his minions handed out the prepared statement. Chandra did as he’d suggested and waited for the assembled hacks to get their copies before slowly, deliberately, reading it out word-for-word.
The document was concise and as factual as they could make it. A man had been killed two nights before, and a young woman attacked. She had been knocked out with the same date rape drug used in the Sleeping Beauty murders. Chandra didn’t mention the tattoo on the man, or the odd fact Annie Schrijver had somehow escaped that indignity. All she said was that other factors in the case led them to believe that Vincent de Graaf, jailed for the earlier killings, had a previously undiscovered accomplice: Jef Braat, a driver who’d worked for him and escaped prosecution only to be jailed for a less serious offence for which he was released eight weeks before.
The woman he’d assaulted was due to be released from hospital in a day or two, lucky to escape with her life. During an operation Chandra had directed personally the night before Braat’s body had been recovered from the Amstel river. His houseboat was being investigated but it was already clear that he was responsible for the latest attacks, and appeared to have committed suicide as the police closed in on him.
With that a hand went up in the front row.
‘Why would he kill himself?’ one of the reporters asked.
That wasn’t on Den Hartog’s list.
‘We’re still working on the case,’ she said. ‘Braat had recently lost his first job on release from jail. He was about to be fired from the second one and faced questions over some thefts from Artis. He was a man at the end of his tether. Or so it seems.’
‘But . . .’ the man came back.
‘What I have to tell you is that, on the information we have at present, we are no longer looking for any other parties in connection with the attacks of two nights ago.’
An odd silence greeted her final words. These men and women must have reported on Marnixstraat for years. They knew officers here. Had certain expectations. Den Hartog was right: they needed winning over.
A bespectacled middle-aged hack in the front row waved his phone around and said, ‘I heard it was Pieter Vos who found the people in Zorgvlied. And the boat too.’
‘It was a combined operation,’ Chandra said, still smiling. ‘Under my command. We work as a team. Credit is shared. As is blame if it’s called for.’
A woman from one of the TV crews chipped in, ‘So four years ago Vos closed down the Sleeping Beauty case with one of these animals still at large? Is that why he’s not here?’
‘Brigadier Vos is busy.’
‘Will there be an inquiry?’
‘We’re a learning organization. We’ll always endeavour to understand why things work. And why they don’t. Then take any necessary corrective action.’
The room had a buzz about it. They had something to feed on. The possibility of a fall from grace.
‘I wasn’t here four years ago so I can offer no direct insight. Though . . .’
She looked at the uncomfortable figure by her side and said, ‘Detective Van der Berg was.’
He wriggled in his bad clothes, stubbly cheeks turning crimson.
‘Perhaps,’ she added, ‘now’s not the moment . . .’
‘Vincent de Graaf confessed for God’s sake,’ Van der Berg said, grabbing the microphone, bringing it so close to his mouth the words boomed out over the room. ‘The only other party we could connect with those cases killed himself. There was never anything to suggest—’
‘We will look to deal with any procedural mistakes, never fear,’ Chandra interrupted. ‘Of more immediate importance . . .’
Den Hartog nodded at the two admin assistants he’d brought with him and they moved through the rows of seats handing out photos.
‘We still haven’t identified Braat’s victim. His final victim,’ Chandra went on. ‘These are mock-up images we have from our forensic people. We’d like to hear from anyone who thinks they may know this man. I have time for two questions only.’
They were fixed. A pair of friendly faces he’d arranged.
A young woman from a radio network asked, ‘Do you think there may be other attacks you don’t know about?’
Chandra nodded.
The second plant, a newspaper hack, raised his pen and asked, ‘Is Vos still leading the investigation?’
‘For the moment. Thank you.’
With that she turned abruptly and left by the side door back to the executive offices. Van der Berg rushed to catch up.
‘You’re not very good at these things, are you?’ she said as they walked together.
He had his phone out and was working through the messages.
‘I wasn’t aware I was supposed to be. If I’d known you were going to hang me out to dry . . .’
Chandra stopped in her tracks and stared at him.
‘I thought we had an understanding.’
‘And what was that?’
‘Do I really need to spell it out?’
He brushed away some texts on his phone.
‘I’m just an idiot at the bottom of the food chain, Commissaris. So yes. I think you do.’
She looked up and down the corridor. There was no one around.
‘I want Vos brought into line. I want you to help me put him there. If you don’t . . .’
‘Then what?’
She laughed.
‘Oh, come on. You’re not stupid. Get him in my office. We can start now.’
‘Can’t,’ Van der Berg told her.
‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s gone out. With Bakker. He wanted to see Vincent de Graaf in Bijlmerbajes. Then the Schrijver woman.’
A flash of sudden fury rose in her cheeks.
‘I specifically said—’
‘I know what you said. But you were too busy having your photo taken. Vos is the brigadier in charge of this case. This isn’t Zoetermeer. If he thinks he needs to see someone . . .’ Van der Berg looked at his phone again and shook his head. Whatever he was waiting for wasn’t there. ‘You have to let him do it. If this comes to something disciplinary they’ll run a ruler over you, boss. Just as much as him.’
Boss.
That felt good. She touched his arm.
‘Sound advice. Thanks. We move slowly.’ Her finger ran down the old, rough wool of his sleeve. ‘You might want to find yourself a new suit. This one’s seen better days.’
From a distance the jail called Bijlmerbajes looked more like a seventies public housing estate than a prison. It stood behind high razor fencing close to the Amstel river, not far from Zorgvlied on the opposite bank. Six fourteen-storey off-white tower blocks joined by an underground tunnel the staff and inmates had nicknamed ‘Kalverstraat’ after the city shopping street. The inmates ranged from small-time crooks to violent criminals who might never be released.
Vos knew the place intimately, the name of each tower, the lift systems, the visitor rules. The authorities divided the blocks according to prisoner type, trying to keep the minor convicts engaged in work and rehabilitation programmes away from their more dangerous counterparts. Vincent de Graaf was in the medical wing of Het Veer, the highest security tower of all, one mostly restricted to prisoners with severe psychological problems, often sent to Bijlmerbajes from other institutions unable to cope with them.
Bakker had watched, fascinated, as they negotiated security at the main entrance. Then two guards took them through the tunnel to a second checkpoint at the entrance to Het Veer. Marly Kloosterman, the duty doctor assigned to meet them, was waiting on the other side of a high iron gate. She was a cheery-looking woman in contrast to the surroundings. In a white medical jacket, with short fair hair and a lively, smiling face, she looked more like a genial local doctor greeting a familiar patient. Beaming from behind the bars she waved and cried his name as they turned up.
‘We’re old friends,’ Vos said before he was asked.
‘So I see.’
They cleared the scanners, Bakker handing over her weapon. Then Kloosterman came and hugged him, a brief embrace that seemed to leave Vos embarrassed. Which made her hug him once more, giggling at the effect.
‘I only ever see you for work these days, Pieter. It’s been months. So how are things?’
Bakker was watching them, arms folded, amused.
‘Um, fine, thanks. This is Laura. Laura Bakker. My um . . .’
‘Detective Bakker,’ she said as he stumbled over the words.
Marly Kloosterman winked at her.
‘I hope you’re keeping him in check.’
‘Doing my best. It’s not easy.’
The two of them looked him up and down.
‘I can imagine. You should come and see my new home, Pieter. I joined the houseboat club too. Plantage. Not far from Artis. I can hear the monkeys at night. At least I think they’re monkeys. When you live on your own you sometimes get funny ideas.’
‘I hope your place is in a better state than his,’ Bakker told her. ‘The city council are going to throw the book at him if he doesn’t do something about it soon.’
‘Another time, Laura,’ he said with a quick smile. ‘De Graaf . . .’
The smile vanished.
‘Oh yes, him. We need a chat.’
They took the lift to the third floor and walked down a long corridor, on either side cells that could have doubled as private hospital rooms were it not for the heavy locks on the doors and the tiny barred windows.
‘This is what jail’s like?’ Bakker whispered.
‘No,’ Vos said. ‘It’s not.’
And Vincent de Graaf would hate it, he thought. Until he became sick he’d been in the wing reserved for sex offenders. It was secure, quiet, a place they could be safe from attacks from other prisoners. This was a kind of solitary. One he presumed was forced upon a dying man by circumstance. Nowhere else in Bijlmerbajes could offer the twenty-four-hour medical care he needed.
Kloosterman opened the door of her office and ushered them in.
They took the two seats in front of her desk, feeling more like patients than visiting cops. She got them coffee from her espresso machine and then the story began.
De Graaf was terminally ill, with three or four months to live at the most. Pancreatic cancer diagnosed too late for anything but palliative care.
‘Had he been a free man . . . a rich man getting all that expensive medical cover . . . perhaps things would have been different. That’s the way he sees it. But who knows? It’s a sly disease. We don’t run medical insurance check-ups in here. Not part of the service.’
Vos said, ‘I gather he wants to talk to us.’
‘I passed on the message. As he wanted.’
‘You don’t believe him?’
She thought for a moment then went to her filing cabinet, opened a drawer and pulled out a plastic bag with a phone in it.
‘I really don’t know. Vincent de Graaf is as cunning as a fox. A few weeks ago we discovered he’d got hold of this. He’s been communicating with someone on the outside. Here . . .’
She passed the handset over.
‘Any idea how he got it?’ Vos asked.
‘Oh, come on, Pieter. This is a jail. You know as well as I we can’t keep out everything. And maybe . . .’ She shrugged. ‘We did run him over to the hospital in the Zuidas for some scans. We don’t have the equipment here. I wondered if someone slipped it to him on the way.’ She stopped, as if surprised by her own thoughts. ‘Like I said . . . he’s a cunning bastard. I’ve worked here for
five years. In all that time I never felt I’d met anyone who was . . . beyond explanation. We’ve got murderers and rapists, you name it. Most of them, you can see the way they got here. Drugs, drink, a psychosis that perhaps we should have picked up earlier. Then along comes Vincent de Graaf . . .’
She put down her coffee and folded her arms.
‘I have to believe no one’s born evil. I have to. Because if that’s possible then what we’re doing here’s different. We’re not trying to help damaged human beings become whole enough to let them back into the world. We’re just prison guards in white coats administering sedatives.’
Bakker growled something.
‘I’m sorry?’ Kloosterman said.
‘I think most people will just be happy they’re off the street.’
‘Most people don’t see them the way I do. Even you. All you see is a criminal and send them to court. I have to deal with them afterwards. Witness their misery. Their guilt. Their shame. They’re human beings. Most anyway. The man you’ve come to see is sick and weak and desperate. But even so . . . he’s not like all the rest.’
‘I put him inside,’ Vos told her. ‘He’s nothing special.’
She nodded and smiled at him again.
‘We ought to discuss that some other time. Till then we’ll have to disagree. The real reason he wants to talk to you now is this.’
She reached into a drawer and retrieved a glossy brochure. It was for a private medical facility in the Zuidas, attached to the university hospital.
‘Copernicus Cancer Centre,’ Bakker said, reading the cover. ‘He thinks it can help him?’
Kloosterman thought carefully about her answer.
‘That’s what he says.’
‘And he can pay for it?’
‘I don’t doubt that.’ She nodded at the brochure. ‘And he’s furious I won’t give him access.’
‘Why not?’ Vos wondered.
‘Two reasons. First . . . it’s pointless. He’s terminally ill. There’s nothing anyone can do for him that we’re not doing here. They’d probably use the same machines we did when we sent him there, give him the same drugs. Second, if I allow him to order up private medical treatment how can I deny that to someone else? I might be setting a precedent. Next thing they’ll be sending out for pizza.’
