by David Hewson
A dying man might not be much interested in precedents, Bakker pointed out.
‘What Vincent de Graaf’s interested in is immaterial. I’d rather not have my hands tied. So if someone’s going to make the decision it’s you. Not us.’
She retrieved the pamphlet and put it away.
‘The deal he will offer you is this. Allow him treatment at that place and he’ll talk. Tell you something he should have told you before. It may well turn out to be his personal recipe for pancakes. That’s all I’m saying.’
‘Is he an escape risk?’ Vos asked.
Marly Kloosterman thought about that.
‘Let’s take a look at him,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘You tell me.’
Chandra was back at her desk, nagging Van der Berg about the unidentified victim. Den Hartog had come in to listen.
‘I can’t believe we haven’t a clue who he is,’ she said. ‘After two days.’
‘We do,’ Van der Berg replied.
‘Really?’
‘He’s probably not from Amsterdam. Foreign perhaps. Doesn’t know many people here. Otherwise someone would have been on the phone.’
‘Not a lot, is it?’ Den Hartog complained.
‘It’s something. We’re passing on his description further afield. Fingerprints. DNA. We’ll get there.’
Chandra didn’t respond to that. Instead she said, ‘This girl in hospital . . .’
‘Twenty-two,’ Van der Berg cut in. ‘Not a girl.’
‘This woman then. The one who hangs around places where they slip dope in your drink. It would really help if she went public. Made a statement on TV.’
‘I like that idea,’ the PR man said, suddenly enthusiastic. ‘A lot.’
‘May I ask why?’ Van der Berg wondered.
‘She’d make it personal. It could show how much we care about sexual assault cases. And demonstrate that she puts her trust in us too.’
Van der Berg shook his head.
‘You can’t do that. You can’t even ask it. We don’t release the names of victims in sex assault cases.’
‘If she agrees . . .’ Den Hartog pointed out. ‘It’s her choice.’
‘Are you serious? What kind of state is she in to make a balanced judgement? She’s in hospital. Lucky she’s alive. It’s going to be hard enough for her to put this behind her as it is. Stick her on TV and she’s public property. The kid will have to live with it for the rest of her life.’
Chandra looked as if the decision was already made.
‘I thought she was a woman. Not a kid. This is up to her. Not you.’ She turned to Den Hartog. ‘Get out there. Talk her round. Put her on the phone to me if you need to. Could you get one of your tame TV people down there quickly?’
Den Hartog’s face broke into a rare smile.
‘For that? Like a shot . . .’
There was a knock on the door and Schuurman walked in. Before he could speak Chandra said, ‘Do you have an ID for that man yet? It’s all we need to close this thing down.’
The pathologist took a seat without being asked.
‘No. I’m afraid not.’
‘Oh.’
One short exclamation, and it was as damning as she could make it.
‘Commissaris. Your press conference this morning.’
‘What about it?’
‘I wasn’t aware you were going to broadcast our preliminary findings quite so quickly. I’d really rather you hadn’t.’
Den Hartog then produced a short lecture about media responsibilities and where they lay. Schuurman listened, visibly beguiled.
When the PR man was finished he said, ‘Oh, I don’t object to your . . . decision tree or whatever you want to call it. Just the release of initial findings as if they were facts.’
Chandra glared at him.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What I mean is . . . you effectively told the media Braat was the perpetrator here. He killed our unidentified friend and damn near murdered the Schrijver woman too.’
‘That’s what you said.’
He shook his head firmly.
‘No. Not at all. What I said was that it was clear the two victims were physically assaulted in his houseboat. That Braat was definitely present and had been involved in some kind of fight.’
‘That’s as good as saying—’ Chandra began.
‘No. It isn’t. It’s a simple statement of the facts. The implications you drew from those were yours and yours alone. Had I known about them in advance . . .’
Silence. Then Schuurman took out his tablet and started to consult his notes and photos.
‘I would have told you to wait.’
She went quiet. So did Den Hartog. Van der Berg had his hand over his eyes.
‘First off,’ Schuurman continued, ‘I now discover Braat was inside the van wearing a seat belt. I was unaware of this fact because we were at the houseboat. Though I gather one of your uniform officers removed the belt after his corpse fell against you. A great shame. We would have much preferred him kept in place. You really must leave these things to us in the future.’
She was glancing at Den Hartog.
‘I was . . . I didn’t ask for the belt to be . . .’
‘No matter now,’ the pathologist went on. ‘Damage done. In itself the seat belt is simply rather puzzling. Of more importance, it’s clear the engine wasn’t running when the vehicle went into the river.’ He held up a photo of a key in an old-fashioned ignition lock. ‘Turned to off.’
One more photo. A bottle of wine on the table in Braat’s houseboat.
‘Two thirds gone. The rest very heavily dosed with GHB. So much I suspect it would have affected the taste. But it was a nasty cheap Spanish Tempranillo and I suspect they’d been drinking already. So perhaps . . .’
More pictures. Muddy marks, on the bank by the crane that lifted out Braat’s van, by the man’s houseboat too.
‘Our corpse has large feet. Size forty-seven. These were forty-three, from thick-soled industrial boots.’
He indicated the footprints on the river bank near the van.
‘These are heavier than the others. That would indicate pressure. Consistent with someone pushing the van into the water while Braat was conveniently drugged senseless inside, strapped into the driving seat to keep him upright.’
‘The houseboat?’ she asked. ‘What happened there?’
Schuurman sighed.
‘As I seem to have to say rather too often, I can only address the facts. There was violence. We’ve yet to find any evidence of sexual activity. The bottle of wine was doped. If we assume . . .’ He slapped his forehead theatrically. ‘No. I really mustn’t make assumptions. So many people here to do that for you . . .’
‘Cut it out, Schuurman,’ Chandra barked at him. ‘I’ve got Vos’s name on the list already. Don’t make me add yours.’
Den Hartog took a deep breath and said nothing.
‘Ah,’ Schuurman replied. ‘A list. Very well. Put my name on it if you like. My wife’s always complaining I spend too much time at work anyway . . .’
‘I need to know. What might explain it?’
He hesitated for a moment then went on.
‘Were you to ask Vos I suspect he’d say this. The woman was drugged elsewhere and brought back to the houseboat for the enjoyment of those who abducted her. There, perhaps before setting about their unconscious victim-to-be, our gentlemen celebrated with a bottle of cheap wine. Which was drugged too. Braat and our nameless friend were rendered semi-conscious by one of their party. Fisticuffs ensued when they realized what was happening. They lost. This same third party later rubbed potassium cyanide in the mouth of our unidentified guest then lugged an unconscious Braat to his van and pushed it in the river, presumably hoping we’d believe this was all down to him.’ A smile. ‘You obliged.’
He flicked through the notes quickly.
‘We’ve found no trace of potassium cyanide in the houseboat or any pinned butterflies, b
y the way. Braat seemed to prefer his alive. So it would appear our third party came prepared.’
‘You’re guessing.’
‘I’m ashamed to say I am.’
Van der Berg asked, ‘The man had a tattoo. The woman didn’t. Seems odd.’
‘Your patch, not mine,’ Schuurman told him. ‘There are needles in the houseboat. A kit you can buy online very easily. Everything’s been very carefully wiped clean. Isopropyl alcohol all over the place. He knew what he was doing.’
‘Where do you get something like that?’ Chandra wondered.
Schuurman glanced at Van der Berg. A look that said: Is she serious?
‘A pharmacy. A hospital. A morgue. Common wash-down stuff. There are traces of recent blood and skin on the needles. Our unidentified gentleman only, I’m afraid. Braat had a butterfly on his neck as well. That was old. Several years. I checked back and it looks like a pattern we found in Jonker’s studio, by the way. Perhaps he was part of that particular game. Before you ask you wouldn’t need to be a genius to track down potassium cyanide either. It doesn’t just kill butterflies. There are quite a few industrial processes that use it too. Anyone who really wanted it . . .’ He shrugged then shut the lid on the tablet. ‘All this is conjecture, of course. Which, as I emphasized, is not my field at all. But you requested it and you’re the commissaris. It may be true. Or half-true. Or pure fiction. However, one thing I can state with absolutely certainty.’
He waited.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘The story you gave so readily to the media this morning without my knowledge bears absolutely no resemblance to reality. Jef Braat may be a murderer. I don’t know. But he’s certainly a victim. That’s beyond doubt.’
Den Hartog took to scribbling furiously on his notepad.
‘Any more questions?’ the pathologist wondered.
She looked shell-shocked.
‘Vos knew there was something up with this all along,’ Van der Berg said. ‘If we’d—’
‘Then why the hell didn’t he say so?’ Chandra cried.
‘Did you ask him?’ Schuurman wondered.
Silence. He paused at the door.
‘Oh, and that list of yours. A word of advice, Commissaris.’
‘What?’ she grumbled.
‘The longer it gets the more people around here will want to be on it.’ He glanced at Van der Berg. ‘Most of us anyway.’
When he was gone Chandra turned to Den Hartog and asked what they were going to do. He’d make calls, he said. Soften the story. Make it clear the case was still open and being actively pursued.
‘I’ll go round the hospital and get this Schrijver girl on TV whether she wants it or not,’ he added. ‘If we can put her face up there and a name to it we’ll get them off our backs.’
‘Do that,’ Chandra told him. ‘And next time you want to put me in front of the media make damn sure I’m in possession of the facts.’
Van der Berg stood up and raised his phone.
‘I’ll get hold of Vos, shall I?’ he said.
The last time he’d seen Vincent de Graaf was in court. Even there it seemed the man was acting out a part, that of a dissolute, rich and middle-aged Amsterdammer caught playing games that went too far. Standing, almost smirking before the judge, he’d appeared lean, fit and healthy, fifty-two when he was arraigned, used to affluence, single, occasionally featured in the gossip pages with a glamorous woman on his arm. A partner in a trust firm in the Zuidas, with business interests in property and other financial concerns throughout the city. He owned a terraced mansion on the Herengracht. Still did. Vos had checked. But now the place was rented out to Russians and Vincent de Graaf was sick.
When they entered the hospital cell he barely looked up from the bed. Stick-thin with a skeletal wasted face and staring eyes, sallow bony limbs poking out from blue and white striped pyjamas, hair gone except for a few greying hanks.
‘You look terrible, Vos,’ he said as Kloosterman left, ordering the guard to lock the door. He puffed out cheeks that looked like waxy parchment. ‘How is the world out there? Must be dull without me in it.’
Vos pulled up two chairs by the bed and said, ‘I gather you want to talk.’
De Graaf’s eyes were as keen as ever. They were on Laura Bakker, running up and down her long frame as she took a seat, pulling her skirt over her knees.
‘Don’t see many worthwhile women in here.’ She glared at him. ‘I do apologize.’ He shuffled upright on the sheets, pulled a pillow behind his back and waved a hand at her, beckoning. ‘You come with a name?’
‘Bakker.’
‘Bakker.’ He said it very slowly, eyes on her all the time. ‘Do tell. Have you any . . . tattoos?’
‘In all honesty . . . do I look the tattoo sort to you?’
His eyes narrowed.
‘Oh, my God . . . that accent. You really must do something about it, Bakker. An innocent from the wild green spaces of Friesland. A stranger in these parts. Lacking in sophistication. Thinking we’re all debauched, corrupt animals. Perhaps you’re right. Why exactly do you want her around, Vos? Personal amusement? Of one kind or another?’
Bakker bristled. As she was meant to.
‘You asked to see us,’ Vos said.
‘First things first. I’d like my question answered.’ He leaned forward and stretched a bony finger towards Bakker’s legs. ‘Do you have a tattoo? Come on. Somewhere private. A crevice. A little patch of intimate skin. A woman from Friesland would never advertise it, I imagine. But . . .’
Her cheeks were going red.
‘It’s there,’ he added. ‘Where exactly?’
‘I don’t have a tattoo.’
He raised his eyebrows, smiled. His teeth were yellow. It was as if the man was rotting from the inside out.
‘I didn’t ask to see it, dear. Let alone touch it.’ His fingers waved and then retreated. ‘Not much point any more. Though there was a time . . .’ He closed his eyes for a moment, pleased with himself. ‘They let me get the news in here. I gather your problem’s returned. Dead bodies in the night. Wicked acts. Pharmaceuticals misused.’ He laughed to himself. ‘Sleep Baby Sleep. Can’t blame me this time, can you? Though perhaps I should be consulting a copyright lawyer. What do you think?’
‘You’re starting to bore me, Vincent,’ Vos said.
He leaned back against the pillow and glared at them.
‘That bitch Kloosterman told you I’m dying, I presume.’
‘She did,’ Vos agreed.
‘Did she tell you there’s a private clinic at the hospital that might give me a few months more?’
‘She thought that unlikely. The treatment you’ve been getting—’
‘What treatment?’ he asked with a sudden savagery. ‘Painkillers and prison food?’
‘I’m sure they’re doing all they can.’
‘Are you? And I’m supposed to trust the word of these people? A low-grade prison quack? Against the opinion of a consultant who earns ten times the pittance she gets?’
The cell had a small barred window. He struggled to his feet and put his fingers against the glass.
‘All I’m asking for is one appointment. Drive me there yourself if you like. Bring me back.’ He looked at himself then shook a skinny ankle in their direction. ‘I won’t be running off. Don’t worry.’ His eyes went to the grey world beyond the window. ‘I imagine it’s starting to smell of autumn out there. A chill on the breeze. The leaves turning. I won’t see it again, you’ll be pleased to hear. Not that I’m asking out of sentiment, you understand. Three more months those people can give me. Maybe. Even in this dump it’s better than being dead. If it’s wasted . . . what’s lost?’
‘And in return?’ Vos asked.
‘What do you want?’
‘The truth would be a start.’
He nodded.
‘The truth. People always think they want that. I wonder sometimes . . .’
De Graaf sat down on the edge of the
bed. Just that small amount of effort had cost him much. His breath was short and rapid. There was sweat on his yellow, stubbly cheeks.
‘You know it wasn’t just the two of us. That clown Jonker. He was just a lackey. We used him for the premises. The tattoos. That dump of his was my private little Cabinet of Curiosities. Would have been out of place on the Herengracht. If the fool had been more circumspect you’d never have known.’
‘This other man,’ Bakker cut in. ‘He’s still alive then?’
A brief, grim laugh.
‘Oh, very much so. Living life to the full and keen for things to stay that way. You’ll be grateful, trust me. Perhaps it’ll bring a little much-needed credit to the brigadier’s somewhat chequered career.’
He looked at Bakker very closely then asked, ‘I must ask, sweetheart. Has he had you yet? Was it any good?’
Vos’s phone trilled. He gave it to her and nodded at the corridor.
She left in silence with a face like thunder. De Graaf watched her every inch of the way. When the guard slammed the heavy door shut he said, ‘It seemed a reasonable enough question.’
‘It wasn’t.’
Another shrug.
‘Maybe not. Still, I got my answer, didn’t I? How extraordinary that you should find a junior as priggish as yourself. In the police of all places. You should get out more. Take that from someone who knows.’
Vos retrieved his notebook and pen then placed them on the table.
‘Write me the name. I’ll have you in that clinic by this afternoon.’
‘Kloosterman won’t let you.’
‘This will be my call. Not hers.’
De Graaf picked up the pen. An office ballpoint. He stared at it as if the thing were too cheap for him to use.
‘I’ve got a cancer eating at my guts. It hasn’t reached my brain.’ He put down the pen and folded his bony arms. ‘The clinic first. Then you get it.’
Vos retrieved the ballpoint and the notebook, stood up and pressed the bell for the guard.
‘You want to know!’ De Graaf cried, and his voice was almost breaking. Then, more quietly, ‘He’s back in business. I read about it. Don’t screw with me, Vos. A couple of hours in the clinic then he’s yours.’ He shuffled along the sheets, jabbed a finger at the window. ‘There’s a woman out there thinking about tonight. Going out on the town. A few drinks somewhere. He’s waiting for her. I know. I invented this game. I was good at it and I taught my pupils well.’
