Sleep Baby Sleep

by David Hewson

  Vos hesitated.

  ‘Why those women in particular?’ he wondered. ‘You must have doped and raped . . . I don’t know how many. Three you killed. And marked.’

  ‘Three you know of . . .’

  ‘Why?’

  De Graaf looked interested, leaned forward on the bed.

  ‘You’re the clever one. All the papers used to say it. Until you . . . um . . . had your little breakdown. You tell me.’

  Vos said, ‘Because they woke. Because they saw you. And when you’d stabbed them to death you couldn’t resist doing something you wouldn’t have dared if they were going to live. Because then they’d be sure to come running to us, pointing to that tattoo on their shoulders. Instead of living a life of shame and doubt not knowing quite what happened. Or who to blame.’

  Bakker was at the door with Kloosterman.

  ‘Very good,’ De Graaf said, glancing at the two women. ‘Impeccable logic. So if you’d like to stop it happening again let me out of here. Just for a few hours. Let me see real daylight, go to that clinic in the Zuidas, then I’ll tell you . . .’

  ‘Jef Braat’s dead,’ Bakker broke in. ‘We fished him out of the Amstel last night. His name’s worth nothing to us at all.’

  That news took the man in the blue and white pyjamas by surprise.

  ‘Braat?’ he whispered. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Your old company driver. We don’t need a name.’

  De Graaf scowled.

  ‘Oh please, Vos. Is your little girl serious?’

  He was a cunning man but a lousy liar. When the evidence stacked up against him four years before he’d confessed readily. Perhaps too quickly. He didn’t look as if he was faking it now.

  ‘It’s serious, Vincent. We found the dope and the tattoo gear in his houseboat. Lots else besides.’

  De Graaf began to laugh. The effort seemed to pain him. When he’d recovered sufficient breath he looked at Bakker and said, ‘Jef Braat’s not the name I have in mind and Vos here knows it. That idiot was scum. Lowlife. Easily led. A spear carrier in a greater drama beyond his comprehension. I’m offended . . . deeply . . . that you should believe I’d dream of bartering a name like his for a life like mine.’

  Vos put his notebook in his pocket, checked his watch, sighed, and said, ‘Tell me now. Or you can rot here till they cart you out to Zorgvlied.’

  ‘No, no.’ He grinned. ‘Cremation for me, dears. Sorry. So many people would love the opportunity to dance upon my grave. Regrettably I must disappoint them.’

  They walked out. The door slammed shut. De Graaf’s furious yells barely made it through the metal and glass.

  Marly Kloosterman looked at him, astonished.

  ‘You mean you’re not going to give that evil bastard what he wants?’

  Before he could answer Bakker held up the phone.

  ‘The commissaris is very anxious to speak to you.’

  ‘I’ll call her from the hospital. After we’ve seen Annie Schrijver—’

  ‘No, Pieter. She says you’ve got to talk to her right now.’

  The summons came in a text from Nina: the doctors were willing to let them in. That was all. She was there already when Schrijver turned up at the hospital front desk. A different set of dark old clothes this morning: brown sweater, black trousers. In his head she looked just the way she did when he first began to admire her secretly, shyly, as she worked on the fish stalls a little way along. He’d put on weight, lost hair, got jowly, didn’t bother to shave as much or as carefully now she was gone. The years had crept up on him and with them their damage. But not on Nina. Just a few grey hairs and the shadow of crow’s feet around her eyes, a sadness there, a sense of loss, for which he felt responsible in ways he couldn’t quite name.

  Of all the things he’d screwed up over the years – and there were many – the divorce hurt the most. And still he didn’t fully understand why she’d left him. Because he was stupid. A failure. Maybe that explained all.

  ‘Hanging around again,’ he grumbled, clutching the plastic cup of coffee she’d brought him. ‘That’s all these places make you do. Sit there, twiddling your thumbs. Until one of them comes out and breaks the news. Like God. Or a priest or something.’

  ‘That’s a lot of words for you, Bert.’

  ‘Got lots of words in my head. Just don’t say them out loud too often. They’re not worth much.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Says me. Says everybody. Why did they ask us here if we can’t go in?’

  She didn’t know the answer to that, though the waiting didn’t seem to bother her as much as it did him. Annie would recover. That was all that mattered. Nina was patient, calm, resigned. He’d never be any of those things. Schrijver sniffed at the coffee and wrinkled his nose. It was weak, lukewarm out of a machine. She got the message without a word, took the cup and disposed of it in the toilet. Nina was always tidy, always clearing up. The remnants of the castle he’d held on to were never as neat after she left.

  Her eyes crept to the double doors that led to Annie’s room. There’d been activity there. A tall, distinguished-looking man in a grey suit going to and fro, not that he spoke a word to them. Then a brisk, smartly dressed woman Schrijver thought he vaguely recognized though he didn’t know from where.

  Nina watched her go and said, ‘Isn’t she on the TV news?’

  ‘Don’t watch the news,’ Schrijver answered. ‘It’s just depressing.’

  ‘Maybe you should have said more,’ Nina murmured, barely listening to him. ‘Maybe I should have asked.’

  ‘Too late now.’

  ‘It’s never too late to be friends. Annie’s going to want that. She’ll need both of us when she comes out of here.’

  ‘Yes,’ was all he could think of.

  ‘She won’t be able to help out in the shop for a while either. Perhaps . . .’ She steeled herself and said it. ‘If you’re OK with it I could come round again. Work the stall. I know we rowed before but we can put all that behind us. Been a while since I sold anything in the market. I used to be good at it. Or so they said.’

  ‘You were the best. I mean it. I never ate so much fried fish in my life trying to pluck up the courage to ask you out.’

  She laughed at his words and he wondered when he’d last managed that.

  ‘I remember one day you had kibbeling. Then you came back for mussels. Then calamari. Something else . . .’

  ‘Prawns. I never really liked them.’

  ‘You probably said they were for your dad.’

  He was twenty-three when they started courting. There hadn’t been anyone before. He was too shy, too tongue-tied, too wrapped up in the flower business for a girlfriend.

  ‘I lied. Couldn’t think of anything else. Sorry—’

  ‘No, no. Don’t apologize. I knew. It didn’t matter. It was . . . nice really.’

  He thought of the woman from the estate agents. How hard, how calculating she was. How he’d bite off her hand if she could get the money he’d asked for.

  ‘Don’t take this wrong, Bert. I know you need some help with the business. I’m happy to do it. You don’t need to pay me any more than the maintenance. Maybe I’ve got some ideas about other things we could sell. Times change. You change with them. It’s not so hard.’

  ‘For me it is.’

  The thought returned: perhaps the Syrian lad called Adnan could help them put things right. New ideas, fresh enthusiasm. And with that idea Jordi Hoogland’s face came to mind, staring at him sourly, uttering the bitter words, ‘You need a rag head to save you now, do you? A foreigner I picked up on the street? Some man Bert Schrijver turned out to be.’

  She patted his hand just briefly.

  ‘Well, you think about it. It would be nice to get that place back on its feet again. Everyone else in the Albert Cuyp’s busy. No reason not to join them.’

  But I’m the reason, he thought. And one way or another I’m selling the place from under you because t
hat’s all there is left.

  ‘Thanks,’ Schrijver told her. ‘How much longer are these bastards going to keep us hanging around before we get to see Annie?’

  Her face fell. Her hand moved away. The wrong words again.

  ‘I’m sure they’re doing their best. They saved her life for God’s sake . . .’

  There was a commotion then. An angry male voice he recognized too well. Rob Sanders, still in his blue nurse’s uniform, was bustled through the ward doors by a couple of uniformed cops. Schrijver hadn’t even realized they were there. He could see now there were more people down the corridor. Men with cameras, cables, mikes, gathering round Annie’s room.

  Sanders stormed over, glared at both of them.

  ‘Are you a party to this? Nina? I know that idiot would fall for anything. But you?’

  Bert Schrijver blinked. He was always slow to anger. But it happened and when it did he was just as slow to back down. He didn’t say a word, just got to his feet, grabbed Sanders by the collar of his thin blue jacket and slammed him against the wall.

  The woman on the reception desk was on the phone already. Schrijver really didn’t mind.

  ‘I should have punched your lights out when you hit her,’ he said, face so close up to Sanders’ he could smell the hospital on him, that chemical cloud supposed to keep you healthy. And still people died.

  ‘Maybe you should, Bert,’ Sanders cried, struggling in his arms. ‘Time you did something.’

  He pushed Schrijver away. The two men stood there, face to face, squaring up, fists half-raised.

  Uniforms were coming through the door. Cops and hospital security people. Nina was up by then, pushing her way between them. The smart man in the grey suit hovered round the back, whispering into his phone.

  Then the woman they’d seen earlier emerged through the door, red-faced and angry too, yelling for quiet.

  ‘Den Hartog!’ She went to the suit and prodded him in the lapel. ‘This is difficult enough as it is. Do something.’

  Schrijver realized Nina was right. He had seen her on the news. She was one of the presenters, a woman known for tough interviews and controversy.

  ‘Who are all these people?’

  ‘They’re putting Annie on TV,’ Sanders yelled. ‘Face, name, everything.’ He glowered at the scrum of bodies around them. No one looked back. ‘Do you lot know what you’re doing?’

  ‘The TV?’ Nina whispered.

  The uniform cops rounded on the Schrijvers and Sanders. Reluctantly maybe. But what they wanted was clear.

  ‘You’ve got to go,’ one said. ‘This is a hospital. You can’t disturb the place . . .’

  ‘Annie doesn’t deserve this!’ Rob Sanders barked at him.

  ‘She’s agreed,’ the grey man said. ‘That’s all we need.’

  Sanders flew at him.

  ‘You can’t put her up there for everyone to gloat over. Not after what she’s been through.’

  The TV woman turned on him.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘A friend,’ he answered. A nod to the Schrijvers. ‘And these are her parents. Do you want this, Nina?’

  ‘No,’ she said straight off. ‘Annie won’t want it either . . .’

  ‘She’s already signed the waiver,’ the grey man chipped in. ‘She’s a brave young woman. She wants to do what she can to help. She’ll be a heroine after this.’

  Sanders pushed through the uniforms and got to him, jabbing a finger towards the TV crews.

  ‘She’s not free entertainment for these bastards. Nina. Bert. You can’t allow this . . .’

  ‘She’s twenty-two years old,’ the man said. ‘She can make her own decisions. She has.’

  ‘You think?’ Sanders replied. ‘You know that?’

  But the uniforms were moving, pushing them down the corridor, out into the grey day beyond.

  Schrijver couldn’t think straight, couldn’t work out who to yell at.

  Then they were on the pavement, listening to the racket of the traffic on the busy road, the construction crews working on the next line of buildings for the financial companies trying to turn the Zuidas into a new Dutch Wall Street.

  Hands shaking, Nina pulled out a pack of cigarettes from her bag. Bert Schrijver looked back at the vast plain building behind, hating it more than ever. There were two TV vans parked in the space for ambulances, people milling around them. Men with well-trimmed beards and trendy clothes, the kind who hung around the bars of an Albert Cuyp he no longer recognized.

  ‘Are you going to do something or not?’ Sanders asked him.

  ‘Like what? Go in there and slap her around the way you did? That worked, didn’t it?’

  The nurse glared at him.

  ‘You’re so dumb, Bert. Really. You don’t have a clue what’s going on.’

  Schrijver thought of punching him out then. It would have been so easy, and satisfying too in a way. But you couldn’t pass hurt on like that. All you did was double the pain, not halve it. A part of him said that was just what Rob Sanders wanted.

  ‘Why do you keep hanging round her?’ he asked. ‘You dumped her months ago.’

  ‘I still want her to be happy,’ Sanders answered in that sly, evasive way he had. ‘I want her to be safe. How’s that going to work if her face is on the TV, on every front page, people knowing what happened to her? How’s she going to stand out in front of everyone in the Albert Cuyp after that?’

  Schrijver had got on him with him once. Liked him enough to wonder if they’d ever marry. But Sanders was more than ten years older than Annie and he’d never understood why a man like him, seemingly solid, decent, good job, good prospects, had never settled down. Why he couldn’t stick with his daughter either. As if she wasn’t good enough.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ Schrijver muttered. ‘I’m an idiot. How would I? Nina?’

  She was weeping and that always made him feel bad.

  ‘There’s nothing we can do . . .’

  One of the TV crew came over and introduced himself. Schrijver didn’t even get the name. Just the message: they wondered if he and Nina wanted to give an interview as Annie’s parents once the cameras were through with her.

  The fury came out of nowhere. He was on the man, fists flying without a second thought. It took Nina and Sanders to pull him off. The TV hack retreated, hands up, bleating about only doing his job.

  ‘What kind of job is that?’ Schrijver yelled at him.

  The uniforms marched out again, barking orders. Come back when you can keep your temper, they said. Not before. And even then the staff might not let you in.

  A phone rang. It belonged to Sanders. He answered it, walked away so they couldn’t hear him, then wandered off into the adjoining hospital block with just a nod to Nina. Then the police pounced once more, telling them to get off the premises straight away or face arrest.

  As they walked down to the busy road Schrijver stared up at the first floor where they were keeping her. Blinds closed. A bright light behind them. Something for the cameras, he guessed.

  My girl, he thought. I should be there. Her mother too. No one else.

  ‘Bert,’ Nina whispered, tugging at his arm. ‘We’ll try again in a little while. When those TV people are gone. It’ll be easier. Leave it to me.’

  ‘The damage will be done by then.’

  ‘I guess.’ The tears stood glistening in her eyes and he could feel how much they were stinging. ‘You’re not as dumb as you think, you know.’

  Together they walked through the diesel smog of the construction trucks, the racket of hammers and cranes, into the tower blocks and building sites of the Zuidas. She’d find them a coffee, she said. Somewhere in this strange and foreign place not far from home.

  Vos went out to the car to take the call. Something was wrong with Bakker but he couldn’t guess what. So he phoned Marnixstraat, got straight through to Jillian Chandra, listened to what she had to say about Schuurman’s findings and said nothing at all.

&nbs
p; ‘You don’t seem surprised,’ she noted.

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘What did De Graaf say?’

  He told her about the deal on offer: one trip to the private clinic and then a name.

  ‘When can you get him over there?’

  ‘The moment he gives me a name.’

  A long pause and then she said, ‘Do you understand the situation? I told everyone today we were closing this case. That Jef Braat was the final link in the Sleeping Beauty murders. Now we know he isn’t. We have a murderer out there, preying on young women in nightclubs.’

  ‘One woman. She’s alive. Two men dead. It’s not the—’

  ‘I don’t have time to play intellectual games. Neither do you.’

  ‘Neither does Vincent de Graaf. He’s got less time than any of us. So why won’t he just give me the name?’

  Bakker was staring at him.

  ‘Are you always this stubborn?’ Chandra asked.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with being stubborn. There’s something he’s not telling me . . .’

  ‘Yes! The name!’

  ‘Will you please listen?’

  ‘Is he a flight risk?’

  Vos thought of the man he’d first arrested and the shell of a human being they’d just seen, eking out his final days.

  ‘Not in the least. I doubt he can walk far, let alone run.’

  ‘Then give him what he wants. Drive him over there and get that name out of him afterwards.’

  Not possible, he said. They’d found an illicit phone in his room. He’d been in contact with unknown parties on the outside, perhaps in the very hospital complex he now wanted to visit.

  ‘Wait,’ Chandra cut in. ‘You said he wants to go to a private clinic.’

  ‘Yes. A clinic next to the university hospital, where he’s been treated already. Dammit . . . his old office can’t be far away. The prison doctor says there’s no medical reason for him to go there.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn whether there’s a reason for it or not. We need that name.’