by David Hewson
Then they sat round the desk in the office, the lawyer taking a chair as if she was family already. Vos had been on the phone nagging for an interview, she said. He wanted to clear up some points from the previous night. She’d stalled.
Annie listened and asked if they’d found Rob Sanders.
‘Still missing,’ Zomer told her. ‘They’ve been round his apartment. I imagine they’re trying to connect him to the Sleeping Beauty case.’
‘Rob wasn’t part of all that,’ Annie cried.
‘You seem very sure,’ the lawyer said.
‘I am. I know him. We’ve been close a long time.’
Schrijver scowled and muttered, ‘After what he did.’
‘You don’t know what he did,’ Annie snapped at him. ‘I do and I’m not taking him to court. I don’t care what they say. What happened . . .’ She glanced at her father. He didn’t look her in the face. ‘What happened was a long time ago. I put it behind me. If I hadn’t do you think we’d have stayed together all that time? This is my decision. My life—’
‘It’s not unknown for abuse to lead to relationships,’ the lawyer told her. ‘That doesn’t make it right. Doesn’t mean he’s not liable. Perhaps in a civil court—’
‘Rob Sanders hasn’t got two cents to rub together,’ Schrijver broke in. ‘If you’re thinking of suing him you’ll be sticking your fingers into empty pockets.’
There was a smile between the lawyer and Nina. One that said, ‘There. Now you see what he’s like.’
Then Zomer said, ‘This isn’t about money, Mr Schrijver. It’s about justice. If anyone deserves to be hauled into civil court it’s surely the police. They need to understand they can’t treat victims any way they want. Besides, they really want to find Vincent de Graaf’s accomplice. If—’
‘That wasn’t Rob!’ Annie said. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’
‘Just drugged you up on your own. And then . . .’
Schrijver regretted his words immediately.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Rob just spiked my drink and on it went from there. Shame really. Shouldn’t have wasted his money on those drugs. I’d have slept with him anyway. Guess he was being a bit shy.’ She looked exasperated. ‘Dammit, Dad. Don’t you get it? Sometimes people make mistakes. They regret them. They’re sorry. I never saw anyone as sorry as Rob was and . . .’
She stopped there. Nina swore under her breath. All four of them went quiet for a while. Schrijver just knew it was going to be the lawyer woman who’d break the silence.
Zomer leaned forward, reached out to Annie with her long thin fingers. The tattoos on her arms were flowers and dragons, all colours. Schrijver couldn’t for the life of him work out why she’d want them.
‘When you agreed to that interview? Was it your idea?’
‘Course not,’ Annie snapped. ‘Do I look stupid?’
‘No. You don’t. But—’
‘They said it was the right thing. Other women might come forward. I’d be helping them.’
‘Very decent of you,’ Zomer said. ‘But did they outline what effect it might have on you? The publicity. You were still in a vulnerable state. Did they offer any counselling?’
Annie calmed down a little.
‘That man from the police. Den Hartog. He said Mum and Dad were fine with it. They thought it was a good idea. If they—’
‘What?’ Schrijver roared.
Nina had her hands to her mouth.
‘We never told them that, love,’ she said. ‘They never asked. If they had we’d have wanted you to stay clear of it. So would Rob. He was dead mad too.’
‘Hardly surprising in the circumstances,’ Bert Schrijver muttered and was glad his phone rang since it saved him from the filthy looks coming his way.
He went out into the courtyard to take the call. It was Lies Poelman, the estate agent.
‘Mr Schrijver. Good news.’
‘You don’t watch the TV. Or read the papers. Do you?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘I have an offer. From our Chinese client. She’s willing to pay the asking price. Five hundred and fifty thousand. Cash. No need for a mortgage. We can start on the paperwork this afternoon if you like—’
‘Not now.’
There was a long silence and he could just see her mouthing a curse on the other end of the line.
‘What do you mean . . . not now?’
‘I mean I’ve got a lot on my plate. Personal issues. Look at the news, woman. See if you can work it out.’
There was another breathy pause then she said, ‘Clearly this is a bad time. When will be a good one?’
The lawyer had come out into the yard too and slunk off to the other side, phone in hand.
‘You tell me.’
‘Mr Schrijver. My client is enthusiastic but needs to close this down quickly. There are other options. I’d be loath to see you lose this sale to someone else. To be perfectly frank I don’t think your property is going to be easy to shift. It’s in a state. There may be regulation issues. You grasp at this now or it could be months . . .’
‘I’ll get back to you.’
The Zomer woman was on the phone too, talking to someone in tones so low he couldn’t hear.
He went inside. Annie had gone into her room and was picking up some things, putting them in her rucksack. Nina still sat at the desk. She looked up when Schrijver walked in. A touch guilty, he thought.
‘Going then, are you?’ he asked.
‘We think it might be best if Annie stays with me for a while.’
‘Whatever you want. I’ve got to do the van run. Leave the stall to the lad outside. But no worry . . .’
‘We’re not abandoning you, Bert. Petra reckons the police have really screwed up. Putting Annie on the TV like that. Lying to her about us two saying it was OK.’
‘I don’t give a shit about the police. What about her? That bastard Sanders? How do we get her over that?’
Nina wasn’t even listening.
‘She reckons they put Annie up there to take the heat off that new woman running the place. We can sue for damages. All the pain that interview’s caused. She just needs a witness.’
‘A witness?’ he murmured.
The young lawyer was still talking outside in the courtyard, looking their way. Petra Zomer caught their eye, raised a hand and then a victorious thumb.
They were ten minutes from going on air when Zomer got through to the TV newsroom to say she was representing Annie Schrijver.
‘That was quick,’ Helmink told her. ‘Congratulations. At least I assume congratulations are in order. I mean . . .’ She laughed. ‘You don’t take on losers, do you?’
‘I take on victims. People the others won’t touch because it’s too awkward.’
‘Sure. Things are really busy here. We’re running a story saying Amsterdam’s got another Sleeping Beauty killer. What do you have for me?’
A choice, Zomer said. Watch the police take all the blame for the way Annie Schrijver’s been treated. Or stand with them in the dock.
‘You’re threatening me?’ Helmink asked. ‘Get serious. We’re big. You’re a mouthy little bunch of unwashed students pretending you’ve got a social conscience. It wouldn’t be an even contest.’
‘Don’t like those, Lucie. More a David and Goliath type.’
‘Get to the point. Like I said. We have stories to run.’
‘The point is this: were you under the impression Annie’s parents had given their blessing to her talking to you? Did Den Hartog tell you that?’
The producer was making clucking noises and pointing at his watch. He could wait. Helmink had a cold feeling in her gut. She was there when the parents screamed blue murder at the idea the girl might go on TV. A witness to Den Hartog lying to Annie Schrijver, telling her the opposite. More than that, a beneficiary too. Journalists lost their jobs over stunts like that.
‘She’s an adult. I didn’t need t
heir permission.’
‘I know that. But she was in a distressed state. Annie’s put herself in the public domain without understanding the consequences. She’s adamant she asked Den Hartog if Nina and Bert thought it a good idea to give that interview. He told her they were right behind her. They were sure it was the best thing to do. If he said that he was lying. They wanted her to have nothing to do with it and he knew it too.’
She remembered the conversation well. Without that lie Annie Schrijver could well have pulled out of the whole thing. Rape victims were never identified. If some form of subterfuge had been used to get her to give up her anonymity the fallout could be massive.
‘And?’
Zomer sighed in exasperation.
‘Did you hear him say it?’
‘What if I did?’
‘Then you need to choose sides.’
‘I already have. I’m on mine.’
‘So were you there?’
‘What’s that worth?’
The briefest of pauses. Helmink guessed the calculation was made already.
‘If you’re willing to put it in a statement . . . Annie on a plate. When the air’s cleared you can interview her again. There’s a better story you don’t even know about. I promise. Much better.’
That was good bait.
‘There are legal issues, Petra. You of all people should understand that.’
‘I do. We play a long game.’
‘So when the police have finally nailed that bastard,’ Helmink said, ‘like they should have done years ago, then I get to talk to her? Exclusively?’
‘Quite,’ Zomer agreed. ‘See. We’re in this together. All the blame gets shifted back to the police. Where it belongs. And this is serious. Annie can sue big time. Play ball and I guarantee it won’t be you.’
Dealing with stories you got wrong had become harder over the years. It was no longer acceptable simply to ignore the errors and hope they’d go away. Some form of public mea culpa was required. What better than a reflective face-to-face with Annie Schrijver? Maybe a tearful one on both parts? A confession from Lucie Helmink that she was too trusting in what the man from Marnixstraat had told her. A reconciliation with the victim she’d unwittingly wronged.
‘If you’re right this could take down Jillian Chandra,’ Helmink said. ‘Not just her lapdog PR man. Daughter of an immigrant. A woman at the top of Amsterdam police for a change.’
Zomer snorted.
‘She’s still police. I want justice for Annie.’
Helmink swore beneath her breath. She could ladle on the bullshit herself when needed, but rarely with such skill and never at such a tender age.
‘Besides,’ the young lawyer added, ‘wouldn’t that make for an even better story?’
‘I’ll forget you said that. Let’s just stick to the justice stuff, shall we?’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to—’
‘I was there when Den Hartog told Annie her parents supported giving the interview. I heard him say it. If he hadn’t I might have pulled back from talking to her. She was obviously in quite a state. It was hearing they wanted her to do it that made her go on. Truly, if I’d known . . .’
There was a silence between then. Perhaps some embarrassment on both parts.
‘I’ll need that in a formal statement at some stage,’ Zomer said.
‘You’ll get it. We have a deal?’
The producer came and stood over her, pointing to the studio.
‘You bet.’
‘Got to rush,’ Helmink told her. ‘Call me when you can.’
Midday traffic, sluggish and angry, so bad it took almost forty minutes to get to the De Witt building. The car park was full of police vehicles. Forensic were swarming over the basement, officers in white suits everywhere. TV vans were parked up at the perimeter, a few reporters holding mikes, talking to camera.
Nothing new had come from inside. So the two of them wandered back into the main building, got no grief from the security guard they’d met the previous night, and went to the office of Willem Strick, once business partner to Vincent de Graaf in the trust company that had built the place. Now, as the guard had said the night before, little more than an office manager.
He looked the part: a tall, skeletal man in a drab black suit, white shirt, red tie, gloomy narrow face with a protruding chin that bore a small Van Dyke beard. His staring grey eyes scanned them up and down as they came in.
Strick started off slow and bureaucratic, going through the succession of events that had toppled him from the executive office on the top floor of the building down to this cubby hole behind reception, counting the rent receipts, fixing the plumbing. It all began with De Graaf’s conviction and the flight of De Witt’s customers to other trust firms. They ranged from tech giants to rock bands, all keen to avoid the curious eyes of international tax authorities. The last thing any of them needed was a welter of publicity thanks to a man who’d promised them privacy and charged a fortune for those desperate to hide behind the company’s walls.
‘And so.’ He swept his long arm around his small, bare office. ‘I’m left with this.’
‘You could have sold the building,’ Vos pointed out.
‘And come away with pennies. It’s mortgaged to the hilt. The rent just about covers that. Better to wait on capital appreciation. Vincent . . .’ He pulled a face. ‘He was brighter with money than I ever was. Somehow he managed to syphon a lot more out of De Witt than I knew about. When the boat went down I was left alone at the wheel. So now I draw a salary and collect the monthly dues.’
‘What was the rent on that place downstairs?’ Bakker wondered. ‘The little hidey-hole where he used to take the women?’
Strick briefly closed his eyes as if the question pained him.
‘I’m an accountant, not an architect. The first I knew of any basement was when you people called me last night—’
‘There are steps down there. And a door! You’re telling me you never even had a look?’
Strick turned to Vos and said, ‘Is this serious? Because if it is I’ll get a lawyer in here right now . . .’
‘People have died. It’s serious.’
‘I meant . . . are you really asking me whether I knew Vincent had that place?’
‘Yes. We are.’
He looked aghast.
‘I’m a happily married man. Two kids. Both at college. Struggling to keep them there. I’ve no need of a . . . hidey-hole. No reason to look for one. Don’t you get it? We had an office manager. When the sky fell in I fired him and took his job. I do what he did. Fix things. Collect bills. Kick people out if they can’t pay. Vincent never mentioned any basement. Understandable in the circumstances, don’t you think?’
‘I suspect one of your tenants found that place,’ Vos said. ‘Greg Launceston. American. Worked for a software company . . .’ He checked his notes. ‘The Syclamen Group.’
Strick shrugged.
‘Not aware I ever met the man. What does he look like?’
Bakker pulled up the passport photo they’d retrieved from the US authorities overnight. A thirty-year-old Stanford graduate, moved to Amsterdam six months before to work on a mobile app start-up located on the top floor of the building. Funded by US venture capital money and a group of Dutch angel investors.
Strick frowned at the photo, a clean-shaven unremarkable man with neat, businesslike dark hair and a glint of a smile.
‘He grew a beard here,’ Bakker added. ‘The usual bushy sort.’
‘May have seen him come and go. Don’t really recall. They’re just tenants. I don’t wish to be part of their . . . social scene. If he wanted to poke around in the bushes looking for a basement I never knew about, that was down to him.’
‘What social scene is that?’ Bakker asked.
He laughed.
‘Oh, come on. This is the Zuidas. Hipster central. They’re burning through other people’s money and spending it any way they like. Dope. Drink. Hookers. Unpaid bills
. I’ve kicked out two of these software outfits in the past year. What they do in their spare time is up to them but I don’t want it on the premises.’
‘You had much worse than that,’ Vos observed. ‘You had murder. And rape. You had Vincent de Graaf’s accomplice putting him to death down there last night. Just when we thought we were about to get a name out of him.’
‘And,’ Bakker said, ‘you gave a character reference to Jef Braat when he was in court on a sexual assault charge?’
Strick glared at her.
‘A character reference? I was asked if he’d done anything wrong when he worked here. I told his lawyers the truth. Not that I knew. He drove for us. That was all.’
‘Where were you last night?’ she added.
‘At home. With my wife. Listening to the Berlin Philharmoniker. Live. We have a web subscription. You can check with her if you like.’
‘We will,’ Vos promised.
‘Shostakovich. Violin Concerto No. 1 in A minor. Richard Strauss. An Alpine Symphony. That’s my . . . our idea of a congenial evening. Vincent and I were business partners only. He made me money for a while but frankly I never liked him. Nor did I make a habit of meeting him outside these walls.’
‘And now he’s dead.’ Vos watched him. ‘Will you go to the funeral?’
‘I’m busy that day. Whenever it is. He screwed up my life . . . and yes, before you say it, plenty of others’ too. Much worse.’
He scribbled a name on a card and a phone number.
‘Syclamen’s run by a woman here. Louise Warren. From London. Formidable. If you want to know about this Launceston character, I suggest you talk to her.’
Vos took it, they went outside. Bakker was busy working her phone.
‘Shostakovich and Richard Strauss in Berlin last night. Maybe he is telling the truth. I can’t see a cold fish like that getting caught up in Vincent de Graaf’s kind of games.’
‘Maybe not,’ Vos said and called the number on the card. Louise Warren, it seemed, was expecting them.
The Saturday market was busier than usual, crowds cramming the narrow street, squeezing between stalls to find space on the pavement then stumbling back when they couldn’t find room there. Which was all Bert Schrijver needed. The flower business had a large frontage, too big for the business he now had. Most of it was wasted on storage for the stall outside. That meant his was one of the few spots along the Albert Cuyp where people could gather without being constantly bustled or hassled by shopkeepers.
