by David Hewson
She sat upright like a headstrong child.
‘Screw that. I want to hear this.’
‘Very well,’ Chandra agreed. ‘Let’s keep it short. Grateful as I am that the mess you failed to clear up four years ago now appears over, the time has come for some frank speaking. You’ve persistently disobeyed my orders, Vos. Wilfully so. Time and again you listen to what I say then do the very opposite.’
‘Only when the case demanded it,’ he pointed out.
She didn’t take that well.
‘I’m going to give you till tomorrow to decide what happens next. There are two choices. I can bump you down to uniform somewhere a long way from Marnixstraat. Community relations perhaps. I can imagine you in a customer-facing role. People do seem to find you engaging.’ She took a long breath. ‘Alternatively I can start disciplinary proceedings. Take your pick. You’ve got tonight to think about it. I’d recommend you stay sober to do that. Tomorrow—’
Bakker jabbed a finger in Chandra’s direction.
‘You’re just trying to keep the flak away from here.’
‘Not at all. I have all the evidence I need.’
Chandra asked Van der Berg to read out the list of infractions she could put before a panel. He reached for his notebook, flipped idly through the pages and detailed them one by one. It took a while.
‘That’s enough for me to suspend you with immediate effect,’ she said when the litany of transgressions was over. ‘They’ll dismiss you in short order not long afterwards. Trust me. I know how these things work.’
Vos didn’t doubt that last part. Then Van der Berg leaned forward and said, ‘There is more.’
‘Thanks, Dirk,’ Bakker hissed at him. ‘Good to know who your friends are.’
Chandra appeared thrown by this.
‘What do you mean, there’s more?’
He fumbled in the pocket of his old grey jacket and retrieved the phone.
‘Well, you told me to keep track of everything.’
He pressed the screen and then did something to the volume. A voice, Chandra’s, came out of the speaker, loud and angry.
‘I want Vos brought into line. I want you to help me put him there. If you don’t . . .’
Van der Berg brandished the phone and said, ‘I’ve got the answer to that too. It wasn’t nice. How about this one?’
The recorded voice returned.
‘Cut it out, Schuurman. I’ve got Vos’s name on the list already. Don’t make me add yours.’
‘That I recorded on Friday,’ he explained. ‘Along with the time and place of course.’
‘You have a list?’ Vos wondered, half-amused.
‘Lists are very fashionable in management circles,’ Van der Berg explained. ‘Or so I gather.’
Another press on the screen.
‘Yesterday . . .’
Again the tinny voice.
‘How many chances does he need? So he’s popular. All the better. Don’t worry. I won’t sack him unless he really asks for it. A job somewhere else. In uniform. Out of my hair. Out of your way.’
Van der Berg leaned forward and said, ‘That is you, Commissaris. We both know it. I was there. I believe we have policies on bullying and victimization. Perhaps you wrote them in Zoetermeer for all I know.’ He scowled. ‘Personally I can’t stand all that bullshit. I’d rather be getting on with the job. But as you said . . . these are different times.’
Chandra stared at him, stony-faced.
‘There are others,’ he added. ‘Quite a few considering I haven’t been following you around this place very long. But I can see it’s your day off and you must have an appointment somewhere.’
‘You had the temerity to tape me? Without my knowledge?’
‘My instructions were to keep a thorough record. So I did. If you want to make this official, I’ll have to hand over all the material I’ve got. Notes.’ He held up the phone. ‘Recordings.’ A brief smile. ‘Personal observations from an officer who’s worked here a very long time. So long you gave me that nice medal only last week.’
Vos looked at his watch and said he needed to get back to the office.
‘I assume,’ he added, ‘I can have Detective Van der Berg back on my team now?’
‘He was never off it, was he?’ Chandra snapped.
She leaned back in her chair and looked out of the window at the street beyond, an officious, insecure, lonely woman, Vos thought. No less dangerous for that. More so in all probability.
Then she began to shake with slow, quiet laughter.
It didn’t last long and perhaps it was forced. They weren’t sure and Vos wondered if Jillian Chandra knew herself.
‘Very well,’ she said with a sudden clap of her hands. ‘You caught me in a good mood. The status quo rules for now. We carry on as we are. I am learning, you know.’ The smile vanished in an instant. ‘Lots of things. You can go. All of you.’
Relieved, the three of them got up.
‘Oh,’ she added. ‘Send Den Hartog in here. I need a word.’
Back in the office Van der Berg went to his old desk and told the young detective there to beat it. A brief complaint followed about how tidy everything looked and then he sat down.
Bakker came over and gave him a hug and a quick kiss on his bristly cheek.
‘Sneaky bastard. Do you think she has a date? She looks nice when she wants—’
‘The private life of Jillian Chandra is a mystery I do not wish to contemplate,’ he answered. ‘And if I ever hear the phrase customer-facing in this place again . . .’ He opened up his inbox and swore at the mountain of messages there. ‘Sometimes I think the world’s just going backwards.’
One of the junior officers had started unpinning the photos of De Graaf’s victims from the walls. Vos told her to leave them for now.
‘This is a ceasefire, Pieter,’ Van der Berg told him. ‘Not a sudden and unexpected outbreak of peace. You do know that?’
‘So be it.’ He couldn’t stop staring the photos. ‘Peace can be very boring.’
There was one obvious gap in the story. Nola van Veen, it seemed, had slipped out of the station before anyone had taken her statement. When the night team chased later they found that the VU had no record of any student of that name. The address she’d provided was fake. It was all an act. A performance. A very good one. Whoever the panda called Li Li was in real life . . . she was gone.
‘Something’s bothering you,’ Van der Berg added. ‘And I don’t think it’s just seeing our beloved leader in all her finery.’
‘Lots of things.’
‘Such as?’ Bakker asked.
He did his best to tell them. Most of the story appeared straightforward. Lucas Kramer may well have wanted to murder the upstart American Greg Launceston and his old sidekick Jef Braat for trying to revive the Sleeping Beauty game. Self-interest came into play there. Kramer had escaped the notice of the police four years before. If Braat began putting himself about again perhaps he’d expose others.
‘But then . . .’
Vos fell silent.
‘Why come for you?’ Van der Berg asked.
‘For starters.’
Bakker slapped her forehead and let out a low wail.
‘God, you two drive me nuts. We know it was him with De Graaf. We know what kind of bastard he was. He tried to kill Marly, for pity’s sake. What else do you need?’
‘Reasons? Motives?’ Vos said. ‘Why kidnap Sam? Send me out to Zorgvlied to find them? Why taunt me with those messages?’
She thought about it.
‘Because you put Vincent de Graaf away in the first place. He was . . . pissed off with you.’ An idea. ‘Maybe De Graaf told him you and Marly were close.’
The two men waited for more.
‘All right,’ Bakker cried. ‘Because he wanted to leave that hat Jef Braat had nicked for him. So if we ruled out Braat we’d think Rob Sanders arranged it all.’
‘There had to be two hats,’ Vos pointed out.
/> ‘Why?’
Van der Berg rolled his eyes and said, ‘Laura, Laura. Think about it. Kramer knows Jef Braat hates Sanders. So he tells Braat to get him something that belongs to the guy. Jordi Hoogland obliges with the hat out of nothing but spite. Braat can leave it with a victim and send us chasing after Sanders. He doesn’t know he’s the next one for the chop.’
She nodded.
‘And?’
‘If Kramer had the thing on outside the Drie Vaten his DNA would be there too. Can’t fool a hat band. So he must have worn his own and dropped the Sanders one when he left. Kept it in a bag maybe. Wake up please.’
‘Dirk. You’ve no idea how much I’ve missed you.’
‘And,’ Vos added, ‘we didn’t find a hat like it in Kramer’s house.’
‘Well, I don’t know! You tell me.’
‘Can’t,’ he admitted. ‘I’m buying beers later. The usual place. Attendance is mandatory. It may well run into unpaid overtime.’
A door slammed. Down the corridor Den Hartog, the PR man recently imported from Zoetermeer, was stomping towards the lift, face red and furious, his hands full of filing boxes, a black bag over his arm. Chandra was watching him go, amused. One wave in his direction and then she checked her watch and went for the stairs.
‘I think the commissaris has found her sacrificial victim,’ Bakker said.
‘PR men,’ Van der Berg grumbled. ‘How will we ever manage without them?’
The junior asked if she could remove the pictures of the secret basement in the Zuidas. Vos walked over and took another look.
They joined him by the close-ups of De Graaf’s right arm. All the stab marks from a cannula needle. On some of the pictures the morgue had outlined the wounds and bruises with blue ink. Seventeen in all.
‘There’s that too,’ Vos said. ‘You’d think a man who can pin butterflies to a piece of card might have a more delicate touch.’
Along the wall were pictures of the tattoos on the shoulders of the American Launceston and Jef Braat. The same words Braat and his accomplices had left inked roughly into the skin of their female victims: Sleep Baby Sleep.
Now on two men.
Back at the computer the message notification was blinking.
‘It’s from Marly,’ Vos murmured. ‘Looks like she’s discharged herself. And . . .’
He stopped. Puzzled. The subject line of the latest read, ‘Sorry to break it this way but . . .’
Van der Berg caught the mood, coughed then said maybe he and Laura could go to the canteen for a coffee.
‘Do that,’ Vos told him, barely listening.
There was a crowd around the market stall. It had been a long time since she’d seen that. Her father had done what he’d promised: split the business in two. On one side the Syrian was busily selling flowers and bouquets. On the other his wife stood behind a wooden table brought out from the courtyard. Pastries and sauces were arrayed in front of her, soup and stews were bubbling away in urns.
Lia, the little girl, was perched on the counter behind, taking money while her mother bagged up food in takeaway containers. Good idea to have the kid there, Annie thought. Great marketing. But the authorities would be along at some stage and she’d surely have to go to school. Which, when she thought of it, was doubtless what Adnan and Mariam wanted.
Unnoticed by the throng around the stall Annie Schrijver walked into the shop and found herself next to her old bedroom. The door was open. A brightly coloured plastic trike was parked by some cardboard boxes full of clothes. Annie’s old toys were strewn on the threadbare carpet beside it. She couldn’t forget that last time she’d lured Rob Sanders here. The desperate passion. The fight with Jordi Hoogland afterwards. She’d never come back to this place. It belonged to a family who needed it more.
Back in the hallway her mother was standing in front of a portable gas hob, stirring pots bubbling away over low blue flames.
‘Mum,’ she said and kissed her on the cheek.
Nina looked up and pulled a face.
‘Oh, my God. Annie! What have you done?’
‘This smells great.’
She got a spoon and dipped it into one of the pots. Nina jokily pretended to slap her hand, the way she did when Annie was tiny, begging for food in the kitchen.
They both laughed at that. It was lamb, she guessed, in a thick brown sauce that tasted of pomegranates.
‘Had a haircut, that’s all. I decided I was sick of Goldilocks. She kept running into too many bears. That tastes great.’
‘It does,’ Nina agreed and still couldn’t stop staring. ‘We’re going to run out. Didn’t make enough. Your hair looks . . . good. Different.’ A pause and then, ‘Older.’
‘Where’s Dad?’
A nod towards the courtyard.
‘Out back dealing with some estate agent who wanted to sell the place. Had an offer too apparently. But . . .’ She turned down the heat. A long day ahead. ‘Where would we go? What would we do? We can make a go of it with Adnan and Mariam’s help. Well, maybe. At least we’ve got to try.’
Then, very carefully, she added, ‘It’s OK. We know you don’t want to be a part of it. We understand. Maybe over the years we got too close to one another. Like your dad says. We forgot to look outside.’
Annie nodded and walked to the storeroom. Her father was waving goodbye to a smartly dressed woman who was carrying a couple of plastic food containers.
‘There,’ Schrijver said, when she was gone. ‘Decisions made. I sent her off with some of the food. Free sample. You’re never going to get an estate agent turning down something they don’t have to pay for. I reckon we could drum up a bit of business that way. Word of mouth.’
He looked at her finally and started to say something.
‘I just had a haircut, Dad. Don’t start.’
‘I wasn’t going to. It’s your hair. Besides . . . it looks good.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’ve heard the news? About that man from the zoo?’
‘Yeah.’
He frowned. She wondered if he was going to start up about Sanders but instead he said, ‘I guess that means it’s done with, then. Thank God for that.’
Done with. Once she’d have got mad at the easy way he dismissed it all. Not now. He was a man. Not bright, not stupid. Somewhere in between like most.
‘Anyway.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, love. I can’t talk. Now Jordi Hoogland’s gone I’ve got Adnan out there shifting flowers faster than your granddad managed in the old days. I need to fetch some more for tomorrow and do the deliveries. Haven’t had time to catch up with the orders on the computer. Got to take the van—’
‘I’ll do it,’ she said.
‘That’s nice. But you don’t have to. Not after—’
‘I want to. I can stay with Mum for a while longer. Help out here. Do what you want.’
She looked around the grubby storeroom. When winter came it was freezing and she’d be tapping on the computer in the same woolly half-finger gloves she used on the stall. There were worse things.
‘This place has got a buzz about it again. Can’t go now. I want to see.’
‘Well.’ He scratched his cheek. A habit, a tic of his. One of those things the people you loved did so often you never noticed usually. ‘If you want.’
‘You can give me the van keys and the delivery run. Or let me loose on the computer. You choose.’
He took her in his arms and kissed her, stroked the short, spiky hair, a colour that was new.
‘I’ll do the van,’ Bert Schrijver said. ‘You stay here. As long as you want. We’ll make this right.’
We’ll try, she thought.
Pieter.
This is the way of the faint of heart. In the circumstances I hope you’ll forgive me.
By the time you read this I’ll be home. I should be thinking of that creature from the zoo. I should be cursing my own stupidity for falling for such a stupid trick. And full of guilt for what happened.
I’ve never hurt anyone before. Never dreamed it possible. The fact I can barely remember it as anything more than a bad dream should make a difference. Should . . .
Mostly though I’m not thinking of any of that. I’m thinking of you. A kind and gentle man who’s doubtless wondering what you can do to help.
This: nothing. We need room to breathe. I cannot, must not see you now. For shame, for fear, for . . . whatever stupid reason I can invent. It doesn’t matter. If there are police conversations to be had I’ll speak to Laura. Anyone you choose. Except you.
Maybe we’re cowards, dithering at the threshold. I don’t know. This I do. We’re damaged, both of us, with broken lives that have left deeper scars than either of us appreciate. Shattered pieces do not mend each other. Now, through no fault but my own, I’ve fresh wounds to heal.
I need time to do that, back with my family, away from the city. Away from you. I need your understanding and one final kindness: to let me seek this on my own.
One day, if you still wish it, I’ll call. But I don’t know when and if I do I’ll understand completely if you feel no need to listen. I owe you so much. You owe me nothing. Remember that.
With all my fondest love.
Marly
‘One day,’ he whispered and wondered how he felt.
Surprised. Disappointed. Hurt. Bemused. They hadn’t dithered on the threshold entirely. A year or so before, the two of them a little foolish and full of drink, she’d crossed the gangplank of his houseboat, Sam on the other side wagging his tail. Looking back, he realized they’d gone through the preliminary confessions: shattered relationships they blamed so easily on work. Then, as if these two agonies cancelled each other out, spent a single night together with an awkward parting afterwards.
It was the resurrection of the Sleeping Beauty case that had brought her back. Living on a houseboat just like him, not far from Artis, a decision that might have cost her everything.
The earlier message she’d sent him, the one with the pictures of her boat from the article in the paper, was above this strangely lyrical farewell. Uncomfortable that he wanted to know more, to peer inside her life and appreciate what seemed lost, he opened it again. Before he’d only seen the photos on the tiny screen of his phone. On the computer he could appreciate why Het Parool had wanted to splash her in colour on its weekend pages. Relaxed, ready for the camera, on her own territory, dressed for the shoot, she was elegant, composed, certain of herself. Everything he wasn’t.
