The House of Dolls

by Hewson, David

  ‘Damned right I did. Every last one of us tried to help there. But this . . .’ He moved out of the way as a couple of forensic people walked into the room carrying aerosols and fluorescent tubes. ‘The guy before just taunted Pieter. Never asked for anything. Just wanted to make his life hell. She was probably dead all along. We knew that. So did he.’

  ‘He thinks Katja Prins is alive,’ Bakker said.

  ‘Yeah. And usually Pieter Vos is right. In the end.’ He nodded down the stairs. ‘If a dumbo like me gets an inkling this isn’t the same he knows it. Knows a lot more than he’s saying too. He always used to drive us nuts with that.’

  Bakker went downstairs and found him outside seated on the wall, a cigarette in hand.

  ‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ she said. ‘Ordinary stuff anyway.’

  His eyes were glassy. She wondered about him.

  ‘I don’t,’ Vos said and threw the thing into the gutter.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  He was staring at a report, a single sheet on his lap. Vos put it back into the envelope when she started trying to see.

  ‘Anything I should know?’ she asked.

  ‘Til Stamm told us Katja was going to a rehab place. Her father paid. It’s called the Yellow House. It’s a charity. Regressive therapy. Facing up to things from your past.’

  Bakker leaned against the plastic sheeting and the scaffolding on the burned-out front.

  ‘Why would forensic send you a report on a charity?’

  ‘They didn’t.’ He got out a twenty-euro note. ‘There’s a really good friteshuis round the corner. Get us some chips, will you?’ He pulled a puzzled face. ‘Which sauce? Which sauce . . .?’

  She folded her arms.

  ‘Curry if they have it. Get one for Van der Berg too but he’ll want mayonnaise. Something for you. Drinks. I’ll have water. Still. Not fizzy. I hate—’

  ‘You hate fizzy.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Laura Bakker looked at the money.

  ‘Just guessing. I don’t get it. One minute you treat me almost as an equal. The next I’m like your servant. What is this?’

  ‘Saté,’ he said, waving the note. ‘Changed my mind. If they do saté I’ll have that instead.’

  14

  In the office, the two of them at his desk, Prins told Margriet Willemsen about the reporter. She looked unhurried, self-possessed. Almost as if none of it were a surprise at all. Then she took Anna de Vries’s business card, glanced at it.

  He leaned back in his leather executive chair by the window, trying to feel composed.

  ‘You know her?’ she asked.

  ‘The woman’s a crime reporter. Why would I know her? What else have you done?’

  A young woman police officer had picked up the photos and the ransom note. Prins had kept copies. He’d told her the documents were pushed through the council office letter box some time that morning.

  ‘That’s really smart, Wim. The police will want CCTV from the building. When they realize there’s no one on it . . . what are you going to say then?’

  ‘Jansen busted out this morning. De Groot’s got bigger things to chase.’

  She picked up the copies, flicked through the photos, stopped at the one of Katja in her underwear, cowering at someone out of view.

  ‘This could still be her playing a game. What are you going to do?’

  ‘I can just about get the money. If I have to. I want . . .’ He put a hand to his temple, felt the pressure there. ‘I want Katja back. Maybe this time we can make something work . . .’

  ‘How often have you said that? This de Vries woman . . . has she shown anyone else the video?’

  ‘She said not,’ he answered, and wondered how Margriet Willemsen had managed to put him on the defensive so easily.

  ‘Do you believe her?’

  He’d already asked himself that question.

  ‘She’s ambitious. She wants to cut a deal. They can’t write the story anyway, not with De Groot’s blackout. If I play along and give her an exclusive at the end then she’ll be . . . understanding.’

  Willemsen nodded, thinking about this.

  ‘Which means you admit to an affair with me, go back to Liesbeth, hand-in-hand with your daughter, and ask the city’s forgiveness?’

  ‘For now . . .’

  ‘While I get labelled the scarlet woman. Marriage breaker. Harlot. Do you think I’ll survive that?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I think we can negotiate something . . .’

  ‘She’s got a video of us in bed, Wim. Do you honestly think she won’t use it?’

  He didn’t have an answer.

  Margriet Willemsen took out her phone, made a call to Alex Hendriks. When she finished she looked at Prins and said, ‘Listen to me. We can both survive this. Come out stronger maybe. But you’ve got to trust me. You’ve got to do what I say. Go along with everything that happens now. I wasn’t going to raise this today. But I guess this bitch from the paper’s forced our hand.’

  He wanted to laugh. But he couldn’t. Something was slipping away from him here.

  She looked at her watch. Didn’t speak until Hendriks turned up. With him was Danny Smit, deputy leader of Prins’s Progressive group, a nervous, skinny young accountant from the suburbs. Too shy and too stupid to do anything unless he was told.

  ‘Danny,’ Prins said as they sat down. ‘Alex. What is this?’

  Willemsen stared at him.

  ‘I took Danny into our confidence. About Katja and the police investigation.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve been under a lot of pressure over De Nachtwacht. That’s been obvious to all of us,’ she went on. ‘Hasn’t it?’

  Smit nodded obediently.

  ‘Now . . . with the police investigation . . .’

  Prins was getting the message.

  ‘Wait a minute. You can’t have these discussions without me—’

  ‘We can,’ Hendriks broke in. ‘And we must. You have responsibilities to your family. We all understand that. But we have duties to the council too. It’s important to bring down the shutter on this before it goes too far, Wim. We’ve all come to realize that over the last twenty-four hours.’

  A red flame flickered at the back of Prins’s head.

  He pointed at Willemsen.

  ‘She was trying to get me to fire you only yesterday. What the—?’

  ‘I don’t remember that conversation,’ Willemsen interrupted. ‘Where did it happen? When?’

  Prins closed his eyes and laughed.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake. Is this a palace coup or something?’

  Hendriks had a document folder with him. He pulled out a sheet of paper, placed it on the desk.

  ‘It’s for the best,’ Willemsen insisted. ‘You stand down from the vice-mayor’s office for personal reasons. You keep your seat. You can focus on your family. When things are settled there, come back. We’ll find you a good place . . .’

  ‘And De Nachtwacht?’

  Danny Smit finally found his voice.

  ‘The consensus in the group is that perhaps we went a little too far. The ideas you were pursuing were more ambitious than we originally agreed.’

  ‘Who got to you, Danny?’ Prins snarled. ‘Menzo? Jansen? Some other cheating crook who’s flooding De Wallen with whores and dope pedlars?’

  Smit bridled at that.

  ‘This is for your benefit too. We all think it’s best you stand aside for a while. Margriet will take the presidency.’

  Prins laughed out loud.

  ‘I’ll be the new deputy,’ Smit added. ‘Then, after six months, when I’ve got the experience, I’ll take the presidency in turn. Unless you’re well enough to come back.’

  ‘You think?’ Prins demanded.

  Smit looked offended.

  ‘You should consider your family. We are.’

  Hendriks pushed the sheet of paper closer.

  ‘It’s
a formality,’ he said. ‘The decision’s already made. We don’t need your signature. It’s in everyone’s interest there’s no fuss. De Groot’s expecting you in Marnixstraat. That’s where you should be. We’ll all be thinking of you. Praying—’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Prins snarled. ‘Fuck every last one of you.’

  ‘We can give you a little while to collect your things,’ Hendriks added.

  ‘No we can’t,’ Margriet Willemsen said instantly. ‘You need to go, Wim. No fuss, please. We’ll handle the media from now on.’

  They sat there, staring at him.

  ‘I’d rather not call security,’ she added after a while. ‘Don’t make a difficult situation worse.’

  He laughed. Got up. Looked at the three of them. Hammered his fist on the chair.

  ‘I want this back.’

  She nodded and said, ‘There’s plenty of time to talk about that later. When things calm down.’

  Danny Smit looked as if he was stifling a laugh. Prins didn’t say another word, just walked quickly from the room.

  A long silence.

  ‘Do I get your office now?’ Smit asked. ‘Today?’

  She walked over and took the big leather chair by the window. Revolved in it once.

  ‘No. Tomorrow. You can leave too.’ Smit thought about arguing then got up. So did Hendriks. ‘Not you, Alex.’

  Margriet Willemsen waited till the young politician had left the room.

  ‘I didn’t realize we were going to spring this on him so soon,’ Hendriks said. ‘I thought he might have fought a bit more.’

  ‘Did you?’

  She was rummaging around her briefcase.

  ‘What do you want to do about his diary events?’ he asked. ‘The meetings on De Nachtwacht. The traders. The unions. You want me to cancel?’

  ‘I’ll deal with them. It’s business as usual. Make sure everyone knows. Wim’s taking temporary leave on compassionate, family grounds. That’s the story.’

  He’d got his iPad out, was checking his messages as she spoke.

  ‘You do love your toys, don’t you?’ she said with a smile.

  Hendriks laughed.

  ‘Yeah. I guess.’

  She pulled out the little video camera she’d found in the bedroom.

  ‘What about this? How do you rate that one?’

  He picked up the little black gadget, turned it round in his hands.

  Alex Hendriks hesitated for a moment. Looked at her. Grinned.

  ‘Pretty good actually,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

  15

  Outside the Poppenhuis in white forensic bunny suits. Eating frites and sauce out of paper cones.

  Van der Berg kept eyeing the bar across the canal. He glanced at Vos who said, ‘Not a chance.’

  So when they finished the detective took their cones and napkins, deposited them in a bin, then lit a cigarette. He didn’t take much notice of Bakker as she waved away the smoke.

  ‘Good frites, Vos,’ she said.

  He shrugged.

  ‘There are better. Now Vleminckx Sausmeesters if you can be bothered to queue . . .’

  ‘I don’t really want to talk about chips. What are we waiting for?’

  ‘Waiting,’ Van der Berg said. ‘What would life be without it?’

  ‘More interesting?’ she asked.

  He laughed.

  ‘Anticipation, kid. Learn to appreciate it.’

  ‘I’m waiting for the crack about cows,’ she added.

  ‘Cows?’ Van der Berg asked, puzzled.

  ‘Never mind . . .’

  A forensic officer came outside and told them it was time.

  ‘Stay back,’ Vos ordered. ‘Watch. Do as they say.’

  They returned to the first-floor room. A couple of officers held heavy plastic sheeting close to the curtain to keep out all the light. Three more held fluorescent tubes, turned off. The head man had a camera in each hand, one still, one video. He nodded. The sheeting went up. The tubes came on.

  ‘Thirty seconds,’ Van der Berg said. ‘A minute. That’s all if there’s something here.’

  The tubes turned to the floorboards at the back. Nothing.

  Then the centre. Nothing.

  By the front, beneath the small window a small patch of blue became visible. The cameras pounced on it.

  ‘Boss,’ someone said.

  ‘Working,’ the camera man answered.

  ‘You need to see this.’

  Vos walked towards them. On the wall was a bigger splash of blue.

  ‘Good,’ the one with the cameras said as he got there, firing with both lenses.

  Bright blue. Livid blue. Almost alive underneath the fluorescent tubes.

  Vos stood by them as they worked.

  ‘Not much,’ the head forensic officer said. ‘Could just be a fight. Someone getting beaten up. An accident even.’

  Kept filming, snapping. The men with the fluorescents in their hands padded round it, held out the tubes like weapons.

  No more blue stains and the ones they had were fading.

  The head forensic man turned to Vos and said, ‘I told you we should have done this my way. It’s all out of order.’

  He handed the cameras over to one of his minions then asked for the plastic sheeting to be taken down from the window.

  A long silence. Then he added, ‘This is old. It can’t be the Prins girl. Can’t be anyone recent. I don’t think this room’s been used in a few years.’

  ‘A few months short of three,’ Vos said. ‘The Thai woman told us that. She was on holiday. When she came back the place was closed and she didn’t even think about reopening it.’ A pause. ‘That was August. When . . .’

  He didn’t need to say it.

  ‘We can get DNA,’ the man insisted. ‘I’ll make it a priority. As soon as I can run it through the lab you’ll know.’

  ‘DNA,’ Vos murmured. ‘Fine.’

  He went downstairs, walked outside, looked at his phone, checked for messages. Found none.

  Van der Berg followed. A couple of pigeons eyed them from the pavement as Bakker turned up, scribbling in her notepad.

  ‘You should pull out of this, Pieter,’ Van der Berg said. ‘It’s getting too close. There. I said it.’

  ‘Katja Prins is missing.’

  ‘Is that all you’re looking for?’

  Bakker watched him, waiting for an answer.

  ‘She’s out there somewhere,’ Vos said.

  ‘Can’t see anything that ties her to this place,’ Van der Berg pointed out. ‘Can you?’

  ‘No,’ Vos agreed. He looked at Bakker. ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘We go back to Warmoesstraat,’ she suggested. ‘That’s the last place anyone saw her. And that kid. Til Stamm.’

  ‘Why?’ Vos asked.

  ‘There was something wrong there,’ she said. ‘I told you. She was lying to us.’

  Vos’s phone rang. They went quiet as he listened to De Groot’s voice booming out of the earpiece.

  ‘Warmoesstraat can wait,’ he said when he was finished.

  16

  Margriet Willemsen laughed and realized Hendriks was enjoying this. So maybe she should too.

  ‘I think you should put your toys away now, Alex. We’ve better things to do.’

  Hendriks shrugged, scooped up his phones and tablet, put them in his case.

  ‘How long was it there?’

  ‘Does that matter?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Long enough. Look . . .’

  He got up, went to the window. She came and joined him.

  ‘What Prins wanted was crazy,’ he said. ‘People were going to get hurt. For no good reason. You can’t wind back the clock. I just wanted some ammunition. I don’t intend to use it.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘What matters is . . .’ He nodded at the grey city beyond the glass. ‘What’s out there. People. Our people. Clean up a little. I’ll help you. But w
e’re not the Taliban. Let’s not get too judgemental.’ A weak smile. ‘That wouldn’t fit either of us.’

  She raised a finger to his calm, bloodless face.

  ‘There’s a video out there already,’ she said. ‘That reporter’s got a copy of him and me from yesterday.’

  Hendriks screwed up his eyes and said, ‘That’s not possible.’

  ‘She’s got it. Wim saw it.’

  He went white.

  ‘I never sent anything to anyone. If Wim kept on with this nonsense . . . if he tried to fire me . . . I was going to let him know then. I didn’t—’

  ‘No, no,’ she cut in. ‘Don’t screw around. I want the truth. The reporter . . .’

  ‘What reporter?’ he asked.

  She was getting cross.

  ‘Anna de Vries. The woman was in here earlier. She had the video. Wim saw it on her iPad.’

  Hendriks seemed astonished.

  ‘It didn’t come from me. I don’t want that out there.’

  Willemsen went back to the big leather chair, sat down, told him to take the seat opposite. Picked up the little spy camera, threw it in his lap.

  ‘I want you to delete everything you’ve got.’

  ‘Sure, sure. But . . .’ Hendriks looked scared. ‘Truthfully, Margriet. I don’t understand this. How can it have got out? Are they going to run something?’

  ‘There’s a blackout, isn’t there? Because of the daughter. Once that’s over . . .’ She scribbled something on the notepad in front of her. ‘I’ll deal with it. Just do what I ask.’

  Hendriks was getting nervy.

  ‘I can testify he came onto you if you like. Make you look a victim.’

  Willemsen’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Does a victim deserve to run this city?’

  No answer.

  ‘I told you,’ she said. ‘I’ll deal with it. Just . . .’ Her hand cut the air. ‘. . . get rid of everything you have.’

  17

  Hendriks went down the hall to his office, checked with his PA, got the reporter’s name, returned to his desk, looked her up on the Web.

  Anna de Vries. Twenty-eight. Crime hack with one of the Amsterdam dailies. No contacts with city hall that he could see. No interest in local politics at all.

  He kept all his private material in a cloud account, accessible from anywhere. Music, documents, photos. There were just two worthwhile video files he’d got from Margriet Willemsen’s bedroom. One clearly Prins from the day before. The other, the previous week . . . he didn’t know. That time it was later and they came in with the lights off. No easy way to tell in the dark. It didn’t look like Prins but he wasn’t sure.