They bypassed the Deenen’s house – windows boarded up downstairs, all the homely charm of a haunted house – and pulled up two doors down outside a neat-looking box. Good-sized. Two-storey detached. The sort of executive home one would expect a successful accountant to live in. Chintzy lace curtains hanging at the windows in neat pleats, showing scenes of the countryside. Windmills. Farmhouses. Blue-white clean, George noted. Hiding whatever went on inside from prying neighbours’ eyes.
‘No one’s home, by the looks,’ Marie said.
‘What does she drive? Do you know?’
‘Audi TT,’ Marie said, checking her notepad.
George stared at the empty driveway. ‘She’ll be in work, won’t she? Does she live alone?’ She imagined Kamphuis showing up here with some shit flowers, a hard-on and a bottle of wine. Carlien Dekker looked like the sort of woman who drank fizzy rosé and pranced about indoors wearing pink slip-on mules with marabou feather trim. George wondered fleetingly if she made Kamphuis talk about VAT returns when they fucked. ‘Ugh.’ Naked disgust, slipped from her mouth.
Together, they sat in the car with the engine running for thirty minutes, trying to keep warm, though the car was running low on petrol. The warmth of the air-conditioning cranked to twenty-six degrees resulting in the occassional smell of stilton. George looked down at Marie’s feet. They looked innocent enough. She looked at her own, horrified by the thought that she might be the source of the stench.
Marie opened her laptop and plugged in a dongle that connected her to a roving Wi-Fi signal, then connected to her email. ‘I’m waiting for bank details from a friend,’ she said, winking.
‘What friend?’ George asked, narrowing her eyes at this unprepossessing policewoman.
Marie toyed with her pearl earrings. ‘Let’s just say not everyone I mix with outside work is entirely law-abiding. And I spend a lot of time online, of course. You can put two and two together, right?’
Laughing, George was almost tempted to pat Marie on the arm, but decided against it. ‘Dark horse,’ she said in English.
Tapping away beside her, Marie sighed.
‘Anything?’
‘Nothing. Let’s just sit for a bit longer. I’ll email the boss. See what he wants us to do.’
Minutes passed during which George rang Letitia’s phone another five times, texted a filthy poem to Van den Bergen and sent a noncommittal email to Sally Wright, promising she’d be back in Cambridge ‘soon’.
‘What we doing, then?’ she said, eventually. Chugging on an e-cigarette with the window open only an inch. ‘You haven’t got a warrant. She’s not home. Do you want to break in?’ George rummaged in her pocket and produced a bunch of keys. She showed Marie her skeleton key from the time before. ‘Because I can get us in if you like. I’m a whizz with alarm codes.’ She noticed Marie’s questioning look. ‘Misspent youth.’
Marie shook her head. ‘I’m not risking it. Not without good reason.’ She sighed heavily and checked her watch. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Check your emails one more time,’ George said. ‘You can’t go without refreshing the page and checking.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s the rules, right?’ A sweat breaking out on her top lip. ‘Humour me.’
Tutting, Marie glanced at her inbox. Hit F5. ‘Oh. Hang on!’ She opened several attachments, figures spilling onto the screen. She scrolling through and through the bank account details of Hasselblad and Kamphuis.
‘Well?’
Disappointment in Marie’s voice. ‘Not a bloody thing out of the ordinary from what I can see. Salary in. Normal bills. Money out. Nothing huge that sets any bells ringing. Debited or credited. Nope. That’s it. Let’s go.’ Marie put her hand on the lid of the laptop, about to send it into hibernation.
Feeling disappointment nibbling away at her, George scrutinised the many attachments, arranged horizontally in a ribbon of icons across the top of the email. ‘Woah! Hang on. You’ve missed something,’ she said, pointing to a discreet little arrow that said there was more to come.
Marie blinked hard, clicked on the mousepad, brow furrowed. Her expression brightened. ‘It’s Dekker’s accounts. Credit card statement too. My pal hit the jackpot!’ She blushed. ‘I owe him a big bottle of schnapps, or whatever his tipple is.’
ABN Amro Bank. Leaning in closer than she was comfortable with, George spied a glut of financial transactions that seemed perfectly ordinary. Until she saw the size of the amounts coming out of this current account to settle Dekker’s credit card debt. ‘She spends nearly two thousand a month on plastic! Jesus wept. Are people really that rich? Or stupid?’
‘What the hell is she buying?’ Marie said, opening the credit card statement.
A list of expenses, telling a story of consumption that was more conspicuous than had been intended.
Toys from a toy supermarket on the edge of town.
Children’s books from Amazon.
Children’s books from a store in Amsterdam.
Children’s clothes from a high street children’s clothing shop.
George swallowed hard as everything clicked into place. ‘Oh my days! The kids are here. Come on!’
CHAPTER 55
A village South of Amsterdam, Carlien Dekker’s house
George inserted her skeleton key in the lock of the rear patio doors – a lasting souvenir from Danny Boy. The lock relented. Heart pounding and blood rushing in her ears, she pushed the handle down. Opened the door a fraction. Cocked her head, listening for the dreaded beep, beep countdown to bedlam and bells ringing. Nothing.
‘We’re good,’ she said.
Marie glanced over her shoulder. A patch of lawn, studded with melting hailstones and some scrubby evergreen shrubs. A train line running behind the sodden fence sounded deserted for now. ‘Jesus, George. We’ve got no warrant and Dekker is shagging the Commissioner!’
‘Oh, shut it, Marie. You want to find these kids, don’t you?’
‘More than you.’ She drew her service weapon.
Inside, George could smell dust and the funk of stale food, though the dated kitchen looked perfectly clean. The sort of hygiene attained by a fortnightly cleaner. The sort of smell that denoted pizza from the supermarket deep-freeze. Dr Oetker in the house. Chicken nuggets or whatever the Dutch fed their kids on. Not George’s field of expertise.
‘No sign of toys,’ Marie whispered, advancing through the kitchen. The barrel of the pistol that she clutched in her hands, leading the way like a deadly beacon.
George followed several steps behind. Eyes on everything. Dreading what they might find in this prissy suburban hole.
The living room, off to the left. Marie, already inside.
‘Clear.’
Already advancing to a room at the front of the house. But George wanted to see how Carlien Dekker lived. Lingered in this main reception room at the back. Photos only of Dekker: in eveningwear, glittering with wealthy-looking friends; smiling on what appeared to be a Caribbean beach. Leg, artfully bent to make her look slimmer, though she was already very slender. Rocking a bikini like a girl ten years younger; a professional portrait, hanging on the wall. Hair, coiffed to perfection; elaborate framed certificate from the supreme overlords of accountancy. Feminine, flowery chintz on the sofa. Frou-frou curtains with braided gold tie-backs.
George grimaced at the overpowering scent of narcissism that clung to every surface. No sign of any family life, whatsoever. Carlien Dekker was at the epicentre of her own universe and her strong, magnetic core had attracted Kamphuis. Or had it just been her tits?
‘Dining room’s empty,’ Marie whispered. ‘No sign.’
George looked down at the cream carpet, studded with pockmarks that implied stilettos were worn in the house. She was almost tempted to take her shoes off. She drummed her foot on the ground. Solid. No basement.
Marie pointed the gun at the staircase. Gesticulated upwards with the weapon. Started to climb, gingerly. George followed behind
.
The master bedroom ran from the front of the house to the back. Window at the side. Window at the front. An entire wall at the rear dedicated to walk-in wardrobes with mirrored doors, uniform in size except for one larger one, no doubt ideal for posing in front of. No fingerprints said Dekker kept her hands clinically clean. The lingering sickly smell of overly feminine perfume and hairspray betrayed a strict grooming routine. Appliqué butterfly bedding that looked as though it hadn’t been slept in for more than a day or two. Knick-knacks and beauty products on every available surface. George pulled on her gloves and opened the drawer of one of the nightstands. Spied sex toys and fur-trimmed handcuffs. Wrinkled her nose at the fleeting thought of Kamphuis cuffed to the brass bedstead. But no sign of children. Only an overwhelming sense of the house’s owner.
Second bedroom was furnished as a guest room. Two single beds that hadn’t been slept in, judging by the perfect, straight creases in the freshly ironed bedding. A thin film of dust on the scant furniture told George the cleaner didn’t go in here unless she needed to.
Third box room empty but for some gym equipment. An exercise bike. A curved contraption that George felt sure was for working out abs.
Hope surged as they checked out the loft – surely an ideal space in which to conceal abductees. But it yielded no surprises beyond old suitcases, stuffed with outmoded clothes and photographs of a time when Dekker’s face had been fuller and less orange.
Marie sighed, replacing the loft hatch carefully, crestfallen, with the drooping shoulders of the defeated, evident even though she was wearing a ski jacket. ‘They’re not here.’ Her eyes appeared suddenly bloodshot, as though she’d had far more riding on finding the Deenen children than just a detective’s job well done. Anger and disappointment strangling her voice. ‘I really thought … Goddamn it! Shit, shit, shit!’ Holstered her service weapon as an act of acceptance.
But the knot of apprehension in George’s gut would not dissipate. She reached out to rub Marie’s arm. Withdrew it. She thought about photos of Josh Deenen, wearing his big-boy nappies, despite him being old enough to be potty trained. Considered the tender two years of Lucy.
Wordlessly, she descended to the kitchen and located the bin. A person’s rubbish was always revealing. Vague recollections of searching through her own rubbish when she had lived in The Cracked Pot Coffee Shop, looking for the contents of an emptied ashtray. Finding the souvenirs of a rough night for a good-time girl.
‘What are you doing?’ Marie asked. ‘Give it up! There’s nobody here, and if a neighbour spots us—’
George’s breath came short as she spied the very thing she was looking for. Preceded by a foul smell of perfume and diarrhoea, she fished out a fat salmon-pink nappy sack, handles tied tight. Beneath it was another. Both stuffed with rolled up nappies and soiled wet-wipes, visible through the translucent plastic.
She held the first sack triumphantly in the air, swinging on the end of her gloved finger like a bio-hazard bauble. ‘Phone Van den Bergen,’ she said. ‘Get forensics and a sniffer dog here.’
‘But the place is empty,’ Marie said, scratching at her hair.
Returning to the patio doors, George ventured out into the garden. Looked up at the back of the house. Pointed to a large window that faced onto the train line and trees beyond the fence. Obscured glazing, as though the glass had been etched or covered in special film.
‘What was at the back of the master bedroom?’ she asked, smiling at Marie. Blood coursing through her body with vigour. Senses on fire, carrying her on the rollercoaster up to the very top.
‘Just fitted wardrobes,’ Marie replied, scowling at the perplexing sight. ‘Not a window.’
‘It’s a false front,’ George said, her steaming breath coming short with adrenalin. ‘There’s a room behind those mirrored doors!’
The women raced back inside, George leading the way, intoxicated by her theory. Stopping short in front of the reflective bank of wardrobe fronts. Might a woman as vain as Carlien Dekker not have a walk-in dressing room?
Marie opening the narrow doors, only to find shelf after shelf of folded clothing. Pushing it onto the floor to see if something lay beyond.
‘Nothing!’
‘It’s this one!’ George said, prising the largest of the doors open, noticing tiny fingerprints much lower down on the glass, where the cleaner had missed them.
Beyond the door was a shallow void, but the cream carpet that ran throughout the house continued underneath a further door that appeared to be nothing more than the back of a wardrobe. Laminate. The colour of oak. Hinged at the wall with a tiny hollow that served as a handle. George prised it open. Heavier than a normal door. Thicker. Soundproofed.
The smell of shit caught her at the back of her throat.
‘Hello,’ she said to two small children who were sitting, legs akimbo on the floor. Faces covered in what appeared to be the dayglow orange remnants of cheesy puffs. Beakers of red juice lying with their lids off in red puddles. Empty food wrappers mixed in with Duplo blocks. Lucy and Josh Deenen, playing at a low plastic table with some kind of activity centre almost like an abacus made from twisted, brightly coloured metal and beads. The room, lit by daylight coming through the large window, covered, as George had suspected, with special film often used in bathrooms and toilets to give glass an etched appearance. Let light in. Keep prying eyes out. Clever.
Squealing then, suddenly, as the children realised two strangers were in their midst. Tears, streaming down their filthy faces.
Marie stepped forwards, scooping Lucy into her arms. The little girl kicked and punched against her with strong feet and fists.
‘No, no, no!’ the little girl screamed.
‘It’s okay, Lucy. I won’t hurt you.’ Marie had the singsong voice of a mother down pat.
But George didn’t know what to say. Standing there, one hand on Josh’s shoulder. Him, straining to get away from her.
‘Carly! Carly Mummy!’ Josh shouted. ‘Where’s Carly Mummy? Where’s Daddy Olaf? Who are you?’
Heart thudding relentlessly against her ribs, George dialled Van den Bergen with her free hand. Gripping the boy as tight as she could, lest he tried to run away. He answered on the second ring.
‘Van den Bergen. Speak.’
‘I’ve found them, Paul! The Deenen kids! We’ve got them, safe and sound. They were right under our fucking noses all this time.’
CHAPTER 56
Zandvoort, Kennemer Golf & Country Club, later
Ending the call to George, Van den Bergen pinched the bridge of his nose, mentally pushing aside his emotional sandbags, letting the relief flood through him.
He turned to Elvis, grinning. A grin that made him feel whole again. He grabbed his protégé’s arm and frog-marched him, mid-conversation, away from the manager of the golf club into the deserted car park.
‘What is it?’ Elvis asked, rubbing his arm.
‘They’re alive.’ He started to chuckle, choking back unexpected tears.
‘Who’s alive, boss?’ Elvis asked, smiling back at him but wearing a bewildered expression on his face.
‘The Deenen kids. They’ve been stashed away at Kamphuis’ mistress’ place all this time. Would you bloody believe it?’ The chemical cocktail that caused euphoria to pulsate through his body was the finest high he had experienced since Tamara’s birth, shortly followed by the first time he had made love to George. Nagging doubt that his child was bringing her child into a withering world, not fit for human consumption, finally fading, now. On that sleet-washed, desolate car park, devoid of any other soul apart from them and the manager who had opened up the club house especially, Van den Bergen whooped.
‘Boss,’ Elvis said, staring at his red palm. ‘Did you seriously just whoop and high-five me?’
‘Can you blame me?’ He unlocked his car, now on autopilot, climbing in, out of the path of the biting elements. ‘Fucking Kamphuis. What the hell was he thinking? What on earth has he been doing with
two toddlers for all these months? He’s a disease!’
‘He’s evil,’ Elvis said, eyes darting side to side as he processed the enormity of the news. ‘Warped.’
Punching Piet Deenen’s number into the phone, Van den Bergen gave the sun the moon and the stars back to a man who had lost his entire universe. He hung up, wiping a tear away surreptitiously from the corner of his eye.
‘Hayfever,’ he told Elvis, though in truth, just this once, he didn’t care that the loyal detective was privy to the flint-faced Chief Inspector finally showing more complex emotion than displeasure or digestive discomfort.
Then, as abruptly as it had manifested itself, the euphoria left him. Tingling, optimistic warmth gave way to dread.
‘Oh, shit,’ he said. ‘What the hell do I do now?’
‘What do you mean?’
Elvis, chewed on the end of an unlit cigarette, obviously thinking he could take the piss just because of Van den Bergen’s momentary show of weakness. Van den Bergen grabbed the cigarette, snapped it in half and threw it out of the car window.
‘Hasselblad. The Chief of bloody Police is in bed with one of the biggest, most powerful and dangerous criminals on the continent. The untouchable Lord Bloom. Right? And how much actual evidence have we got against either of them? I mean, the sort of hard stuff that will stand up to scrutiny in court.’
‘Nada.’
‘Precisely. And Kamphuis – my boss; the damned Commissioner of the Netherlands Police; odious twat though he may be – has abducted two children and dumped them on one of the leading accountants in the country. Not a shred of concrete evidence against him either … yet. I mean, how high up does this corruption go?’ He looked up into the grey-white wintry sky and wondered when exactly God had left the celestial building. ‘Is Kamphuis in bed with Gordon Bloom and Hasselblad? Piet Deenen said there were dignitaries involved.’
His breath was laboured. His fingertips grew numb. Pins and needles tingled down his arms. Was he having a heart attack? He could feel the panic settling in like inclement weather. He remembered the light fading on Ramsgate dockside some two years earlier. The anniversary of his father’s death. The months of cognitive behavioural therapy that had ensued in a bid to quell his anxiety. Confessing his long-harboured innermost fears, whilst sitting in a chair that had given him terrible backache in a room that smelled of farts. Hadn’t been much fucking use, after all.
The Girl Who Walked in the Shadows Page 32
