I pulled his attention back to me. ‘Slavic, when we prosecute a theft case we don’t need the stolen goods in order to testify. And when we prosecute a drugs case, we don’t need the drugs. Are you seeing a pattern here? We don’t need girl to testify.’
‘So charge me.’
We stared each other down. There was something in the depths of his eyes, a dark knowing.
‘That’s not how it works, my friend. First we open a case. And we investigate. Get to know you very well, crawl over every aspect of your life –’
‘You should not enter my property,’ he interrupted.
Would he know that a lawyer could invalidate any evidence collected through a search without a judge-authorised warrant?
‘The evidence on this occasion – the money – was gathered here by a custody sergeant, Slavic. Right here at the IJ Tunnel 3 police station, at the front desk.’
But something wasn’t right. It was something I’d seen in his den, or maybe in his confident posture; of course, there’d been the gunshot too…
‘So investigate.’ He shrugged. He was looking at Stefan, whose discomfort I could sense. ‘Show what happen,’ Slavic said.
‘Sure. We can throw in refusal to cooperate with the police, assaulting a police officer…’
The tables were turning though. A gunshot incident report would pose awkward questions. What had been our operational plan? Why had Stefan been there and not Liesbeth, my regular partner (especially in the RLD)?
I replayed the scene in my head. Stefan drawing his weapon on Slavic… Slavic responding, forcing the gun back upright. There was no jury to convince here in Holland, but even the harshest judge would see instincts of self-defence in Slavic’s move as opposed to him attacking a police officer unprovoked.
I thought too about the ballistic evidence: the 9mm parabellum that would be lodged somewhere in the rafters of Slavic’s den. They were standard-issue bullets for police and street criminals alike, meaning it could have come from anyone’s gun, but there was also the witness testimony to consider. A good-sized crowd had gathered on Molensteeg after that bang.
Check, Slavic might as well have said.
Again, the memory of his den sent a shiver through me; there was something I’d noticed that I couldn’t yet put my finger on…
Slavic was smiling that sly smile again.
‘Maybe I see lawyer now,’ he said.
*
‘What the fuck, Henk?’ Joost exploded, once the door to his office was closed.
Stefan was with me. We’d left Slavic in the interview room, in the capable hands of Vincent van Haaften – an extra-sharp defence lawyer, sharp-suited too. Clearly there was money behind our guest – considerably more than the 3,660 euros that Wester had emptied from his pockets.
‘Well?’ Joost pressed, walking behind his desk to underscore his authority.
‘As I briefed you earlier, I was just doing controls in the RLD… making an ID.’
‘You didn’t tell me you were going to break into someone’s property and fire off a round into the guy’s ceiling!’
Vincent van Haaften had spoken with Joost, then.
‘I followed Slavic into his place. It felt risky to confront him on the stree –’
‘Don’t’ – Joost held up a palm – ‘prejudge the verdict of the incident team I’m required to appoint.’
He had his head bowed in thought.
Behind Joost were shelves of awards – and photos of him receiving awards. Some at the police academy, but also one with a rosy-faced Jan Six. Six-Shooter was standing between Joost and a politician that I recognised as Rem Lottman, a big figure in every sense – a ‘kingmaker’ within the city’s fragile coalition government.
‘Who fired the gun?’ Joost looked up with alert eyes.
I glanced at Stefan. Pale-faced, he was shaking once more. His eyes met mine, beseeching.
How old was Stefan? Twenty-eight? Thirty? A whole career ahead of him, with a clean sheet so far in station operations. An adverse incident report could set his career back years… permanently, even.
One thing about my own status and relations with Joost: I had very little to lose now.
‘It was me,’ I said quietly.
Joost canted his bald head. ‘And if we were to run a GSR check on you, it would confirm that?’
I knew they weren’t going to test me for gunshot residue; Joost already had the result he wanted.
‘Sure.’
‘OK, Stefan,’ Joost said, ‘you can go.’
For a moment, Stefan stood still, too confused to move. Then he bolted.
‘We’ll need to check your gun,’ Joost informed me.
‘I’ll get it.’ Fortunately, I’d left it locked up in the squad room. I made a mental note to fire it someplace, fast. But where?
‘It’s not looking good for you, Captain Henk.’
The pity appeared genuine.
‘What the hell were you thinking, trying to get back in on the harbour case?’
His words almost passed unnoticed. But how would he have known about that connection? Had van Haaften told him? But I hadn’t mentioned the tattoo to Slavic, van Haaften’s client… Or even to Stefan.
Kurt Larsson?
‘That’ll be all,’ Joost said, dismissing me.
Had it been a guess, or a very subtle warning on his part? An uncharacteristic error even?
His back was already turned.
*
I needed answers, but more than that I needed a drink.
My watch showed nine o’clock as I made it to Liesbeth’s engagement celebrations. It was a short walk to the karaoke bar, a place where cops knew they wouldn’t be hassled. And Joost wouldn’t be there; I’d at least managed to leave him buried beneath fresh paperwork.
But as I entered, I saw none other than Bergveld at the mike, singing along to the 80s track ‘Jessie’s Girl’. He looked out, steely-eyed, from under his floppy fringe, the glint of a disco ball dancing across him, turning him into some past video idol.
The place was full. Through the bobbing heads I could make out Liesbeth, looking radiant – along with several others from the squad room. I wanted to offer them a drink, but there were too many people in between. I forced my way to the bar and asked for the strongest beer they had. The music and laughter were loud, causing the barman to lean in, cupping his ear. The Dubbel Bok he poured had travelled all of a kilometre from the local IJ Brewery.
There’s something about that Rick Springfield song Bergveld was singing – the obsessive quest for someone else’s woman – which always unsettled me. Or maybe I just ached for the 1980s again. In any event, Bergveld was trying too hard with it, like he really was the star, yet the words were someone else’s. There was something symbolic in that, someplace.
I took the head off the flavoursome beer and sighed.
‘Henk,’ a voice said to the side of me.
Marc Vissering, Liesbeth’s fiancé, was the prototypically tall Dutchman with pale eyes. He clasped my hand warmly. ‘Loosening the vocal cords?’ he asked with a boyish grin.
‘Marc, can I offer you my congratulations?’ I hugged him and thumped him on the back. ‘She’s a lucky woman, and you’re a luckier man. What are you drinking?’
‘What did you say?’
I guided him further along the bar, away from the speakers.
‘Drink?’ I repeated my offer.
‘No!’ he said. ‘We’ve got a tab going. Let me add that beer to it.’
‘That’s OK, it’s paid for… So, how does it feel?’
‘Hold on,’ he said, getting his order in, shouting it over the bar. That done, he turned back to me. ‘Actually it feels pretty amazing. This is now a double celebration.’
I raised my Dubbel Bok in acknowledgement. ‘How so?’
‘We got a major conviction today.’
‘Oh? Which case?’
The barman leant over to clarify one of the drinks ordered. ‘Without ice,’ Marc confirmed, before facing me again. ‘Organised vehicle theft. The suburbs will be sleeping quieter tonight.’
‘Ah, car alarms.’ They’d even arrived in my neighbourhood. No one acted on the bloody things, especially when the owners were away – which was often enough, apparently.
‘High-end stuff: Mercs, BMWs…’
I’d heard chat about this around the squad room. Operation Boost, was it? It had to be. It was one of those cases that you weren’t supposed to know of, but always found out about.
‘Not BMW bikes, I trust,’ I gave him a sidelong look.
‘Not valuable enough, I’m afraid,’ he laughed.
I smiled. ‘So who were the bad guys?’
‘Eastern European syndicate. Taking the vehicles up to Rostock then shipping them across the Baltic. Lot of demand for baubles out East these days. Tens of millions of euros’ worth, in fact.’
Suddenly he had my full attention.
His drinks appeared on a tray.
‘How did you get the testimony?’
‘You should know,’ Marc said, picking up the tray. ‘It was one of your guys – Sebastiaan’ – he nodded ahead – ‘who directed the infiltration operation.’
I turned to look at Bergveld. The track had ended and Liesbeth was now at the mike for ‘Ademnood’, a staple of weddings and karaoke nights. A chorus of female voices joined in around the room.
Bergveld was walking straight towards us. I didn’t doubt that he’d received a text from Joost by now.
But then there was a stir around the doorway as someone strode in. Jan Six, instantly recognisable: he was wearing a flowing black overcoat, and was red-faced as usual. Six-Shooter had rustic features – a squashed nose and rough skin – and he smiled a lot, giving off an air of geniality, but his political moves to get to the top of the Amsterdam police force spoke for themselves.
What was he doing here? It must have been a spontaneous drive-by, otherwise Joost would surely have been here to greet his boss. Had he come to wish a highly regarded young prosecutor well with his engagement? Or rather to claim paternity for a successful police operation: success breeds many fathers, after all…
Operation Boost had clearly been a big deal.
Bergveld and Six converged not two metres from me, clapping each other on the shoulder. Marc drifted over to them; his body language invited me in, too, but that was checked by Bergveld’s turned shoulder as he steered the group away, towards the swaying crowd of happy squad-room staff.
Coming the other way was Wester. ‘How many times must we be tortured by this song?’ He shook his head, pressing his palms into the wooden bar. ‘For God’s sake, Henk, get up there and sing something.’
I looked over at Liesbeth and her happiness; all I could do was smile and hold my hands up in surrender.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry your guy was cut loose today. Handing all that money back… It felt like I was giving him the green light to go on doing whatever he’s doing.’ He glanced at me, perhaps hoping I might enlighten him.
Not wanting us to be overheard discussing Slavic, I changed the subject. ‘So what would you have me sing?’
‘André Hazes?’ he suggested, not missing a beat.
Though now deceased, the Dutch singer was still wildly popular.
‘I wouldn’t know which song to choose,’ I said.
Only, I would… For me, no garlands on the wall.
6
THE NIGHT WATCH
Having found my moment to say goodbye to Marc and Liesbeth, I slipped out of the karaoke bar and headed home along Entrepotdok. The mist had come back in, blotting out the former warehouse buildings lining this historic waterway.
The smell of whale oil, resin and other goods once kept in storage here was gone. Even when we moved here back in the 1980s, the dockside buildings had mostly been abandoned. The area then underwent the classic cycle of urban renovation and gentrification: the social housing originally intended for these units was supplanted by an influx of architects, ‘creative’ types and start-up kids, their designer furniture arriving by van instead of by boat. Things evolve.
We were glad to be living on the water. At least, I was; Petra would probably speak for herself on that point.
I stepped across the gangplank onto the houseboat and opened the door, hit by a welcome blast of hot air from below.
‘Hoi!’ I called.
I could hear the TV.
‘Hoi oi!’ came the response.
I took off my coat and gun holster and negotiated my way down the narrow wooden steps. Mrs van der Pol was in her house slippers, watching a rerun of some talent show competition I vaguely recognised, working her way through a jar of English liquorice. I stooped to kiss her on the forehead, and joined her for a moment. A Chinese singer appeared onstage. A judge named Willem yelled, ‘What number are you going to sing for us? Number thirty-nine with rice?’’
‘Is this all that’s on?’
She shrugged.
‘Do you want a drink?’ I went through to the kitchen.
‘Tea,’ she called back. ‘Rooibos, please.’
I put the jenever bottle back, reasoning that tea might help me sleep. I switched on the kettle and pulled out a couple of mugs, feeling the boat creak. Sometimes vessels passed by, causing groans in our hull with their wake.
‘Nadia phoned,’ my wife called out.
‘Oh?’ I stepped back into the living room. It was gone eleven, I saw, as I checked my watch: too late to call her back. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Yes,’ she said, looking up from the TV. ‘I think.’
‘You don’t sound certain.’
There was a flash of green at eye level.
Our boat – which I’d restored over many years – featured a varnished wooden ceiling in the living area that popped up a little above deck level. I’d fitted portholes to allow in light. Only, it was dark out.
Another flash of green.
‘What’s that?’ I said.
‘What?’ My wife strained to hear me over the noise of the TV.
I grabbed the remote to turn it off – then hit the switch of the standing lamp with my foot, plunging us into darkness.
‘Hey!’ Petra said.
‘Shh.’
‘Don’t shush me, Henk.’
The creaking again. Definitely a creak, not a groan from boat wake.
‘Listen.’
She was silent.
Creak.
‘There!’
‘I’m not hearing anything,’ she huffed. ‘In particular, I’m not hearing my TV show!’
In my peripheral vision I caught a sneaker with a fluorescent strip.
‘Someone’s aboard.’
I went to get my gun.
A creak, louder this time, along with a muffled voice. There were two of them.
Over the thirty years we’d lived on the boat, we’d experienced our fair share of students, tourists and vagabonds finding their way across the gangplank – but these intruders felt different. Stealthy… acting with intent… I checked the magazine and action of my P5 in the pale glow of the boiler’s pilot light.
‘Henk?’ Petra said, sounding uncertain.
A white torch beam sliced through the dark, glinting off the brass chandlery of the galley and kitchen, then moving back, searching – and coming to rest on the side of Petra’s face, which she turned away, gasping.
I paced quickly to the stern. There was a hatch, originally intended to take goods onboard. I eased it fully open into the night air, waiting for the hydraulic arm to catch, then silently hoisted myself up into a standing position, braced and ready.
I aimed my gun at the water – between the boat and the shore – and punched out a round with a flash and a loud crack. The 9mm shell casing landed on deck with a clinking sound. I heard a foreign curse; the men were taking off, the gangplank bowing like a springboard, the green stripes scything through the misty darkness.
My heart was thumping.
A moped droned, rising in pitch yet softening as it gathered pace down Entrepotdok.
I realised a car alarm was sounding, set off by the gunshot.
Mrs van der Pol wouldn’t thank me for reinforcing the ‘cop neighbour’ stereotype among the knick-knack designers now populating the neighbourhood (assuming they even knew who I was), but I’d at least managed to fire off a round from my service weapon before handing it in to Joost.
*
I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I tried napping in the hammock slung amidships, but resorted to standing in my usual spot in the cabin, where I could look out of the windows. It afforded a clear view across the ink-dark water. I spent so much time here that I’d even fixed up a little shelf for the cups of coffee or evening jenevers that I liked to drink while I stood, watching.
Eventually, the mauve morning light crept over the dockside skyline and into the boat. I doubted our visitors would be returning now. Putting on the coffee, I woke Petra, who hadn’t slept well either and was probably about to throw something at me – not herself, alas. I slipped on my bomber jacket, checking I had my phone, and crossed the gangplank.
It usually felt good to be awake at this hour, while others were still in bed, but this day was different, in ways I couldn’t yet fathom. I got a Marlboro on the go and headed for the harbour as usual.
Once, the neighbourhood cafés and diners would have been for dockhands and barge pilots, but now they didn’t open much before ten – broadly the time the start-up kids rolled into work. Pretty much the only place to get a coffee this early was the Ibis hotel opposite the police station. There, Sonja served me a cappuccino and a fresh roll. As she set them down, I noticed the headline of the day’s Het Parool:
The Harbour Master Page 4
