The Harbour Master

by Daniel Pembrey

  YOUR CARS ARE SAFE WITH SIX

  New police commander makes major inroads into organised vehicle theft

  – by Marianne Brouwer

  I read the article quickly, intently…

  The long-running undercover operation allowed Amsterdam police to successfully dismantle a major criminal network supplying hundreds of high-end vehicles to cash-rich buyers across the Baltic states, Hungary and Ukraine.

  ‘The suburbs will be sleeping safer tonight,’ said Alderman Rem Lottman, from Amsterdam’s coalition council. ‘Although we must continue to work on all fronts to ensure the kind of social security and stability we need…

  I finished the article, tore out the page and folded it into my inside pocket, thinking over what I’d just read.

  ‘Undercover operation’ didn’t usually mean cops changing identities to infiltrate criminal milieus. Too risky – and too resource-intensive. Rather, it was often a euphemism for cultivating snitches.

  ‘You OK, Henk?’

  ‘Sure,’ I replied, leaving a five-euro note for the €3.80 I knew it cost. ‘Thanks, Sonja.’

  Making a mental note to ask Petra about this Marianne Brouwer, who was a colleague of hers after all, I quickened my step down to the harbour.

  Everything looked like it usually did.

  Except everything felt different. I bypassed my usual perch and walked over to the spot where the girl’s body had been hauled out the previous day.

  There was no evidence of what had occurred, no residue left on the pavement.

  I looked across to the old ship with its masts and rigging, the science museum, the floating restaurant… my gaze swept around to the main street, Prins Hendrikkade. I recalled taking some footage on my phone. My fingers fumbled with the touch screen; I couldn’t find it.

  I looked around again. There was something else…

  But what?

  I decided to call Larsson, the medical examiner. He’d taken photos. But it was too early, he didn’t pick up.

  So I walked over to the station. Wester wasn’t in yet; the night-time desk sergeant was new, we didn’t know one another.

  I unstrapped my holster and handed it to him. ‘Ballistics need to run some tests on this, per the station captain. Could you send it over to them?’

  Joost wouldn’t be in yet. I wanted it on record that I’d handed the gun in at the earliest opportunity that day.

  The desk sergeant raised an eyebrow as if to say: Can’t you do it yourself? But I prevailed.

  Then I stepped back outside and tried Larsson once more. He picked up this time.

  ‘Hoi?’

  ‘It’s Henk.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Henk…’

  ‘I had one more request about the harbour case. The body.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I…’ He sounded jovial enough, but I heard something else in his voice. ‘It’s been made clear to me that you’re not on the case, Henk. I’m sorry. If it was up to me…’

  ‘No, that’s OK. Catch you round, Kurt.’

  ‘So long.’

  I checked my phone for any calls or texts.

  Then I left a voicemail for Stefan.

  *

  My daughter didn’t answer my call, and she didn’t return it immediately either. I was struck by that saying: how children need you, until they don’t need you.

  I decided to go and see her. She worked certain mornings and lunchtimes in a café beside the university called the Kriterion, which was also an art-house cinema. One of her courses was film studies and the job gave her free access to the films shown there, as well as providing some income. Or so she’d told me, the last time we’d met.

  The Kriterion had a decidedly retro, studenty feel. A vacuum cleaner was whirring away as I walked in. The films advertised on the posters and flyers looked like arty, fake porn but perhaps that was unfair. I hadn’t seen any. Petra and I preferred the real thing.

  ‘Nadia,’ I called.

  She was wiping down the bar top and looked up, a little confused, but finally managed a smile. ‘Dad… hi. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was passing.’ As I got closer, I couldn’t help notice… ‘Your hair’s redder –’

  ‘Dad,’ she said, coming out from behind the bar, away from her colleague. Her face had gone the same colour as her hair. She gave me a quick, self-conscious hug.

  ‘And is that a nose stud?’

  ‘And?’ she said, crossing her arms.

  ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘Christ, Dad! Would it matter if there was?’

  I checked the frustration I felt at the growing distance between us.

  ‘That depends. I heard you called last night. I just wanted to stop by and see if everything’s OK.’

  We stood for a moment, her fidgeting slightly.

  ‘Could you put those excellent bar skills of yours to work and fix me up a coffee?’

  ‘We’re not open yet.’ She rolled her eyes good-naturedly enough. ‘OK, then.’

  ‘That’s my girl.’ The chair scraped as I sat down at a table. I nodded at her gaunt-cheeked young colleague. He looked like he hadn’t eaten in some time. Or was the goth look coming back?

  Nadia said something to him, then returned.

  ‘Your boyfriend?’ I nodded towards him. Then I looked harder. ‘Is it wise for him to be out in daylight?’

  ‘Dad, please. You’re being ridiculous now. What’s up?’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to ask you. You don’t normally call home on weeknights. We’re lucky if we hear from you at the weekend –’

  ‘You’re the ones going away,’ she said.

  ‘Are we?’

  ‘Mum said you were probably heading to Delft for a while, to stay with Cecilia.’ She screwed up her face. ‘Aren’t you?’

  Mrs van der Pol’s plans were gathering momentum.

  ‘We’ll see,’ I said. ‘We’re thinking about it… That, or a trip some place else. Depends also on my retirement, and hers.’

  ‘When is that, now?’

  Had it already happened?

  ‘We’re working it out.’

  ‘Christ,’ she said, exasperated. ‘I wish you guys would just make a decision.’

  Slightly stunned, I had to acknowledge the trait in me that I was increasingly objecting to in her. ‘You seem on edge,’ I managed.

  ‘I just don’t like –’

  She paused as her colleague set down my coffee. It had a heap of milky foam and what looked like nutmeg sprinkled over the top; I thanked him for his creation.

  ‘It’s just taking a little longer than we’d hoped to work out our plans,’ I said as decisively as I could. ‘But we’ll do so soon enough.’ I sipped the mochachino, or whatever it was.

  She couldn’t stop herself from laughing.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Foam on your nose. You really do look ridiculous now.’

  She pulled the long sleeve of her cardigan over her hand and used it to wipe the foam away.

  ‘So everything’s OK?’ I asked.

  ‘With me? Yes.’ She thought. ‘Well, I did get this strange phone call yesterday. You know sometimes, when something just doesn’t feel right?’

  She had my fullest attention.

  ‘At first the caller said nothing. I was about to hang up, then he said: “Give my regards to officer six nineteen.’’’

  The temperature seemed to drop.

  ‘I thought at first he’d got the wrong number and was after the Student Housing Office, but something in the way he said it’ – her voice was coming to me as if from underwater – ‘was strange enough that I thought to write it down…’

  My blood was turning to ice.

  Even Nadia didn’t know my officer number.

 
I could recall exactly where and when I’d last given it out: This is Officer 6-19. I need a car on Zeedijk, corner with Molensteeg …

  7

  MILITIA MEN

  I called Petra as I walked.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Henk –’

  ‘You still at the boat?’

  ‘No, I had to come in to the office early.’

  ‘I need to see you,’ I said. ‘Now.’

  ‘Why? I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because things are afoot here at the paper. What’s come over you?’

  I stopped midway across the drawbridge onto Entrepotdok. If Petra was at Het Parool’s office, then at least she was safe in the middle of an open-plan newsroom. Which reminded me of something…

  ‘Do you know a reporter called Marianne Brouwer?’

  ‘Er… why do you ask?’

  ‘She broke a story this morning about vehicle theft. Involved some of our guys.’

  ‘No, she’s a freelancer. But it’s funny you mention her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The paper’s moving.’

  ‘Office?’

  ‘No, in political direction. And this Brouwer woman is connected to it somehow.’

  ‘Moving politically how?’

  ‘Look Henk, this really isn’t the time. I’m sorry we missed our breakfast. Let’s talk tonight, OK?’

  I went over Marianne Brouwer’s article in my head, and remembered the mention of the alderman. ‘Is Rem Lottman relevant to this political move?’

  There was a pause. I could hear the newsroom’s babble and the ringing phones. ‘Henk, this just isn’t the time.’

  ‘Fair enough, but I’ve been thinking about Delft. Maybe we should go sooner rather than later. Take Nadia with us.’

  ‘Nadia? In the middle of a university term?’ She made it sound like I’d gone mad. ‘This is definitely a conversation for later, Henk. I’ll see you tonight.’

  If I couldn’t put Nadia and Petra out of harm’s way without upending their lives, I had to remove the harm itself. But how? It would be impossible in an official police capacity now.

  I walked home, stopping to check my motorbike. It looked fine – nothing awry. I patted the saddle tentatively.

  Boarding the boat, I went down to the galley and pulled the article out from my pocket.

  ‘The suburbs will be sleeping safer tonight,’ said Alderman Rem Lottman, from Amsterdam’s coalition council…

  My phone buzzed. Stefan.

  ‘Hoi.’

  ‘Henk,’ he said. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am for what you did yesterday.’

  ‘Don’t thank me, just send me the information I requested earlier.’

  ‘What you asked for in your voicemail?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can’t. The harbour case is locked. Larsson won’t share anything without Bergveld or Joost’s written authorisation.’

  ‘OK, something else then. Could you send me Slavic’s mugshot?’

  ‘Er… sure. To your work account?’

  ‘No, print it off and meet me on the corner of IJ and Prins Hendrikkade instead. Do not send it from your work email account.’

  ‘OK,’ he said, bemused.

  I locked up the boat and looked around quickly, then strode over to where we were meeting. I lit a cigarette; by the time I’d finished it, Stefan had arrived with the printout.

  ‘Are you going to be all right?’ he asked. ‘With Joost, I mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. But if not, it’s not your fault. I was the senior officer in command – I shouldn’t have put us in that spot.’

  ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I hope they don’t need me to write a report accusing you. Will they?’

  I patted him on the shoulder, reckoning that Joost would only be looking for one report: my own. A report, confession and resignation all in one. ‘Get back to work, Stefan. You’ve got a bright future ahead of you.’

  He nodded and left.

  I looked at the hi-res image he’d handed me. ‘Rivers of darkness’ was how I’d thought of Slavic’s eyes, and that came through even on paper. There was a mole above his left eye that I hadn’t noticed before.

  I walked down to the harbour again, returning to the spot where the body had been hoisted ashore.

  I held up the photo, trying to find the through-line, the pattern of connections that was at the dim margins of my consciousness, refusing to reveal itself.

  I’d stood here…

  Larsson was there…

  And Bergveld there…

  That’s when the memory struck me. There were still a few onlookers on Prins Hendrikkade: two cyclists, a moped rider…

  I reached for my phone, searching again for that brief video footage I’d taken.

  The moped in Slavic’s den…

  I looked at the printout, then back at Prins Hendrikkade…

  Slavic had watched it all.

  *

  Whatever impression people might form about Johan, my motorbike-riding, regimental-tattoo-sporting friend from the army, it’s probably nothing like the real thing. He’s one of the coolest, most laid-back guys in the world… until he’s in a fight, and then you definitely want him on your side. He was the best man at my wedding, as I was at his.

  These days he had long, silver-grey hair swept back into a ponytail. But the same clear eyes and tall, stolid facial features. Often to be found smoking an American Spirit roll-up – only not now, in the dark little mariners’ chapel off Kattenburgerstraat. It was one place I knew we wouldn’t be overheard.

  His hand grasped mine firmly. ‘Henk,’ he said solemnly. I gestured for us to sit in one of the aged rosewood pews and caught him up on everything that had happened since I’d asked about the tattoo design: the trips to the RLD, Slavic, Bergveld, Joost and Jan Six, not forgetting the vehicle-theft case that had been mentioned in the paper.

  ‘So you handed in your P5. They’ll want your warrant card next. You no longer have your 225?’

  He was talking about my army-issue Sig Sauer P225, but it was a statement rather than a question. Most went ‘missing’ after active service; not mine.

  I was silent.

  Johan sighed deeply. The old smell of the resinous rosewood blended with the spicy scent of the votive candles. The chapel was one of my favourite places in all Amsterdam, but not at that moment.

  ‘You need to take this Slavic guy off the board.’

  ‘Off the board? How?’

  He left a gap for my imagination to fill. ‘I’m seeing two things as next steps. First, I’ll lend you my 225.’

  I didn’t like the direction this was going in. ‘I’m going to tell Petra to take Nadia to Delft, get them away from here.’

  ‘And so, what… ? Nadia’s going to leave university?’

  ‘If need be, yes. For the time being.’

  He shook his head. ‘Henk, this man has entered your home – your cave. He’s tracked down and threatened your daughter. Don’t you see? He’s using the same intimidation tactics as with one of his street girls –’

  ‘What are the other options?’

  ‘Pray?’

  I looked up at a wooden carving above the altar: a ship’s figurehead, the mouth of her face agape, a surprisingly lifelike wooden hand wrapped around her eyes.

  ‘You mentioned two things as next steps,’ I said.

  ‘A pair of balls, Henk. One way or another, this man has to go.’

  But I couldn’t descend to Slavic’s Neanderthal level. There had to be another way. Not lawyers or tribunals: they’d have no chance, given the politico-judicial forces now ranged against me.

  Who was at the top of the chain? Who did Jan Six ultimately answer to? The power broker of Amsterdam city, who’d helped get
all these apparatchiks appointed: Rem Lottman.

  8

  TRADE-OFFS

  ‘Hi Nadia, just wanted to tell you again how good it was to see you earlier. Please could you call me when you get a moment…’

  I walked a quick circuit around the harbour, so I could think. From the science museum, above the tunnel, there was the little footbridge across to the new library, then the floating Sea Palace off to the left; somehow it all made me see life on many different levels.

  ‘Petra, please could you call me back as soon as you get this…’

  I stopped by the big Saturn music and electronics store beside the DoubleTree hotel, extinguishing my cigarette. Inside, there was a man with a younger girl in hot pants. They didn’t look like father and daughter, nor girlfriend and boyfriend. I flipped through some CDs, watching them for a moment as they left, him guiding her by the small of the back.

  I looked down at the jewel case I’d picked up from the rack and groaned. Damn that André Hazes…

  ‘Nadia, please call me, I love you.’

  Now I had the store to myself. I put back the CD and bought something else instead.

  ‘Petra, why aren’t you checking your phone? Please call me, this is important.’

  Then I retraced my steps towards the police station.

  *

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Henk, I just came out of an editorial meeting to six missed calls, mostly from you. What is going on?’

  ‘Thank God. You and Nadia are in danger. You need to take her to Delft.’

  ‘Henk, are you mad? What are you talking about?’

  ‘A case gone bad. A street thug, menacing us. He came aboard the boat last night, I’m pretty sure.’

  Petra was quiet.

  ‘He also called Nadia.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘The guy. Slavic.’

  I could tell that she was walking, probably away from the newsroom. ‘Who’s this guy?’

  ‘Like I told you, a street thug. A pimp. Violent.’

  She’d arrived in a place where she could speak freely. ‘Listen to me, Henk. I am not fleeing my job. Nor is Nadia quitting university.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to –’

  ‘Listen to me! You need to get your colleagues to sort this out.’