The Harbour Master

by Daniel Pembrey

  ‘They’re protecting him, Petra. I brought him in for questioning yesterday. Joost cut him loose. But there’s more… I believe he was at the scene of the harbour incident yesterday –’

  ‘The dead body?’

  ‘Yes, and I accidentally shot some footage of him on my phone. Only, Bergveld borrowed my phone for no reason. And now the footage is gone.’

  ‘Bergveld deleted evidence… at the scene?’

  ‘I’m sure of it. The whole case is locked down. Access to information is airtight.’

  ‘A cover-up?’

  Part of Petra couldn’t help but hunt the story, I knew. ‘The girl in the harbour had a tattoo on her ankle, like she’d been branded. It turned out to be Hungarian. I’m sure she was a prostitute working in Little Hungary, where I’ve seen the same tattoo on other girls. This Slavic guy controls most of that street.’

  ‘Why would the police be protecting him? Why cover it up?’

  ‘The only explanation is that they’re using him as a snitch for much bigger cases – like Operation Boost.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The vehicle-theft investigation. The story your colleague had the scoop on.’

  ‘Marianne Brouwer’s not my colleague. She’s a freelancer, like I told you. But this is starting to make some sense.’

  ‘What’s making sense?’

  ‘Why they used her, and not a staff reporter like me.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘We’ll come back to her. What are you going to do about this street thug?’

  ‘I’m talking to Johan about him. I’ll have a plan in place by the end of day. And I need you and Nadia to leave town.’

  ‘Henk, that’s not happening. Go back to your colleagues and tell them that if they don’t protect your family – our family – real reporters will land on the story.’

  I was almost at the station.

  ‘They’ll see that as a threat. This could spiral out of control.’

  ‘They should see it is a warning. You need to bring things back under control.’

  ‘I guess I’ve got nothing to lose,’ I murmured, not mentioning the shooting incident and internal enquiry now underway. ‘By the way, one thing to keep in mind: if this is the cover-up that we think it is, it goes way above this police station. It goes up to Jan Six, at least. And I doubt it stops there.’

  ‘Even better,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of the chief puppeteer. It’s time he was taken to task for what he’s doing.’

  I stopped in the street, outside the station entrance. ‘Rem Lottman?’

  ‘Has his name been mentioned elsewhere?’

  ‘Yes, in that article. He gave the quote. Why him and not the mayor, who formally controls the police?’

  ‘Lottman has the ear of the mayor on policing and security, surely you know that? He’s the one holding the council coalition of aldermen together. That freelancer, Marianne Brouwer, is practically on his payroll. Word is that he’s just been chosen by his party for a big European role.’

  ‘In Brussels?’

  ‘It’s not yet clear. Looks like he’s moving away from the “Dutch First” law-and-order dossier, though, and more towards social policy.’

  ‘There’s a switch. And he’s trying to take the editorial stance of papers like yours with him?’

  ‘Yes, towards social policies that travel… internationally.’

  ‘A dead trafficked girl in his backyard might not be the best start in Brussels.’

  ‘No question. But it’s your lever.’

  ‘Yours too. Switching gears, could you talk to Nadia? Tell her to be extra careful? She’ll listen to you.’

  ‘Henk, I’ll try. But let’s not have any misunderstandings here: one way or another, you need to get this Slavic off the streets.’

  ‘One way or another…’

  I hung up as a familiar voice called my name.

  *

  Liesbeth’s face looked uncharacteristically pinched and tight. ‘What’s going on?’ she said.

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Bergveld wants to see me later today.’

  ‘Perhaps to compliment you on your singing.’

  The joke landed flat.

  ‘What happened yesterday?’ she asked.

  I explained everything that had taken place with Stefan, including the gunshot, adding: ‘I only took him because I wanted you to enjoy your engagement party.’

  ‘Christ,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Will you be OK – with Joost?’

  ‘Course,’ I lied.

  ‘Couldn’t you have explained this to me before doing it?’

  ‘I was afraid that your sense of duty would get the better of you and ruin your celebration.’

  ‘Henk, please don’t do anything like that again. If casework requires something to happen, tell me!’

  ‘OK, then here’s something: the girl we visited in her cabin yesterday, Irena… could you check she’s all right?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, confused.

  ‘What time are you meeting with Bergveld?’

  ‘This afternoon.’

  ‘Go now, then. I’m worried about her.’

  ‘OK.’ She looked at the station, then down the street, deliberating.

  I pointed. ‘The RLD’s that way.’

  *

  I avoided the squad room altogether and went in search of Stefan. Thankfully, he was in the monitoring room. We had it to ourselves.

  ‘Glad to see you back at work today,’ he said. Dark circles around his eyes betrayed a lack of sleep.

  ‘I’m making every last moment count.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘It’s not good, Stefan. But let’s not dwell. Could you pull some footage from the cameras on Prins Hendrikkade from yesterday morning?’

  ‘If this is the harbour case –’

  ‘It’s not. It’s Slavic. Check and see if his moped was down there around eight a.m., parked up by the harbour wall, would you? Then track it as far as you can throughout the day. We know that by six p.m., he’d driven it back to his den on Molensteeg…’

  ‘Do we?’ Stefan said, leaning towards his controls. ‘We saw him arrive back at his den on foot – remember?’

  ‘But it was already parked there when we followed him in.’

  ‘Henk,’ Stefan said, turning back to me. ‘I’ll do what I can, only –’

  ‘I know – there’s a lot of other things in your inbox. But try to think about what’s not in your inbox, Stefan. At the end of the day, you wanted to get out on the streets rather than spend the rest of your days cooped up in here. I made that happen. You drew your weapon when you shouldn’t have, causing it to go off accidentally. Remember?’

  He turned bright red.

  I let him sit with that.

  *

  ‘Henk.’

  This was it. Joost.

  He beckoned me into his office.

  ‘I handed in my gun,’ I said, pre-empting him.

  ‘I know. Fired once, yesterday: a nine-millimetre round.’

  ‘That report came in fast.’

  He nodded. ‘Now I need your warrant card.’ He held out his hand.

  Shocked, I reached for it. Gave it to him.

  ‘You’re still a police officer, but you’re suspended from active service pending the enquiry’s results.’

  ‘Which will be when?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘I get it. That part of the process isn’t so fast.’

  I was now formally being run off towards retirement.

  ‘We’re reorganising the team here. Bas is communicating it in one-on-ones, starting this afternoon.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You were a
good cop, Henk. This saddens me. There aren’t many of your type left – who’ve served in the military, who…’

  ‘Handle each case equally before the law?’

  A shake of the head. ‘Who can’t see the bigger picture. You know that we’re not immune from public-spending cuts. That there’s always more to do than resources will allow. There’s always got to be prioritisation, Henk. There are always’ – he waved his hand, seeking the right word – ‘realities.’

  ‘And a branded body in the harbour isn’t a reality?’

  He was silent.

  ‘Why’s the harbour case not being worked?’

  ‘How do you know it’s not?’ He sighed. ‘But do you really think the majority of Dutch voters care about some prostitute gone missing, when their Audis and BMWs – which they’ve worked and saved hard for amid the worst financial crisis in living memory – are being snatched from under their noses? I don’t remember anyone inviting these Eastern European thieves and whores to come and live here!’

  He composed himself.

  ‘There are always trade-offs, is what I mean to say. Hell, you know the mantra. Six hundred known criminals account for sixty per cent of the crime in this city.’

  What a nice, shiny new ring it had, with Jan Six at the helm.

  ‘Slavic helped you get one of those six hundred?’

  ‘Two,’ he held up both fingers in a peace sign. ‘Two of them. Damn it, Henk, you could have been in on that!’

  I took a step towards him, towering over him. ‘This Slavic is threatening me, personally’ – my voice was low but audible – ‘coming into my home, calling my daughter up with my officer number…’

  ‘Then leave him the hell alone!’ Joost snapped, stepping back. But there was only so far to step.

  He changed tack: ‘This is between us now, Henk. I didn’t want things to end this way.’

  ‘So maybe they don’t need to. Every day is a new day and all that. There’s always a chance for a fresh start…’

  A final head shake. ‘Jan’s already been briefed.’

  So Jan Six was out of the running for legitimate recourse. Good to have it on record.

  Joost thrust out his hand. ‘So long, Henk.’

  I didn’t shake it.

  I couldn’t. My right hand was in the pocket of my bomber jacket, cradling the mini digital recorder I’d bought at the Saturn store in place of an André Hazes CD.

  9

  IRENA, SASKIA AND STOPERA

  Liesbeth had managed to find Irena, who’d still been breathing – just.

  We were in the back of a van, making our way to see her at a shelter operated by GendrAid, a women’s rights NGO. Judging by the sound of the planes coming in low overhead, we were somewhere near Schiphol.

  The shelter operator, Erik Hoffman, explained that this was now standard procedure for all visitors. The previous year, a Ukrainian journalist had been given a tour of the shelter. It turned out that she’d been working for one of the trafficking gangs, who arrived the following day with Heckler & Koch MP5s to reclaim their ‘investment’.

  And this was considered less serious than vehicle theft?

  I’d pointed out to Erik that, as police, we were entitled to make our own way to the shelter, but he’d requested that we didn’t. Many of the rescued women there were suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, and in their home countries the police were typically seen as corrupt – at least, in matters relating to prostitution and human trafficking. Lacking a warrant card, and for the reasons Erik had given, I felt obliged to agree.

  The shelter was a former youth hostel, now surrounded by a high perimeter wall, making it look like a prison. I asked Erik what the women did when they got out.

  ‘We have a number of employers around the city who we’ve vetted carefully and who are willing to give them a job. But on average, it takes a year here before they’re even ready to think about such a step. We just don’t have the capacity or resources to deal with all the cases we’re now seeing.’

  We entered the building and found ourselves in a reception area, where some of the women were sitting alone. One of them, missing a front tooth, was talking animatedly to herself.

  ‘That’s Veronika,’ Erik said. ‘She likes to tell herself stories about eligible suitors vying for her affections, who she’s choosing between.’ He paused. ‘She can’t have children anymore.’

  Moving on, we walked down a corridor with brightly coloured drawings and finger paintings on the walls, like in a children’s nursery. The former hostel rooms still had bunk beds. They smelled institutional. Cleaning products.

  Erik turned back to us. ‘Given that one of your guys already interviewed her –’

  ‘Hold on,’ I stopped him. ‘Someone’s already been here, from IJ Tunnel 3?’

  ‘I don’t remember which station. Surely you’d know? In any event, it was a client who gave Irena the beating, your guy managed to establish…’

  Liesbeth and I looked at each other.

  ‘I wouldn’t ask her about the beating again,’ Erik finished his caution. ‘It risks a relapse.’

  We turned down another corridor of single-occupancy rooms, finally reaching Irena’s.

  ‘You do the talking,’ I whispered to Liesbeth, who had a knack of winning immediate trust with victims. I’d told her everything I knew about the harbour case now; nothing had filtered through to her from Bergveld, apparently.

  She nodded.

  Irena was unrecognisable. Her face was mostly black; one eye was closed altogether from the bruising. A butterfly-stitched gash that started as a split lip ended at her chin.

  A nurse sat her up and helped her drink some liquidised food through a straw.

  Liesbeth sat on the far side of the bed, so that she could easily see both Irena and me. Irena looked straight ahead, glassily – not even noticing me.

  ‘Hello,’ Liesbeth said brightly, taking Irena’s hand. ‘I can see that the doctors and nurses are looking after you very well. I wanted to start with a simple question. It’s just like we’re at school again. Can you tell me your name?’

  The cracked lips parted. ‘Irena.’ Her voice was barely audible.

  ‘Good,’ Liesbeth said soothingly, patting her hand gently.

  ‘And another name question… Can you tell me the name of the girl who fell into the harbour?’

  Irena’s good eye went into a thousand-yard stare. ‘Saskia.’

  ‘Very good.’ Liesbeth looked at me.

  Keep going, I gestured.

  ‘And did that naughty man put her in there?’

  Liesbeth looked at me again. I nodded. Say the name.

  ‘… To˝zsér?’

  Irena convulsed with fear. Erik and the nurse stepped forward in unison.

  Use his street name, I mouthed at Liesbeth.

  ‘Was it Slavic?’

  Irena’s eye squashed shut.

  ‘Why did the naughty man do this to her?’

  ‘She escaped,’ Irena said, eyes scrunching, clearly wanting this over with.

  ‘From where?’

  ‘Where new girls arrive, by train station.’

  ‘New girls arrive where, Irena?’

  ‘At hotel.’

  ‘Which one?’

  Liesbeth looked at me again. There were any number of hotels around Centraal station, but I was starting to see the geography, the little footbridge from the harbour wall where Saskia had fallen in…

  ‘Irena?’ Liesbeth prompted.

  For some reason, I thought of the hotel opposite the station, a dark behemoth on the very edge of the RLD, with its curiously shut-in feel. It always reminded me of the remote lodge in Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining in which Jack Nicholson goes mad. I could still recall watching that film on the houseboat, ten-year-old Nadia hiding as the creepy t
wins appeared, ‘redrum’ running across the mirror in reverse: murder…

  Liesbeth was looking to me for direction. I mouthed a question: Why?

  ‘Why didn’t the naughty man try to recapture Saskia?’

  But Irena was trembling.

  ‘Was Saskia pregnant?’ Liesbeth prompted.

  ‘I think we’d better stop here,’ Erik stepped in.

  ‘Had she contracted an illness?’

  If she’d been infected by one client, the next one wouldn’t want her; she’d be worthless to Slavic.

  ‘OK, that’s enough.’

  The nurse stepped forward, helping Irena lie back down. For a second, I wasn’t seeing Irena but rather all women, beaten into submission. Surely I could at least keep Nadia and Petra safe?

  Perhaps not, with Slavic on the loose.

  *

  ‘I’d like to know who from the station visited the shelter ahead of us,’ I said to Liesbeth. We were almost back at IJ Tunnel 3, just in time for Liesbeth’s one-on-one meeting with Bergveld.

  Liesbeth nodded.

  A dismal drizzle was falling.

  This was the last time we’d be working together as partners. Liesbeth was about to find that out. I thought to tell her myself, but then my phone started buzzing. I juggled it while waving goodbye to her and lighting a Marlboro.

  ‘Henk.’

  Stefan…

  Had he got anywhere with the footage from yesterday?

  ‘Something’s not right,’ he said.

  ‘Only one thing?’ I walked briskly away from the station.

  ‘First, the camera coverage on Prins Hendrikkade is bad, once it’s away from the road junction at the mouth of the tunnel…’

  How convenient for Slavic… and Bergveld.

  I inhaled deeply on my cigarette.

  ‘But here’s the strange thing,’ Stefan continued. ‘No moped appears at Slavic’s den on Molensteeg all day. I checked back to six a.m.’

  ‘Yet the moped was there when we were,’ I continued his thought.

  ‘Are you sure it was the same moped?’

  Was I?

  ‘I’m pretty certain it was him on Prins Hendrikkade at eight a.m. But it may have been a different moped,’ I conceded. ‘So… he drops the moped somewhere else, returns on foot shortly before we intercept him…’