‘Which goals are we talking about? Holendrecht’s not even in this precinct. The case involves a shooting that was already being investigated by the National Police Agency. Aren’t they the natural agency of enquiry now? Didn’t you say so yourself, only this lunchtime?’
‘I’ve since had a chance to review the case in full.’
Bergveld’s smile broadened.
Joost continued: ‘You implied previously that it was linked to a drug deal gone bad and related to a name on the six hundred list – a name known to this precinct. Frank Hals.’
Six hundred known criminals account for sixty per cent of the crime in this city, and that statistic had acquired a nice ring to it under Jan Six, the old commissioner. But now Joost was the commissioner.
‘One of your team members went out there trying to obtain witness testimony from a taxi driver.’ Joost was referring to Stefan, of course. ‘You made it your case. So now you need to finish it, Henk.’
He let that thought hang there.
‘The KLPD will handle the shooting in Holendrecht,’ he went on. ‘But you need to get a result here in the precinct with Frank Hals.’ He tapped the top of the sheet in front of me with his forefinger. ‘And you need to acknowledge as much by signing this. In front of us, now. If you want this station to have a future, that is.’
‘What am I, a child?’
‘Sometimes I wonder,’ said Bergveld, barely more than half my age.
Joost made no objection to his comment.
19
MALEK
It was past 6 p.m. by the time I got to the old merchant’s house opposite the vast Oude Kerk on the western fringes of the Red Light District. The RLD still fell within the station’s precinct. For how much longer? I wondered. Would Joost really try to close us down?
The sun was low on the horizon: shift changeover for the visitors and workers here. There was something symbolic in that, because the man I was visiting was a very different kind of animal to the Neanderthal street pimps I’d had to deal with in the past. Street pimps such as Jan To˝zsér, Zsolt-the-Informant’s younger brother.
I rang the intercom for EWT Services.
‘Yes?’ said a foreign voice.
‘I’m here to see Malek.’
‘And you are?’
‘Henk.’
‘Henk who?’
‘Just tell him.’
A pause.
The door buzzed and clicked open.
I climbed the dark wooden stairs and found myself in front of the door to East–West Trading Services.
I rang the bell, and for a few moments nothing happened. Finally, the door opened. The woman who greeted me looked like she’d stepped out of the pages of Vogue, so high were her cheekbones. On the sparse, white walls of the reception area were moody photos of other, equally exotic women – all with come-to-bed looks.
She was almost as tall as I was. ‘You have appointment?’ she asked.
‘Nope, I was hoping to catch him for a few moments.’
‘Tell me your name,’ she said.
‘Didn’t we just have this conversation? This is me.’ I flashed my warrant card.
Like Frank Hals, Malek had benefitted from Zsolt To˝zsér’s demise. Only in Malek’s case, I’d tried to establish a trade in advance of dealing with Zsolt: an easier life for Malek, in exchange for information. When you clear out weeds, others soon appear, and sometimes you need to tend to them – or so I’d managed to persuade myself.
I’d shared none of this with Joost, my glorious leader.
‘Wait here,’ the woman said, disappearing through a doorway.
East–West Trading Services was a front for Amsterdam’s most high-end ‘escort agency’. Malek always maintained that these women had true independence, that the more successful ones made hundreds of thousands of euros a year. That last part may even have been true; it didn’t prevent Malek from relieving each of the women of five thousand euros upfront for a photo portfolio, in addition to his ongoing commission.
The woman reappeared. ‘He will see you now.’
Malek was tall, with salt-and-pepper cropped hair and stubble. He wore a loose grey top and linen trousers, like an architect or a graphic designer might. But that was where the similarity ended. His dark eyes were unusually alert; his physique was special forces muscular. A star-shaped tattoo on his wrist hinted at a regimental past. We’d never discussed his background properly.
‘Drink?’ he offered.
I nodded.
At first blush, Malek’s office resembled that of a model agency or a fashion company, with its glass trestle table and large portfolios of photos.
This was organised crime: business-like, removed. Always with an eye to plausible deniability.
There were also samples of weed on the desk in bags. That was hardly illegal in Amsterdam, either.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
‘You tell me,’ he said. ‘Whisky?’
I nodded. It was always a game of chess with Malek.
On a low table were architects’ plans for what looked to be a shop or a bar. Was he branching out?
He handed me a heavy glass tumbler of what smelled like good malt. I took a welcome sip as I decided where to begin. The whisky tasted smoky-sour. I rolled the liquid over my tongue, and resolved to play it straight.
‘A Ukrainian woman was found badly beaten up at a hotel near here.’
‘Cheers, by the way.’ He raised his glass.
Something about his timing with that toast was off.
Way off.
‘It happened last night,’ I went on. ‘Know anything about it?’
‘A lot of women come out of Ukraine just now.’ He shrugged, staring down into his glass. ‘Hard to say.’
‘Really? This was at the Royal Hotel. An important client. The woman made an overnight stay. Just thought you might know something.’
His eyes remained downcast, his face immobile.
‘Elena Luscovich,’ I prompted.
A vein on his temple became prominent. A tell? Then… nothing, his poker face restored.
‘So, help me fill in the gaps,’ I said. ‘Who might the arrangement have been made through? Which contact or agency? I need to know the client’s name.’
‘For that kind of client, that type of hotel? Much is word of mouth, not advertised. Recommendations. Everything discreet.’
‘Okay, but now it’s an official police enquiry.’ I made a show of looking around his office again. My eyes settled again on the architects’ plans on the low table. ‘You might want to get your affairs in order.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
I shrugged. I wasn’t entirely sure what I’d meant.
‘What happened to her?’ he asked.
‘You didn’t hear?’ I said sceptically. ‘She was beaten into unconsciousness. According to a witness account.’
He took a slurp of whisky. Then he sat down at the glass table, as if he had work to get on with. ‘Maybe it did her some good.’
Had I just heard him right? My ears were buzzing.
I couldn’t play this snitch game anymore.
I smacked my tumbler down on the glass in front of him.
‘I’ll see myself out.’
*
As soon as I got out onto the street I called Liesbeth, but she didn’t pick up. It was already 6.30 – she would have gone home.
I tried Johan. I wanted to talk Ukrainian regimental tattoos with him, but the call went to voicemail.
I blew air out between my lips. There were too many pieces on the chessboard; it was hard to keep track of everything going on. The pieces needed thinning out somehow.
The sour taste of the whisky remained as I cut back through the RLD, heading east to the station for my gun. I walked down narrow, neon-lit M
olensteeg – Little Hungary – thinking about what had happened here with Jan To˝zsér, and the eerie vacuum he’d left behind.
I considered calling Stefan.
A few of the cabins on Molensteeg were empty. The city was trying to reclaim the sites for businesses, putting them to alternative use. Many of the windows were still occupied by girls, and I couldn’t help but think about what became of the ‘models’ who weren’t able to repay Malek his photo-shoot fee – did they end up in these sleazy cabins?
‘Boss?’ Stefan finally picked up. I could hear him panting.
‘Am I interrupting something?’ I asked.
‘Only five-a-side football.’ He caught his breath. ‘Welcome break, actually.’
‘When you get into work tomorrow, could you do some digging around for a planning application that a company called East–West Trading Services might have submitted to the city?’
‘Sure. What sort of plans?
‘Retail, or cafés.’
‘What’s the applicant’s name?’
‘Why?’
‘Er… it might help trace it. If the application was put in through another company, the name of the person behind it shouldn’t change.’
I thought about giving him Malek’s full name but, fearing that Stefan would check that out too, decided against it.
‘Try East–West Trading Services first.’
‘Will do. Are you away again tomorrow?’
‘I have to see someone early, but I’ll be in later.’
‘About Holendrecht?’
‘It’s a separate issue.’
But related, I neglected to say. Not knowing was for Stefan’s own good.
20
THE DEBATE
By the time I got back to the houseboat it was dark. Orange street lamps reflected on the rippling water of Entrepotdok. I inspected the lock that Jan To˝zsér had tried to pick before I’d given chase to him the night he’d drowned in the harbour.
Petra was in her usual spot on the sofa, watching TV. I bent down to kiss her.
‘You look tired,’ she said.
‘I feel it.’
I unholstered my gun and locked it away in the cabinet.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ I offered.
‘I just made a cup of tea.’
I paused in the galley, deliberating whether to have the same. Then I reached for the clay bottle of jenever and a small glass, pouring myself a healthy measure.
Petra was lost in the TV screen, the light of it putting her face into sharp relief. I joined her on the sofa. Those cheekbones and that finely proportioned nose – after all these years, I could still appreciate them like I was seeing her for the first time. Nadia shared those features.
‘I don’t even know what those words mean,’ she was saying, perplexed.
‘Which words?’ I asked, patting her on the knee.
‘Sustainable energy security.’
On the screen were five talking heads around a table. One of them was Muriel Crutzen, the energy minister. Her stylish grey hair matched her eyes, and she wore a silk scarf that was casual yet elegant. Crutzen often looked slightly startled, like a fine creature who’d suddenly found herself in the wrong habitat. But her body language was open, conciliatory. Most Dutch voters liked her and looked up to her. Rem Lottman worked for her at the Council of Europe.
‘It’s an electoral debate,’ Petra said.
‘Already?’
The elections were months away. They only ever brought the same outcome: some reformulation of the never-ending coalition government.
‘Does it refer to the sustaining of energy security,’ Petra persisted, ever the journalist, ‘or the security of sustainable energy?’
I considered making a joke about how she shouldn’t bring her work home with her, but then I remembered Nadia’s acerbic comment about me disappearing to Brussels over the weekend.
Instead, I rolled the words over in my head.
Sustainable energy security.
It was cleverly ambiguous. The kind of clever ambiguity Rem Lottman might have come up with, maybe?
I looked at my watch. It was too late to call his office again.
‘Politicians,’ I said ruefully. ‘Always hedging their bets.’
‘But this is a key issue,’ Petra protested.
I sipped my drink. The politicians’ voices floated in and out.
‘… even Scandinavian countries with abundant oil reserves are moving away from fossil fuels… what I think we can all agree on is the need not to rely on Russia for our energy requirements…’
Always what not to do. What should we be doing?
Don’t vote, my dad once told me. It only encourages them.
‘I saw Nadia this afternoon.’
‘Oh?’ Petra looked at me.
‘She wanted me to help expedite her passport renewal.’
‘Why? Where’s she going?’
‘Dubrovnik for the weekend, apparently.’
Petra sniffed. She was hurt that Nadia hadn’t ended up meeting us in Rotterdam, I could tell. But she wouldn’t admit it.
‘It sounded like you at least spoke to her…’ I ventured.
‘Briefly.’
I pulled my shoes off, grimacing with the effort, and let them fall to the wooden floor with a thud. ‘I’m not sure about this boyfriend of hers.’
‘Sergei?’
The name was all we had to go on. That, and one other salient point.
Petra was looking at the TV again, clutching a pillow to her chest.
‘She was wearing a decent-sized diamond, which he’d given her.’
‘Which finger?’
‘Not her ring finger. The middle one.’
‘Then let her find it all out for herself,’ she snapped. ‘If the jewellery was given to her with love, she’ll be happy. If not, she’ll be wiser.’
I knew that my wife’s words were directed at Nadia, not me. Still, why couldn’t we just have a calm discussion about it?
My phone vibrated. I eased it out of my jeans pocket, checked the display and then answered.
‘Johan,’ I said, as much to reassure my wife that it wasn’t work-related as to greet my old friend.
‘You were trying to reach me earlier?’
‘Yes, but it’s OK. It can wait till tomorrow.’
He waited a beat. ‘Actually, are you free for a drink?’
‘Now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Er… Why? What’s up?’
‘I could use a chat.’
If it had been anyone else, refusing would have been easy. But after what Johan had done for me…
I looked at Petra. She was lost in the political debate again.
‘What about a quick one at De Druif?’ Johan said.
The bar was practically at the end of my street.
‘OK,’ I agreed. ‘I’ll be there in a few.’
*
Gert, the shaven-headed bartender, served us two Dubbel Boks at our table and then gave us our space, which wasn’t easy to achieve in a bar as small as De Druif – although there was only one other customer, at the bar, surrounded by empty glasses; the guy was practically falling off his stool.
‘I keep waiting for the call,’ Johan said. His eyes had a cloudy, preoccupied look.
‘Which call? What are you talking about?’
He lowered his voice. ‘Some other section of the police force, Henk. Telling me they’re going to investigate the To˝zsér shooting.’
‘That won’t happen,’ I said, attacking my beer. But it was easy for me to say – I hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger.
‘How do you know that?’ Johan asked.
How did I? Joost had threatened me over it that very day, at least suspecting my
involvement in the shooting.
‘We’ve talked about this often enough, Johan. There are too many skeletons in the departmental closet. Any investigation risks exposing the full informant racket they had going on at IJ Tunnel 3.’
‘But what if someone new comes in – decides to clean house?’
I shook my head. ‘They already have cleaned house, in their minds. There’s a new commissioner. But it’s the same old team: Joost, Bergveld… they’re all implicated. They don’t want the full truth coming out about the To˝zsér brothers any more than you or I do.’
There was the crux of it: Joost, Bergveld, even Lottman and I – we all needed one another to some extent. I took another gulp of the strong Dubbel Bok.
Johan required more convincing.
‘We did the right thing,’ I went on in a low voice. ‘Once Zsolt found out that I’d let his younger brother die in the harbour, revenge was coming, as sure as night follows day. And his “eye for eye” approach would have been to take out one of my family members. You know this.’
Johan looked lost in thought. ‘How did he find out?’ he asked finally.
‘Who?’
‘Zsolt. About the way his brother died?’
‘Who knows?’ I’d often considered the question. ‘There were enough witnesses down at the harbour that night. Only takes one camera phone.’
I couldn’t erase the memory of Bergveld approaching with Liesbeth, right after Jan To˝zsér’s head had slipped under the icy water.
Johan’s expression clouded over again, as if he were remembering something else. ‘So what did you call me about earlier?’
‘Oh, yes. I wanted to ask you about a tattoo. I think it’s a regimental one – Ukrainian – but you’ll know.’
‘What does it look like?’
‘A star within a star.’
‘Hmm.’ Johan’s eyes narrowed. ‘Could you draw it?’
I reached for a beer mat, but I didn’t have a pen. ‘Hold on.’ I walked over to the bar, on which the other customer’s face was now resting.
‘You think it might be time to send him home?’ I asked Gert.
‘He’s a boat captain. I’m thinking it’s better for him to sleep it off here, in case he gets any ideas about taking to the water…’
The Harbour Master Page 13
