‘Henk, what’s going on?’
‘That’s the right question.’
I slowed and made a quick U-turn, the steering wheel spinning in my hand, a horn blaring behind.
‘Henk,’ Wester repeated, ‘what’s going on?’
My eyes hadn’t deceived me.
‘I’ve got to go, Wester.’
The sculpted end of a maroon Bentley.
*
Another substantial Willemspark residence, all corbels and balconies and gables. The engine of the Bentley was purring in the driveway. Sammy got out, not noticing me cross the street. He walked around to the back door of the car, opening it for Lesoto.
The Ghanaian giant was ending a phone call. ‘Yes, that is most satisfactory.’ His head sheened with sweat.
‘Ah!’ he cried joyfully, his eyes widening, ‘our friend of Mista Lottman’s!’
Then he caught the side of my face. ‘What has happened?’ He was looking at the bruise. ‘Did somebody beat you?’
‘No, it’s nothing. You should see the other guy.’
‘I would very much like to see the other guy,’ he said with fierce intensity. ‘I would like to give him a taste of Ghanaian justice!’
‘No, I was just using a figure of speech… never mind. Is everything OK?’
Sammy was unloading bags from the boot: Armani, Bulgari, Chanel, Dior…
‘Everything is most satisfactory. Your country has been most gracious and welcoming.’
‘How much longer are you here for?’
‘A little while,’ he replied, surveying the sun-dappled street. ‘I like it very much. So many nice things,’ he said with soft insistence. ‘I should like to settle here, find a nice young European bride.’
It gave me an odd feeling, made me think again about the girl in the Verspronck painting.
‘Well, good luck with that.’
‘I have to make another phone call now,’ he said, ‘but you must come by and see us again soon. It is pleasant to have friends in the neighbourhood.’
‘I’m sure it is.’
I watched Sammy struggle with the shopping bags. Lesoto sauntered off to the side of the house with his phone pressed to his ear, and I thought of the man in Brussels who’d introduced us both.
*
‘Rem Lottman’s office,’ the assistant said in a French accent.
‘Can I speak with him?’
‘Who is calling?’
‘Henk van der Pol, Amsterdam Police Department.’
‘What can I say it’s in connection with?’
‘Mr Lesoto.’
‘Did you say “risotto”?’
‘No!’ Did they ever put the fork down in Brussels? ‘There’s an “L”, not an “R”, at the start of his name. Lottman asked me to keep him updated on the matter.’
‘I’ll be sure to let him know.’
‘The sooner the better.’
‘Noted.’
‘Merci beaucoup.’
‘De rien.’
I drove back up Willemsparkweg, getting out my phone so I could google Lucy Channing-West. I could feel a migraine coming on; the dazzling sunlight streaming in through the windscreen was making my eyes water. Wester had said that the English art insurer was leaving. How soon?
There was too much going on; it felt like a maze, one barrier after another. Finally, I gave up trying to work my phone and drive at the same time; I pulled over as I approached the intersection with busy Van Baerlestraat, my brakes squealing, and switched on the hazard lights.
The browser on my phone showed a Loss Adjuster with Lloyds of London, 196 Syndicate: Lucinda Channing-West. It had to be her, but I couldn’t find a direct line to call.
If she’d been staying in a hotel it must have been one of the better ones, judging by her wardrobe and preference for executive taxis. There were only so many top-of-the-range hotels to choose from here in central Amsterdam, and directly in front me was the most exclusive of all: the Conservatorium, conveniently close to Pelt’s house. I got out of the car, putting a Police Business sign in the window so as to avoid a parking ticket this time, and made my way over to the imposing building.
There had to be a better way of going about all this.
My phone was ringing.
Liesbeth.
‘I’ve found her,’ she announced.
‘Who? The maid from the Royal?’
‘Better,’ she said. ‘Through the maid, the beaten woman herself. Elena Luscovich.’
‘Is she OK?’
‘From what I could tell over the phone, just about. I’m wondering if I should bring her in to the station.’
‘Please do. Right away.’
‘She’s not saying much,’ Liesbeth cautioned.
‘Let’s see if we can change that. See you back at the station ASAP.’
23
BRIDGES
A car horn blared as I stood in the middle of busy Van Baerlestraat. A Mercedes taxi.
I stopped dead. Lucy Channing-West had hailed an Amsterdam Executive Cars cab the previous day when she’d left the Pelt house.
I pulled out my phone and dialled their number.
‘This is Officer Henk van der Pol of the IJ Tunnel 3 police station,’ I told the person who picked up. ‘I need some information about a fare yesterday.’
‘Wait on the line,’ the woman said nonchalantly.
‘Yes?’ a male voice barked after a few moments.
I repeated my introduction.
‘We’ve sixty-two cars,’ the man said. ‘These police requests are becoming too taxing. Far too taxing!’
Police requests… plural?
At least it made my own sound routine. ‘The woman concerned is leaving town,’ I said. ‘It’s important that we catch up with her before she does so. She’s around one-seventy tall, Caucasian, blonde, English. Smartly dressed. She was picked up on Koningslaan yesterday at around two p.m.’
‘All right,’ he relented. ‘Let me see what I can do.’
I gave him my number.
‘Tell me your name and rank again.’
I did. ‘And yours?’ I asked.
‘I’m Max. I’m the owner.’
I considered asking him about the other police enquiries, but then realised the line had gone dead.
From Van Baerlestraat, I drove straight back to the station. I was approaching it when a familiar caller ID flashed up on my phone.
PRIVATE NUMBER.
‘Henk.’ It was Rem Lottman’s voice, thank God. ‘You have news about our Ghanaian friend?’
‘I do, but I’d like to speak in person.’ About Joost. ‘I can come back to Brussels. Later today?’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Lesoto is staying in Willemspark, near Lars Pelt’s house.’
He was silent for a second. ‘What do you make of that?’
‘There are a few things becoming apparent, but I’d rather discuss them in person.’
‘Today is very difficult. There’s a big energy function in Brussels this evening. The minister is hosting.’
‘I don’t need much of your time.’ It reminded me of asking for my father’s help and attention, years before.
‘Can’t you just tell me over the phone?’
‘Better in person. I only need a few minutes.’
‘All right, old Henk. I’ll put you back on with my assistant and you can arrange something. But first… did you get any sense for how long Lesoto might be staying there?’
‘A while. He looked to be getting pretty settled in.’ I gave him the address of where the Ghanaian was making himself at home.
Then Miss Risotto was back on. ‘There is a recess of the Energy Ministers’ Summit at around six p.m.,’ she said. ‘Can you be here by then?’
I thought about what else I had to do. Liesbeth was bringing in the woman from the Royal Hotel, and I needed to find Lucy Channing-West – assuming she was still in town. It was already noon.
‘Hopefully,’ I replied.
‘Should we send a car?’
‘Nope, I can find my way.’
Something else I needed to do was dress my wounds.
What is the pattern here? I asked myself as I ended the call and approached the police station. Were the Norwegian military police now involved in the Pelt case because of the man himself, or that priceless painting? Both, presumably. But then there was the Ghanaian giant, too…
My phone rang again as I squealed to a stop. Bloody brakes.
‘Henk –’
‘Liesbeth. Do you have her? Elena Luscovich?’
‘Henk, no. I can’t.’
‘Can’t?’ I slammed the car door shut behind me. I walked quickly, away from a loud rumble nearby. ‘What do you mean, can’t?’
‘I don’t have approval,’ Liesbeth said.
‘Huh?’ I stopped, stunned. ‘I asked you to do this!’
‘Joost isn’t supportive, Henk.’
I was about to say something, but she pre-empted me. ‘You didn’t tell me that the station was about to close down.’
‘What the hell?’ The rumbling was getting louder. ‘Let’s talk about this.’ I looked around as I crossed the street, trying to identify the source of the noise. ‘Let’s meet at the Ibis.’
There it was: the hotel. But moving around in front of it were three large shapes – dark, smoky streaks against the bright light.
‘… not sure that’s such a good idea –’ Liesbeth was saying.
I cut in. ‘Be at the Ibis in five minutes.’
One of the bikers was riding a Honda Hardtail chopper; another, a vintage Indian. The third sat astride a Russian-looking machine I didn’t recognise. Their bearded faces were impassive beneath their matte-black crash helmets. They wheeled around, liberally using up two lanes of the road, manoeuvring to form a semi-circle in front of me, all the while giving throaty blasts of their engines. As their front wheels edged close to my knees, I could just make out the double-star emblems on their forearms. The chrome of their front forks dazzled.
Please God, don’t let Joost see this.
A diplomatic Bentley one day; these guys the next…
‘Malek asked us to stop by and say hello,’ Hardtail growled over his burbling engine. He had a curled moustache and was missing a bottom tooth.
‘Nice of you gentlemen to do so,’ I managed.
The smell of hot engine oil mixed with the odour of stale sweat.
‘He’s not in any trouble now, is he?’ Indian weighed in. His expression was hidden behind his jet-black sunglasses.
‘Why don’t you ask him?’ I suggested.
‘I’m asking you,’ Indian said.
‘He’s got nothing to fear from me.’
Hardtail narrowed his gaze, trying to make sense of my words. ‘What about them?’ He jerked his head towards the brick police station and its security cameras.
‘None of us.’
Hardtail nodded, apparently having heard what he wanted to. All three began backing their bikes away.
‘S’long as it stays that way,’ Indian said.
‘Well thank you, gentlemen, for stopping by.’
The third man, masked by red facial hair, responded to my remark with a quizzical look. My heart thumped as they roared off down the IJ towards the water; Liesbeth stepped out from the station at that very moment.
*
She was eyeing the bruise on my face like she already knew how I’d come by it. We were at a table in the restaurant where Joost and I had sat the day before.
‘All right, Liesbeth,’ I said. ‘What’s going on?’
‘You tell me,’ she responded. ‘I mentioned to Stefan that I was bringing in Elena Luscovich. He said maybe I should check with Joost first.’
‘Stefan said that?’
‘He said the station might be shut down.’
I reached for my phone to call him, then restrained myself.
‘We just need to think about our careers here, Henk. If we don’t have a future at IJT3, we need to consider our options.’
Bergveld’s new beat?
‘Of course there’s a future here. This is the harbour beat. It’s Amsterdam. There will always be a need for good policemen and women here. Always.’ I smacked the table with an open palm, causing the coffee cups to rattle and heads to turn. I leaned forward. ‘It comes down to results. You know that. Whatever political bullshit is going on around us, we have to keep our focus on our cases, especially ones involving violent assault. Where did you leave things with Elena Luscovich?’
‘I’m not sure how much we’ll be able to get out of her in any event. She wouldn’t share anything about the hotel guest on the phone.’
‘About the man who beat her into unconsciousness?’
‘Yes, him. I even said we may have to open a full investigation, look at the path of the financial proceeds. She still didn’t open up.’
‘Is she afraid? What exactly did she say?’ There was potentially a five-figure sum involved, by way of payment for her night in the sack with her attacker.
‘Only that it wasn’t the client who paid.’
‘Run that by me again. She’s saying someone else paid her to spend the night with this thug?’
‘Correct.’
‘Who paid?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
I sipped my coffee hastily.
‘Why don’t you just talk it through with Joost?’ she said.
I didn’t doubt that I’d be doing so soon enough. I’d be receiving a call from the man at any moment.
‘Did you share this piece of information with him?’
‘What information?’
‘About someone else paying for Elena to spend the night at the Royal?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I had to. He wanted an update, to understand what we were all working on instead of the Frank Hals case.’
‘What was his reaction?’
‘Henk.’ She leaned in too. ‘Are you not missing the bigger picture here? The station is closing. We’re all out of a job unless we find transfers to other stations. Isn’t it time to start building bridges rather than second-guessing the cause of everything?’
Liesbeth had to be able to tell me more about Joost.
I tried rewinding the conversation. ‘How did he react when you said I’d told you to bring in Elena Luscovich?’
She rolled her eyes in exasperation. ‘He was angry – very angry. He said you should have been focusing on getting a result with Hals.’
I chewed over that.
‘Listen,’ Liesbeth said, leaning closer still. ‘You didn’t hear this from me, but Joost’s got some pretty high-stake objectives of his own that he needs to meet. You think he doesn’t feel the pressure, too?’
I held Liesbeth’s brown-eyed gaze. ‘Is this what you and that prosecutor husband of yours talk about at night?’
‘No!’ she snapped. ‘If you must know, I overheard Joost speaking on his mobile in a conference room yesterday afternoon, when he came in to the station. The door was open. He didn’t realise.’
I weighed every one of Liesbeth’s words, feeling the world tilt slightly. ‘What exactly was he saying on his phone?’
‘Jesus! I tried not to listen.’ She suddenly sounded exhausted. ‘But his conversation gave me the distinct impression that he would go to some lengths to do what he needs to.’
‘You make it sound like he’s got some kind of shadow organisation going on.’
‘Henk… Christ. Less of the paranoia, please! We just need to get in line. You were in the army once, weren’t
you?’
Once.
She took my hands. Surprised, I looked down at her slender fingers wrapped around my battered digits. Blood had clotted on the back of one hand, where the rose bush at Pelt’s house had torn it.
‘Forget Elena Luscovich and focus on getting a result with Frank Hals.’ She spoke softly yet insistently; it reminded me of Lesoto. ‘Don’t burn bridges Henk, please. Build them instead.’
24
TEAM VAN DER POL
I drove back to the houseboat to pack for an overnight stay in Brussels, if it came to that. As I walked across the gangplank my phone rang; it was Max, from Amsterdam Executive Cars.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Good-looking English woman, around one-seventy tall, picked up on the corner of Koningslaan and Willemsparkweg yesterday at two-sixteen p.m.…’
‘That’s her.’
‘The driver took her to a residential address.’
‘Where?’
‘Amstel 81, beside the Magere Brug.’
The Skinny Bridge. Three minutes’ walk from the Royal.
‘OK?’ Max prompted. ‘That give you what you want?’
‘It gives me what I need,’ I qualified. ‘Who did the other police requests come from?’
‘Huh?’
‘You mentioned other police requests, which were becoming “taxing”. Your term.’
‘And it’s true. Do you people not work together?’
‘To a point.’
The door to the cabin of our houseboat was unlocked.
‘I didn’t catch his name. He sounded like a younger cop.’
‘As opposed to the older type?’ I asked.
‘Well…’
Was it Bergveld? Or Wester?
‘What did he ask you for?’
Petra was sitting at the table in the galley, a sweater tied around her neck. She looked surprised to see me back during the day, and more surprised still by the bruise on my temple. I kissed her on the forehead.
‘Why are you asking me this?’ Max said.
‘I want to identify this person, make sure he’s really a cop and not someone trying to pass himself off as one.’
‘You think I can’t tell?’
‘Let’s see if you can.’
The Harbour Master Page 15
