Little Sister

by David Hewson

  Vera laughed and when she did her shoulders shook up and down.

  ‘Go mad? Well we can’t allow that to happen. All hell breaks loose, don’t it? Go mad again and they’ll only lock you up somewhere worse than Marken. For good. Forever.’ She leaned down and looked into their faces, serious now. ‘Apart probably.’

  ‘Apart?’ Kim whispered.

  ‘You heard me. They’ve spent ten years trying to fix the two of you. If they think it didn’t work . . . you reckon they’ll bother a second time?’

  Mia’s fingers clutched her sister’s underneath the kitchen table.

  ‘Don’t need to happen,’ the woman insisted. ‘Won’t either. Not so long as you do as your Auntie Vera says. Everything. Every last thing.’

  She lit a cigarette, had the briefest of coughing fits, then blew the smoke out of her mouth in a curious way, turning her lips into an awkward O, closing her eyes as fumes rose to the ceiling.

  ‘You will do that now, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mia replied.

  Vera stared at Kim.

  ‘Yes. We will.’

  ‘Good. I’m having a lie-down. All this walking tires me out. After that I’ll show you how to use them cards. I’ll tell you where to go. What to do. We’ll have a nice time. I’ve got a treat in store.’

  Another drag on the cigarette.

  ‘Don’t ever think your Auntie Vera’s not watching, will you? ’Cos I am.’

  16

  Dirk Van der Berg soon got bored with taking statements and listening to Simon Klerk’s wife moaning about nothing getting done. He’d made notes, nodded, tried to seem sympathetic and interested. But largely failed. She wanted her husband back and he couldn’t deliver that.

  The Marken institution puzzled him too. The place had the antiseptic, dead feel of a half-deserted hospital. A few patients wandered around the garden close to the trees near the shoreline. They looked like ordinary kids. Cheap clothes. Glum faces. All female. When he returned to Veerman’s office he asked if he could talk to them. The director asked why.

  ‘No particular reason,’ he answered.

  ‘I don’t think that would be appropriate.’

  Van der Berg didn’t push it. He just wanted to know what the answer would be.

  He wandered back into the corridor overlooking the rear of the building. The administrative wing was attached to a two-storey residential annexe by the wood. Through the branches he could just make out the shoreline of the lake. There were a few boats on the water. A few faces at the window of the adjoining block. As he watched the male nurse out in the garden with four or five patients got called on his phone. The man looked up at Veerman’s office and nodded. Then he walked the girls with him over the neatly tended lawns back into the building.

  Van der Berg returned to Veerman’s office. The director was bent over papers on his desk, the psychiatrist Visser by his side.

  ‘How many inmates do you have here?’ he asked.

  ‘Patients,’ Visser corrected him. ‘They’re not convicts. Not prisoners. They’re patients. This isn’t a jail. We’re here to help people.’

  ‘How many patients?’ he asked.

  ‘Twelve now the Timmers girls have gone.’

  ‘Knock before you come in again,’ Veerman added.

  He got the impression Visser wanted to say something, but not while Veerman was around.

  ‘How many do you cure?’ he asked.

  She winced and said, ‘Not as many as I’d like. It’s hard. Some of these kids have been screwed up almost since birth. Putting them in a place like this isn’t always—’

  ‘It’s what the law demands,’ Veerman broke in.

  ‘I know that! All I’m saying is it doesn’t make the task any easier, locking them up somewhere that cuts them off from the outside world.’

  ‘Your job makes mine look easy,’ Van der Berg told her.

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘No. I mean it. Can we . . . can we talk in your office?’

  Veerman was onto that straight away.

  ‘There’s nothing you can ask Irene that I can’t deal with. Ask it here. We’ve got work to do.’

  ‘True,’ Van der Berg agreed.

  Big place to keep a handful of young girls out of sight from the public, he thought. Remote too. He wondered who from outside kept an eye on the institution. Whether Veerman and the Visser woman answered much to anyone at all.

  ‘I need to take a break,’ he said and walked down the stairs, out into the car park then round the back of the residential block. There were cooking smells from what must have been a canteen. A dog was barking somewhere. Big dog from the sound of it.

  A light breeze was blowing in from the lake, rustling the leaves of the trees in the spinney. The sound mingled with the squawks of gulls in the blue sky. He wandered towards the pebbly shoreline and lit a cigarette. If this were a hotel it would be a fine place, he thought. They could clear up the area around the wood and have weddings and parties there. The wild scrubland that ran from the car park all the way to the trees then onto the shoreline could easily be removed. The location was peaceful, a good half a kilometre from the pretty wooden houses of the island village. Someone could make a go of it. Instead it was a kind of jail. Quite unlike any he’d ever seen.

  There was a sound behind him, so loud and sudden Van der Berg jumped. He turned and saw a stout woman in a white kitchen uniform, a blue plastic mob cap on her head. She looked fifty or so with a fierce, jowly face and was holding back a large German shepherd dog, struggling to keep a grip on the animal’s chain lead.

  ‘So you’re the policeman? Took your time,’ she said in an accent he recognized immediately: a Volendammer.

  ‘That I am.’ He showed her his ID. ‘And you are . . . ?’

  The woman swore at the dog and dragged it back on the chain. The animal whined then sat on its haunches. Tamed.

  ‘Bea Arends,’ she said and stuck out a giant hand covered in flour.

  ‘You work in the kitchen.’

  She laughed, a pleasant sound, unexpectedly warm.

  ‘Oh my. We’ve got Sherlock Holmes on the premises.’

  Van der Berg grinned and winked. Everyone else in Marken had been so reticent and nervous at his presence. This woman didn’t seem nonplussed by him at all.

  ‘And they let a cook bring their dog to work,’ he added.

  ‘Rex is my only companion these days. He don’t like being left on his own. Besides some of the girls here adore him. What else they got? He only acts funny with strangers. Rex!’

  The dog crouched down on its front paws and wagged its tail. Van der Berg did what Vos had taught him with Sam. He bent down, held out the back of his hand, let the dog sniff it then, slowly, very visibly, lifted his fingers and stroked his head.

  ‘My Rex is the best judge of character I know,’ Bea Arends said. ‘If he likes you then I reckon you’re OK.’

  ‘Flattered. I don’t suppose you’ve any idea what’s been going on here? Where Simon Klerk might be?’

  Her expression changed, becoming fierce once more.

  ‘I’m just a cook. What would I know? Of that man or anything else . . .’

  She stuck a floury fist on her right hip. A woman with something to say. That was obvious.

  ‘I’ve no idea. That’s why I asked.’

  ‘Simon Klerk’s wherever he wishes to be. That man’s like the rest of them. Does as he likes. And no one in there . . .’ She nodded at the admin block.‘ . . .thinks to stop him.’

  The dog was getting restless for no obvious reason, tugging at his chain, whining in a soft high tone like a puppy.

  Suddenly the whimpers turned frantic. Rex was up then, leaping for the woods. With both hands on the heavy lead she fought to jerk him back. Van der Berg went over to help but before he could get there the German shepherd was free, bounding towards the trees.

  ‘Rex!’ Bea Arends yelled. She stamped her right foot and Van der Berg saw, to his surprise, that she
was wearing wooden clogs. ‘He never behaves like this. Never. Good as gold usually.’

  There was a face at the window in the admin block. Visser. Then Veerman and Simon Klerk’s wife joined her. Interested in the commotion. Perhaps worried too.

  ‘He must have seen something. Or smelled it,’ the detective said. He threw his cigarette on the grass and set off for the woods.

  The spinney was dank with the stink of mould and decay. Rex was easy to track. In its frenzy the animal had carved a clear path of flattened weeds and grass straight through.

  Van der Berg followed, Bea Arends behind. The small dark wood enclosed them both. He felt nervous for some reason and found himself pulling his phone out of his pocket. A quick glance showed the signal had vanished entirely at this distant edge of Marken.

  ‘Rex!’ the woman called.

  They emerged from the spinney onto a narrow line of shingle running to the water’s edge.

  The dog wasn’t barking any more.

  ‘Naughty boy!’ she cried.

  Van der Berg looked both ways. Back to the village, barely visible here. Then to the finger of land that ran into the lake towards the colourful outline of Volendam on the horizon.

  The German shepherd had stopped at the edge of the wood close to the point at which the dyke rose from the pebble shore like a round green vein.

  ‘Best leave this to me,’ he said.

  ‘That’s my dog,’ the woman objected.

  ‘He’s found something.’

  Twenty steps or so it took and then they were there.

  ‘Rex,’ the woman said softly, close to tears.

  Gingerly, aware of the animal’s strength and mood, Van der Berg bent down and picked up the leather loop at the end of the lead.

  ‘I can manage that,’ Bea Arends insisted, snatching it from him.

  She pulled. The dog turned and snarled madly at both of them, showing a set of sharp fangs.

  They were white and bloodied.

  ‘Oh my God,’ the woman said and put a hand to her mouth.

  Van der Berg looked. Rex had found a shallow grave. There was a body in it, one pale naked arm dragged out of the sandy earth by Rex’s busy jaws. Much worse to see after that.

  He took the lead from her, wrapped his arm around it and tugged the snarling animal away, back to the line of trees. She followed.

  ‘Do what you can,’ he ordered, handing over the dog. ‘Just keep him away. I need to call.’

  Hand out, phone in his fingers, he wandered back into the wood seeking a signal.

  Just when he got one Sara Klerk ran out from the car park, shrieking again, arms flailing.

  ‘What is it? What did you find?’

  Van der Berg got in the way and held her back.

  ‘Stay here,’ he said.

  ‘What—’

  ‘Please. Mrs Klerk. Stay here.’

  She was a strong woman and brushed past him easily. The dog was barking again. Bea Arends was shrieking at it.

  The call got through. Then the screams got louder. Two women this time.

  ‘Pieter,’ he said when Vos answered. ‘There’s a body here. Down by the shoreline. Buried. I don’t know how long.’

  17

  The sisters were back in their room, bored. Mia was reading a teenage magazine Vera had bought them. It was about boys and music and clothes. And sex, though that was handled in guarded terms as if the subject were too dirty and embarrassing to be approached directly. Kim pretended to sleep. Both of them were aware of the city noise from beyond the grimy windows. People and traffic. Planes overhead, music from open windows. The distant clatter of a tram across iron tracks.

  A church bell somewhere sounded four. Not long after the door opened and Vera returned and called for them. She had a plastic shopping bag with her.

  ‘Got presents for the pair of you,’ she said and took out two blonde wigs.

  The sisters stared at them wondering if this was a joke. They were blonde before. And then they changed hair colour. Now this odd, controlling woman seemed to wish to turn back the clock.

  Mia took the first wig as the woman offered it. Kim the second.

  ‘Is this real hair?’ Mia asked.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  Mia ran her fingers through the things. The locks were long, quite like their own hair before the previous evening’s scissors and colouring changed things. A reasonable impersonation. Inside the scalp was a kind of cotton mesh.

  ‘It’s not real at all,’ she said. ‘It’s like . . . like . . . plastic’

  ‘Yeah,’ the Englishwoman agreed. ‘Still cost a pretty penny though. It’s not as if you have to wear them much. There are people out there looking for you two girls. They don’t know how you look now. They just think you look like before. So we fool them a bit.’

  She took out her phone and told them to put the wigs on and stand by the window.

  ‘Why?’ Kim wanted to know.

  ‘Because I want you to. Come on.’

  They did and she lifted the phone and snapped them, five times or more. Vera fiddled with the thing then showed them a series of snaps. Blonde hair. Puzzled expressions.

  ‘That’s what they think you look like, kiddos. That’s how we want it to stay.’

  ‘If they don’t know what we look like,’ Kim said, taking off her wig, ‘we can go somewhere and they won’t chase us. We can be free. Like—’

  ‘Free?’ Vera had a hard, cruel laugh sometimes. ‘What do you mean . . . free? You two have been locked up for the best part of your lives. Without me you can’t do nothing. Can’t walk them streets. Can’t buy a thing. Catch a bus. A train. Go anywhere.’ She picked up the blonde wigs and stroked the odd, stiff hair. ‘Haven’t I got this across to you yet? Without your friends you’re buggered. They’ll just pick you up, chuck you back in a cell somewhere and throw away the keys.’

  ‘Is Little Jo a friend?’ Kim asked and didn’t notice the quick intake of breath from her sister with those words.

  Vera looked downcast, guilty.

  ‘Little Jo’s . . .’ She tapped her head. ‘Your sister’s up here now, isn’t she? That’s where she lives.’

  The one phone they had left had gone missing. Only Vera could have taken it. The message there . . .

  ‘She sent us a text,’ Kim said firmly.

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘She sent us a text. It’s on that phone you took from our room. You can read it for yourself.’ Always the more forceful one, she stared the Englishwoman down. ‘I think you have. I think she’s talked to you as well.’

  It was the briefest moment of confrontation and the sisters wondered how she’d react. Fiercely or meekly. It turned out to be somewhere in between.

  ‘I know you’ve got lots of questions,’ Vera said quite calmly. ‘It’s only to be expected. But I can’t answer them, not straight out. I’m like you. In the dark too. I am your friend, though. It’s people like me . . . people with your best interests at heart . . .they’re the ones who’ll save you. So long as you do what you’re told.’

  Kim retrieved a wig from the bag and put it on again. She looked at herself in the mirror. It was like seeing a different her. Someone half-known, locked in a past she didn’t want.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Vera said. ‘It’s not a toy.’ She snatched the wig off her head and stuffed it in the bag. ‘When you leave here I want you looking like you do now. They’ve got cameras everywhere. Every policeman in Amsterdam’s walking round with your photos. I bet there’s a reward if someone spots you. How does that feel?’

  Mia took a deep breath and whispered, ‘Cameras?’

  ‘Right. So you come and go when I tell you. Them clothes. That hair. When we’re out, if we duck down an alley and I say so . . . then you put these on.’

  ‘Why would we do that?’ asked Mia.

  Vera leaned forward and shook her head.

  ‘How many times do I have to say thi
s? Because I bloody well tell you.’

  Kim was about to get cross so Mia said very quickly, ‘OK. When can we go somewhere on our own? If we—’

  ‘Got to prove yourself first, girls. Can’t do anything until I know I can rely on you.’

  Ten minutes later they went downstairs. Vera checked the two of them over before they left. Then they walked outside.

  The day before – the interview in Marken, the car ride, dealing with Simon Klerk – was now a blur, almost as if it had happened to someone else. Especially that strange, intimidating walk from Centraal station to the address they’d been given. They’d been too nervous to look around much. Now they couldn’t stop. It felt as if the city was watching them, following every step as they trudged down the street, close together.

  Vera seemed to mellow, acting more kindly while they were out. Maybe she was nervous too. After a while she treated the two of them as if they were tourists. Together they walked through the red-light district, gawping at the half-naked women in the windows beneath the fluorescent tubes. They stopped for espressos in a coffee shop and the Englishwoman bought some dope from the counter, using words and terms the two of them didn’t understand. They went to a back room and watched her light up, waving away the hand-rolled joints she offered them. Vera shrugged and smoked one all by herself, coughing badly the whole time.

  Men came and went, checking out the two of them, knowing they didn’t belong and wondering, consequently, why they were in this dingy dope joint close to the Oude Kerk, a part of Amsterdam where timid church and boisterous depravity lived side by side and scarcely seemed to notice let alone care.

  ‘I suppose you’d rather have ice cream than a smoke?’ Vera asked when she was done.

  ‘Ice cream would be nice,’ Mia agreed.

  For the first time Vera laughed as if she meant it.

  ‘You really are a pair of kids, aren’t you? After all that’s happened.’

  ‘All?’ Mia asked and felt nervous.

  ‘It’s like you’re stuck in time. Never grew up at all in that place they kept you.’ She hesitated. ‘You’d think it’d be the very opposite.’

  It was hard for them to judge the tone she used. Sympathy perhaps. Or despair.