Little Sister

by David Hewson

  Laura Bakker was with Aisha, checking on the injured detective.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Vos asked.

  ‘Well, this is Stefan’s place, isn’t it?’ Willy said as if it was obvious.

  Close to exasperation, Vos asked Van der Berg if he was OK.

  ‘I’m fine!’ the detective cried. ‘Will you stop these two women fussing over me as if I’m a bloody invalid?’

  Aisha was demanding he go to hospital and see a doctor for concussion. Van der Berg hated hospitals and always had.

  ‘You will have to get that looked at, Dirk,’ Vos said. Something the brothers had said bothered him. ‘Stefan’s place? Why does that change things?’

  The two of them chuckled. It was Tonny who spoke.

  ‘Well I reckon you two have never looked at your files on Mr Timmers, have you? Try asking the local nick. They’ll tell you. Best make some time.’

  Vos waved his hands. ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘You’d need to be soft in the head to come in here burgling,’ Willy told him. ‘Stefan’s not a man to mess with. I wouldn’t. Not if it was the two of us up against him. Hard as nails and twice as nasty.’

  Tonny nodded.

  ‘Whoever it was hoofing down the street . . .he didn’t know our Stefan. God . . . If he’d been at home he’d have given the daft sod the kicking of a lifetime. Get me?’

  Van der Berg was on his feet, the women squawking at him.

  ‘We get you, boys,’ he said, keeping a hand to his head. ‘I owe you a beer. But not now.’ He glanced at Vos. ‘We don’t need to keep them. Do we?’

  ‘I’ll send someone round to take a statement in the morning,’ Vos said. ‘You can go now.’

  ‘One thing—’

  The brothers looked nervous.

  ‘Hobbies?’ Van der Berg said. ‘Did Stefan have any?’

  ‘Why are you asking us?’ Tonny replied. ‘He can tell you, can’t he?’

  ‘Stefan Timmers is dead,’ Vos said, not taking his eyes off them for a second. ‘So no. We can’t.’

  They shuffled on their big feet, scratching their heads, looking lost.

  ‘Dead?’ Tonny asked in the end. ‘How?’

  ‘Someone shot him. Out in that place you found.’

  ‘The old farmhouse? Nothing to do with us!’ Tonny cried. ‘We just drove past—’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Van der Berg said. ‘We know it’s nothing to do with you. But he’s dead all the same. That’s all we can say.’

  Willy Kok looked close to tears.

  ‘Bloody hell. What’s going on? First that nurse. Now Stefan. This is what you people put up with in the city. Not here. Volendam’s a quiet place. Quiet people who mind their own business. Why can’t you let us be?’

  ‘Hobbies,’ Van der Berg said. ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Stefan?’ Tonny cried. ‘How many times do we have to tell you? He was a bad ’un. Fighting. Drinking. God knows what else. We steered well clear of him. So did anyone with some sense.’

  Bakker didn’t take her eyes off them.

  ‘Those aren’t hobbies, boys,’ she said. ‘They’re just the way things are.’

  Tonny Kok shook his grizzled head.

  ‘I don’t know what in God’s name you’re talking about. Jesus. He wasn’t a man I cared for but all the same. You said we can leave. Well . . .can we?’

  Van der Berg looked at Vos who said, ‘Thanks for helping here. I appreciate it.’

  He watched them shuffle out.

  ‘Before we take you to hospital would you care to tell us what that was about, Dirk?’

  Van der Berg led them through the door to what was once a tiny smokehouse, now a kind of video studio.

  ‘I’d been in here when whoever hit me turned up,’ he said, indicating to Aisha to put on some latex gloves. ‘One man I’d say, from the footsteps. Didn’t see him. Too interested in this stuff. You know when you get that buzz in your veins? Like you’ve found something? Well . . .’

  He looked back at them and grinned.

  ‘I had it then. Big. Stefan’s been taking pictures here. For years. Pretty pictures. Some of it maybe porn. Some . . . just home movies. There’s stuff going back a couple of decades, I reckon.’

  The desk looked different. It took him a moment to realize why. The laptop was gone, along with the camera. The drawer was half open. Aisha pulled it all the way and Van der Berg looked in.

  ‘There,’ he said, pointing to a gap on the left. ‘I found a stack of DVDs, all dated. Important I guess. That’s what he came for. That and the computer and the camera. All gone.’

  Aisha reached in and drew out a few old VCR cassettes, the tape ripped and snapped, a brown shiny mass of ribbons.

  ‘Guess he didn’t have time for these,’ she said. ‘So he just tore them to shreds.’

  All the same she took out an evidence bag and started to tidy the remnants away.

  ‘Get people in here,’ Vos ordered. ‘See if you can pick up something on whoever attacked Dirk.’

  ‘It’s not bad,’ Van der Berg objected. ‘I’ve had worse on a Saturday night in the Jordaan. I really don’t need to go—’

  ‘In the car,’ Vos insisted. ‘Laura can hold your hand if you like.’

  He looked the way Sam did when Vos said no to him: down-in-the-mouth and fearful.

  ‘What happened your end?’ Van der Berg asked. ‘Much?’

  ‘Later,’ Vos said, heading for the door.

  46

  One hour later, close to midnight, Vos picked up Sam from the Drie Vaten and took him for a walk along the Prinsengracht. To his surprise De Groot hadn’t made one of his customary phone calls. Perhaps the commissaris was starting to feel as puzzled and depressed as he was by the bleak turn of events.

  It was a warm night, even this late. Close to the old courthouse on the way to Leidseplein Vos stopped and sat down on a bench by the water. There was still traffic on the canal, tourist boats mostly, out with diners or party revellers dancing to music. Sam, gauging his owner’s mood as always, was quiet and well behaved. Vos’s hand strayed down to the dog’s wiry fur, stroking his head, the soft ears. The terrier groaned with delight.

  Then came a short bark, one of familiarity. A tall figure emerged along the canal from the direction of the Drie Vaten, walking with a stiff gait Vos knew only too well.

  ‘Frank,’ he said, surprised. ‘You’re out late.’

  De Groot joined him on the seat, smiled at the dog and stroked him under the chin.

  ‘I looked in the bar. Your boat. I may be a lousy detective but it’s not hard to work out where you’d be if you weren’t there.’

  ‘You were a very good detective,’ Vos said.

  ‘Did my best,’ De Groot replied. ‘I can’t imagine you without this little chap now, you know. You make quite a pair. Is Van der Berg OK?’

  ‘Bang on the head – and it’s a very hard head.’

  ‘Don’t minimize these things, Pieter. A bang on the head can turn serious.’

  Vos ruffled Sam’s fur.

  ‘Sorry. It’s been a shitty day all round. I imagine you heard.’

  ‘The uncle. The Visser woman. Yes. We’re going to have to suspend those uniformed men. It was stupid.’

  Vos watched another glitzy boat cruise down the canal.

  ‘I don’t think that’s a priority, is it? Apportioning blame.’

  ‘The woman died.’

  ‘I’m aware of that. I was there, remember? She was stinking drunk. Driving like a lunatic. Running away for some reason.’

  De Groot didn’t seem to be listening.

  ‘There’ll be an inquest. Publicity. I’ll get questions from all directions. I can’t pretend it was just an accident.’

  ‘But it was.’

  ‘All the same . . .’

  Vos knew he was right. This was what management was about. Coping with unexpected situations. Dealing with problems others couldn’t be bothered with. Someone had to do it and he was deeply grateful none o
f the drudgery fell to him.

  ‘I’m tired, Frank. And grumpy.’

  ‘Join the club,’ De Groot bleated. ‘I came to apologize. I’ve been biting everyone’s heads off ever since I came back from that wedding. I don’t know. You go to something lovely like that. Something as near as dammit perfect. And then . . . the next day . . .’ He reached for the dog again. Sam yawned with pleasure. ‘The Timmers case too. You get used to dealing with some shit in this job. Just occasionally it gets to you.’

  ‘I tried to call.’

  ‘Tell me now.’

  So Vos gave him more detail on what he had, from the find in the farmhouse to Visser’s death and Van der Berg being attacked in Volendam.

  ‘Whoever it was came looking for pictures?’

  ‘Seems so,’ Vos agreed.

  ‘Did they get them?’

  Vos thought back to the smokehouse, what was gone, what was left.

  ‘Dirk thought Timmers was in the process of transferring everything from tape to DVD. He had some kind of conversion kit.’

  ‘What sort of pictures?’ De Groot wondered.

  ‘From what he saw . . . maybe porn. Some local stuff too. Family videos. We don’t know.’ He recalled the way Aisha carefully stashed the torn brown tape from the cassettes into the evidence bag. ‘The laptop got taken. The DVDs. He ripped up the cassettes.’

  ‘Not likely to know then?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘What next?’

  Sam shuffled over and parked himself on Vos’s shoes.

  ‘Depends what your man from Rotterdam comes up with.’

  ‘He’s not my man from Rotterdam! Schuurman’s on a course. The department’s understaffed as it is. I didn’t want any juniors sticking their oars in here. I get it from all directions, Pieter. Above. Below. Sideways. I need to think these things through.’

  ‘Whereas I just get it from you,’ Vos said with a smile.

  ‘Right. You will focus on those girls now, won’t you?’

  Vos hadn’t given the Timmers sisters much thought at all but still he said, ‘Working on it.’

  De Groot pulled out his phone and showed him a couple of emails. One was from Veerman in Marken confirming that Kim Timmers had been warned on several occasions for stealing items from staff and visitors. Money. Jewellery. Phones.

  ‘Pretty obvious they stole her handset then used it that night. You wanted to know how they could do this. There’s your answer. They called their uncle. A small-time hood by the way. I can send you his record too.’

  But Irene Visser said Stefan never visited them in Marken. Not that he mentioned this to De Groot.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘The uncle picked them up. They murdered Klerk. Took his body to Marken. Came back to the farmhouse and maybe . . . maybe had an argument . . .I don’t know. You’ll work it out.’

  Vos stayed silent.

  ‘We need to find them, Pieter. Don’t we?’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘And I don’t want to hear about what happened ten years ago. The past’s past. This is now.’ De Groot got to his feet. He looked old and somewhat creaky. ‘Well. It’s late. I suspect we’re in for a long day tomorrow.’ He bent down and patted Sam one last time. ‘I’ll leave you now.’

  Vos watched him go and so nearly said what was in his head . . . But Irene Visser ran.

  Not from a farmhouse she’d never visited. It was something else and there were only two places the answer could lie: in Volendam or Marken.

  He took out his phone and called the number Gert Brugman had left at the bar of the Drie Vaten two nights before. Brugman was the only person they knew who’d seen the sisters since they vanished into the city. He’d provided a description. Or rather the news they were still blonde-haired. Perhaps there was more.

  No answer.

  Rijnders was running the night team, a sound, inquisitive man.

  ‘Frans Lambert,’ Vos said when he got through.

  ‘Is this a pub quiz?’ Rijnders asked. ‘Because if it is I should warn you. Bands of the Seventies and Eighties? My specialist subject.’

  ‘Well you know then.’

  Rijnders laughed.

  ‘Drummer with The Cupids. Good musician. Serious guy. Big man. Could have been a professional footballer if he wanted. Ajax academy offered him a contract as a kid. Preferred music. Played sessions with some big American and British bands. More rock than pop, but I guess with The Cupids he went where the money was for a while. He could have moved to the US and earned a fortune for session work, or so everyone reckoned. Except there were some contractual issues with his manager or something. Then came the Timmers thing . . .’

  ‘Any idea why he vanished?’

  There was a long sigh on the end of the phone.

  ‘It’s one of those great rock mysteries. Just before all that trouble broke he flew out to Asia somewhere. He was big into Eastern philosophy and stuff. No one’s seen hide nor hair of him since. I’m not aware of any sightings of him running a frites joint in Utrecht but then he’s not Elvis. Just the long-lost drummer of The Cupids, mostly forgotten except by pub quiz saddos like me. Anything else?’

  ‘I want you to find him,’ Vos said. ‘I’ll be in before eight. By then would be good.’

  After that he thought long and hard. He meant what he’d said to Laura Bakker earlier that night. He did trust her now, and in truth he hadn’t much before. She was young. Impetuous. Clumsy sometimes. But she was also dogged, curious and good with detail.

  He called her. A sleepy voice answered the phone. Vos wondered if she was on her own. He knew nothing about her private life at all. It would have been impertinent to ask.

  ‘I hope I didn’t wake you.’

  A drowsy yawn and then, ‘It’s late. What do you think?’

  ‘I thought maybe . . . you’d still be up.’

  ‘Well I wasn’t.’

  ‘Oops. Sorry.’

  ‘Oops,’ she repeated. ‘You think you can get away with anything if you say that.’

  ‘Mostly I can.’

  She laughed and said, ‘True. So what’s happened?’

  ‘Probably lots,’ he said. ‘It’s just that no one’s told me. Yet.’

  ‘That was worth waking me up for?’

  ‘First thing in the morning I need you to go to Marken.’

  A pause.

  ‘And . . . ?’

  ‘A fishing expedition.’

  ‘You sent Dirk on one of those today. He ended up getting bashed on the head.’

  ‘I’d rather you avoided that. Tell the director there . . .’

  ‘Veerman.’

  ‘Tell him you need to see Irene Visser’s office. Her papers. Talk to him. Talk to the staff. The patients.’

  ‘Her neighbours?’

  That was a good suggestion, he thought. Just a wrong one.

  ‘Don’t bother with the neighbours just yet. There’s something in that place we don’t get. I should have seen it before.’

  ‘You mean the thing she was running from?’

  Sam got up, yawned and stretched on the cobbles.

  ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Is that OK?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ He could tell she was flattered, not that she was going to let on. ‘Very.’

  47

  Thursday. Vos trudged into work at half past seven. De Groot had suspended the two young uniform officers whose clumsiness had led to Irene Visser’s death. Given the interest the media were starting to take in the case it was probably inevitable. Nothing made a good story like a murder investigation going wrong.

  Van der Berg was at his desk, brushing aside all inquiries about his head. Laura Bakker had gone to Marken. De Groot was nowhere to be seen. There was nothing from forensic Vos couldn’t have guessed already. Both men died from single blasts of a shotgun. No sign of a weapon, no prints, no incriminating physical evidence so far.

  The night team had found Stefan Timmers’ decrepit Land Rover burned out near Volendam harbour. The b
lackened shell was downstairs being looked over.

  ‘Going to take a while to get anything out of that,’ Rijnders said as he got ready to knock off shift. ‘If they can. The fact his shotgun case was in the farmhouse . . .Must have been his weapon that killed Klerk, don’t you think?’

  There was no sign of the weapon itself. Vos had wondered about setting up a fingertip search around the farmhouse. But it was August. De Groot would start moaning about stretched resources, with some justification. Waterland was a flat green wilderness. If it were simply fields a concerted search might reveal something. But the whole area was criss-crossed with a multitude of dykes and canals, some narrow, some broad. Anyone wanting to hide a firearm would surely throw it in the green, opaque water. Then it was as good as gone.

  The file on Timmers was pretty damning too. A string of convictions, including three for serious assault. He’d spent six months in jail for the last. Local intelligence suggested he worked as a runner for hire whenever the local gangs needed drugs or other contraband shifted.

  ‘Just the man you’d want for dirty work,’ Rijnders observed.

  ‘He didn’t visit the girls in Marken, though.’ Vos still couldn’t make the connection. ‘And why . . . why come back to the place they shot Klerk? Why take the risk?’

  Rijnders said cheerily, ‘Well that’s for the day team to discover, isn’t it?’

  He was about to leave when Vos reminded him about the drummer.

  ‘Oh. Sorry. Frans Lambert. Yes.’ He bent down and brought up something on the computer. ‘Short of it is . . . he’s dead. Surprise, surprise.’

  It was a story from an English-language newspaper in Bali, five years before. Vos noted the date, around the time the Timmers files went missing.

  The clipping was headlined, ‘Expat Dutch Businessman Lost at Sea’. It was just six paragraphs accompanied by a photograph of a tall, fit-looking middle-aged man with a greying moustache standing next to some gym equipment. The caption read, ‘Bram Engels, proprietor of Prinsen Health Club’.

  ‘Bram Engels?’

  ‘No. It’s Frans Lambert,’ Rijnders insisted.

  He pulled up a series of earlier shots of The Cupids. The same man, same moustache and serious smile.

  ‘I made a few calls to the police out there and our embassy. It seems Mr Engels turned up around the time Frans vanished. He had some money with him. Started a fitness and sauna club. Owned a small boat. Just like Frans did when he lived in Volendam. He played drums in one of the local nightclubs too. Everyone says he was really good. Went out with a girlfriend one day. Fishing. Swimming. Who knows?’ He pulled up a photo of a small cruiser, seemingly adrift on a bright blue sea. ‘They find the boat. They don’t find Bram. Or Frans for that matter.’