Little Sister

by David Hewson

  ‘I can’t take this either,’ Van der Berg said and picked up the spare laptop then went to the adjoining table to start work.

  Freya sashayed off the stage. The band got louder then the girls began to sing in perfect harmony, each voice clear, sweet and angelic. With the first few notes the crowd became quiet, listening to the song, lost in its curious, perfect loveliness.

  The camera turned to the front row of the audience. Jaap Blom and Frank de Groot sat next to one another. There was no sign of their wives.

  Laura Bakker sighed and put a finger against De Groot’s head.

  ‘Is that why we’re not in Marnixstraat with all this stuff?’

  It wasn’t a question Vos wanted at that moment.

  ‘Let’s look at what we’ve got,’ he said. ‘Then take it from—’

  Aisha’s slim dark fingers were moving across the keyboard like crazy.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Moving all this stuff somewhere safe. A place of my own. Didn’t you hear? It’s a public folder. Anyone with that link can see it.’

  Vos put his hand on hers.

  ‘How about we move it somewhere safe. And leave it where it is as well. There’s a word for that.’

  ‘It’s called copying,’ Bakker said.

  ‘Copying,’ he agreed. ‘That’s what I’d like.’

  93

  Ollie Haas was alone in one of the tourist bars near the harbour. None of the locals spoke to him. They hadn’t much since he left the police. No reason on his part. No desire on theirs. Tourists were different though. He could easily engage them in conversation. Spin them some local yarns. Get a free drink, not that he needed the money.

  This wasn’t going to last much longer anyway. He’d put the house on the market. The agents said it would sell too if only he could bring himself to lower the price a shade. Haas didn’t like cutting corners. He wanted what he wanted. After that he’d take his savings and vanish from the Netherlands for a while. The Caribbean. Florida. Italy. Wherever he felt like. He was owed a break. There’d been too much in the way of awkward questions of late. He’d known the Timmers kids were going to come out of Marken around now. That was a matter of simple arithmetic. The place couldn’t keep them much beyond the age of twenty-one.

  It was by no means certain the past would rise up to greet them all when that happened. But it was a possibility. If he’d been smarter he’d have taken the opportunity to scoot out of Waterland months before. Now he couldn’t wait. And perhaps wouldn’t. If the agents couldn’t clinch a quick deal he’d take what money he had and run anyway.

  A small glass of beer and a jenever sat in front of him on the counter. An American couple from Oregon had allowed themselves to be engaged in conversation earlier. Then they gave him a look and said their taxi back to Amsterdam was waiting.

  He’d watched them walk off to their hotel along the harbour road wondering if it was something he’d said. Or perhaps an awkward, needy air just hung around him these days. Either way this wasn’t going to trouble anyone for long.

  Haas didn’t drink much but tonight could be an exception. He finished his beer and jenever and walked outside, then along the waterfront to the public car park where he’d left his Volvo. The place was deserted. All the Friday action happened elsewhere in Volendam, and would go on well into the morning.

  By the car he stopped and fumbled for his keys.

  ‘A man like you,’ a bold, strong local voice said, heavy with sarcasm. ‘Driving when you’ve got strong drink inside you. Brigadier Haas. What are you thinking?’

  Sometimes the natives got heavy. They remembered him from when he was running the police here. Plenty of enemies. None with the guts to do much but wheedle and whine.

  ‘I’m thinking you’d better piss off home, chum,’ he said, still running through his pocket for the keys. ‘Before your life takes a nasty turn for the worse.’

  There were two of them, both in front of the car.

  Haas looked up and they came out of the darkness into the light cast by a car park lamp.

  ‘Tonny and Willy Kok,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t you two be tucked up in your cots by now? I know your old mum isn’t around to read you bedtime stories—’

  It was Tonny who was on him first. A big punch to the gut. Haas bent over, winded, scarcely able to believe it. No one had dared touch him in Volendam in years.

  ‘It’s other stories we want to hear, Mr Haas,’ Willy hissed in his ear. ‘We’ll give you a night to think it over.’

  Haas coughed, gasped for breath, wondered if he was going to retch.

  ‘What the—?’

  Tonny had him then, held him while his brother rifled his pockets for the car keys. A few more punches. He heard the boot fly open with a pop. Before he could shout or scream they’d belted him some more and thrown him inside.

  Ollie Haas was just finding his voice when the world turned black and close, became nothing more than a cramped compartment that smelled of dust and diesel.

  Then the engine started and they were moving God knows where.

  Two kilometres away Jaap Blom was packing his small travel case. His wife watched him, smoking a cigarette, a look of distaste on her narrow, lined face.

  ‘You’re really going to drive all the way to The Hague? You’ve been drinking, Jaap. Is that wise?’

  ‘Don’t have to stay in this house. Not when I’m not wanted. Don’t have to put up with you looking at me that way all the damned time.’

  She laughed and asked, ‘What way would that be?’

  His shirt was open and sweaty under the armpits. He came up and poked a finger at her face.

  ‘I’ve kept you. Paid for your life. Ten years. Ten miserable years. And what gratitude do I get?’

  ‘I’m still here, aren’t I? What more do you want?’

  ‘Let it go, Lotte. Just let it go. All that shit’s over and done with.’

  She stubbed the cigarette into a vase by the door.

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘We need to talk to lawyers,’ he grunted. ‘Can’t keep on with this. Not any more.’

  ‘Lawyers?’ She put a finger to her cheek. ‘That would be interesting. Whenever you like.’

  He swore at her then she opened the door and he lurched out into the dark warm night.

  The black Mercedes coupé was kept in a lockup on the far side of the canal. It was the nearest parking space he could find in this cramped, genteel corner of Edam.

  He marched across the iron bridge still cursing. When he got to the garage a filthy Datsun pickup was parked across the entrance blocking his way. Someone was in the cab listening to music on the radio. Old music. The Cupids.

  Blom swore, went to the door and yanked it open.

  ‘Just move this piece of junk, will you? I’ve got places to go.’

  No answer but the music did get turned down. A big man climbed out and stood by the driver’s door. A beard he didn’t recognize, almost hiding a face he did.

  ‘Jaap,’ Frans Lambert said. ‘Been a long time.’

  Across the water he could see the back of his house. Beyond the summer house and the palms the lights were still on in the kitchen.

  ‘Get in, please. We need to go somewhere and talk.’

  Blom laughed.

  ‘Ten years since you ran away. And now you’re back? Telling me what to do?’

  He moved closer and said, ‘Just get in, will you?’

  Blom jerked out his arm and pushed him hard in the chest. Lambert stumbled against the Datsun, cursing. He was taller, stronger maybe. But Blom had always been the boss. He’d beaten him to a pulp when he was a mouthy kid, good at the drums, lousy at everything else. Things hadn’t changed so much.

  Lambert was coming back for more. A single, hard punch to the stomach stopped him, left him winded and gasping for breath.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ Blom yelled, getting mad, feeling aggrieved. ‘Did you start all this crap? The police. Marken. For Christ’s sak
e . . .’

  ‘I didn’t do anything,’ Lambert moaned. ‘None of us. Not me. Not Rogier. Not Gert. Just—’

  Blom brought up his knee and caught the crouching figure hard in the gut. Lambert went down.

  ‘You pathetic worm. Get the hell out of here. Crawl back to whatever shithole you came from.’

  The figure in black lurched towards the pickup’s cab.

  ‘I don’t want to see your face round here again,’ Blom spat. ‘Don’t ever . . .’

  He felt something cold then, hard against his neck. Heard a trigger cocked. A gun against his neck. Soft and certain breathing behind. There were two of them.

  Lambert got to his feet. Courage found. By someone else.

  He jerked back his arm. Big fist. Strong man. It was just that most of that strength went into stupid things like yoga and tai chi and other such crap.

  ‘Think about this,’ Blom mumbled. ‘Just think . . .’

  The punch was hard and cruel. He was half-conscious as they dragged him into the pickup. Gone completely when a second blow came to keep him quiet.

  94

  They didn’t leave the Drie Vaten until three that Saturday morning. Even then Vos and his colleagues had only dealt with a fraction of the information Henk Veerman had left stored in a cloud folder for all the world to see . . . if they had the right address.

  By that stage they were exhausted. Depressed. And full of anticipation. From the hours spent going through the files it was clear they could prove the basis of an extended investigation. Most of the information was old, pre-dating the death of Maria Koops, which appeared to mark a significant turning point in the Marken story. But a decade wasn’t distant history. Vos felt sure there was enough promising material here to raise the prospect of conviction for anyone connected still alive. Photos. Names. Lists of visitors to the institution, politicians, people from the media and entertainment world, local councils, the police. The guilty liked to hide behind the innocent. It was inconceivable that every individual named in the records turned their visits into nights at the cabin called the Flamingo Club. But there was sufficient smoke to convince Vos he could make this case catch fire with some effort, a spot of luck and support from on high.

  The key would be persuading the victims to talk and that was never easy. A good number would have been released already. From previous experience he knew how difficult it was to persuade the victims of historic sex crimes to reopen their wounds. For former inmates of an institution like Marken, frightened of another engagement with the legal system, it could be even harder. Others, like Kaatje Lammers, might be seen as unreliable witnesses, vindictive, inconsistent and proven liars. His best bet could be the Timmers sisters themselves.

  It was obvious there’d been systematic abuse over an extended period. Perhaps even murder. The case to come might turn into one of the most protracted and difficult the department had faced in years. Marnixstraat would, for one thing, have to prise responsibility for the investigation from the ministry’s own team now looking into Marken as if it were simply a case of institutional failure. Finding Kim and Mia Timmers and persuading them to talk had to be the first step.

  In such situations a single false move early on could so easily scupper criminal charges months or years down the line. He needed legal advice, specialists, a detailed, reliable game plan to take the case forward. And all he possessed was a massive stack of leaked material, some of it the police’s own, illicitly deleted to keep the incriminating information out of the hands of those who might use it.

  Vos returned to his houseboat and watched Sam fall sleepily into his dog bed in the cabin aware he was terribly out of his depth. In the normal way of things he would have simply taken what he had to De Groot, asked for advisers to be assigned to the investigation, and followed their expert counsel to wherever the evidence led.

  Now he felt stranded. Lost.

  His head swimming with images of Waterland – endless green fields, dykes full of dark water where thick weed hid what lay below – he fell below the duvet. The next thing he knew his phone was ringing. Bright sunlight streamed through the houseboat’s thin curtains. Ducks were quacking outside. Sam got up from his bed, yawned then ambled to the cabin door and started pawing at it.

  Still in pyjamas Vos let him out, picking up the phone along the way.

  ‘Pieter. Are you OK?’

  It was De Groot and he sounded worried.

  ‘Of course.’ Sam had developed a habit of peeing off the side of the gangplank. Vos was torn over whether this was a good idea or one more offence to get him into trouble with the authorities, already cross with the ruinous state of the boat. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Last night—’

  ‘Last night we had a candid talk. It’s done with.’

  Silence, then De Groot took a deep breath and said, ‘I’m glad to hear it. Something’s up.’

  Vos listened to his rapid explanation. De Groot had phoned Haas first thing. There was no reply. When he sent a patrol car round to the house they found it empty.

  ‘Why did you call him, Frank?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter now. His car’s been outside a bar in town since last night. I can’t raise Blom either. There’s no answer from his place in Edam.’

  Vos was wondering what to say about the stash of leaks from Veerman. Nothing seemed best.

  ‘Perhaps they’ve gone on holiday together.’

  ‘This isn’t funny. If those two girls believe Haas and Blom were responsible for their family’s murder they could be prime targets. I really don’t want any more blood on our hands. Nor do you.’

  Sam wandered down the gangplank and looked up at him, hunger written on his inquisitive face.

  ‘Why would they think that?’

  ‘Jesus! Will you stop being obtuse? The officer responsible for the case is missing. So’s the man who was managing The Cupids at the time. I want them found. I want those girls back inside where they belong.’

  ‘So you said. I need Aisha Refai. Snyder won’t want her.’

  ‘Done,’ De Groot said.

  ‘On it,’ Vos told him and that was that.

  Ten minutes later he took Sam over to the bar and picked up a coffee on the way to the office.

  They were there already, three of them around the desk.

  ‘So I gather we’re looking for four people now?’ Van der Berg said. ‘Not two?’

  ‘Sounds like it,’ Vos agreed as he scanned through the morning reports. ‘Dirk. Aisha. You two stay here. I’ve got some things I need you to check. Laura. Get us a car.’

  95

  They spent the night gagged, hands tied in a dusty shed that smelled of diesel and chemicals. At dawn a single cock crowed and then came the sound of chickens clucking busily. Animals were lowing somewhere, birds squawking. There was a distant buzz of traffic from time to time.

  Haas kept mumbling through the rag around his mouth. He had scared eyes and struggled to piss in the corner once during the night. Jaap Blom checked his bonds, knew he couldn’t shift them. Then crouched down by the corrugated iron wall to wait.

  There’d been a few arguments with the Amsterdam gangs when The Cupids were starting to make money. Once one of the hood outfits had done this to him. Money sorted everything as usual. Another time he’d done the same to a rival band manager who’d had the temerity to think he could tempt the band from him.

  Plenty of stupid people in the world. Plenty of cowards too. He had both with him in that tiny, rusty cell.

  They waited. A long time he thought. Then in a sudden rush the door opened and three men came in, grabbed them, bundled them into a bigger space where straw flecks hovered in the hot light air, bound them to a couple of seats in the centre then went away.

  It was a stage of a kind, Blom guessed. They wanted a performance.

  If that was the case he’d give it to them.

  When they came back it was Frans Lambert who removed their gags. Haas’s first and he just shook and b
egged. All the idiotic pleading phrases. The man was too dumb to realize: they wanted something and wouldn’t stop until they got it.

  Lambert came and untied the gag round Blom’s mouth. Jaap Blom looked up, grinned and said cheerfully, ‘Frans! You never gave me the chance to say it last night. But you’re looking good. Aged well.’ A pause. All that time doing nothing out in nowhere I guess. Money gone now, has it?’

  They were in a barn, the roof old and full of holes. Morning sunlight was working through the rusty gaps, casting shafts of yellow across the dusty interior. It was hard to work out how many people were there. They were just shapes in the shadows.

  Lambert was still tall and muscular, still wore black jeans, black T-shirt. His hair was shorter, going grey in places and there was a new, heavy beard, bold and thick enough to fool people who didn’t know him well.

  He bent down in front of the two tethered men.

  ‘Funny, Jaap. Any more jokes?’

  Something swished through the air. It took a moment for Blom to realize what it was. A baseball bat in Lambert’s strong hands.

  And you’ve taken up sport too. It’s good that a man should look after himself—’

  ‘Shut up!’ Ollie Haas shrieked. ‘For God’s sake, Jaap—’

  The man in black pulled both arms back then beat the club through the air so close to Ollie Haas’s face he must have felt the sweep as it raced past. The old cop whimpered and fell silent.

  ‘This cretin may be a sad bastard who lives on his own,’ Blom said. ‘I’m not. I’ve got a wife. An office in The Hague that’s waiting for me.’ He looked up at Lambert. ‘Whatever nonsense this is, Frans, it’s a waste of time. You’ll go to jail. When they find out—’

  Movement in the shadows, figures entering the light. One there that made his heart sink and his voice fall silent.

  Lotte Blom came and stood next to the drummer then took his arm. She had the look of victory on her. That hadn’t been around for a while.