by Mark Hobson
Pieter felt his head sag down onto the cold earth of the dyke, all the strength going out of him.
“I’ll meet you by the entrance,” Dyatlov added, and signed off.
They crossed over the narrow wooden footbridge and went towards where a vehicle track swept through the entrance gates into the gravel yard, close to the propane tank. Dyatlov led him over to the smashed-in front door, which had come off its hinges. The men of the assault team were loitering about, smoking cigarettes and joking as they came down from the adrenaline high, and Pieter avoided eye contact with them.
He’d been so sure. So sure that they would find Nina.
Inside, the place was quiet and calm. A hush had descended, and it was cold, as though the bungalow had not been heated for some time.
They stepped into the kitchen. There was a large table in the centre, with places set for three people: plates, knives and forks, glasses filled with curdled, smelly milk, chairs tucked under the table. Everything was neat and tidy but covered with a thin coating of dust. There were cobwebs strung around the lampshade. It looked like nobody had been here for quite a while.
“We found this on the table.”
Dyatlov thrust a newspaper into his hands.
It was dated from May of that year, and the headline on the front read: MASSACRE AT WEEPING TOWER.
There was a large photo of the spring atrocity emblazoned over the cover.
In the bottom corner, a second image, this one a tiny grainy picture of himself at the crime scene, snapped by a member of the press.
Someone had drawn a ring around it in black felt-tip.
Tobias roughly manhandled her back down into the basement, his heavy boots stomping down the steps, and when she realized where he was taking her, Nina screamed and kicked and fought even more, her terror peaking.
Reaching down with his spare arm, he pulled open the hinged door of the tiny cage in the space below the stairs and pushed her inside, forcing her through the small opening.
Nina thought she was about to hyperventilate but she managed to crawl to the far end and cowered there, hiding her face behind her hands as he slammed the door and snapped the padlock shut.
Through the gaps between her fingers, she saw his contorted face scowling at her through the wire-mesh. Then he turned and walked away.
Several minutes went by.
She heard a metallic scraping noise from the room above, and then his footsteps on the stairs again, and when he stepped back into view Nina saw he was wearing the brown boiler suit and the welder’s hood. He was dragging a long and heavy welder’s gas tank across the floor, and she watched in terror as, without speaking, he lit the nozzle.
Shaking and gasping, she pressed herself as far back as she could to avoid the shower of white-hot sparks as he set to work.
Tobias sealed the cage door shut, welding her into her tiny prison.
Chapter 16
The Hit
During the Golden Age Holland dominated the maritime trade. Money flowed into the country, helping to pay for the huge expansion of Amsterdam’s canal network from the inner canal ring within the protective arms of the rivers Singel and Amstel, to the marshy lands to the east and west, pushing out the city beyond the original sea dikes and city gates. As more land was drained and reclaimed from the sea, new districts grew. Plantage and Oost, Marken and the swampy Vondel, the Jewish quarter in The Jordaan and the majestic sweep of the Keizersgracht and Prinsengracht canals.
To deal with the increase in trade new wharves and warehouses were constructed, and the Damrak, a broad and deep inlet from the river IJ, which allowed boats to sail right into the heart of the city and disgorge their contents onto Dam Square itself, was filled in. This meant ships sailed a mile or so further west and emptied their holds just beyond the outer suburbs. Here the cargoes were weighed and taxes were paid before the goods were transported through the new city gates to the markets on the Dam and Nieuwmarkt.
This area of docks and quaysides later became known as the Western Islands, a somewhat fancy name for a series of jetties held upright by thousands of wooden piles driven deep into the soggy ground. For a hundred years or so the area flourished. But with further expansion of Amsterdam, mostly to the east along the banks of the IJ and where newer and even bigger docks sprung up, the Western Islands slowly went into a steady decline. The wharves and warehouses emptied and the once busy streets and canals fell quiet. People moved out and the place was left to rot, forgotten and neglected.
This remained the case until well into the twentieth century, and only during the 1990’s did the area receive a huge cash injection, and with it a new lease of life and a new identity. The old warehouses became fancy bistros or art galleries, the canals were cleaned up and lined with parks and expensive apartments. Young people with lots of money moved in and the Western Islands were transformed. And all within a ten-minute walk of Centraal Station. It was now a much-sought-after neighbourhood.
Mostly.
There is always one exception.
Today Bickersgracht is still a narrow and cobbled lane lined with old and disused gas lampposts, running north to south on the centre of the three islands. The southern stretch of the lane is reasonably pleasant: between the road and the parallel canal, there is a children’s play area, a small urban petting farm with pigs and goats and rabbits, and next door an ice-cream parlour. But as the lane pushes north it becomes seedier. Large trees overshadow the cobbled snicket, and here there are several abandoned allotments, which have been allowed to grow wild with thick brambles and nets covered in dead runner beans, there are vandalized huts, and the ground is covered in drug paraphernalia and used condoms and empty beer bottles. Even during the daytime in the middle of summer, it is dark and creepy, not the kind of place mentioned by the tourist board. In the middle of winter, with leaden skies overhead and a blizzard blowing, it is miserable and cold and damp and ugly.
The NV Damen Boat Yard fronted onto this wild and overgrown stretch of canal bank. Like the allotments themselves, it was an eyesore, full of rusty hulls with holes in their keels, the water covered in scum and oil leaks, the concrete quay piled high with wooden crates, empty gas canisters and huge pieces of iron cut into segments by the ship breakers who worked here. There were rats running around, and an old mangy-looking guard dog that spent most of the time asleep in its kennel. Its owner, and the boss of the boatyard, had a portacabin with a nice heater turned up to full, and he very seldom came out to lend a hand.
Not that there was much to do. His business, a small-fry affair clinging on to the past in an industry mostly gone from modern-day Amsterdam, only employed three other people, and all on a part-time basis. They would come in a few days a week whenever there was enough work, to earn a meagre living doing hard, manual labour, and get paid cash-in-hand at the end of each shift.
One of those who worked here was Tobias Vinke.
With his short and stocky frame, he was well suited to the job. He was strong, could work all day long with barely a break, he hardly spoke a word to the others or tried to make friends, and never complained.
His boss preferred it that way. Even if he secretly thought Tobias was a bit of an oddball, a retard and a loner with no girlfriend.
Not that he ever said this to his face of course.
On the Monday morning Tobias turned up for work as normal. As usual, he’d left his van on the north side of the IJ and caught the foot-passenger ferry across the broad river, and then slogged the ten-minute walk to NV Damen through the heavy snow, doing everything as he always did to avoid drawing any suspicion. Changing his routine would only arouse unwanted attention.
He’d left the house early that morning.
After dragging the girl back down into the basement and throwing her into the cage as punishment for trying to leave him, Tobias had spent the rest of the previous day upstairs. And likewise this morning, he had not been down to see her. She could go today without any food, he decided. To teach her a prop
er lesson, he concluded.
His face still hurt like hell from the scalding hot coffee she had thrown at him, and he had slathered a load of antiseptic cream onto the patchy, red skin, drawing strange looks from the other passengers on the ferry.
Walking down the overgrown path that cut through the allotments, he passed through the gate, mumbling a hello to the dog on his way, and turned towards the dry dock and the large freight barge that he was in the process of working on, his boiler suit and hood in a large canvas bag slung over his shoulder.
Just then a voice called out, causing him to pause mid-stride.
“Hey, Tobias, what you done to your face? You been whacking off again?”
Tobias glanced back over his shoulder.
His boss was standing in the doorway of his portacabin, guffawing at his own joke.
Glowering hard for a few seconds, Tobias turned away and walked on.
Hiding in the brambles and undergrowth of the allotments, Pieter watched the short face-off between the two men, holding his breath as he waited to see what happened. Luckily Vinke didn’t rise to the bait, and Pieter relaxed once more, sinking back down onto his knees.
After yesterday’s shambles and the raid on the empty bungalow – their investigations were still trying to establish whether or not it may have once belonged to Tobias Vinke – Pieter had concluded the best lead they had was the suspect’s place of work. Given the go-ahead from Huijbers, he had arranged a stakeout, to watch and wait for Vinke to put in an appearance.
To be absolutely sure there would be no more cock-ups Pieter had four other men in position. One was hiding nearby in the allotments, another was at the south entrance to Bickersgracht, standing in a doorway and smoking a cigarette, and the other two members of the team were across on the far side of the canal, should their target use the short bridge leading over there.
Their instructions were clear. They were not to apprehend their man under any circumstances unless there was a clear threat to the public’s safety. They weren’t here to arrest him. They were here to trail him. To follow him in the hope that he would lead them to wherever he was holding Nina - back to his lair.
Until Vinke had turned up just now, Pieter was worried that this would end up being yet another pointless exercise. But much to his relief, this part of the information provided to him by Saskia Vinke had turned out to be accurate, and seeing him come slugging through the snow just now left Pieter with a mixed feeling of satisfaction and unease. For the first time, he looked at the person he was now convinced was the twisted killer and kidnapper they were hunting.
Pieter settled in to wait. They could be in for a long and cold day.
◆◆◆
Lotte watched as her Uncle broke the sniper’s rifle down into its component parts and stored each piece into its allotted pockets in the specially designed gun carryall. He zipped it up and then placed a Walter P5 handgun into one of the side pockets. This was his personal sidearm for self-defence should the operation go wrong, which he seemed confident would not happen.
Nevertheless, Lotte was nervous, which was unusual for her.
She’d waited a long time for this. The prospect of revenge, to seek retribution, was making her jumpy and skittish.
Johan glanced across the study at her, a faint smile playing on his lips.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, seeming to pick up on her anxiety.
“Nothing,” she responded, a little too quickly.
Her Uncle gave a tiny shake of his head, but said nothing back.
Glancing at the time, she told him: “You’d best get going, while I make the call. You know what to do?”
He looked at her, his expression saying seriously?
“Sorry,” she apologized.
She waited as he quietly slipped outside, closing the door after himself. Her eyes followed him through the leaded window as he trudged through the snow covering the ancient courtyard, where the Virgin Mary more and more resembled a snowman. When he passed from sight she pulled her phone from her jeans and opened her contacts list, tapping one of the names.
A little after noon and Tobias felt his phone buzzing. It was in the front pocket of his boiler suit, and to answer it he had to first switch off his blowtorch, remove his hood and pull off one of his thick gloves with his teeth.
He stared long and hard at the screen, the name of the caller once again making him feel queasy.
He’d been expecting this call for several days now, he knew exactly what it was about, the instructions he was about to receive. Tobias felt himself stumble and he quickly walked around the stern of the barge so that he was out of sight of the portacabin, and he leaned his forehead against the steel hull, his body breaking out in a cold sweat.
The phone rang and rang.
He didn’t answer, and after a minute the call stopped.
A few seconds later and it started up again, seeming to buzz louder with each ring.
Tobias walked over to the edge of the canal, brought his arm back, and threw the mobile phone with all of his strength out into the middle of the channel, where it made a loud splash.
He stood there in silence, looking out across the city, but not really seeing the buildings and warehouses and trees. In his mind’s eye all he could see was the girl, alone in the basement and imprisoned in the cage.
Oh God, what had he been thinking? he thought to himself. Why had he done that to her? His beautiful daughter?
He quickly made a decision. He must get back to her.
They must leave, and find a new home far, far away. Where nobody knew them. Where Lotte could not find them - just the two of them.
Tobias hurriedly packed up his gear, removing the boiler suit and ramming it and the welder’s hood back into his bag. Then he dashed through the boatyard, ignoring the shouts from his boss, and out of the gates.
Head tucked into the falling snow, he set off back.
Pieter had seen the strange little episode unfold, watching as Vinke threw the phone into the canal, and he made a mental note to have the water dragged; it was imperative that they retrieve that phone.
Then Vinke was heading in his direction, the path he was taking through the allotments passing just a few metres from his hiding spot, and he kept as still as possible and prayed that he wouldn’t spot him lurking in the undergrowth.
Pieter breathed a quiet sigh of relief as the hulking form swept by and out onto the cobbled lane.
Reaching into the deep pocket of his coat, he brought out a walkie-talkie and lifted it to his lips.
“Target is on the move. K Team, four-man track, two by two. Maintain visual contact but do not, repeat do not apprehend. Out.”
Waiting for thirty seconds to give Vinke a head start, Pieter slowly came to his feet and stepped out of the allotments and turned right onto Bickersgracht. Vinke was already halfway along the lane and Pieter shuffled along in his wake, his head pointing down but his eyes raised to keep watch on their quarry from under the brim of his beanie hat.
Further along, the familiar figure of one of his colleagues appeared, and likewise turned and followed Vinke, the two undercover police officers seemingly not together, but maintaining their own distance from each other, looking all the world like two regular blokes walking home through the heavy snow.
Elsewhere, Pieter knew the two other members of K Team across the canal would be hurriedly getting into their beat-up old car and hightailing it onto busy Lange Eilandsgracht to join the pursuit on the far side of the railway tracks that dissected this area from the rest of Amsterdam, and which Vinke would soon be crossing.
Sure enough, at the south end of Bickersgracht, Vinke swung over to the underpass that took him below the raised railway tracks, then turned left to follow the line of viaducts all the way down to the bridge over the water inlet that fed into Prinsengracht canal, before picking up the riverside path there. In the distance, Pieter saw the tall Ibis Hotel and the grand Centraal Station building.
The road th
at ran parallel to the path was quieter here as most traffic heading towards the station came from the opposite direction. There were a few buses parked up near the long River Cruise boats moored here, and just an old green Cortina gliding along, belching smoke and playing loud music – inside, the two men from K Team.
They drove past Vinke and turned right. As was standard procedure while trailing a suspect, they would park up and get out, and head down a side street to merge casually back into the game of cat and mouse, with Vinke all the while being unaware he was under surveillance.
Was he making for the train station? Pieter wondered. From there he could be heading to anywhere in the country, even beyond Holland’s borders. What’s more the packed-out concourse would be thronging with thousands of commuters, which worried him. Should Vinke latch on to the fact that he was being followed, and if things turned violent, it would potentially put the lives of members of the public at great risk.
Just then his walkie-talkie clicked and a grating voice came over the frequency.
“Target is turning left, away from the station. Making for the ferry terminal.”
He was heading north over the river.
Johan Roost decided the best vantage point to carry out the hit was up on the roof of Centraal Station. From there he would have a clear view of the surrounding area, even as far as the north bank of the river.
Getting up there was a piece of piss.
The Ibis Hotel was positioned right up alongside the train station. There was even a glass walkway over the railway lines. All he’d had to do was book a room a few days ago and turn up like any other guest, and use his door key card to operate the elevator. Walking out through the sliding doors on the fourth floor, he lingered by the glass wall, ostensibly admiring the stunning views over the city until the coast was clear.
Then he hurried across the walkway and paused where there was an emergency exit leading out onto the metal fire-escape, removed a pair of rubber-handled pliers from his breast pocket, and cut the wire that would trigger the door alarm. Pushing the horizontal bar the door popped open, and he passed outside onto the metal gantry, closed the door behind him, and then started to climb up the stairs of the fire-escape.
