A State Of Sin Amsterdam Occult Series Book Two

by Mark Hobson

  A short time later and they arrived at the spot, and Tobias again set to work.

  By now his arms and his back were aching, but he daren’t complain otherwise he might get an earful of abuse, and so he pulled and lifted, using the hook and his hands.

  As he was unfastening the rope on the final pot, which contained a pair of huge lobsters he saw, his gloved fingers slipped and the line unravelled and snaked out of his hands, and with a loud splash, the pot fell back into the water and floated away.

  Tobias froze.

  He hunkered down, knowing what was coming. But when his father’s angry shout came it still scared the life out of him.

  “What the hell have you done, you fucking retard?”

  “I’m s-sorry d-d-dad,” he stammered. “It was an a-accident.”

  Without warning, his father lunged out of his seat and hit him hard around the side of his head with his clenched hand.

  Tobias yelped from shock and pain, which infuriated his father even more, who snarled and struck him again.

  “Please dad, I didn’t m-mean to do it.”

  “Little prick!” His father breathed heavily, fighting to regain his composure. “There were two in that one, and a fine size too. You useless idiot.”

  Tobias started to cry quietly.

  “Stop snivelling. Wipe your nose and go and get it.”

  “But-“

  “I – said – go – and –get –it,” he repeated, saying each word slowly.

  Tobias looked over the water to where the lobster pot was floating, just ten or twelve feet away.

  “I can reach it with the hook. If we went a bit closer.”

  “Don’t you answer back you whelp! Get yourself over the side into the water, and bring it back. Quickly, before it floats too far away. That way it will teach you a lesson not to be so clumsy next time.”

  “I can’t swim dad, please.”

  His father glared back and then looked around the boat. Bending forward he reached for the mooring line coiled at his feet and threw it at Tobias.

  “Tie this around your waist then. That way you won’t sink down too deeply.” He fastened the other end to a brass eyelet on the gunwale.

  Tobias looped the rope around his middle and tied a knot, his whole body shaking, and when he looked again out over the water the thought of slipping over the side of the boat set his teeth chattering. Waves slapped at the hull, rocking the small fishing vessel.

  “What are you waiting for?” With that, his father pushed him hard and Tobias toppled headfirst into the sea.

  The water was freezing cold and he came up spluttering and gasping for air, and when his thin body started to sink below the surface once more he felt himself panic. He lashed out with his arms, which splashed water into the boat and over his father.

  “Use your legs! Kick with your legs! You kept saying you wanted to learn how to swim, well now’s your chance.”

  Tobias saw him lift the fishing pole and reach towards him with it, and for a fleeting moment he thought he was trying to help him back to the boat. Instead, he used the end of it to propel him even further away, out towards the lobster pot.

  “Grab the damn thing then!”

  Tobias somehow flung himself at the square pot and the orange buoy and he clung to them in relief, using them to keep himself afloat. On the boat, his father was laughing, enjoying the spectacle.

  Tobias turned back. The small motor-launch seemed so far away, even though in reality it was only a few boat-lengths. Below him, he could sense the black depths of the water.

  “Bring it back over. Push it in front of you and use your legs to swim. Get a move on now!”

  Heaving the pot around, and also keeping a grip on the buoy, Tobias splashed and gasped his way back over, and when he was close enough his father grabbed a hold and lifted it on board, his eyes looking greedily at the pair of lobsters inside.

  Tobias held out his hand. He was too weak to climb on board without help.

  Meeting his gaze, Tobias’ father slowly shook his head.

  “Can’t do that son. The boat has too shallow a draft. You’ll tip us over if I pull you in.”

  “But dad… I need help…I’m sinking…” he gasped.

  “Rubbish! Don’t talk nonsense.” He cackled with more laughter. “But don’t worry, we’ll get you back home. Maybe not in one piece if the crabs bite you, but we’ll get you there somehow!”

  Tobias watched as he spun away and tugged the pull-cord on the outboard motor and the engine roared to life, and he dipped the propeller into the sea and suddenly the rope tied to Tobias was yanked taut and away they went, his father steering them towards home and his son hauled violently through the sea on the end of the line.

  The waves slapped him painfully on the stomach as he skimmed over the surface of the water and his face was pulled under so that seawater poured up his nostrils and into his eyes and mouth, and Tobias craned his neck sideways so that his face lifted clear. He coughed and spat out the water, choking and crying and pleading for his father to stop, but to no avail. Instead his old man gave him a cheery wave and increased their speed.

  The nightmare went on seemingly forever with Tobias barely able to remain conscious. His gloves disappeared at some stage and within minutes his bare hands and face were covered in tiny lacerations from the continuous impact of the waves, and by the time they finally, mercifully reached the shore he could barely move as his limp body washed up onto the pebble beach.

  From somewhere he dimly heard footsteps crunching their way towards him, and then a pair of huge hands were reaching down and lifting him up, and Tobias felt himself being slung over his father’s shoulder. He was carried away from the boat, his father whistling another silly tune without a care in the world.

  He kept drifting in and out of sleep so weak was he, but Tobias managed to open his eyes and was just able to register that they were heading down the dirt track, going past the three-barred gate leading to their yard. Instead, they were making for the old junkyard, the place where his father tinkered around with his old cars and boats, the place full of rusted scrap metal and engine parts.

  Up the sloping, muddy grass they went, Tobias too tired to resist or even protest.

  Just ahead was a flat river barge that had been hauled up out of the water. Father spent his spare time trying to fix it up and make it sea-worthy again, and sometimes he allowed Tobias to help out after school, to even use the welding gear if he asked nicely. But he sensed that today they were going there for a very different reason.

  Up onto the deck, the sound of boots on the steel hull reverberating dully.

  A loud scraping, then the noise of old hinges protesting loudly and Tobias watched as a heavy hatch was pulled open to reveal the dark and hollow interior of the barge’s hold.

  He felt himself pushed roughly through the opening, and only now when he realized what was happening did Tobias find the strength to struggle and fight back.

  “No, please dad, I’m sorry.”

  His father ignored him and pushed him away, easily brushing off Tobias’ hands.

  There was more scraping of boots on metal, then the hatch was slammed shut with a ringing boom, and the pitch blackness closed over Tobias.

  For a moment there was near-total silence except for his own tiny, shaky breathing.

  Then he heard a sound. A quiet scuffling nearby, from somewhere in the total, all-consuming dark.

  Sitting and hugging himself, shivering from cold and terror, Tobias listened as the rats crept closer.

  Pieter needed some fresh air.

  He thanked Saskia and hurried outside, where he stood on the pavement and sucked in several great lungfuls of air to clear his mind.

  Jesus, he thought to himself.

  Next, he drove back to the boatyard on Bickersgracht where Tobias Vinke worked.

  Throughout the previous afternoon following the shooting, the site had been thoroughly searched by teams of officers, and police divers from
the harbour unit had fished out the mobile phone from the canal. But when Pieter arrived after lunch on Tuesday he found the place quiet and the gates chained up and it took five minutes of shouting and rattling the padlock to get anyone’s attention. Finally the portacabin door swung open and the owner, a fat man with more hair up his nostrils than he had on his head, came shambling across, scratching at his stomach where it poked out below his sweater. Pieter saw that he also had very few teeth, probably as a result of smoking too much weed or drinking too many sugary drinks.

  He had to show his police warrant card to get him to open up, and even then he did so reluctantly, mumbling under his breath as he dragged one half of the gates open.

  He led Pieter to the portacabin.

  The mangy dog – who was called Otis – made a token gesture at snarling as Pieter walked by, but it was too old and tired to do much more and it slinked back into its kennel to chew on an old rubber bone.

  The inside of the cabin was stifling hot. The small heater was turned up to max and all of the windows were shut. On the desk was a laptop playing a clip from a porn movie. The fat owner turned the screen away, but he didn’t bother to hit the mute button, and so their conversation was conducted to the accompaniment of moaning and groaning.

  Pieter got straight down to it, asking about Tobias Vinke and what the man knew about him.

  “He was one of life’s losers,” he replied bluntly, nodding at his own analysis. “Yes, one of life’s losers.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He just was. Some people are like that, they get what they deserve. They attract attention by simply being odd. They spend their whole lives being the butt of the joke, an easy target, and they do nothing to stand up for themselves.”

  “And that’s how it was for Mr Vinke, was it?” Pieter tried to catch the other man’s shifty eyes, but they moved about so much that it proved impossible. “You gave him a hard time did you?”

  “Woah, not just me! Everybody did.”

  Like that made it alright, thought Pieter.

  “What was he like as an employee?”

  The fat man shrugged. He tapped at the keyboard on the laptop, his beady eyes like tiny gimlets as they now watched the movie clip.

  “He was okay, I guess. He got on with his job. Give him a task to do and he’d do it all day without a murmur. I can’t complain on that score, I admit. Can’t complain.”

  “How long had he worked for you?”

  He shrugged. “A couple of years maybe. Not too sure.”

  “Can you check your files for me? I need an address.”

  “Files?” He looked around the tiny cabin and laughed. “This isn’t the kind of business that keeps files. I pay cash-in-hand for a few hours work here and there, whenever I need a hand.”

  “That kind of business eh?” Pieter remarked.

  From the laptop came the sound of a braying donkey.

  “If I ever needed Vinke I would just text him, and tell him to get his backside down here. And a couple of hours later he would show up.”

  A couple of hours? Pieter made a mental note.

  “What about the other men who work here?”

  “What of them?”

  “How did they get on with Mr Vinke?”

  A sly smile appeared on the man’s podgy face and he gave a tiny shake of his head. “Nobody got on well with Vinke. Like I told you, he was odd. Mind you, after what they did to him once, I don’t blame him for not being very pally. Don’t blame him at all.”

  He chuckled quietly.

  “I’m waiting.”

  Pieter thought he might be a little reticent about spilling the beans, especially if whatever had happened amounted to harassment, but to his surprise the owner of the boatyard seemed willing, even eager, to tell him.

  “It was meant to be a joke. The boys just wanted a giggle that’s all, to blow off a bit of steam. Anyway, they waited for Vinke to turn up for work one day, and when he came strolling through the gates - a couple of summers ago this was, before his daughter died before you have a go - well as soon as he arrived, the boys jumped him see, and they bundled him across to the quayside. He was screaming and hollering but it made no difference ‘cause they dragged him over and shoved him into one of those oil drums you can see there.”

  Pieter turned to glance through one of the tiny windows, seeing a row of drums lined up alongside the canal.

  “They pushed him inside and they screwed the lid on.”

  Pieter spun back. The other man was trying to stifle a laugh.

  “What did you do?” he asked.

  “Not much. It was just a joke, man,” he repeated.

  “So then what? They just left him in there for a bit?”

  “Nah! Where’s the fun in that? They tipped it over and rolled him around the place, backwards and forwards. He had a fair old ride around in that thing. The boys wanted to roll him right into the water but I put a stop to that, you’ll be glad to hear.”

  “I bet you felt all warm and fuzzy inside afterwards.”

  He leaned his fat face across the desk top, making brief eye contact for the first time.

  “Do you know what, officer? I damn well wished I’d let them. Knowing what a psycho he’d turn out to be it would have been for the best. For that poor little lassie he took, and for her folks. They’d all still be alive and well today. I’ve been torn up about it ever since.”

  The smirk on his face said otherwise.

  “Hey, but the funniest part of all, when he was inside that old oil drum getting wheeled around the yard, he wasn’t by himself in there. The boys, get this, the boys had put half a dozen rats in there first. Huge buggers they were. Huge!”

  He rocked back and forth, laughing so much his stomach quivered.

  “Some people have no sense of humour.”

  Chapter 19

  A Winter’s Night

  On his way back to the hospital to catch up with Kaatje’s progress he decided to swing by his house to pick up a few things for her.

  He turned down the cobbled street alongside the canal, thinking back over the meetings with Saskia Vinke and Tobias Vinkes’ boss and the events they had related to him. Horrible though they were, their recollections didn’t provide any clues as to Nina Bakker’s current whereabouts, and Pieter felt his frustration rising. Their investigation was in danger of grinding to a halt; it felt like they were constantly playing catch-up.

  He drew up near the front door and climbed out of his car, and skipped up the steps. He was just turning the key in the lock when something made him stop, and he turned back around.

  That hire car was still parked up opposite his house.

  He’d first noticed it several days ago, and although he hadn’t paid it too much attention since then, now that he thought back over the past few days he was fairly certain that it hadn’t moved in the intervening time.

  He nearly dismissed the quandary from his mind.

  He was in a hurry, and so what if someone had hired a car for several days? Perhaps it was one of his neighbours, or maybe it had been stolen and abandoned here. Hardly a priority.

  But something about it tugged at his mind, and so Pieter moved back down the steps and wandered over the street.

  It had been parked on the canal-side of the road with two of its wheels up on the pavement, which was slightly odd as everybody else parked right outside their houses or, like in his case, in the garages.

  The car had tinted windows and so he leaned close and cupped his hand to the glass and peered in through the front passenger window.

  He couldn’t make an awful lot out except what appeared to be a small, square aluminium case on the seat. Its lid was open but because it was angled away from his direct line-of-sight he couldn’t see what was inside, so he moved around the car and looked through the driver’s side.

  Now he could see there was a laptop inside the case, hooked up to a gadget bristling with a number of tiny antennae, and coloured lights and numbers
flickered across the screen lighting up the car’s interior.

  Pieter stood upright and stepped back from the window.

  He knew instantly what it was, and this made him glance nervously up and down the quiet street in alarm.

  An IMSI-catcher, used by criminals – and sometimes by the police – to eavesdrop in on people’s mobile phone calls and read their text messages.

  Pieter bent forward for a better look. It was a top-of-the-range model, not one of the cheap ones available online for a couple of hundred euros, and it must have some kind of remote function to allow it to be left here unmanned. Left here right outside his house.

  He considered calling it in to HQ. Then he decided he was tired of doing things by the book.

  Looking around, he bent over and scooped up a loose cobble from the roadway with his gloved hands. To lessen the noise he quickly took off his coat and wrapped the stone in it, hoping none of his neighbours would see him standing in the street, shoulder holster visible, breaking into someone’s car.

  He didn’t strike at the glass. That would attract too much attention. Instead, and remembering a technique shown to him once by a lowlife car thief several years ago, he struck at the door’s side panel near the hinges, just about where the internal window gear pivot should be. If done correctly it should loosen the pivot arm.

  With a dull thud, the driver’s window dropped down an inch or so. Tossing away the stone and putting his coat back on, Pieter shoved his gloved fingers through the narrow gap, and pulling and pushing, he forced the window down far enough to allow him to reach inside and pull the door catch and pop open the door, all without denting the bodywork.

  Pieter lowered himself into the driver’s seat and quietly closed the door and then reached over and picked up the aluminium case.

  Quickly, he ran his eyes over the laptop’s screen, noting the green lines flickering back and forth to show the signal strength of the phone-catcher. It was plugged into a portable USB hub, which in turn was powered by a large battery-pack, supplying enough juice to keep the thing running for days.

  To confirm his suspicion that he himself was the target of the phone-catcher’s surreptitious spying (what other explanation could there be?) Pieter took out his mobile phone and dialled his own work’s telephone number, and sure enough within just a few seconds, his mobile number appeared on screen with the words TARGET CAPTURED flashing alongside.