Ivo Vermeulen was sitting on the near side of the table, and he turned to shake my hand. He had severe features and wore polished, ankle-high boots. Like Boomkamp, he had the air of a former military man.
Jacques Rahm was slight and olive-skinned. He wore a black polo neck, and a pancake holster that emphasised his stooped shoulders.
Boomkamp looped his jacket over a chair at the head of the table and gestured for me to sit. ‘Let’s get started,’ he began in English. ‘Joining us is Henk van der Pol, on secondment from the Amsterdam police force. Henk’s a thirty-year police veteran who’s seen the full range of action. Make him welcome.’
There was a smattering of hellos.
‘What will your role here be?’ Franks asked me directly.
‘Good to meet you again –’
Boomkamp answered. ‘He’s a general bandwidth-extender, if I can call him that.’
‘Around here,’ Rahm said with a sardonic smile, ‘it’s more dial-up than broadband, let me warn you.’
No one laughed.
‘Henk will help out with a bit of everything,’ Boomkamp explained tersely, ‘which will also allow him to get up to speed. Ivo, show him the ropes.’
Vermeulen shifted his stare from Boomkamp to me. I could only wonder what horrific images his grey irises had taken in.
There were some housekeeping points about schedules and holidays, then Boomkamp got down to business.
‘So where are we with the Karremans case?’
A silence pressed down on the room.
Finally, Franks spoke. ‘Why don’t we get the new boy’s perspective?’
Boomkamp looked from him to me. ‘OK, why not? Ivo?’
Vermeulen thwacked a couple of keys on his laptop – a sturdy model favoured by the old KLPD – then spun it round. ‘Tell us what you make of this.’
The screen was split crosswise, showing four images. I winced at what was going on in the foregrounds of each.
‘What am I looking for?’
‘The identifiers.’ It was Engelhart, the German, who spoke.
My eyes searched the four photos, trying desperately to block out what was being done to the child.
Trying to channel my three decades of investigative experience, my mind went to the case of Robert M, dubbed ‘The Monster of Riga’ by the media. Robert M was a Latvian man who had worked as a babysitter and day-care helper in Amsterdam. He’d abused at least eighty babies, filming or photographing his acts. The exact number was unknown because many parents refused to become involved in the investigation, preferring privacy for their children instead.
Robert M’s oversight had been to leave a toy with one baby. The toy was a Miffy, originally made in Holland. This narrowed the international search triggered by the discovery of the images online. A modified version of the Miffy photo was shown on the Dutch TV show Opsporing verzocht (Detection Requested), inviting members of the public to call in if one of them recognised the baby. An elderly man called, identifying the child as his grandson. The grandfather could easily have taken the matter up quietly with the father instead, or stayed silent – or indeed never have watched the show in the first place, in which case Robert Mikelsons might still be at it.
The case shocked Holland for many reasons, not least the revelation that Mikelsons – by now a Dutch citizen – had previously been banned from working in German day-care centres.
That information had never been disseminated.
‘The pattern…’ Gunther Engelhart prompted me.
Paedophiles operating at any level are by necessity expert dissemblers, but there will always be habits, blind spots… things so familiar that they might go unnoticed – become part of the furniture, even.
‘The window fenestration,’ I said. It was a metal design that mixed an industrial aesthetic with a faintly art deco style. ‘It’s distinctive, and it’s the same. It’s the same built environment – where the suspect feels comfortable.’
Vermeulen nodded approvingly. ‘He’s a natural.’
‘Wait,’ I said, stunned. ‘Which Karremans are we talking about?’
‘That Karremans,’ Boomkamp confirmed.
Van der Steen had mentioned a kingpin in my ‘neck of the woods’, only… ‘Heinrich Karremans – the Rijksbouwmeester? I find that hard to believe,’ I uttered.
‘Welcome to the big leagues,’ one of the men said.
There’s no exact translation for the Dutch title Rijksbouwmeester, the closest thing being ‘State Architect’. Heinrich Karremans happened to have played a key role in redeveloping the Amsterdam docklands, which I’d lived in since the 80s. His designs had created the physical backdrop to my adult life.
‘Why do you find it hard to believe?’ Vermeulen challenged.
‘I’m just testing your assumptions here,’ I said, still rocked by this turn of events. ‘Granted, several of Karremans’s buildings appear in these photos… but could it be somebody else using them?’
If true, why hadn’t the justice minister or Rijnsburger briefed me about this?
Jacques Rahm answered my question. ‘There is a psychologique concept called confirmation theory, in which subjects seek to integrate the abnormal events of their lives into a coherent narrative, by making troubling events feel normal…’
‘Meaning?’ I said sharply.
‘Abused people are predisposed to go on and abuse others. They wish to perceive the behaviour as ordinary – quotidien. And if the activity takes place in a familiar environment… tant mieux.’
‘Apologist,’ Gunther Engelhart mumbled under his breath.
Rahm looked genuinely shocked by the accusation.
‘Do you even know that Karremans himself was abused?’ I asked.
‘It’s a theory,’ Rahm replied.
‘Forget the theory,’ snapped Ivo Vermeulen. ‘The metadata of the images links them to Karremans’s IP address.’
I couldn’t ask whether the link was via the Night Market site – I hadn’t been told by the team about that yet – but it seemed a reasonable assumption. Only, something was missing.
‘Looking at this stuff and creating it are two different things,’ I said, gesturing at the laptop screen.
‘One begets the other, and we don’t need psychological theory to tell us that,’ Boomkamp said. ‘Ivo, fill Henk in on the technical analysis later. Now, let’s consider the operational plan.’
Tommy Franks spoke up. ‘Do you want in-person surveillance? In Amsterdam?’
‘No,’ Boomkamp ruled. ‘The fewer people involved this time, the better.’
‘But–’ Franks began.
Boomkamp spoke over him. ‘Ivo, Gunther – come up with a technical-surveillance recommendation, yes? I don’t want a hundred people to coordinate on this one, further to the reorg.’
Further to the police reorg, I wondered, or the leak of information?
Boomkamp continued: ‘Have a recommendation on my desk by day’s end.’
The Belgian and the German nodded.
Tommy Franks flicked away a paper clip and sat back in his chair.
Jacques Rahm stared into space.
This was one unhappy family. I needed to find out the particular way in which it was unhappy, and fast.
4
THE REINDEER
I plugged in my police laptop at one of the empty workstations. The point of a clean desk policy is that it allows for hot-desking – anyone can sit anywhere. This was one of the gripes related to the police reorg. It made the rank and file feel that bit more interchangeable, and hence dispensable.
I was still replaying the staff meeting in my head: the different team members’ words, and where they stood in the political pecking order. Tommy Franks and Jacques Rahm were clearly more on the outside. Was that relevant? Did it give one of them motivation to sabotage operations?
There was an email in my inbox from Petra, asking me to call her. Also one from my former team member Liesbeth, enquiring how I was getting on. She too had been lured to The Hague, where her husband – a fast-rising prosecutor – had taken on a bigger role.
Nothing from the justice ministry, however.
I put my laptop to sleep and went looking for Ivo Vermeulen, my designated mentor. There was no sign of him in the open work area.
I saw Tommy Franks, hunched over his own computer.
‘Tommy, have you seen Ivo?’
‘Probably in the clean room.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’ll show you.’ He got up – possibly grateful for an opportunity to do something – and suddenly looked thoughtful. ‘How about a drink later on?’
‘Er… sure.’
‘The Reindeer?’
‘Is there a choice?’
‘Not without a drive,’ he said. ‘Five o’clock?’
It sounded early, but I kept that thought to myself. ‘Thanks for offering.’
I made a mental note to make more use of the designated smoking areas.
Franks led me down a long corridor. ‘Here,’ he said, stopping beside a glass door. ‘This is where our Belgian and German compatriots can usually be found.’
‘Thank you,’ I said to his retreating back.
The door was smoked but I could make out two seated figures. I tapped on the glass.
One of the figures became larger, and the door opened.
‘Yes?’ Vermeulen said.
‘When do you want to get together?’
‘About what?’
‘Didn’t Boomkamp suggest that you showed me the ropes?’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Now’s not a good time. Didn’t you hear him in the meeting? He wants a recommendation on his desk by day’s end.’
‘Of course.’ I looked over Vermeulen’s shoulder. Gunther Engelhart was tapping away at a computer.
‘What happens in here?’ I asked.
‘Technical work.’
‘What kind?’
‘The productive kind.’
Who monitored these monitors? Perhaps Rijnsburger, my handler, might know.
‘Listen, Henk.’ Vermeulen closed the door behind him and led me down the corridor, away from the open office area. ‘I wouldn’t be so quick to second-guess what’s going on around here, if I were you.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘At the meeting earlier – questioning whether we have the right man in Karremans. There’s a chain of command.’
‘Of course.’ I nodded understandingly. ‘I was just trying to clarify –’
‘Trust the process,’ he said over me. ‘Things will go smoother for you that way. A lot of thought’s gone into the way things work here. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’
He walked back to the clean room, and vanished behind the glass door.
*
There was little to do until Vermeulen or Boomkamp had more time for me, so I set off for the motel in order to make a couple of personal calls. I lit a cigarette as I walked. The air was autumnal.
Driebergen was a small ribbon-town strung out along the old Hoofdstraat road. One road, one motel, one bar… and one reason for me to be there: to find out who was betraying the Dutch police to an international paedophile network. I reminded myself that staying here would allow me to get to know the men of SVU X-19 better. Otherwise, I might as well have stayed in Amsterdam and commuted by train. That would have made things easier with my wife, certainly. I tried to call her as I walked, but there was no reply.
My motel room was musty. It was situated at the back of the dated building, facing out onto the damp forest.
My two bags remained unpacked.
Rijnsburger had asked me to use the cover of a relocation company called ARS Nationwide in order to communicate. A contact there would put us in touch.
I thought about calling, to test the communication method and to talk about Heinrich Karremans. But it felt premature. Perhaps I’d have more to report once I’d been for a drink with Tommy Franks.
I tried Petra again; this time she picked up.
‘It’s good to hear your voice,’ I said.
‘How’s your first day?’ she asked.
‘Not over yet. I just came back to the motel to sort out a few things. How’s your own day?’
‘Quiet.’
There was an unfamiliar, awkward pause.
‘It’s a curious bunch – the team here,’ I said.
‘Are you even allowed to discuss it with me?’
‘To a point.’ I laughed, trying to ease the tension. ‘Run by a guy called Boomkamp. He suggested that his wife showed you round here sometime.’
‘While the husbands look at child porn?’
‘Petra –’
‘Will they?’
‘Will they what?’
‘Will they make you look at that stuff?’
I thought about the four images on Vermeulen’s computer that I’d been shown.
‘No.’
I’d blocked out what was going on in the foreground of those pictures… hadn’t I?
‘Did you make it clear to this Boomkamp that you wouldn’t be doing that?’
‘We haven’t had a chance to meet properly… Look, is this the way it’s going to be?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Why don’t you come down here, take a look at the place? It’s not unpleasant. The forest –’
‘One step at a time, Henk. Settle in first, then we’ll see.’
‘OK,’ I said, banking the progress before she had a chance to change her mind. ‘Talk later. Give my love to Nadia.’
‘Give it yourself.’
The line went dead.
*
Tommy Franks ordered a Dubbel Bok for me and a double Famous Grouse for himself. His brown eyes glinted in the lights of De Rendier – or Reindeer, as he referred to it – where we were leaning against the dark bar top. There was something reassuringly old school about Tommy, and I couldn’t help but be drawn to him.
He was explaining how he hailed from Gravesend, near the mouth of the Thames Estuary. ‘Just across the water from Middelburg,’ he said with a wry smile, referring to one of the islands off the coast of Holland. ‘We’re old allies, Henk.’
‘We might be, if you didn’t steal our best football players.’
‘Van Persie? Pah.’
‘He’s scored some nice goals for the national squad.’ I winked at him good-naturedly.
‘England couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a banjo,’ Tommy conceded. ‘No, I lost interest in van Persie after he left Arsenal.’
His vocal polish had dulled; his regional accent was coming through more.
‘Is that your team?’ I asked. ‘Arsenal?’
‘Now and again. What about you? As an Amsterdam man, has to be Ajax.’
‘Now and again.’
‘So how did you end up here?’
It was a friendly enough question, but I sensed he was looking for information.
‘My job went away. Someone suggested I looked here – said they needed the men – and the rest, as they say, is history.’
‘Who suggested it?’
‘Someone in Amsterdam,’ I replied. ‘You wouldn’t know him. You should come up in that new car of yours by the way… see a match. I could show you around.’
‘Leave the BMW among a load of Ajax fans? You’ve got to be fucking joking.’ He knocked back his whisky. ‘Here, let’s get another round in.’
He did so. I’d barely started on my first beer when the second arrived. Tommy had switched to German Pilsner.
‘Anyway,’ he went on, draining a third of his pint and sighing, ‘the ba
ll and chain wouldn’t like it.’
‘You’re married?’
‘Was,’ he replied. ‘No, I’m talking about my girlfriend. She’s Dutch, by the way. Maybe that’s why I like you.’
‘Well, at least you got that one right – unlike your taste in football.’
‘Doctoral student in Utrecht, I’ll have you know.’ He clinked my glass.
It made me see Tommy differently. Dutch women are nothing if not fastidious in their choice of menfolk.
‘We’ve made some nice trips over the border,’ he went on. His eyes were dancing in the light behind the bar.
‘Which border?’
‘All of them.’
‘Hmm.’ I took a sip of beer. ‘Do you get back to London much?’
‘Not so often. I like it over here. I like the lifestyle.’
‘You like the team?’
‘The team?’ He looked perplexed. ‘Is there a football team here?’
‘No – SVU X-19.’
‘Oh.’ He laughed, then smoothed the ends of his moustache. ‘Each of ’em has his quirks. But don’t we all? You ready for another one?’
‘Christ, no. Anyway, it’s my round.’
I ordered another Pilsner for him and a jenever for myself, setting the clear spirit alongside my two other drinks.
‘Keep up, Henk.’
‘Don’t worry, my ancestors were sailors.’
‘That may be, but I was in the SRR.’ He gulped down more of his beer.
‘Special Reconnaissance Regiment?’
‘Before CEOP and the Flying Squad, yep.’ He stifled a belch.
‘Now you have my respect.’
The SRR was the surveillance counterpart to Britain’s elite SAS. So that accounted for one of the three military men that Boomkamp had mentioned. Boomkamp and Vermeulen must be the other two, surely.
‘Tell me something’ – I leaned in – ‘how do you all keep up? The work, I mean. There must be thousands of images discovered online every day.’
He seemed surprised. Had I overreached?
Night Market Page 3
