Night Market

by Daniel Pembrey

  ‘Cold and wet,’ I said. ‘Yours?’

  ‘I’ve lost Ruiter.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was looking into the complaint by that Dutch boy, Paul Ruiter, against Karremans. It’s not just Karremans, by the way. There were several high-profile people named alongside him. All linked to that boys’ home in Ghent.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Several regional Belgian politicians. I hadn’t heard of any of them, and I doubt you will have either –’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Wait, Henk, there’s more –’

  I turned sharply, convinced someone was nearby. But all I saw were light patterns rippling across grey shapes.

  ‘A police captain,’ Stefan continued, ‘a judge and a medical examiner, would you believe it…’

  ‘Did other foster children complain?’

  ‘No, and Ruiter himself vanishes from the system in 1989, aged fourteen.’

  ‘What do you mean, vanishes?’

  ‘There’s no death certificate. But there’s no record of address, and no employment or tax records from later years…’

  ‘You spent some time on this.’

  Did that put Stefan at risk?

  ‘I became curious,’ he said.

  ‘Did Ruiter emigrate?’

  ‘It’s not clear. Maybe. A guardian might have helped him do so.’

  I couldn’t ask more of Stefan. But then another thought came to mind: the parents of the victims of Robert M in Amsterdam, who’d sought anonymity for their children.

  ‘Perhaps Ruiter changed his identity?’

  ‘Perhaps. It should be possible to find out.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘You’ve done enough already.’

  ‘Do you want to go for that drink?’ he asked. ‘There’s something else I hoped to chat with you about: a promotion I’m going for.’

  I felt awful. ‘I have to return to Driebergen today or I’ll be in trouble,’ I said. I definitely didn’t want to do anything to antagonise Boomkamp. But I wanted to help Stefan out. ‘What do you need, a reference?’

  ‘No,’ he said hastily, as though my endorsement might not be helpful. ‘Just some quick advice.’

  Not only was I cold, but I was also eager to get away from IJburg, and especially the immediate vicinity. I at least owed Stefan a few minutes of my time, however. ‘What sort of advice?’

  ‘Actually… it’s about handling Joost.’

  The tone of the conversation shifted. ‘What about Joost?’

  ‘How to approach him… never mind, this is probably best discussed over a beer. Forget it.’

  ‘OK,’ I said evenly. Was Stefan applying for a position with my old rival? ‘I’ll be back in Amsterdam soon enough,’ I said. At least, I hoped I would – the situation with Petra permitting. ‘We’ll get that drink…’

  I put my phone away, attempting to make sense of the conversation. Again I was struck by the sense of missing something, but what? What couldn’t I recall? Unknown unknowns. Unknowable unknowns, perhaps. I hastened my step towards the far cluster of buildings.

  Most of the houses here were glass-walled, but Karremans’s home–office revealed a different kind of exhibitionism. There was a long communal table featuring a procession of workstations and anglepoise lamps; a couple of staff members sat studying their iMac screens. Black attire appeared to be de rigeur at Karremans Architectuur. A woman looked up at me quizzically, but I didn’t break stride. Rather, I did my best to look like I belonged in this corner of the marina-style complex.

  Karremans’s house stood just beyond.

  The sailing boat gave it away. It was a sleek, black thirty-footer that put the neighbours’ vessels to shame. Unlike the floating houses nearby, Karremans’s home was built on stilts, allowing it to rise up five levels. The top floor would have views on all sides.

  I pulled my flat cap down over my eyes. Karremans was in China, and apparently unmarried. It meant his house should have been empty, but I couldn’t take that for granted. Did he have a girlfriend, a lover?

  I padded across the gangplank to his glass front door. A narrow wooden deck ran round the ground floor of the property, enclosed by a metal-cable fence. No lights were on.

  I walked round the deck, feeling it creak. The residence wasn’t overlooked by other buildings; there was no need for curtains or panels of frosted glass like in the other houses. There was detailing in the metal upright members separating the glass, however: the same industrial–art deco blend as in the images I’d seen in Driebergen.

  I cursed my wife for having caused me to hold back mentally and not take in the details in those pictures. God is in the details – wasn’t that a quote from another famous architect? The quote had featured in an old police training manual…

  I could clearly see the room that must have been Karremans’s study; it faced out north, towards the sea channel. The desk arrangement and chair looked expensive, as did the massive monitor. But there was no computer. Karremans must have un-docked it and taken it with him. Or had he?

  That sense of movement again, the flash of a limb–

  ‘Hey!’ a voice called, just a few metres behind me.

  I spun round to catch a young man crossing the gangplank, coming straight at me. He was swaddled in dark fabric, a hood drawn tight so that I could only make out his mouth and eyes.

  ‘What the fuck you doing?’

  ‘I’m lost,’ I managed. ‘I thought my friend lived here.’

  ‘This private.’ His accent was Asian – Indonesian, maybe.

  ‘They all look the bloody same, these houses,’ I said with fake exasperation.

  He didn’t take kindly to that observation. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Simple case of wrong address, sorry.’

  I pushed past him, resisting the temptation to doff my cap. I hadn’t seen cameras, but their existence wouldn’t have surprised me after the break-in at Karremans’s Norwegian cabin.

  ‘Get lost,’ the guy said.

  Was he a housekeeper, a caretaker? He looked too young. I was about to ask him when he added, ‘or I call police.’

  10

  BURNING MAN

  ‘What the hell happened here?’

  I’d made it back to the police building in Driebergen by mid-afternoon only to find it blocked by fire trucks and crews. Red and blue flickered off the grimy yellow suits of the firemen.

  I showed my warrant card to one of them. He leaned into my car.

  ‘We had an incident at the front desk,’ he explained quietly.

  ‘What kind of incident?’

  ‘A man set fire to himself there. Poured paraffin over his head and lit himself up.’

  ‘Jesus.’ I pulled the car over and got out. There was a hiss of rain and a rumble of thunder.

  ‘Who?’ I asked the fireman.

  ‘We’re trying to find out.’

  The entrance to the building was blackened, and dripping wet from the fire hoses. Smoke hung in the air, along with the smell of burned plastic and skin. As I got closer, I saw it: the charred body, resting on its back and surrounded by hazard cones. An arm had come loose. I tried not to look at what remained of the face, and its staring white eyes.

  Tommy Franks stood back from the scene, drawing hard on a cigarette. I joined him. ‘What the hell?’ I said. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Christ, Henk.’ Tommy shook his head. ‘Apparently he was an abuse victim.’

  A white-gowned evidence technician was leaning over the body, mercifully shielding it from our view.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He told front desk. The victim, that is. He screamed at them: You pigs were never here to do anything, never in the right place at the right time… till now. Watch! It was all caught on camera. The bloke pulled out a litre-bottle of paraffin, poured
it over his head and produced a lighter.’

  I reached for my own lighter, along with my pack of Marlboro Reds.

  ‘He got stuck in the revolving door,’ Tommy said, exhaling sharply. ‘By the time they managed to free him, he was already burned beyond recognition. He staggered back, hit the deck and fell to pieces.’

  I was numb. ‘Where’s the rest of the team?’

  ‘Inside. Convening a crisis meeting, I understand.’

  I almost asked him why he hadn’t joined them, but thought better of it.

  ‘You know what strikes me?’ Tommy said, exhaling hard again. ‘If abuse victims are willing to do this, what else are they willing to do?’

  I ground my cigarette into the wet tarmac. As I did so, I noticed a woman approaching the entranceway with a digital recorder – a journalist? It could almost have been Petra in her former guise…

  ‘I’d better go see what’s happening,’ I said, making my way towards a fire escape that had been propped open with a chair. It could have used a security guard.

  On my way into the building, I called ARS Nationwide. Mrs Rosen picked up.

  ‘There’s been a situation,’ I began. ‘I need to speak with –’

  ‘Is this about your possessions?’ she cut in.

  This was bullshit. ‘Yes, the chairs, sofa and damn mountain bike,’ I said. ‘Now could you please put me through?’

  ‘I’m under strict instructions to wait until my manager –’

  ‘Henk!’ a voice called as I walked into the open-plan area.

  I turned to face Boomkamp.

  ‘Where in God’s name have you been?’

  ‘Amsterdam. My wife, like I told you –’

  ‘Get in here,’ he urged, ushering me into his office. Engelhart was in there too, looking down at his feet. There was no sign of Vermeulen, or Rahm.

  ‘We’ve got some explaining to do,’ Boomkamp said, closing the door behind him. ‘SVU X-19 does not appear as a matter of public record.’ It sounded more like an article of faith than a statement of fact. ‘So how in God’s name did the victim know to come here, and to do this?’

  Engelhart didn’t meet my gaze.

  I cleared my throat. ‘I’ve no idea –’

  ‘That’s not good enough,’ Boomkamp said. ‘The deceased man’s name is Dirk Arnhem. He’s from a victims’ support group who call themselves The Frozen. We need better answers. We need to be doing more, Henk. We need to be helping these people!’ He paused, swallowing hard. ‘Instead, we’re giving them such little hope that they do… this!’ He looked at me incredulously.

  Where were Vermeulen and Rahm? Thinking of Rahm made me recall the bomber case in Luxembourg – the cops allegedly causing crises in order to justify their existence and the organisational status quo…

  Boomkamp stepped closer. ‘Are you with us, Henk?’ His voice had dropped. ‘That’s what I need to know. Can we count on you?’

  ‘In what way? With the work here? ’Course you can.’

  ‘Right, then. There’s something we need to do without delay. We had a suspect here, who Ivo brought in.’

  ‘Which suspect?’ It couldn’t have been Karremans. Unless he’d returned from China?

  ‘He bolted,’ Boomkamp continued, ignoring my question. ‘Took advantage of the commotion out front to get away. Ivo followed him on foot and has called in his position. It’s all hands on deck.’

  His eyes were incandescent. He said to Engelhart, ‘Get the transport ready.’ I assumed he meant a van. ‘The back way,’ he added, ‘it’ll be a circus out front…’

  Once the two of us were alone, he asked, ‘So, what happened?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘With your wife? Did you get her to see sense?’

  ‘She walked out on me.’

  ‘Christ.’ A hand on my shoulder. ‘What did you do, then?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Over the weekend. You didn’t speak with anyone?’

  ‘I’m not following you.’

  ‘We’ve had a lot of problems, Henk. I believe you know this – information has been leaking out, and now this…’

  We were walking out of the doorway, Boomkamp leading the way. The light turned off behind us. For some reason, it made me turn my gaze. Boomkamp’s computer screen was showing a web page. It looked like a breaking news story on the website of one of the newspapers, I couldn’t tell which.

  RIJKSBOUWMEESTER HEINRICH KARREMANS SUSPECTED OF ABUSING –

  ‘C’mon!’ Boomkamp snapped. ‘Men are waiting!’

  I felt a sharp sensation in the pit of my stomach. We walked down the long corridor, past the clean room and towards another fire escape. My ears buzzed.

  ‘We’ll discuss it on the way,’ he was saying.

  ‘Discuss what?’

  We passed the door to the men’s lavatory.

  ‘Wait, I need to pay a visit,’ I said instinctively. ‘You don’t want me pissing in a bottle in the back of the van now.’

  For half a second I thought Boomkamp might follow me in there.

  I closed the door behind me and immediately called the justice minister. His assistant answered.

  ‘I need to speak with Willem.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Van der Pol, we met the other day –’

  ‘It’s impossible. He’s not available. You’re supposed to be working with Rijnsburger and the AIVD, anyway.’ He paused. ‘Is this even a secure line?’

  ‘Tell the minister this is an emergency. Tell him that the situation at Driebergen is unravelling –’

  There was a bang on the door.

  ‘Wait,’ the assistant said over the phone.

  ‘What the hell are you doing, Henk?’ Boomkamp called from outside.

  A familiar voice came on the line. ‘What’s going on?’ van der Steen said.

  ‘I need to come in.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘Things are spiralling out of control here –’

  ‘Trust the process,’ he cut in. ‘Don’t communicate with me again this way. Go through the AIVD, or…’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Do you want your old problems with Joost to resurface, and other problems besides? We had a deal. This call’s over.’

  The door blew open. My phone was back in my pocket as Boomkamp cried, ‘What the fuck! C’mon!’

  He guided me out through the rain and into the dark rear space of an old KLPD van. I could just make out Engelhart driving, through a narrow section of glass at the front; Boomkamp and I had the back to ourselves. We sat on metal benches, facing one another.

  ‘Who is this suspect?’ I said.

  The van swung onto Hoofdstraat; we were moving at speed. But we didn’t join the A12 motorway. Rather, we were soon bumping along a dirt track. Were we heading into the forest? A very bad sensation crept into my stomach.

  ‘Boomkamp, what’s going on?’

  ‘What’s wrong, Henk? You never made an arrest before?’

  Only now did I recall that there were no prison cells at Driebergen. The nearest ones were in Houten.

  The van suddenly stopped; we lurched sideways along the benches. A widening rectangle of light appeared to my left as the back door opened and a silhouetted figure climbed into the rear of the van – Vermeulen, his weapon sitting prominently on his hip.

  We were indeed in the forest.

  ‘Who is this suspect?’ I repeated.

  The door closed again.

  ‘You, Henk.’

  The van started moving once more, heading deeper into the woods. I didn’t have my service weapon with me.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘What happened over the weekend?’ Boomkamp demanded.

  Vermeulen was rubbing
his wrists as if preparing for a physical encounter.

  ‘I told you. I went back to Amsterdam, to try to patch things up with my wife.’

  ‘But you didn’t, did you?’ he asked, almost jeering now. ‘So what did you do instead?’

  I needed to keep calm, to think. ‘I don’t understand where this is going.’

  ‘Oh, but I think you understand very well, Officer van der Pol.’ He let that hang there, in the bumpy gloom. We must have hit a rock, because there was a bang and the van jumped; we were heading off the beaten track.

  ‘Do you remember what I told you, when I called you into my office the other day?’

  I didn’t, but I sensed he was about to remind me.

  ‘Do. Not. Undermine. Me.’ He waited, as if giving me a last chance to clear my name. ‘And then I invited you to my house. My home. And you came, and my wife took your coat. And do you know what Mariella did with that favourite jacket of yours, Henk?’

  I suddenly knew where that bad feeling came from. My bomber jacket – I had inadvertently ‘patterned’ myself, in surveillance terms. I looked for the tear in it, near the zip. It wasn’t visible in the dim light.

  God is in the details…

  ‘We know how to do technical surveillance,’ Boomkamp was saying. ‘We know.’

  Desperately, I replayed the events since that evening at the Boomkamps’. I’d been wearing the jacket all of the time, apart from when I was sleeping – or in the sauna with Magnusson… I couldn’t remember what Magnusson and I had discussed there versus in the skiff. Magnusson’s phone had retained coverage out on the water, so doubtless the miniaturised listening device had been transmitting there, too.

  ‘It’s time to plug all leaks,’ Boomkamp was saying. He was reaching inside his jacket, perhaps to touch his gun handle, feel its reassuring solidity.

  The conversations with Stefan came back to me as well, as did the one with Rijnsburger out at Leiderdorp. The time on IJburg – the encounter outside Karremans’s house… even my disagreement with Petra.

  Christ.

  ‘There’s a lot to be said about having a loyal wife, Henk. Maybe that’s your problem. Or one of them, at least…’

  11

  NIGHT TRAINING

  ‘Why did you go and see Karremans?’ Boomkamp was asking. We were still moving, only more slowly.