He blinked. ‘My dad was a photocopier salesman. Worked in Holland and Flanders. It’s all Dutch-speaking in the end, right?’ he said defiantly.
‘I suppose so,’ I conceded. ‘Though Liège isn’t.’
‘You’ve never felt the need to get away from things?’ he demanded.
‘This isn’t about me,’ I said, matching his defiance with my own. ‘Just tell me what happened.’
My anger had the effect of calming him. He’d obtained the reaction from me that he sought.
He traced a long finger across the table top. ‘We moved around a lot… then, one day, Dad left. And Mum…’
‘Go on,’ I prompted.
‘… just sort of gave up. So I was taken into care. We were in Ghent at the time.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s it.’
I waited a beat. ‘Back in 85, you filed a complaint against this man.’
I turned the photo over. It was a close-up of Heinrich Karremans.
Paul brought his finger to his mouth in a contemplative gesture. I’d conducted many interviews, but never seen a look that was so utterly inscrutable. It appeared that his mind was still thinking, yet he’d gone emotionally blank.
I tapped the photo with my forefinger. ‘You reported him for abuse, yes?’
He kept scrutinising the image – the too-close-together eyes staring through round glasses.
‘Talk to me, Paul. Boomkamp told me that they got you drunk on cider at Beau Soleil…’
‘It wasn’t cider.’
‘So… what was it?’
His body shuddered as though he’d undergone a convulsion.
‘Talk to me. Who were they?’
He looked very directly at me, making me flinch. ‘How does this help?’
‘Is it not time to bring people to justice? Who was involved? Do you recognise anyone else out there in the world now – in the papers, or on TV?’
He looked down, lost again.
‘Listen,’ I said, leaning forward. ‘I understand the abuse cycle. We perpetrate that which has been perpetrated against us –’
‘Do you, though?’
‘Huh?
‘Understand?’
I leant forward more, determined to retain the initiative. ‘Night Market – how did you become involved?’
‘Why are you here?’
‘Were any other visitors to the Beau Soleil boys’ home involved in the Night Market network?’
‘I just uploaded, received payments…’
‘You must have met others through the network, got to know them. If –’
‘I’ve shared all I know.’
He was shutting down; I had to salvage what I could. ‘You indicated that the network was based in Amsterdam. You mentioned’ – I strove to recall the file I’d seen in the justice ministry, before Driebergen – ‘a payment problem that needed to be resolved in Amsterdam on one occasion, correct?’
He was pressing his long fingers into the sides of his head, massaging his temples, as though willing my questions away. ‘I think I should ask for my lawyer now.’
‘Where in Amsterdam?’
‘Who are you?’
‘North, South, East, West?’
‘Lawyer!’ he yelled, deafening me. ‘Lawyer!’
There was a clank and a creak at the far end of the room as the door opened, and the guard reappeared.
My time was up.
17
VELVET REVOLUTION
Back in the car, I called Stefan to confirm our arrangement with Angel Westerling, the nightclub owner.
‘Oh, I already went,’ Stefan updated me.
‘What?’ I adjusted the headset.
‘Sorry, Mulder told me to go on my own. I re-arranged it for this morning.’
There was a screech of tyres as I pulled out of the prison car park.
I swallowed back my ire.
‘You didn’t miss anything,’ Stefan went on. ‘Westerling wasn’t even there.’
‘He broke the arrangement?’
‘Yes, we’ve rescheduled again. Though I did find out one thing.’
‘What?’
‘It’s some place that he’s living in.’
‘Yeah, there’s a lot of money on Java-eiland these days.’ I picked up my speed. ‘By the way, did you have a chance to check the other people involved with the holding company? The one that owns the nightclub?’
‘Not yet…’
‘Maybe you should.’ Conscious of Mulder’s orders, I corrected myself: ‘If it were my case, I would.’
‘I will.’
We ended the call.
As I drove back to Amsterdam, I thought of someone else I could visit in connection with Blip – someone living very near to Java-eiland…
I reached for my phone again, and scrolled down my contacts list.
*
‘It’s like being God up here,’ I said.
The twenty-second-floor apartment had floor-to-ceiling windows. It looked north and east over Java-eiland, Steigereiland and IJburg. Beyond, the IJmeer – delicately criss-crossed with barges and their wake – glistened hazily.
Nadia came alongside me. ‘I’d have preferred a view of the city, but by the time Sergei enquired, all the apartments on that side of the building had been snapped up.’
I shook my head. ‘This is better. The other side, south facing, would have let in too much sun. You’d have been living in a greenhouse.’
‘There are light-sensitive blinds, and the apartments are climate-controlled.’
I turned to my daughter. ‘You’ve come a long way from the student dorm, eh?’ She wore a cream sleeveless dress, a brilliant-cut diamond ring (still on her middle finger), and no shoes. I added, ‘A long way from the Kriterion, too.’ It was where she’d once done bar work in the university district.
‘I could still fix you a coffee.’
‘Same way as you did back then? I’d like that.’
I took a seat on the edge of the spacious, charcoal-grey sofa. This time, the coffee came from a Nespresso machine. The apartment had a limited range of colours – beiges and greys, mainly. The air was very still.
‘So this is it – the high life. Tell me, how does a guy afford all this?’ I tried to make light of the question. ‘I should probably be taking notes at this point.’
She gave a short laugh. ‘Here,’ she said, handing me a little ceramic cup and saucer before lounging on the sofa opposite. ‘Sergei’s film investments are going really well. Belgium, Paris, London – it’s all taking off. He’s in London right now, talking to investors.’
I nodded, and sipped the inoffensive-tasting coffee.
She seemed content enough, but something just didn’t feel right.
‘Remind me, what kind of films are they?’ Again, I tried to keep it light-hearted.
‘Dad, please. Can we move on? Why can’t you just be happy for me?’
‘Do I look unhappy for you?’
She made a moue. ‘What brought you here?’
‘You. It’s been a while.’
‘It hasn’t been that long. How’s your lung?’ She glanced at my torso, still healing from the events in the Driebergen forest.
‘Better,’ I said.
‘As if it hadn’t suffered enough from nicotine.’
It was my turn to make a funny face.
We fell into a silence that wasn’t awkward, but wasn’t entirely comfortable, either. It still felt like our relationship was unanchored, adrift…
‘Let me ask you something,’ I said. ‘Have you been to a nightclub called Blip? It’s not far from here…’
‘Oh, here we go.’
‘It’s just a question.’
‘Then here’s an answer: sure, I don’t know many who haven’t.’
&nb
sp; Nadia had certainly found her way into Amsterdam’s smart and fashionable set.
‘Why the question?’ she asked.
‘You must know about the deaths from MDMA there, which has put it on the police radar. But that’s not my question. What I’m trying to figure out is how a club like that makes any money. In my day, it was the take at the bar…’
‘There are still drinks. And an entrance charge.’
‘But refitting an old submarine? Paying for sniffer dogs and other security measures? And then there are these DJs, flying in from London and Berlin…’
‘Holland has the biggest DJs now.’
‘Well, OK. But I doubt they come any cheaper.’
‘If your question is, does the club deal drugs? – well, you’d have to ask them. But I highly doubt it.’
It didn’t make a lot of sense. Maybe Blip was a trophy asset to its owners – there for prestige, rather than purely financial reasons. Like certain football clubs, maybe.
‘You know that Ecstasy is only about the twentieth most harmful recreational drug, don’t you? Way behind alcohol and nicotine, and far less habit-forming.’
‘Who’s giving the lectures now?’ I said, smiling. ‘Anyway, since when did you become such an authority on the subject?’
‘I’ve blogged about it. As has Petra.’
I wished she wouldn’t call Petra by her first name. ‘Well, be careful, MDMA is still a Schedule One drug.’ Unlike cannabis, it is highly illegal in Holland.
‘Oh, don’t worry, I can live without it… if you could live without cigarettes. Nicotine is much higher on the list.’
‘Which list?’
‘The list of harmful recreational drugs. How’s that for a deal? No Ecstasy for me, no cigarettes for you.’
I had no choice but to shake on it.
*
I took the building’s fast elevator back down to sea level, my ears popping as I went.
Outside, I reached for my pack of cigarettes and then scrunched them up, finding the nearest bin. It turned out to be quite a walk to the harbour, but that was OK, I was in the mood for a stroll in the bright sunlight.
And then there it was: HNLMS Ijsvis, breaching the surface like some giant creature. Its conning tower resembled a dorsal fin. When it was de-commissioned in the 1980s, hippies took over, stripping it of its war machinery and turning it into an arts commune. The rumour at the time was that the city wanted to compulsorily purchase it, restore it, and convert it into a tourist attraction. The city fathers focused on the nearby maritime museum instead. Little had been heard about the old submarine – until recently.
I walked closer. On the wharf beside it stood a black tour bus with smoked-glass windows. A woman with a clipboard was standing beside the open door of the coach, speaking to someone inside.
As I approached, she finished her conversation and turned to me. She was young and stylishly dressed. I almost reached for my pack of cigarettes again, then remembered what I’d done with them.
‘Who does this belong to?’ I asked her.
‘Tonight’s act.’
‘A DJ has an entire tour bus?’ I asked, surprised.
‘Two DJs in fact, from Prague.’ She gave me peace fingers. ‘Velvet Revolution.’
Maybe I was supposed to have heard of them. I shook my head in bemusement. What did two guys in a luxury tour bus have to do with the 1989 Czechoslovakian uprising?
But maybe I was overthinking things.
I walked away, unable to keep myself from glancing over my shoulder at Sergei’s apartment building – and the others like it – towering above the old gantries and silos. Change was certainly afoot down here in the harbour.
*
‘Van der Pol,’ Mulder greeted me at 9 a.m. sharp the next morning. He had thickset features and wore square glasses. We sat down in a conference room. Already at the table was Sandra Wittgens, his chief of staff, busy on her laptop.
In front of Mulder lay a printed-out spreadsheet. It looked suspiciously like the ‘grid’ he’d mentioned.
‘I want to run through your objectives for the next quarter,’ he said.
Being nicotine-deprived was hardly improving my mood.
‘We’re using a system called Advanced Responses Based Policing,’ he continued. ‘Are you familiar with that?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘At least, not by that name.’
‘Well, you will be soon. Even our most… traditionally minded colleagues have come to see the value of ARBP.’
By that, I assumed he was referring to the likes of me. By ‘traditionally minded’, I assumed he meant ‘dinosaur’.
I decided to liven things up. ‘Well, congratulations on promulgating another unpronounceable acronym.’ I nodded at the spreadsheet. ‘I like the Advanced Scheduling System, too.’
Sandra smirked. I couldn’t tell whether she was laughing with me or at me.
Mulder leaned forward. ‘What it means is that we’re coordinating more closely with the residents of the precinct, and responding to their expressed concerns. Making ourselves transparent and accountable regarding results.’ He slapped the table. ‘And that, van der Pol, is progress.’
I pressed my lips together in a contemplative gesture. ‘Has police work become a local popularity contest? Is there a TV format we could pair with that?’
Mulder shook his head and briefly closed his eyes. ‘Joost told me to expect this.’ It was said beneath his breath – almost inaudibly – but the fleeting mention of my old boss sent a chill through me.
Mulder got on with the meeting. ‘One of the most oft-reported crimes in the harbour area now is moped theft. As you know, we have increasingly affluent residents, and the value of these bikes can be anything up to ten thousand euros.’
‘Ten grand, for a scooter?’
At one time, I’d owned a BMW 1200cc motorbike – which I’d sacrificed in the IJ tunnel in pursuit of a Hungarian pimp. It was the pimp’s brother who had, in turn, been taken off the board by Johan…
Mulder interrupted my thoughts: ‘In the case of a Yamaha TMAX, yes. More than ten thousand! I should know, I own one.’
It figured.
‘We suspect a Moroccan gang,’ Sandra interjected. ‘We think they’re using industrial chain cutters, and sophisticated techniques for deactivating alarms and trackers. There have even been sightings of low-loader trucks and winches, too.’
‘Look, I’m sure that sorting out this bike theft is a very worthy cause, so count me in. But what about the three who’ve died aboard that old submarine? What’s happening about them? Do their families not count, too?’
‘Of course they count,’ Mulder snapped. ‘But that case belongs to Stefan. You know that.’
‘Have you thought about involving the national drugs team, to assist Stefan with his enquiries?’
‘What grounds would we have for requesting their help? They have objectives and priorities of their own. Look, there are protocols to observe.’
I wanted to mention Frank Hals – how the former cannabis king had suddenly reappeared, and why he might be a person of interest in any new drugs-related case in the harbour. The parallels, involving an old vessel, were striking. But what was also striking was the link between Hals and Joost – involving that stolen Verspronck painting – and, by virtue of his mention of Joost a few moments ago, the man addressing me now.
‘I’m going to make this very clear, van der Pol. Your task is to solve moped theft. We’re entering that in the grid.’
I filled my cheeks and blew the air out. ‘OK.’
‘Good,’ he said in response to my apparent acquiescence. ‘Start with a theft victim who’s also a witness.’
Sandra explained: ‘She surprised two suspects who were in the middle of trying to steal her Vespa.’
‘Who did?’
‘Jody Klein,’ Sandra said. ‘A landscape architect living on IJburg.’
‘That’s not our precinct.’
‘No, but the site of the attempted theft was.’
IJburg – it was like being sent off to Siberia. But it did give me an idea.
Sandra looked at me. ‘Would you consider yourself a gambling man, Henk?’ she asked.
The question caught me off guard. ‘I like to think that I embrace risk,’ I replied.
‘We allocate points out of a hundred to each staff member based on their ARBP tasks. How do you feel about all one hundred of your points going on apprehending this moped gang?’
Her fingers hovered over her keyboard, ready to fill another square of the grid.
I made a show of thinking. I knew Mulder wanted me exclusively focused on this case, and entirely removed from others.
But that could serve my purposes, too.
‘Why not?’ I replied. ‘I’m all in.’
‘Good,’ Sandra said, hitting a key, smiling at me.
18
TRACKING
Jody Klein was a petite woman, perhaps in her late thirties, elfin-featured and softly spoken. It was hard to hear her above the whistling wind and rattling of the cladding at her apartment on IJburg. I guessed that, like a lot of young professionals, she was displaced from the centre by Amsterdam’s now-stratospheric apartment prices. Her building seemed haunted by the northerly winds.
‘Let me get this straight,’ I said, recapping. ‘The bike was parked on Prins Hendrikkade, beside your place of work.’
‘It is a Vespa, not a bike.’
‘I understand that.’
As I spoke, the vehicle in question sat parked outside, in sight: a silver-coloured, vintage model with gleaming chrome-work. It reminded me of old films of mods and rockers at English seaside towns in the sixties – incongruous, given the demeanour of its owner and her pedantic tendencies.
‘So, you’d been for a drink with a friend,’ I summarised my notes so far.
‘I wasn’t going to ride it – I’d had two glasses of wine. It was raining, so I was just going to get my mini-umbrella from the luggage compartment and then take the tram.’
‘Very sensible. And it was, what – nine, ten o’clock by then?’
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