Suddenly, it seemed hopeless. I stopped and considered writing a final message to my wife. Would the phone even survive the deluge? I thought of the trip to London we had planned, and her warmth; the zomerse stoofschotel she’d made that evening, and the red wine we’d drunk with it… our last supper?
I thumped a metal partition wall.
It’s funny where else the mind goes to in these moments.
The chickens out at Kolenkitbuurt. Life.
Nadia, of course. How she’d helped me kick my smoking habit. Maybe it had helped clear out my lungs a little; I had to look on the positive side.
With renewed resolve, I stumbled through to the aft torpedo room.
There, I saw it: the sheared-off trunking that would have been available to pull down in order to create a clear channel of water for ascent. It signified the escape hatch, though my torchlight was fading and unable to make out anything in the gunky darkness overhead.
But to the left, I could just see a circular protuberance: the flood valve, surely. I reached up, straining for the feel of circular metal – there – and wheeled it open. The water came in with a whumph.
The shock of the cold was total. Very soon the water was to my throat. I bobbed my way across to position myself under the escape hatch, unable to see anything. The oxygen was disappearing and spots of light prickled my vision. They could almost have been nitrogen bubbles, or the warning of them – yet another risk of ascending too fast. I took a final sip of air in the last remaining space, filling my lungs to bursting point, and was then immersed, my head buffeted by the tumultuous water.
Already I felt the ‘air hunger’ – that tightening sensation of lack of breath. My right hand couldn’t feel anything above. I pushed up, my ears popping frantically. It felt like my skull was clamped in a vice. I released a trickle of precious air from the side of my mouth. My head thumped the side of the escape hatch, but was too numb to register any pain; I pushed my way free and was ascending through the velvety blackness.
I could hear the drone of a marine engine. Not immediately above, I hoped. Shapes and patterns flashed before my eyes.
For a moment I thought I’d died.
Or at least lost consciousness.
Hypothermia…
Some survivalist part of my brain knew to keep moving my hips, and my legs, and to keep evacuating my lungs, and at last I could make out dim, stippled light above. Finally I broke through the choppy surface, gasping.
I’d surfaced some distance away from the wharf, but as I rocked confusedly in the currents, I was able to make out a crowd gathered around the gangway that now led nowhere. I swam to the wharf’s far end. The currents were vigorous, and mercifully carried me towards it; it was a question of not overshooting now.
I grabbed for a tyre tied there and clambered up, slipping several times on the squeaky rubber, unable to feel anything anyway. Eventually I managed to haul myself up. Water ran from my clothes.
I lay sprawled on the tarmac, fumbling for my phone.
Gone.
It would have been dead anyway. Like Frank Hals.
I forced myself upright, and eventually limped past the backs of the people looking out over the water. There was no sign of the security guard who’d allowed me onto that submarine. Remarkably, I was still wearing the bootees I’d put on upon entering it.
24
LIMEHOUSE
Petra had spoken with Nadia, who in turn protested her innocence about the drugs. Given everything else that I’d learned that night, I was inclined to believe my daughter.
After a long, frank conversation with my wife – and several warming jenevers – we took ourselves down to the mariners’ chapel, where we both prayed.
Only then was I ready to face a new day.
*
We travelled separately to Schiphol for our afternoon flight to London.
I wanted to catch up with a former team member from IJ Tunnel 3, Liesbeth Janssen, whose husband Marc was a fast-rising public prosecutor in The Hague. Only, she was nowhere to be seen in the motorway café on the A4 where we’d agreed to meet.
I returned to my car, which was parked on the service station’s forecourt. Trucks hurtled by on the route south. A shrill ringtone split the air, and I realised that it was my new phone. I had only bought it that morning. I’d had trouble importing my contacts, and didn’t recognise the phone number. Perhaps it was her…
‘Henk?’
It was.
‘Liesbeth, where are you?’
‘Something came up – did you not get my message?’
Now that she mentioned it, there were a few that I’d missed.
‘Perhaps we could just talk by phone?’ she suggested.
‘I would have preferred… never mind, that’s fine. How are you?’
‘There are a few personal things going on, actually. What’s up, Henk?
‘It’s about Marc’s work.’
‘What about it?’ She sounded wary.
It felt far too premature to mention Joost by name. ‘I had a couple of questions about the process for indicting a public official.’
‘Oof,’ she said, as if winded. ‘These things must go through official channels, you know?’
I did. Her response sounded numbingly familiar.
‘I also wanted to catch up generally,’ I backtracked, ‘and see how you’re both doing. But another time.’
‘OK,’ she said.
‘Talk soon.’
I was about to end the call when she said, ‘I’m pregnant, by the way.’
‘Really? That’s wonderful, Liesbeth! Boy or girl?’
‘Don’t care, so long as it’s healthy.’
I laughed. That was Liesbeth: ever practical.
‘Say, if you’re in The Hague sometime, you should drop by the house.’
I sensed that it was her way of keeping the door open – just – on what I’d requested.
‘I’d like that. Please give my best to Marc.’
‘I will.’
As I put my phone away, I noticed a copy of De Telegraaf in front of the forecourt shop. I walked over and picked up a copy: Amsterdam nightclub Blip sinks without trace. It had made the front page, at the bottom. I skimmed the article, which ended on page two and quoted a police spokesman as saying that they were still trying to determine whether there had been anyone aboard HNMLS Ijsvis when it went down.
*
I didn’t know whether it was safe to travel by air, given the changes in atmospheric pressure that my body had undergone, but it was only a forty-minute flight to London’s City Airport, the captain informed us.
Petra snoozed throughout.
There was barely time for the inflight service, but thankfully they managed. I requested two miniatures of Scotch and asked the attendant to hold the ice.
Before I knew it, we were beginning our descent into the darkening, looping Thames Estuary – shrouded in mist.
I’d found a last-minute deal online for the Four Seasons Hotel in Canary Wharf, after learning that Tim O’Farrell – the London cop who’d closed down the Night Market website – worked out of nearby Limehouse Police Station.
Nothing felt too far apart anymore.
*
From the airport, we took the Docklands Light Railway to Canary Wharf station and then walked the remaining kilometre or so to the hotel. The buildings reared up around us. You couldn’t miss the pyramidal tower – its summit blinked white in the mist. Bank names announced themselves in neon all around. I was fascinated, too, by the street names, which included references to the legendary sixteenth-century explorer Sebastian Cabot (if it was indeed the same Cabot). He’d discovered Newfoundland.
The Four Seasons stood at the westward-most edge of this glittering new city. Its far side faced the river. Across the water, somewhere in
the darkness, was the venue for the community meeting where Heinrich Karremans would defend his plans for the remaking of Newfoundland Wharf.
‘Where is it, exactly?’ I asked Petra.
‘Just over there, in Canada Water. Look,’ she showed me on her phone.
I took hold of the device, scrutinising the map.
*
We had a couple of hours to kill before the meeting, so I decided to pay Limehouse Police Station a visit. It was only a five-minute walk from our hotel, though it felt like a different world.
I approached the screened-off front desk. A large, stout sergeant greeted me: ‘Afternoon, sir.’
‘I was hoping to catch Tim O’Farrell, if he’s here?’
‘And who might you be?’
I showed him my warrant card.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Did you have an appointment?’
‘No,’ I replied as naturally as possible. ‘I just happen to be staying nearby, on holiday. I thought to stop by and say hello.’
‘Right you are, sir. Well, I’ll try to get a message to the relevant person.’
It sounded vague, but security had to be a major consideration. The police station resembled the Alamo. And I recalled Johan mentioning how O’Farrell had been identified in an online forum.
‘Would you like to leave your number?’
As I did so, I noticed that I had more missed calls, from one Dutch number in particular.
Mulder?
*
I walked back a circuitous route, via the river. The old goods cranes and wharves – Barge, Dunbar – felt familiar to me, as did the contrast between the wealth and social housing, cheek by jowl.
I felt at home here – as if this were my natural habitat.
I also sensed that I was being followed. Turning around, I couldn’t see anyone in the mist behind me. Perhaps it was my own past catching up with me, in some indefinable way. It was a strange sensation.
I shook it away, hastening my step towards the hotel. Petra was calling.
I answered. ‘Everything OK?’
‘The meeting’s been cancelled!’
‘Why?’
‘Bomb scare.’
I stopped. ‘Terrorism?’
‘No, a World War Two unexploded bomb, somewhere nearby. Can you believe it? Five foot long and the weight of a family car, apparently.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Workmen laying a foundation nearby unearthed it this afternoon.’
Ever the newshound, my wife had uncovered the story already.
‘Makes you wonder how many more are out there.’ This part of the Thames had been bombed almost as heavily as Rotterdam during the war. ‘I’ll be back soon,’ I said. ‘We’ll think of something to do.’
But my thoughts were on the ever-elusive Heinrich Karremans. No amount of effort could get me closer to him, it seemed.
I’d barely put my phone away when it started ringing once more.
I had to change that damn ringtone.
‘Petra?’
‘Mr van der Pol?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s the desk sergeant at Limehouse Police Station, sir. The DI you enquired about wanted me to pass along a message. He said that he could see you, as he’s coming off duty. There’s a public house along Narrow Street where he suggested meeting, if that’s convenient.’
25
THE GRAPES
The mist had gathered in, but I managed to find The Grapes easily enough. Part of a row of seventeenth-century houses, the bar was low-ceilinged. I walked through to the back of it, looking for an expectant face, but found just a couple of older, regular-looking types.
The far end gave onto the Thames. I stared into its dark reaches, wondering how many outlaws had hidden there in centuries past.
Then I returned to the bar. As I did so, I saw him through the glass window, discarding a cigarette. The light inside caught his lively brown eyes and sandy-coloured hair. He was wearing a beige raincoat. Tim O’Farrell wasn’t his real name – or at least, not the name I’d known him by.
He entered and greeted me. ‘Henk,’ he said. ‘Fancy encountering you again, in this neck of the woods.’
My heart was beating like a bass drum.
‘All a bit cloak and dagger, isn’t it?’ I managed.
‘Precautions. A lot’s happened. I’ll tell you about it.’
‘You’ve got my full attention, Tommy. Or should I call you Tim?’
‘You’d be surprised by the reprisals – where they come from. Some high-level places.’ He stroked the tips of his moustache. ‘I retract that. You wouldn’t be surprised.’
Part of me wanted to leave there and then. But I couldn’t.
He knew that. ‘Let’s get that drink,’ he offered. ‘Pint?’
I found a quiet table. My hearing and other senses had become very acute: the murmur of the regulars’ conversation, the river washing against shingle outside. Then that ringtone of mine.
Fuck. It was the Dutch number again. Instinct told me to take the call.
‘Henk, finally. It’s Kelly Verhagen.’
My mind went blank.
‘The recruitment officer,’ she prompted.
‘Ah yes, Kelly. Now’s not a good time…’
‘Never is, apparently. Look, your application has been accepted.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘For the Rijksrecherche… the tests you sat, the interview – remember?’
It felt like a lifetime ago. ‘Did you say my application has been accepted?’
I couldn’t believe it.
‘One thing, Henk. The decision wasn’t unanimous. A few strong voices were against.’
‘That instils confidence.’
‘Better to know these things.’
‘Who was against, out of interest?’
‘I can’t say. But the minister had the casting vote. Sonja came out strongly in favour, too.’
‘Sonja?’
‘Brinkerhof. The psychologist. She said you were the most empathetic policeman she’d ever interviewed for Internal Investigations.’
I didn’t know what that said about my prospective colleagues.
Franks was carrying two pints back from the bar, a pack of crisps clamped between his teeth.
‘I’ll call you later, Kelly.’
‘Please!’
I pressed disconnect.
It was a dark beer that had a sharp tang to it.
‘What is this?’
‘Black Sheep.’ He winked, then drank and finally sighed.
‘All feels very English,’ I remarked, glancing around the bar again.
‘Yes. Although the place is owned by a Russian oligarch, among others.’
‘It’s the mirror image of my local in Amsterdam, De Druif. Means “The Grape”.’
‘How fitting,’ Franks said, leaning in, ‘because you and I turn out to be mirror images of one another, Henk.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Here’s how it is…’ and he proceeded to describe all his frustrations in trying to progress child abuse cases – the cover-ups, the wrongful use of the UK’s Official Secrets Act in order to protect powerful suspects…
I sat half-fascinated, half-appalled. Eventually, the latter got the better of me.
‘Franks, you killed three fellow policemen in that forest in Driebergen.’
‘Only rogue cops,’ he countered, forefinger raised. ‘They risked blowing everything with their obsessions about that guy.’
‘What guy?’
‘You know very well which guy, else why would you be here in London?’ He didn’t need to mention Karremans by name. ‘Tell me that you’ve never killed a man.’
‘Not your way.’
In my mind’s eye, I saw Hals’s white-lit face twisted
into its death rictus…
‘Same difference.’
‘Is it?’ I asked.
‘We’re talking about a cover-up throughout the force here – and the Amsterdam one, too, I’m willing to wager.’
I was about to remonstrate, but the words never arrived.
‘Night Market may have gone, but the same people remain.’
His brown eyes glinted.
‘What do you think, Henk?’ He clinked his glass softly against mine, looking me in the eye. ‘What say we slay this beast together?’
Part VI:
The Release
26
EITHER/OR
I don’t consider myself to be an either/or kind of guy. My instinct told me to join the Internal Investigations department in The Hague and work with Tommy Franks, though doubts remained. What had been his true motivation in slaying those rogue cops in the forest in Driebergen? They’d been trying to kill me, so I should have been grateful to him, only–
‘Henk,’ his voice cut through my thoughts.
I started, as if woken from deep sleep.
‘Another?’ he raised his glass.
‘No, it’s my round.’
I stumbled across the dimly lit timbers to the bar. The inn was as placid as before, as predictable as the river tides washing the back of it, but it all felt so different now.
Petra had texted to ask if everything was OK. I thumbed a message into my phone: Just ran into someone I once worked with, back soon.
As I ordered the drinks, I caught Franks out of the corner of my eye taking a call. How had he been allowed to leave Holland? Why had no incident team been appointed? Or, was I making a wrong assumption somewhere? I decided to ask him. But by the time I returned to the table with fresh drinks, things had changed again. He didn’t look at all happy with the call he’d just taken.
‘I need to leave,’ he said abruptly.
‘Already?’
‘Talk of the devil: Heinrich Karremans…’
Night Market Page 19
