Marc was heavily circumscribed as well, by the laws of evidence and legal procedure. Meanwhile, the police were the pawns – foot soldiers – as ever, and my elevation to Internal Investigations made me at best a middle-ranking piece, based on my extra access to files and information.
No, the piece on the board with real freedom of movement was Joost. Senior-most member of Internal Liasion. Somehow he’d managed to carve out a role that defied definition, even.
Van der Steen was addressing me. ‘What else have you got, Henk?’
Was it wise to show my full hand with Marc still in the room? I decided that I had little left to lose now.
‘The painting,’ I said. ‘That Verspronck, the Girl Dressed in Blue study – its misappropriation.’ It was the most tangible element of all. ‘Where did it go? Let’s have Joost answer that.’
Van der Steen drummed his fingers lightly on the table.
Marc looked down.
It was Rijnsburger who coughed and said, ‘In fact, I can answer for him.’
‘Oh?’
‘He donated it.’
‘Donated?’ I repeated, starting to sense a miscalculation on my part. ‘To who?’
‘It was taken from its original owners by the Germans during the Second World War,’ Rijnsburger said. My stomach lurched like it had a lead weight inside; I recalled a remark by a custody sergeant at the diplomat’s house where it had been stolen: There’s a question about the provenance, whether it changed hands during the war…
‘But how could he donate it?’ I blurted. ‘There are other people to consider – the Norwegians for one, and also the art insurers in London…’
‘They were all consulted.’ Rijnsburger put a single document down on the glass table. It looked like some kind of bill of receipt; it felt like the river card thrown down in a poker game – which I’d just lost.
‘He donated the painting to the Nationaal Monument in Kamp Vught,’ the AIVD veteran concluded.
I was speechless. My mouth opened and closed again like an expiring fish’s. Rijnsburger was referring to the former concentration camp in southern Holland run by the SS. The original owners of the painting must have been sent there. It had been a transit camp for Auschwitz.
‘And Joost had authority to do that?’ I asked weakly, trying somehow to salvage the situation.
Van der Steen indicated that Marc could leave. The young prosecutor did so, avoiding eye contact.
The minster said, ‘Whatever procedures were bypassed, no one could fault Joost for trying to return that painting to the people it was originally taken from – who didn’t want any press about the matter, by the way.’
He glanced down at the report again. ‘What else do we have?’ He paused. ‘Of course, we could have looked more closely at that gangster Frank Hals, and his involvement in the whole episode… only, he’s no longer around.’
Rijnsburger’s watery eyes were fixed on me.
The minister closed my report, dismissing me. ‘Must try harder, Henk.’
28
FAMILY FIRST
‘Why do you need to know this?’ my wife demanded, back at the houseboat.
‘Because I have to understand what happened,’ I replied. ‘A woman was beaten into unconsciousness at that hotel. No action was taken. And the inaction itself was met with inaction.’ I fought to contain my fast-spooling thoughts. ‘You told me at the time that the man who booked the escort might not have been the same as the one who actually slept with her –’
‘I never confirmed that it was a man.’
‘Who slept with her?’
As a former investigative journalist, Petra valued confidentiality of sources above all else. Using that credibility, and her experience, she’d infiltrated the Royal Hotel, where the attack had taken place.
I tried again. ‘You told me at the time that her client was a sheikh from one of the Emirates countries. Question being: who made the arrangement? Who paid for it?’
That might yet provide a way back to Joost…
My wife flopped back onto the leather sofa, her head lolling back, her face disappearing into the half-light. Only her neck remained well lit. It might have made a nice painting – if I hadn’t still been mulling over the fate of that Verspronck.
‘Let me see if the source remembers,’ she allowed.
I sat down next to her, carefully. ‘You’re still in touch with this person?’
I’d imagined some random hotel insider – a bellhop, maintenance crew member, supplier possibly…
‘Henk, please.’ She turned her face towards me, her eyes alive in the darkness. ‘It’s bad enough that I no longer have a career. But to undermine the memory of the one I had…?’
‘But here’s the thing, Petra,’ I said, taking her hand in mine. ‘Nothing can ever be right for me – for us – till I’ve brought Joost to justice. There’s too much that he’s done now. Too much at stake. Too many things left unresolved –’
‘Are you so sure it’s about him, though?’
‘Say again?’
‘Well,’ she said, looking up at the ceiling, or perhaps towards the heavens above. ‘We all use someone else to blame at times, for what we can’t explain in ourselves. I’m wondering whether that’s what this is really about. Whether by bringing Joost to justice, you think everything will somehow be solved inside yourself.’
I sat alongside her, looking up too. Orange sodium light reflected off the waters of Entrepotdok and onto the varnished wooden ceiling of the boat.
‘Is it about Joost, or is it about you?’ she summarised.
I watched the orange patterns form, merge and then dissolve in some endless cycle.
‘You may be right,’ I admitted. ‘There’s a police psychologist who interviewed me, when I applied for Internal Investigations. I should go and see her.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Her name’s Sonia Brinkerhof.’
‘Hmm.’ I knew this would meet with my wife’s approval. ‘I’ve heard that name,’ she said. ‘Works at the university?’
‘Yes. She seemed good. Maybe she can help.’
Petra squeezed my hand. ‘You agree to do that, I’ll share my source.’
‘Really?’ I asked. This was too easy.
‘You know him well enough, anyway. Or should do.’
‘I do?’ My surprise turned to consternation. I tried to imagine who it could possibly be.
‘Do you agree to see the psychologist?’ my wife said.
‘I do.’
She paused. ‘It’s Sergei.’
‘Sergei?’ I did a double take, sitting up forcefully. ‘As in, Nadia’s Sergei? Our daughter’s boyfriend?’
‘Yes, Henk. That Sergei.’
*
He was home when I called in at their flat in Zeeburg the following morning. It was a bright, late autumn day. He buzzed me into the building and I took the long elevator ride up to their neutrally toned, light-filled home. Nadia was out.
He wore a pair of loose linen trousers and a T-shirt with something written in Russian across the middle; his torso was impressively bulked, in spite of his advancing years.
‘Can I offer you a drink?’ he asked.
‘Sure,’ I said evenly.
‘I was about to fix a protein shake.’
‘A glass of water will do.’
He disappeared. I glanced around the place, looking for evidence of my daughter in photos or other personal items. I noticed a shot of them together in Paris.
‘Here.’ Sergei reappeared, handing me my water.
‘Thanks.’ I set the glass down on the coffee table. We sat. ‘So, how are things?’
‘Good,’ he replied, smiling and crossing his legs.
I was determined not to be anything other than courteous with him. The last thing my re
lationship with my daughter needed was another fractious encounter.
‘And you?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ I replied. ‘I’m finally over the cigarettes.’
There was a gap in conversation.
‘You wanted’ – he made an unfurling gesture with his fingers – ‘to see me about something?’
I wondered whether our problems came down to one of basic language – to continual, small misunderstandings about what we were trying to say to one another.
‘It’s more than a purely social call, yes. Petra mentioned that you shared some information with her about a guest at the Royal Hotel earlier this year. Do you remember?’
His eyes became distant as he thought.
‘About a woman who was attacked there,’ I prompted.
‘In one of the suites?’
‘That’s right. She was badly beaten up.’
‘A Ukrainian woman, no?’
‘Correct.’ My spirits rose.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘First, how did you become aware of it?’
I had a couple of theories, one being that Sergei had business contacts at the Royal, or whichever company owned it; the second theory – that Sergei had direct contacts among high-class escorts – I didn’t even want to consider.
He paused, perhaps deciding where to begin. ‘There’s a company called Cyclamen.’
‘Why do I know that name?’
‘It’s a company of some renown. It has real estate investments across Europe and the Middle East. Asia as well… It happens to be the largest builder of reclaimed islands in the world: luxury islands off the coast of Dubai, offshore airports in China…’
I remembered where I’d heard the name now. As part of a chain of linked companies: Cyclamen was one of the owners of the submarine-nightclub Blip.
‘So… help me make the connection between this company and the Ukrainian woman who was assaulted,’ I said.
‘We were researching the idea of a documentary about Cyclamen at the time. It sounded interesting, in a world of climate change and rising sea levels,’ he explained. ‘Global warming had been a theme at film festivals recently, so I saw funding possibilities, and set about researching it. Via my film company.’
Ah yes, his wonderful world of film investments. I frowned. ‘I’m still not making the connection with the Royal Hotel.’
‘Cyclamen owns the Royal Hotel,’ Sergei said. ‘The company is run by a group of people who include a sheikh named Yasan.’
Bingo. It was the name of the man we’d come to suspect of the attack: Sheikh Yasan. Ah, the small world of central Amsterdam…
‘We had an appointment to see him, the day after that incident at the hotel.’
‘We?’
‘A producer of mine. A Belarusian lady, as it happens. She’s very good…’
‘I’d like to get her name and details, if I may. But first, tell me what happened.’
Sergei thought for a moment. ‘She went to the hotel, and Yasan wasn’t available after all. It didn’t surprise me – she was lucky that a guy of his heft had agreed to meet her in the first place, although you can never underestimate people’s desire to talk about themselves…’
‘So Yasan backs out of this meeting with your producer… then what?’
‘She sensed a – how do you say? – kerfuffle at the hotel, and started asking around on the quiet about what had taken place.’
‘Go on.’
‘Someone spoke out from inside the hotel.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know, exactly.’
‘Don’t know or can’t remember?’
‘Both.’ Sergei shrugged his bulky shoulders. ‘Maybe Nadia remembers. We talked about it at the time.’
I wondered how this had then come up in conversation with my wife. The unavoidable conclusion was that Nadia and Petra discussed a good deal more than I ever knew about.
But I was losing focus; I needed to know who had booked the escort. Who had paid for her?
I reached for my notepad. ‘What’s the name of this producer?’
‘She’s gone.’
I looked up. ‘Gone where?’
‘Back to Belarus.’
I stared at Sergei, sensing what he was about to say before the words left his lips.
‘She’s left the country for good, unfortunately. Gone home.’
I knew her file wouldn’t be accessible to me, either.
The list was growing.
Rem Lottman, who’d vanished overseas.
Heinrich Karremans, dead.
Was a net of some kind tightening around the collateral damage of Joost’s ill deeds?
‘Henk,’ Sergei was saying. He pulled at the knees of his linen trousers as he leaned forward. ‘Let me help you.’
Or was I seeing paranoid patterns where none existed – again? Without doubt, I needed to visit Sonia Brinkerhof, the police psychologist.
‘What are you trying to find out?’ Sergei asked.
My focus returned to his steady eyes. Maybe he could help. Maybe he had contacts, or could give me an angle on the favours-for-energy scheme. Yes, he had connections. Yet it was madness to share any of this with him. I was clutching at straws…
‘Please, tell me,’ he said.
‘Can you get hold of this Belarusian producer? I’d like to speak with her.’
‘I can try,’ Sergei replied. ‘Eva’s still on email, maybe reachable by phone.’
‘Good. Did anything else happen with the project in Eva’s absence?’
‘No, I tried to involve another producer, but it didn’t go anywhere.’ He shrugged. ‘Many film projects start then stop.’
‘Okey dokey,’ I said, trying hard to sound relaxed. I stood up.
Sergei stood as well. ‘Actually, this has turned out to be a fortunate coincidence.’
‘What has?’
‘You coming here today.’
‘Why?’
What had he been holding back?
‘Nadia and I have been together now for many months and, well…’ He faltered. ‘I believe in your country it is customary…’
Oh no.
‘… to ask the father, before requesting the daughter’s hand.’ He gave an awkward smile. ‘In marriage, of course.’
My gaze shifted to the view across IJmeer – the barges reduced to matchsticks on its glimmering surface. I tried my best to compose my thoughts, but no words arrived. What could I say?
‘I really should put a diamond on that ring finger of hers, instead of the middle one.’ He laughed nervously.
I looked down at my feet, and the sea of plush carpet surrounding my boots.
‘Look Sergei,’ I finally said, ‘I’m behind whatever my daughter wants – whatever makes her happy.’
‘Can I take that as your consent?’
‘You can take it as a suggestion to ask her direct. It’s her decision.’
‘OK…’
There was another awkward pause.
‘I know Petra would welcome you to the family as well,’ I added.
By ‘as well’, I let him infer Petra as well as me, as opposed to Petra as well as Nadia. It was the best I could do.
He nodded solemnly. ‘Thank you, Henk.’
*
Outside, I exhaled sharply. What had just happened? Had I really given my approval for my only daughter to marry a Russian guy I barely knew? My phone started buzzing; I welcomed the interruption.
‘Henk?’
It was Tommy Franks.
‘Something’s come up,’ he said. ‘Are you free to return to London?’
‘I’m sorry?’
He asked the question again.
‘Erm, mind telling me what it’s about?’
<
br /> ‘Hold on.’
There was a muffling sound – he was taking his leave of a meeting or some such. Then, in a lower voice: ‘I finally managed to get access to some of the Karremans case information.’
‘How?’
‘Never you mind.’ It sounded like he was walking briskly.
‘What case information, then?’
‘That afternoon, before he died, he went to a place off Park Lane.’
I knew it to be one of London’s more salubrious districts.
‘And?’
‘There’s a venue there called The Silver Key. Does that name mean anything to you?’
It did: I’d noted the same name on the plaque outside 840 Keizersgracht, the merchant’s house opposite the Royal Hotel – the place I’d seen Frank Hals visiting shortly before our final encounter.
‘What exactly does this Silver Key do?’ I asked.
‘Dunno, but it was mentioned on Night Market before the site was taken down. I think they offer events across all those countries.’
‘Which countries?’
‘Come on, Henk, you were in Driebergen. Holland, Belgium, the UK… Further afield no doubt.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Come back to London. Let’s take a closer look.’
29
THE SILVER KEY
I’d decided to stay at the Maritime House hotel during my overnight trip to London. For just one night, I could afford to push the boat out.
I was sitting at the bar beneath the grey model submarine, my back to the Thames. We cops like to have a sight line towards the entrance to a venue.
It was lunchtime, and I was consulting a map of the London Underground, working out which would be the right stop for meeting Tommy Franks near Park Lane that afternoon.
Suddenly, a woman’s scent arrived from the bar stool beside me.
I didn’t look up.
Her arrival wouldn’t have been remarkable but for the fact that there had been several empty stools either side of me.
She asked the barman for a cranberry juice. Her voice carried a hint of Russian, or it could have been a Baltic state; either way, the barman obliged and her drink arrived fast.
Green Park, I determined, putting my smartphone down.
‘Are you here on business?’ she asked.
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