Van den Bergen took a step over the threshold.
‘Jan!’ he heard the woman call out. ‘Don’t let him in with those boots on, for Christ’s sake. Make him take them off at the door. No boots!’
Retreating back onto the coir doormat, Van den Bergen realised suddenly that he had been stripped of his authority. What the hell was he doing there, investigating unofficial murders, wearing his gardening gear like some yokel from the country? Minks had taken his caseload away, and Van den Bergen had inadvertently started to act like some wet-behind-the-ears junior detective: apologetic; placatory. An ageing chief inspector dreading the hulking presence of retirement on the horizon. A grandfather, fearing for his family. A weak man, cowed by the whims of the strong women around him.
‘Tell your girl I’ll arrest her for obstructing justice if she doesn’t shut up about my boots. Okay? Enough about the goddamned boots!’
Birkenstocks swallowed hard. ‘Look, man. We’re tenants. We didn’t know Van Eden. He was some old guy who croaked in the supermarket. That’s it.’
‘Who’s the landlord?’
‘Some doctor guy.’
‘Abadi?’ Van den Bergen’s pulse quickened. Had Abadi been stringing him a line? Was his connection with the old men more significant than he had let on?
‘No. Something German-sounding. Gartner, maybe. I’d have to dig out my tenancy agreement. We went through a letting agent.’
He jotted the name in his notebook, nodding. ‘Who cleared the flat out?’
‘His grandson.’
CHAPTER 24
London, a sandwich shop in New Cross, then Aunty Sharon’s house in Catford, 20 October
‘Hendrik van Eden led a secret life. Why won’t you take my calls? Px’
George read Van den Bergen’s text and threw her phone back into her bag in disgust. Shivering, she pulled her thick cardigan tighter around her, feeling aches in her muscles that heralded the onset of a crappy virus. Typical. The moment she downed tools, she got ill. But sickness would have to wait.
‘Are you Georgina?’
Registering the hand on her shoulder, George turned around to find a young woman standing over her. The woman wore a hijab but was otherwise dressed like any other girl of her age – skinny jeans, a clinging long-sleeved top and a fashionable mohair coat. Behind her stood a girl who looked to be in her late teens. She too wore a hijab on her head, but was clad in the full-length, loose-fitting black smock that was typical of ultra-devout Muslim women. Her face looked tiny, surrounded by the swathes of black fabric, George thought.
‘Yes. Thanks for coming.’
‘I’m Qamar,’ she said. Her South East London accent was tinged with a hint of Middle Eastern intonation. ‘I’ve come to interpret for Ishtar, here. Your father says you’re a Cambridge academic.’
George swallowed hard, remembering the fury and disgust etched into Sally Wright’s face as she’d been summarily dismissed from her rooms. At that moment, George was an academic with no fixed abode. But she wasn’t about to reveal her shameful fall from grace to a stranger. ‘Yep. That’s me. I’ve published studies on women in prison and inmates’ mental health. I co-wrote a book about trafficking, too.’ She lowered her voice and spoke quickly, as though the words burned her tongue. ‘A Sunday Times non-fiction bestseller. I doubt you’ve heard of it.’
With Ishtar seated opposite her, furtively looking at anyone who entered the near-deserted sandwich shop on a quiet New Cross side street, George wondered if this impromptu interview would bear fruit.
‘I’m trying to get an understanding of your journey from Syria to London, Ishtar.’
George smiled as warmly as possible while Qamar translated. She took the opportunity to knock back two ibuprofen that she found in the bottom of her bag, willing them to kick in swiftly as she swallowed them down with cheap instant coffee.
Ishtar spoke haltingly, between sips of Fanta. George received the translation in bursts from the girl’s companion.
‘My family’s from Aleppo,’ she said. ‘My father was an academic too – that’s why I agreed to speak to you, I suppose. He was a brilliant mathematician, working at the university. We made the mistake of living in a part of the city that was overtaken by rebels. I guess my father should have been quicker to get us out. The fighting was already dreadful, bombs exploding on a regular basis. My mother reminisced about a peaceful, beautiful city – an Aleppo I just didn’t recognise.’ Ishtar looked at the bubbles rising to the surface of her drink. ‘I wish we could have left before it got really bad.’ A single tear broke free, betraying her apparent stoicism. ‘But my parents were afraid to move my brother because of his illness.’
The diary of Rivka Zemel immediately sprang to mind. George recalled the reluctance of Rivka’s father to secure passage to Britain or America because of Shmuel’s delicate health. Prisoners of fortune, caught between the conquering devil and a deep North Sea. ‘What’s wrong with your brother?’
Wiping her face with a trembling right hand, Ishtar looked down at her lap. Toyed with the fabric of her robe. ‘He had cerebral palsy.’
‘Had?’
She looked up to a damp patch on the sandwich shop’s ceiling and inhaled deeply. ‘Assad denied dropping a bomb containing Sarin gas. The rebels swore he was behind it. The Russians had another story.’ Tugging violently at a frayed patch on her left sleeve, her chin dimpled. ‘The dead were mostly children. You can’t smell Sarin gas. But if you inhale it, the choking starts quickly. Then comes vomiting. Foaming at the mouth. And the eyes…’ She said something to Qamar that George didn’t catch, and which the interpreter didn’t translate. Drank from her Fanta, regaining her composure. ‘My mother and my brother died. My father and I had nothing to stay for except a half-bombed house and a lifetime of bad memories.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ George said, wondering how it would feel when Letitia eventually succumbed to her ‘fucked pulmonaries’ and her ‘sickle-cell anaemics’ – if the cigarettes didn’t get her first. But Letitia was in the midst of a war only with herself. Silly cow. ‘So, how did you get out?’
Ishtar shook her head. ‘We spent all the money we had left. We were lucky. Most people just try to get to the refugee camp in Turkey. I’ve heard it’s a waking nightmare. Anyway, there’s this man. I don’t know how my father managed to find out about him, but, as you can imagine, there’s no shortage of people trying to flee the war.’
‘A Syrian?’
‘Yes. But he has contacts in the Netherlands.’
George sat up straight. ‘Contacts? You mean there’s more than one? Do you know their names?’
Chewing her lip, Ishtar spoke again to her companion without being translated.
Looking questioningly at Qamar, George tried to keep her excitement to herself, though her breathing quickened. Come on! Come on! Say it’s Den Bosch, for God’s sake. Then order will be restored in the bloody galaxy and we can all pay our bills. ‘What’s she saying?’
The two continued what sounded like a heated exchange for several minutes, much to George’s frustration. Finally, Qamar turned to her. ‘She won’t give you the names. They’re dangerous men.’
‘Jesus!’ George said, slapping the table so her cup rattled in its saucer. Apologising profusely when the Syrian girls both jumped. ‘Seriously, though. What are you both worried about now? You’re here! You’re safe! This is New Cross, not Aleppo. You’re more likely to get chronic earache from Stormzy than suffer retribution from Assad or some Dutch nutcases. Whoever the main man is, he’s had your money. He’s long gone.’
Ishtar shook her head and began to speak, as Qamar translated. ‘There’s no guarantee I’ll get to stay, if my asylum case fails. I’ll be deported. The trafficker in Syria isn’t someone I want to mess with. And the Dutchman has people working for him everywhere. In the Netherlands. Over here. In the Muslim community.’ She studied George’s face cautiously. Narrowed her eyes. ‘Why do you want a name? I thought this was all anonymous, that it
was for an academic study.’
Taking her napkin and polishing her unused cutlery until it shone, George realised this vulnerable girl deserved the truth. So she told her about the truck found in the Port of Amsterdam and the scores of people who had almost lost their lives in amongst the greenhouse-grown courgettes and red peppers bound for Britain. ‘One dead girl, Ishtar. Isn’t one dead girl one too many? What if more had died? I hear a couple of the men have been left with brain damage because of oxygen deprivation. Men like your dad. Women like your mum. They all trusted this guy and he took their money and piled them into an unventilated truck like cattle.’
But the girl remained steadfastly silent.
‘Was he called Frederik Den Bosch? The Dutch trafficker, I mean. Did you travel over in one of his lorries?’
George watched her interviewee’s eyes for the smallest tell. Dilated pupils. A surfeit of blinking. But there was nothing beyond a subtle paling of her olive complexion. ‘What about Bosch, Boom & Tuin? Forest, Tree and Garden? It’s a florists’ supplier.’
Ishtar bit the inside of her cheek. Qamar nudged her in the ribs discreetly. There it was. The same company name had cropped up again.
‘Please give me a name,’ George asked. She reached out, hoping to take Ishtar’s left hand as a gesture of solidarity.
The young woman looked at George’s hand in horror. Glanced down at her frayed sleeve. Her eyes hardened. Defiantly, she wrenched up the fabric to show a stump where her arm had been severed just above the elbow. ‘See why I don’t want to take chances?’ There was barely restrained anger in her voice. ‘If I get deported, I get more of this. Blown up by Assad or the Russians. Shot or defiled by Daesh. If I talk about my trafficker…’ She looked over at the woman behind the counter, who was busy mashing boiled eggs and blithely singing along to Whitney Houston on Radio 2, then glanced back to Qamar for corroboration. ‘My father and I could be killed in our beds. I just want to lie low and get through this. Get permission to stay in the UK.’ She fixed her eyes on George; eyes that had seen too much devastation. ‘Nobody will ever marry a one-armed girl, but it’s better than being dead, Georgina McKenzie.’
The two Syrian women started to talk in their native tongue, with Qamar seemingly disagreeing with Ishtar. Repeatedly, George heard the Arabic word for doctor come up in their exchange.
‘Doctor? What doctor?’
But though she pressed them for an explanation, none was forthcoming. In a billowing cloud of black fabric, Ishtar stood and the two of them left.
Aunty Sharon’s house felt like it had been sucked dry of its soul with only her in it. Lying in Tinesha’s bed, feeling like she had been trampled underfoot by a herd of angry bulls, George mulled over her interview. Forest, Tree and Garden. There was something in the name. And the mention of a doctor. Had they been discussing her academic prowess, or was a doctor somehow involved with the trafficking enterprise? How wide was the network’s reach, if it had tentacles in Syria, the Netherlands and the UK?
‘Knock knock. Do you want to come down and watch the TV?’ Her father had suddenly appeared in the doorway to the bedroom, carrying a cup of something steaming hot. He made his way to the battered bedside cabinet, covered in One Direction stickers and other hallmarks of her cousin’s peak teen years. Set the cup down on a coaster. He felt her forehead with the back of his hand. ‘You’ve got a temperature.’
‘I feel like shit,’ George said, sitting up, feeling like an overgrown child in her winceyette pyjamas. Her teeth clacked. Fucking flu. Great.
‘I’m just downstairs if you want me. There’s this reality show on where a bunch of engineers have to build an escape vehicle out of crash-site bits.’
‘Coals to Newcastle for you. Knock yourself out, Papa. I’m going to sit up here and feel sorry for myself while I still can.’
‘They’re all back tomorrow.’ He wore a look of weary resignation on his face. His posture bowed at the neck and shoulders. Life with Letitia the Dragon was clearly burdensome. He’d exchanged one marauding captor for another, except Letitia specialised in pillaging the spirit, rather than the flesh.
‘God help us all.’
With her father gone, George opened Rivka Zemel’s diary, picking up where she had left off. The menfolk in the Zemel household had been ordered to register for ‘work’. But as they suspected, and history had borne out, ‘work’ had more sinister connotations.
15 August 1942
We left everything in the middle of the night. Papa allowed us to carry only one suitcase each, containing the bare essentials – clothes, a book each, Mama’s Sabbath candlesticks and a handful of old photos: my grandparents on their wedding day; my father in his prayer shawl at his bar mitzvah; Mama and Papa holding Shmuel as a baby; me in a darling knitted hat, skating on the frozen Keizersgracht, holding Mama’s hand. Kaars had given us clear instructions not to tell a soul as to our intentions. We couldn’t even say goodbye to our neighbours. None of that mattered, however, as the Verhagens were risking everything to ensure our safety. The ‘oproeping’ – the call-up for work – is not a risk worth taking, given the fate of Jews further east, under Nazi occupation. We know we’re not wanted in the Fatherland and its annexed territory.
As I sit here, writing this diary entry in the same patch of space where tonight I’ll bed down, for almost a month, it now feels unremarkable. I suppose we’re comfortable enough. I recall, however, that on the first night in our little sanctuary I felt terribly claustrophobic and frightened. Though I’ve worked in this house as a domestic for years, I’d never slept here. It smells different to home. The boards creak differently to those in our house. But worst, that night, was the anticipation of what might come… By morning, it would be clear to all that we had absconded. The Germans are meticulous record-keepers and it was hardly likely they would just give up on looking for us. Had anybody seen us leave or followed us here? Would some visitor to the Verhagen house realise that four Jewish fugitives lived in their midst?
I needn’t have worried, though, because Mr Verhagen had constructed a space of such genius and cunning that it would take a determined sleuth a good long while to work out that there was a hiding place between the grand salon at the front of the house and the dining room at the back: the room between the rooms, masquerading as a chimney breast. The first few weeks were a trial, as we got used to having no privacy beyond a blanket that Mama had strung up around the toilet bucket and the separate ablutions bucket. How perfectly horrid for Kaars to have to empty the waste bucket every morning! The embarrassment was intense, and I have to admit that I felt as though I were no better than a beast when he first carried it out, covered in newspaper. I wonder that Famke does not challenge him. Apparently, they have told her I’ve left through necessity and won’t be coming back.
But beyond discomfort, rather more of a challenge is to survive in this cramped, windowless space without going insane. Dear diary, we are cooped up in nothing more than a cupboard with no respite from the mood swings and terrible habits of one another. Shmuel coughs constantly. His asthma seems worse in this poorly ventilated space. Papa is ill-tempered much of the time and Mama has withdrawn into herself, becoming terribly quiet. She embroiders all day long, using the thread that Mrs Verhagen sourced for her. At least it keeps her occupied. I have encouraged them all to spend at least fifteen minutes each day, walking on the spot. We all get unbearably stiff.
Kaars and the other members of the Force of Five do visit, however. These are the highlights of our otherwise identically long, long days. The boys bring newspapers, telling of the further segregation of the Jews in the city. So many Jewish Amsterdamers have been transported elsewhere, perhaps never to return. Those who remain are all wearing the yellow stars emblazoned with ‘Jew’ in black lettering that is supposed to resemble Hebrew. But spirits remain high. There is talk of the Allied forces gaining in strength. The Nazis continue to take a battering on the Eastern Front. Surely our situation cannot last indefinitely.
&nb
sp; For my part, Ed’s visits are the most welcome. He brings news of the Force of Five’s exploits. They have been tearing down Nazi propaganda posters around town and helping other Jewish families and some homosexuals to find refuge among sympathetic families. I was so desperate to feel the sun on my face and the wind in my hair and to walk in the park, hand in hand with my love, that when Anna Groen came by with Hendrik and offered, once again, to bleach my hair, I agreed.
Through some act of great stealth and cunning, Hendrik has managed to procure falsified papers for me. When I asked him how, he tapped his nose and winked. I didn’t dare press him on the matter. So, last night, Anna and I crept up to the Verhagens’ bathroom and bleached my hair. It was such a joy to have a bath and to wash my hair properly after spending an age relying on a good strip-wash in a bucket and nothing more. It’s a wonder Ed hasn’t abandoned me for smelling like a dead cat!
In the middle of the night, despite Mama and Papa’s protestations, my beau and I left the Verhagen house in as stealthy a fashion as we could muster and went for a walk. It was there, beneath the great oak in the Vondelpark, that Ed swore we would marry after the war. But he made me an unexpected offer. He told me that he feared for the future, despite what he’d said in front of the others about the Allied forces’ hopeful prospects. He said that I should trust nobody save him and Kaars. Then, he asked if I wanted to be smuggled out of the Netherlands to America.
Feeling the painkillers kick in, making her drowsy, George closed the diary and shut her eyes momentarily. Her thoughts wandered to the subject of trafficking, and how traffickers provided a much-needed service where the state failed desperate people. The only difference between the likes of Ed Sijpesteijn, with his offer to smuggle Rivka onto a ship to the US, and those who ran trafficking services out of Syria to the UK, was that modern-day traffickers were in it purely for gain and usually exploited their customers. But there was a definite grey area around trafficking – a blurred distinction between rebellious heroism and criminality.
The Girl Who Got Revenge Page 17
