‘I’ve found out some more on the two Bosnians and I’ve ID’d the last man in the photo at 57. The thing is, they were all part of a gang called the Black Hands, who’re wanted for war crimes—’
‘Where are you now?’
‘At the station, I’m just—’
‘Can you get to Schellingwouderbreek, quickly as possible?’
He sounded off, stressed, under duress.
‘Jaap, what’s going on?’
‘Just meet me there. I’ll explain. And don’t tell anyone about this.’
And then he was gone, the intensity of his voice ringing in her ears.
61
Monday, 10 May
21.16
Stars pinged off black water.
The sky had cleared, rainclouds heading east towards the continent, and Jaap shivered as he stood waiting for Tanya. He was at Schellingwouderbreek, a small lake in Amsterdam Noord surrounded by woodland.
It was here he’d scattered Karin’s ashes, watched as the grey flakes landed on the surface of the water, clung to the reeds at the water’s edge.
Something rustled in the undergrowth, before plopping into the water off to his right.
He remembered the famous poem by Basho, the sound of water.
The skin on his arms and neck goose-pimpled up.
But he wasn’t sure it was from the cold and damp.
Or something else.
The image of Floortje on the phone screen wouldn’t clear from the front of his mind. And then there’d been Tanya’s call, confirming just how wrong he’d been.
He’d driven out here after taking Saskia home, and had pulled out the I Ching as soon as he parked by the path which led to the water. He’d made a resolve to stop doing this, but …
Coins spun through the air, glinting in the car interior’s light. The I Ching had given him Thunder over Lake.
DANCING TO ANOTHER’S TUNE.
He stepped closer to the water’s edge, the soil softening underfoot.
How did I let this happen? he thought.
The image of his teacher in Kyoto rose out of the dark, the rounded face, shaved head accentuating the bushy eyebrows, and the placid look in his eyes.
Jaap had woken one morning with the 3 a.m. bell reverberating through his head. It was large, made of copper, and hung in a simple wooden frame in the central courtyard of the monastery. Every day it was someone’s job to polish it, to forestall the inevitable greening of the metal, and Jaap had done it many times, his image distorted on the curved, shiny surface as he worked the cloth back and forth.
It was rung every morning, though Jaap had no idea who actually struck it. After listening to it for a few moments he’d got up, dressed and headed for the main hall, where the next three hours would be spent just sitting. Which was purely a warm-up for a much longer session later in the day.
He’d been struggling for weeks. Sitting still and concentrating on his breath only seemed to intensify each and every physical sensation until he felt like he was in so much pain he wouldn’t be able to carry on. Yuzuki Roshi had simply smiled when Jaap complained to him of the pain, and said, ‘Good, keep going.’
He’d reached moments when he swore he could feel every cell in his body, each one screaming, each one on fire.
But the physical pain was only a mild distraction from something worse.
The mental pain.
That morning Jaap was crossing the courtyard, other monks emerging from all corners like bent beetles, when he noticed Yuzuki Roshi gesturing to him from a side door. Jaap went over to him and, as instructed, followed him through the doorway.
The path on the other side was littered with small round stones which crunched underfoot, and led through a grove of small maples, their branches dripping delicate autumn fire. They followed the path up a small hill, and as they rose Jaap glimpsed through the trees the temple complex spread out below.
He knew it was modelled on ancient Chinese ideas, Zen Buddhism was a Chinese import which had taken root and grown in Japan’s feudal society, and the buildings with their sloping roofs which curled up at the corners were testament to that lineage.
Gravel gardens were dotted about, their swirls immaculate and regularly changed, and ornate bridges arched over small streams linking ponds. On the shore of the largest pond a heron balanced on one leg, perfectly still, perfectly calm.
But as they climbed higher, Jaap could also see beyond the temple grounds: the urban sprawl, wires hanging between buildings, a chaos of cars parked on every available flat surface. Neon lights, rubbish, a truck negotiating a corner on a too-tight junction.
He remembered thinking about being cloistered away, wondering if he was achieving anything.
Or simply hiding.
They reached a small building, built in the same style as the rest, and stopped outside. The paper screen which acted as a door was closed, glowing in the early-morning sun. A bird high above them in the clear still air let out a single piercing shriek.
And Yuzuki Roshi spoke to him, which was a rare experience; most of Jaap’s questions were answered with the curt command ‘Just sit’ or a small bow of the head. He told Jaap to enter the building, look at what was inside and stay and meditate on form and emptiness.
Jaap pulled back the paper screen, the action smooth, and entered the room, the tatami mat rough against his bare feet. It was a small space, no more than two metres square, and lying on the floor was a body. The screen slid shut behind Jaap and he sat down, realizing that the figure in front of him was one of the monks he’d seen about the place but never spoken to.
At first Jaap was angry; this kind of thing might work on people who’d never seen a dead body before, but he was a police inspector, his job involved looking at them all the time. And he was about to get up and leave the room, tell Yuzuki Roshi that cheap tricks weren’t going to work on him, when he realized the very reason he’d ended up halfway across the globe was because of a body.
A body whose life he’d ended. And that of the child she’d been carrying.
So he sat, slowed his breathing down, and tried to focus on what was in front of him, tried to wrestle with form and emptiness, two polar opposites which were somehow linked.
It took hours, but when, knees aching, his back a twisted rope of pain, Jaap finally emerged into the dusk he felt different.
Felt as if things, life, was suddenly clearer to him.
Felt that, in the end, things were simple.
Form and emptiness.
He’d always assumed the Buddhist concept of emptiness meant nothing, a kind of nihilistic view in a world devoid of meaning.
But as he stood there, watching the orange sun slide down behind the silhouetted mountain range edging Kyoto, the crisp air carrying the savoury smell of miso broth from the kitchens down below, a bird he still didn’t know the name of gently squeaking in one of the trees, he knew that was wrong.
Form and emptiness weren’t opposites, they were one and the same thing. And that realization was meant to bring the end of suffering.
The black circle on a white background which hung in his room at the monastery, an image he’d stared at for hours, flared in his mind.
But that was then.
Now his daughter was being held hostage, and would be killed if he couldn’t find her in the next twenty-three hours.
And it was his fault.
He’d caused suffering, Floortje’s suffering.
Saskia’s suffering.
His own suffering.
Now form and emptiness seemed like so much mystical bullshit.
No better than the kind of crap Blinker peddled to his willing customers.
Behind him a noise, footsteps, and he turned to see a spot of light dancing through the reeds. It flitted back and forth, hit his legs and travelled up to his face so he had to put his hand up and squint into the beam.
‘Jaap, what’s wrong?’
Tanya’s voice, full of concern, came at him as the light
flicked off.
He didn’t even know where to start.
He would have laughed.
If he wasn’t already crying.
62
Monday, 10 May
21.32
Tanya held on to him, held him tight.
As if that would help.
She still couldn’t take in what Jaap had just told her.
Jaap shifted his weight and she let him go.
‘So tell me about these men,’ he said, his voice unable to hide the fear coursing through him.
‘They all come from Bosnia, with the exception of Teeven obviously. It seems during the conflict there they were a small terrorist group which specialized in ethnic cleansing. They were part of the Serbian army involved in the Sebrenica massacre but broke away when the UN troops moved in. They probably thought they were safer as a small group.’
‘And Matkovic was their leader?’
‘Yeah. He got caught, but these guys managed to escape. And they must have come here using false IDs. Easy enough to get.’
Jaap slapped his neck and inspected his hand.
Tanya had been going through their files, and the fact that one of these people was holding Floortje was terrifying; all of their records were littered with deaths, rapes, torture. Europol had a list of crimes they were accused of running into pages. But the one who had Floortje was, apart from Matkovic, the worst.
‘And while they were here they needed money so started ripping off the cannabis growers?’
‘Looks that way,’ said Tanya. ‘They needed money to live off, I guess. And it’s not like they were going to come here and get normal jobs.’
‘So the photos on their phones – that wasn’t about us, they were just scoping out Floortje? They needed to know where she would be?’
‘Must’ve been.’
‘So who’s left?’
Tanya pulled two sheets of A4 from her pocket, unfolded them and handed them to Jaap, training her torch on the paper so he could read. Tanya knew what they said. Goran Nikolic was second-in-command of the Black Hands, answering to Matkovic. And by the look of things he was as vicious as they came.
Jaap scanned down then turned to the second sheet, read that in silence.
When he was done he looked out over the lake.
‘This is who has Floortje,’ he said.
Tanya noticed the sheets of paper trembled in Jaap’s hand, the edges shivering in the torch beam. She wanted to reach out to him again, but he seemed coiled tight, like he might explode if touched.
Not that she could blame him.
From what she’d read in the files, if Nikolic had Floortje the chances were he’d follow through with his threat. Meaning Jaap would never see her again.
Or not alive.
‘So what now?’ she said. ‘How are we going to get him?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Jaap, turning his face towards her. ‘But we’ve only got about twenty-two hours left.’
‘I ran his name,’ she said. ‘Nothing came up. As far as anyone is concerned he’s not in the country.’
For a while neither said anything, then Tanya spoke.
‘All I can think of is 57. That’s the only place we’ve had a confirmed sighting of him. How about we go there now, flash his photo around?’
Jaap was looking out towards the lake and didn’t respond, didn’t give any indication he’d even heard.
‘I know it’s a long shot,’ she said, watching his profile, ‘but right now I’m not sure what else we’ve got.’
63
Monday, 10 May
23.45
Music pounded, each beat hammering Jaap’s head, pressurizing his eardrums, squeezing his brain.
It was nearly midnight, but at 57 things were only just getting going.
He leaned forward to yet another group – stupid, spoilt people out on the town, shrieking, giggling, acting like the celebretards who were everywhere in the media these days – and shouted out the phrase he’d been using for the last twenty minutes. When he’d got their attention he showed the photo.
Faces peered forward, three woman who weren’t as young as their dresses would have you believe, and two much younger men, one with a stud in his left ear. Jaap had heard about them – granny snatchers, they were called – who for whatever reason preferred women more mature.
One of the women reached out for the photo, dark roots showing on her blonde middle-parted hair, and Jaap let her take it. She studied it for a few seconds before handing it back.
‘I’ve seen him before,’ she said, leaning forward so Jaap could hear her. ‘He was trying to rent a building from us.’
Her friends were all looking at her, hopeful that their evening was now going to be considerably more exciting than the fumble round the back of the club they’d been anticipating.
‘I think we’re going to need to talk in private,’ said Jaap. She nodded, got up and followed Jaap and Tanya outside, leaving her friends ablaze with excitement.
‘Where do you work?’ asked Jaap as they left the building, walking in the opposite direction to the queue which hugged one side of the club. Jaap could see she was older than he’d first thought, maybe late fifties, maybe more. They stopped at the corner of the building.
‘De Kok,’ she said, pulling her jacket round her and shivering. ‘It’s on Rozengracht.’
Jaap felt a jolt of energy pulse in his gut.
It was the same place where the girl who’d given the first victim the keys to Koopman’s flat worked. The girl who disappeared.
‘And what building did he try to rent?’
‘It wasn’t him, actually; it was a friend of his who I dealt with. But the man in the photo waited in the car the whole time. He was wearing dark glasses, and I kind of got the impression he didn’t want to be seen.’
‘And the one you dealt with, who was he?’
‘Some guy, I don’t really remember that much about him. Esther was supposed to be showing them around – she’d made the initial appointment – but my boss wanted me to do it as she didn’t think Esther was experienced enough.’
‘The man, was he a foreigner?’
‘No, I don’t think so. He sounded Dutch to me.’
Must have been Teeven, but Jaap didn’t have a photo of him to show. Not that it really mattered. They’d got a lead on Nikolic, that was the important point.
‘What building were they interested in?’
‘Several actually. I took them to probably about five or six, all old farm buildings or industrial units.’
‘Did this guy say why they were looking?’ asked Tanya.
‘He said it was for some project, like a studio or something. To do some kind of metalwork. He wanted somewhere far away from any other building so no one would get disturbed by the noise.’
Jaap’s pulse, which had been high since the phone call, notched up again.
That’s it, he thought. That’s got to be where they’re holding her.
He tried not to let the excitement show in his voice. He could feel Tanya also trying not to let anything slip.
All he could think about was Floortje.
Being held by Nikolic.
‘Which one did they take?’
Shouts broke out from near the entrance. Jaap looked across to see two bouncers piling on top of a man waving a bottle. The bottle left his hand and smashed on the ground, spraying a group of woman at the head of the queue. They squealed, screamed and moved back.
‘I don’t think they took any in the end,’ she said, shivering. ‘All too expensive, they said. At least that’s what they told me.’
Day Four
* * *
64
Tuesday, 11 May
07.58
Jaap’s eyes followed the blazing swan, each feather a flickering lick of flame in the dark sky.
There were no stars, no planets, nothing against which to gauge depth or distance.
There was just the flying swan.
Th
e swan turned its neck – it was missing an eye – and beat its wings, dislodging a tail feather.
Jaap watched the feather as it dropped, fire flaring towards him, tumbling through space. And he was falling too, he could feel air rushing past him. The feather was close now, and he tried to reach out and touch it, but there was no warmth even as his hand got near. And then he accelerated, or the feather slowed down, and he watched it shrink away from him, watched it until he could no longer see it and there was only darkness.
Something was pounding his skull, arrhythmic, jarring.
He woke with all his muscles firing at once, eyes flipping open, arms and legs jerking, his head lifting off the desk, the world righting from sideways. The pounding he recognized as his heartbeat, the pulse too big, too strong, for his veins to cope with.
He expected to be covered in sweat – that was the cliché – but he found he was stone cold, dry, and his limbs stiff and sore.
Floortje.
He rubbed the side of his face he’d fallen asleep on, the side with the cigarette burn. The plaster was still attached to his skin, but he could feel the edges peeling up, catching and rolling on his fingers as they passed. He found an edge and tore it off, inspecting the pad.
There was blood there, dried and fresh.
He dropped it into the bin by his desk and looked around the office, clocking the lack of people. It was just him.
He checked his watch.
Only thirteen hours left, he thought. And I’m no closer.
He dragged himself off the chair, shook his legs out. He needed to be doing something, anything, but he felt weighed down.
And the truth was he didn’t know what to do. Nikolic had Floortje and was going to kill her if Saskia didn’t get Matkovic acquitted today.
Which, given that Saskia’s actual job was to prosecute him, was not going to be easy.
The one shred of hope was the fact that Saskia’s main witness had gone missing. That alone gave her a chance of managing to lose the case.
But he couldn’t rely on that, couldn’t sit around and wait for a verdict which could cause the death of his daughter.
Into the Night: Inspector Rykel Book 2 (Amsterdam Quartet) Page 22
