The House of Dolls (15 page)

It took a while. Then he turned his head to the bowl and threw up, sobbing, choking.

There was no weapon in his holster.

The control room had answered by then. When De Groot started talking the young officer in front of him lost his balance again, tumbled back to the floor. The commissaris gave up on the call, got him to his feet, put the seat down on the toilet, held his arm, made him stay there.

‘Theo Jansen’s in a prison van on the way to Bijlmerbajes,’ he said to control.

‘Got that on the list,’ the woman said. ‘Picked up already. He’s going in the Het Schouw block.’

‘Put me through to the driver.’

He looked at his watch. Thirty seconds. That was as long as he was going to wait.

But he didn’t have to. The woman came back to him and said, ‘Something’s wrong here. I’m putting out a call.’

Sitting in the security van as it took off for the prison towers of Bijlmerbajes Theo Jansen could picture every street in his head. Turn into Marnixstraat, keep straight on until they hit the busy square of Leidseplein. After that he was theirs. They’d be on busy, open public roads. Little chance of escape. He had to be as quick as he was as a young Amsterdam thug, looking to survive and prosper in dangerous times.

Easy so far. He’d beaten up the skinny cop in Marnixstraat, taken his gun. Wandered out and found the prison van waiting in the yard. The two guards had looked a touch surprised when he turned up, coughing and wheezing a little. Said he didn’t feel too good and wanted to go.

They checked the register. Theo Jansen was in theory a free man. It didn’t seem too odd he’d made his own way to the yard. So they watched him sit down on a bench, ask for a minute to get his breath back, cough a lot, ask in vain for a cigarette.

Then finally, with a helping hand from both of them, climb inside.

Seconds after they pulled out of the station he held his breath until he began to sweat. A minute later he started hammering hard on the metal wall that separated his secure compartment from the driver and the guard with him.

Three bangs. Three more. Finally the small window came open.

Jansen thrust his red face into the gap, said, ‘Sick.’

‘You can see the doctor when we get there.’

Theo Jansen gagged some more then keeled over onto his side.

The van rose. The bridge over Leidsegracht he guessed. They were now in the narrowest street along the way. Tram lines, cycle paths, red-brick terraced shops and apartments either side. Brown bars with Heineken signs. The low tan shape of the American Hotel emerging on the right.

Thirty years before, when he did his own dirty work, Jansen had taken down an English gangster in the lobby there, shot three times, didn’t die quickly.

He remembered that as he lay groaning on the floor, feeling the van come to a halt.

They wouldn’t leave him there. Not without looking. The police had rules. Orders to follow.

When the doors opened he saw them. One big, one small. Truncheons and radios on their belts. No weapons. They were just drivers really, looking bored and miserable.

They climbed in. The little one bent over him and asked, ‘What’s up?’

Jansen fetched the big guy a kick to the groin, pulling out the handgun, pushing it into the face of the other one.

Big man went down howling. The other froze, terrified.

‘Keys,’ Jansen said, scrambling to his feet, shifting the weapon from side to side.

Nothing.

He walked over to the door, slammed it shut. Just the low interior light now. No one outside to see.

‘Keys or I shoot you,’ he said in a quiet, confident untroubled voice. ‘Don’t make me do that. It’s always a waste.’

Jansen looked down at himself. Fawn cotton chinos. A white shirt. Fawn jacket.

‘And I hate blood on my clothes.’

It was the big one who took out his keys first.

‘And those,’ Jansen added, nodding at the handsets on their belts. ‘And your wallets.’

When they were done he kicked the radios, wallets and keys to the door. Checked with the little man how to close the van. Opened the handle, said thanks, slid their stuff outside.

Tucked the handgun into his waistband, got out and locked the door behind him.

They were booting the walls in seconds but he didn’t mind.

The street was almost empty. He picked up the wallets, pulled out all the cash, then threw them beneath the van with the radios and keys.

Fine grey day. Too cold for clothes like this. Theo Jansen walked off towards the back lanes of Leidseplein.

The barber’s was tiny, a single door, a tiny window, a sign: Maarten’s. He strode in, nodded at the man working on a single customer at the mirror, walked into the back room, waited.

A few minutes later the barber walked in.

‘You don’t look a day older,’ Jansen said. ‘Got a beer?’

The barber went to the fridge, took out two bottles.

‘Jesus, Theo. I just heard on the news. About Rosie. What the hell’s going on?’

‘I don’t know,’ Jansen said.

The barber nodded at outside.

‘Are you supposed to be loose? The radio said . . .’

‘This is my city. Where else should I be?’

Jansen felt the thick white beard, then his long white hair. The change in colour happened in his thirties. He felt he’d looked this way forever. But these were different times.

‘Can you take this off me?’ he asked. ‘All of it. Gimme a crew-cut like the kids have. Never had one of them.’

Maarten walked out to the front, turned the sign to closed, drew down the blinds. When he came back Theo Jansen had finished the beer so the barber got another out of the fridge, handed it over.

‘You can sit in the chair now,’ he said.

The Poppenhuis was a long ride from Marnixstraat, on a quiet stretch of the Prinsengracht opposite the Amstelveld square. Don’t-cross tape ran the length of the building. A construction team was attaching plastic sheets to scaffolding on the front. Close to the front door a workman was sweeping up shattered glass.

A lean man of medium height, narrow face dominated by the droopy brown moustache, Koeman was sitting on the bonnet of a squad car by the water smoking a cigarette. The ash dropped on his taupe short winter coat and he never noticed. He waved a hand by way of welcome, watched the way Bakker walked, didn’t say a word.

Vos and Bakker followed him to the door. They picked up three hard hats then made their way past the construction men.

‘Whorehouse,’ Koeman said as they began to walk round the wrecked ground-floor rooms. ‘Want to meet the madame?’

Vos had stopped in what must have been the reception area. The smoke and the firemen’s hoses had changed the colour of everything but he guessed it had once been pink. Koeman walked up and opened what looked like a tall cupboard behind the desk. Behind the doors was a long painting: the Oortman house, an almost exact copy. But in each open room something different. A display of sex acts, all kinds. Men, faces turned away from the painter. The women, none naked, but dressed as dolls. On their backs. On their knees. In one room splayed out on a wooden contraption, legs akimbo.

‘I’d guess you’d call that the menu. At least you had to ask to see it.’ Koeman looked reluctant to say something but came out with it anyway. ‘This is the thing that drove you crazy when your girl vanished, isn’t it? The one from the museum?’

Vos nodded.

Koeman frowned.

‘If you were going to call a brothel the doll’s house it’s pretty obvious they’d use that picture, Pieter. It’s famous. Doesn’t mean there’s a connection.’

‘I know that,’ Vos said. ‘Was this on the books?’

‘I ran the address through vice. It’s registered as a private residence. We’ve no records of complaints. Of any visits.’ He shrugged. ‘Anything.’

‘There has to be some kind of paperwork,’ Bakker said.

‘You haven’t worked this beat, have you?’ Koeman retorted. ‘It’s called a
privehuis
.’

Bakker looked at him, bemused.

‘Private house. It’s like a genteel little party.’ He gestured round the room. ‘You sit around with the girls. Talk a while. Have a drink. Smile at one. Then . . .’

‘You seem knowledgeable,’ she said. Koeman smiled, not pleasantly.

‘I’ve worked this city since I was an eighteen-year-old cadet. You’d be amazed what I’ve seen. But this place . . .’ He shook his head. Looked at Vos. ‘It doesn’t add up. We ought to have known about it. From what I’ve seen upstairs it was a bustling little business. Then a little under three years ago . . .’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Gone. All closed down.’

They walked out back to a small, grubby courtyard. An Asian woman in garish clothes sat on a rusty garden chair smoking a cigarette. She didn’t look at any of them when they arrived.

Her name was Amm. Vos found another rusty chair, pulled it up and sat in front of her.

‘You’re in big trouble, Amm,’ he said.

She looked at him and scowled.

‘No I’m not.’

‘Why did you shut up shop?’ he asked.

‘Went on holiday for a while. When I came back all the girls had gone.’

‘All of them?’ Koeman asked.

‘I told him,’ she said, jabbing a finger his way. ‘Every one. Bitches. I brought in some of those kids myself. Got them papers. That’s how they repay me.’

Bakker glanced back at the house.

‘How old were they?’ she said.

‘Old enough,’ came the straight answer.

‘How old?’ Bakker asked again, leaning down to get in her face.

‘Every one of them nineteen.’

Koeman threw back his head and laughed.

‘Oh, I love it. Why not eighteen? That’s still legal. For now.’ He winked at her. ‘But when this new guy in the council gets his way it’s twenty-one. And brothel keepers like you are in real shit, aren’t you?’

‘It was a privehuis,’ she insisted. ‘We had nice girls and nice customers.’ She glared at him. ‘Maybe you’d know some of ’em.’

‘Meaning?’ Bakker asked.

Koeman looked at her and winked.

‘A good hostess never talks about business,’ the Thai woman said almost primly. ‘What’s the world coming to?’

Vos stood up.

‘Why didn’t you open up again, Amm? You could have got new girls. This place . . .’ He looked back at the fire-blackened corridor, the paintings on the walls. ‘It must have cost a lot of money.’

She wriggled at that.

‘Didn’t want to. Didn’t need to. I got enough money . . .’

‘That shithole in De Wallen where I found you doesn’t look so hot,’ Koeman broke in. ‘You work waitressing in a crappy restaurant. And this place is worth . . . what? Three or four million. Maybe more.’

No answer.

‘Where does the insurance go?’ he added. ‘Jimmy Menzo?’

She didn’t answer.

Vos pulled a photograph from his pocket. Katja Prins. Showed it to her. Nothing. Then he hesitated for a while, took out another shot. Anneliese. Showed her that too.

The Thai woman looked at him, astonished.

‘I don’t deal in white girls. Why would I? Those bitches from Russia and those places . . . they’ll slit your throats for five euros.’ Her hand swept the cold air. ‘I never seen these kids.’ She looked at the photos again. ‘Too young for me.’

‘They’re Dutch,’ he said.

She laughed at him then. One prominent gold canine in her mouth.

‘You’re crazy. What would a Dutch kid be doing here? We just get your men.’

Vos nodded at Koeman.

‘You need to go to the police station with my colleague. We’re going to have to check your papers. The legal documents to do with this building.’ She was swearing under her breath. ‘It’s going to take some time.’

Vos started at the top floor and began working his way through, room by room.

Bakker followed and watched.

‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked.

‘What do you think you should do?’

‘Go back to Warmoesstraat and see if we can find Jaap Zeeger. That kid there . . . whatever she was called . . .’

‘Til Stamm.’

‘She had more to say.’

Vos frowned.

‘Let’s look around first.’

‘It’s an empty house. Shouldn’t we be talking to people?’

Nothing much had been left on the top storeys. Just empty rooms with lurid pink furnishings, a basin and a shower in the corner. A bed. A couple of chairs.

Eventually they got to the first floor. A large room that felt different. Only a tiny window, high up. Thick carpet, fading pink wallpaper, a king-size double bed with a dusty velvet cover stained with smoke. Two chairs. The usual shower in the corner. A dusty chandelier as if this room was special somehow.

Vos tried to see out of the window. It was too far up for anyone to peer in, even from across the canal.

He started going through the nearest cupboard. Towels mainly. Every one had an image of the Oortman doll’s house embroidered in the corner. When he pulled out some sheets they had the same.

‘This is a brothel?’ Bakker asked. ‘With fancy laundry?’

‘There’s money here. What else do we know?’

She folded her arms.

‘Why did you show her those photos?’

He shrugged.

‘Why not? It’s called the Doll’s House. That suggests the girls here were young. Not nineteen. Not eighteen either. If this was just an ordinary privehuis we’d have known about it, like Koeman said. Maybe they were grooming kids. Maybe . . . I don’t know.’

She’d got the hint, had started going through a second set of drawers beneath the window. Bakker was tall enough that, when she stood on tiptoe and climbed on the chair, she could see out through the broken, smoke-smeared glass. The canal, the square opposite with a church turned into a restaurant and bar. Two boats, one commercial, the other full of tourists, were making their way along the canal.

‘What are we looking for?’ she asked as she went through yet more towels and sheets, all with the doll’s house logo on them. ‘And why didn’t they take this stuff away?’

‘She was scared, wasn’t she?’ he answered. ‘The Thai woman. She didn’t even want to come inside this place.’