The House of Dolls (25 page)

‘No,’ she said. ‘I just thought . . .’

That flat line of a smile. It judged him and he never did like that.

‘I just thought you’d want to get out of here for a while. No one’s going to see you.’ Her eyes were so steady. They never left him. ‘No one would know you. Not the way you are now.’

She walked up and touched his bristly cheek.

‘I like it. I bought you a razor and some shaving foam. They’re in the bathroom. You should use them twice a day. Also . . .’ She went to a shopping bag by the window and pulled out a box with a pair of hair clippers inside. ‘I got this. You need to use it.’ She waved a finger in his face. ‘So the old you doesn’t come back.’

Jansen drank a cup of coffee. Ate a croissant and a couple of bitterballen with mustard from the fridge. Then he went to the bathroom and did as she asked.

When he came out she had a coat on and was holding out a new jacket, sleeves ready for him.

‘If you want money for this . . .’ he began.

‘I don’t want your money. Can we go now?’

More tourists outside, a big party among them led by a Japanese woman bearing a flag. They took pictures even though a sign asked them not to. Made a little noise which seemed out of place in this peaceful sanctuary just off the busy Spui square.

He sat next to Suzi on a bench in the private grassed area. She glowered at him when he asked about lighting a cigarette. So he put his hands in his pockets like a naughty child. Was both glad and annoyed that she didn’t try to make conversation.

When the group left the courtyard she got up and walked him to the chapel. Told a story about a nun from the seventeenth century buried in the gutter outside because she felt the church had been tainted by the presence of Presbyterians.

‘So you get gangs in religion too, huh?’ Jansen muttered as they went through the low door.

A modest shop with souvenirs on the right. A tiny chapel on the left. Nothing much to interest him.

‘There’s always a conflict, Theo,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘I wouldn’t argue with that.’ Suzi tapped his chest. ‘Inside or out. We never lose it.’

‘Don’t try to change me,’ he said. ‘I’m a hopeless case.’

She stayed silent.

‘And they’ll bury me in the gutter too,’ Jansen added. ‘It’s where I came from. I’ll just go back where I belong.’

‘Your father was an honourable man. He worked all his life—’

‘And got paid piss all. Didn’t even own the place he lived in. Didn’t . . .’

His old man was a proud, taciturn working-class underling on the Heineken production line. Jansen’s mother had died when he was seven. His father fell to throat cancer on the day Jansen turned thirty. He’d never uttered a word about the work his son did. It was as if everything took place in another world.

‘Sshhh . . .’

Her soft finger went to his rough lips. Jansen’s voice had turned too loud for the dark and quiet interior of the Begijnhof chapel.

‘I suppose you pray for me now,’ he whispered, desperate to get out of this place.

‘No,’ she said lightly. ‘I pray for everyone. I wouldn’t presume . . .’

She stood in front of him, folded her arms. At that moment he could picture the two of them, young and strong, bodies locked together on the bed of his little flat, before the money began to flood through his life.

Nothing was complicated then. Every day was a battle, to be won or lost. He’d craved victory because he knew the alternative was defeat, shame, death. Never imagined for one moment the price of that triumph would be losing her.

‘I can’t think of anything I have to give you,’ she said. ‘But take what you like. Stay as long as you need. Ask for whatever you want. You can have it.’

She closed her eyes. He could see tears at the corners, like tiny transparent pearls.

‘There’s enough pain between us. Let’s not make more.’

His cheap phone rang. In the darkness of the small, stuffy Begijnhof chapel all eyes turned on him. This was somewhere he didn’t belong.

Jansen walked out into the porch, answered.

Maarten. Wanting to know what to do.

‘About what?’ Jansen asked, aware that she’d marched past him, out into the spring morning, determined not to hear.

‘Everyone wants to know, Theo. Are we back? I’ve even got some of the Surinamese guys calling me. They don’t want a war now. Not with Jimmy gone.’

Jansen felt stupid. He’d never thought about the fallout from killing Menzo. There was no obvious leader to take over. The man had ruled like an old-fashioned despot. Miriam Smith was effectively his number two and she was dead as well. A war would happen. It had to one day. But not now. There were supply lines to maintain. Debts to be collected. Bills to be paid. Lives to be led.

‘What are people saying?’ he asked.

‘They want you back . . .’

‘Marnixstraat is going to keep looking until they find me, Maarten. You know that can’t happen.’

‘Not if we get you out of the city. You can run this from abroad. You . . .’

Jansen wasn’t listening. Suzi was staring at him with those knowing sad eyes. She always understood the politics of crime. Better than him sometimes. She probably guessed this was on the way.

‘We need to meet,’ the barber said. ‘You and Jimmy’s people. Michiel Lindeman said he’d be there. He can . . . mediate.’

A lawyer willing to talk to a man on the run. That was an interesting idea.

‘Fix something,’ Jansen said. ‘Get back to me.’

He went back with her, out of the public area of the Begijnhof into the private courtyard, then the tall wooden house and her modest apartment.

‘I’m going shopping later. What would you like for lunch?’ she asked as she closed the door.

‘Herring,’ he said. ‘Good bread. A beer. Just one.’

Fifteen minutes later Maarten called. A meeting had been arranged. Soon.

‘Forget the food,’ Jansen told her when he was finished. ‘I’ll be out of here. I’ll get my own.’

It was yellow but not a house. Just a low post-war building one street behind the flower stalls and bulb shops of the Bloemenmarkt. Wedged between a restaurant and a bar, ochre paint, giant sunflowers stretching up to the bright clean windows, it seemed oddly clean and out of place amidst the grey buildings spreading round the flower market.

The sign on the door said:
The Yellow House, Director Barbara Jewell
.

Vos and Bakker chained their bikes to the railings at the front, negotiated the bland receptionist in the bland reception area, and found themselves in Jewell’s office without an argument or the least hesitation.

Van Gogh paintings everywhere. Quotations from a variety of gurus, everyone from Sufi mystics to Steve Jobs. Jewell sat next to a large iMac, tapping at the keyboard as she listened to them. She was a sturdy American around forty, short dyed orange hair, piercing blue eyes. A matching blue business suit that looked expensive. From the outset she spoke English in a firm, determined tone.

Bakker asked what they did.

‘We cure people,’ Jewell answered with a frank, interested smile. ‘If we can.’

‘Did you cure Katja Prins?’ Vos asked.

Jewell’s hefty shoulders shrugged.

‘I believe so. Do you have reason to think otherwise?’

‘Didn’t Til Stamm tell you?’ Bakker asked. ‘When she came for the keys to your caravan?’

The American smiled, puzzled.

‘Tell me what?’

Vos filled her in. She looked shocked, worried. Then started to tap at her keyboard again.

Bakker was getting mad.

‘Can you leave that for a moment?’

‘I’m looking for the last time Katja was here,’ Jewell replied. ‘I thought you’d want to know.’

She found something, hit the keyboard. A printer at the end of the desk started to whir. Barbara Jewell passed over the single page it produced. An appointment for eleven in the morning. A three-hour period called ‘session training’.

Bakker asked what that meant.

‘It meant we might give Katja a job somewhere along the line. A teacher needs to understand her subject. Katja knows it better than most. Drugs. Drink.’ She hesitated. ‘Abusive relationships.’

‘You mean with her father?’ Bakker asked.

The American woman sighed, looked apologetic.

‘This is awkward,’ she said. ‘I want to help as much as I can. But there are confidences here.’

‘You’re not a priest,’ Bakker retorted.

‘No. But I’m still someone who hears secrets that people don’t want revealed. If you told me something in private would you be happy if I passed it on?’

‘If it saved a life I would,’ Bakker said. ‘You’ve got a duty—’

‘How much did Wim Prins pay you?’ Vos cut in.

She took a leaflet off her desk, passed it over.

‘We work on donations. If people can afford to contribute they’re welcome. If they can’t . . . or won’t . . . that’s fine too.’ A brief, ironic smile. ‘No one’s getting rich here if that’s what you mean.’

She waited. The two of them struggled for a question. Then Vos asked, ‘Who saw her this last time?’

‘That was my session. Katja was a great subject. Attentive and motivated. She’d worked through a lot with us. I had high hopes.’

‘Who were her friends?’

Barbara Jewell frowned.

‘We’re about wellness and healing. Being . . .’

‘Clear and clean,’ Bakker said. ‘Yes. We know. Who were her friends?’

A shrug.

‘She got on well with Jaap Zeeger. They were in the same group. Apart from that . . .’

Bakker scribbled something on her pad then asked, ‘Did she say where she was going?’

‘Home, I assumed. She rented somewhere near Warmoesstraat. I think she’d got Jaap a room there for a while. He needed somewhere cheap.’

‘You don’t seem in the least worried Katja Prins is missing,’ Bakker said.

For one brief moment Barbara Jewell’s calm face broke. She looked annoyed.

‘People here come and go. I wouldn’t read anything . . .’

Vos outlined some of the details about Katja’s disappearance.

‘Either she’s been kidnapped. Or pretending to be,’ he added.

‘What exactly do you want?’

‘Your files on Katja and Zeeger.’

She hesitated, shook her head.

‘I’m sorry. That’s not possible.’

‘There’s a young woman in trouble somewhere,’ Vos told her. ‘I don’t know the circumstances. But I do know she’s in some kind of danger. My daughter disappeared—’

‘Ah!’ She raised a sturdy finger. ‘You’re that one. Katja mentioned you.’ Fingers on the keyboard again. ‘And your daughter. They were friends. You knew that, didn’t you?’

Vos shut his eyes for a moment. Bakker was getting furious by his side.

‘I could wrap you in lawsuits,’ he said. ‘I could cripple this place.’

Barbara Jewell didn’t like that.

‘We’re a charity. We work hand in hand with the government, the city council. The voluntary agencies. I don’t think I need to listen to this—’

‘Jaap Zeeger told us what Katja Prins said anyway,’ Bakker broke in. ‘We just want to hear it from you. Otherwise we’ll have to . . .’ She was thinking. ‘We’ll have to arrest him for wasting police time.’

‘He made a signed statement in Marnixstraat,’ Vos added. ‘If it’s nothing but mischievous fantasy we can have him in front of a judge this afternoon. Wim Prins is a man trying to deal with a kidnap. I wouldn’t give Zeeger much chance in those circumstances . . .’

Jewell stared at them and said, ‘Jesus. Is it any wonder why these people find it so hard to get their lives back on track?’

She tapped at the wireless keyboard again.

‘This doesn’t come from me. OK?’

The printer started whirring. A transcript of what the Yellow House called a ‘breakthrough group’. Everything on the table, however shameful, however deep the scars.

‘Katja’s a deeply troubled kid,’ Jewell said. ‘Borderline autistic and I don’t think she ever got any treatment. I could see there was something there but I had to drag this out of her. It was like sucking poison out of a wound. She needed it.’

Just three of them in the room: Jewell, Katja and Jaap Zeeger. Every word he said confirmed. Katja was convinced Prins had murdered her mother. That this was to blame for her breakdown after Bea died.

‘And you never thought of calling Marnixstraat?’ Bakker asked, astonished.

‘Would you have believed her?’ Jewell wondered. ‘The word of a junkie? Not too bright. Known to the police. Would you have taken her word against that of a man like Wim Prins?’

It was their turn to fall silent.

Outside, hearing the bustle of the tourists on the flower market quayside, Vos was about to call for Prins to be picked up when his phone rang.

De Groot. Liesbeth had been trying to reach him. There’d been a ransom note. Prins was out picking up the money.

‘Where is he?’ Vos asked.

‘She doesn’t know. He’s not answering his phone,’ De Groot said. ‘I put Mulder to work on it since you were out. Zeedijk and Stormsteeg. Eleven thirty. We’ll be there. Pieter?’

Vos was thinking.

‘I’ll get back to you,’ he said.

Bakker stood in the street, leaning against the giant painted sunflowers on the wall. Puzzled now, not tetchy as she might have been the day before.

‘That was easy in the end, wasn’t it?’ she said.

‘Something should be. Thanks for coming up with that idea about Zeeger. I was struggling there.’

That cheered her up.

‘I suppose there’s a reason you didn’t tell De Groot the woman in that nut hutch just confirmed everything he said about the lovely Wim.’

‘The lovely Wim’s got a ransom demand. We’ve little more than an hour to put together a surveillance and a snatch team for Chinatown,’ Vos told her. ‘It can wait.’

Ten minutes on, after a fast bike ride, Vos and Bakker marched into Marnixstraat. De Groot had summoned a briefing on the fourth floor. Koeman managed to intercept them as they walked down the long corridor.

‘No time,’ Vos said, trying to brush him to one side.

‘Make time,’ Koeman insisted.

He blocked their way until he got through what he wanted to say. Anna de Vries, the murdered reporter, had visited Wim Prins in his office the previous afternoon.