The House of Dolls (35 page)

She slammed her fist on the button, began to yell a stream of pleas and imprecations into the plastic housing.

Sometimes the gate opened quickly. Sometimes he was away from the desk. Or talking.

Bakker turned. Mulder was up again. So was the knife.

‘I need this open now!’ she yelled, yanking hard at the iron grille. Looked up. The top was a good head higher than her. She could reach it. But it wasn’t going to be easy to get over. And she’d be exposed, back to him. Easy target. Dead and gone.

Which left one choice only.

Turn and fight.

The moment she turned, long legs bracing for the first opportunity to kick out, Mulder was on her, elbow at her throat, face in hers.

Grinning. He liked this.

Back against the hard iron railings, facing the stronger man, eyes darting between his and the knife close by her cheek, she thought about this, measured the options.

Did something she’d never have tried in Dokkum. Not if someone might see.

Spat full in his face then jerked her right knee up, tried to catch him in the groin. But he was wise to that. Beefy arms pushing her sideways. Laura Bakker tipped off balance, twisted hard into the brick wall.

His big left fist came out and caught her in the side.

Winded, gasping, racked with a sudden sharp pain she stumbled back against the gate. Down on the ground now, one hand keeping her upright.

Klaas Mulder wiped the spittle from his face. One long slow movement of the arm.

Then waved the blade once in front of her.

‘This is going to hurt,’ he said. ‘This . . .’

Another sound. A barked order. One he didn’t listen to.

Then a burst of blazing light and a roar so loud, so bright there was nothing to do but close your eyes and wait.

Vos walked straight into the boat, looked down the length of it. Saw a slight figure hunched, head down at the table.

A girl. A young woman. Hard to tell. Greasy, dirty hair, fair, streaked. She sat hunched in nothing more thana grubby cream nightdress, shiny and stained, that finished at her thighs. Legs filthy. Bare feet caked in mud.

She was crying. Vos could hear the sobs. Tried to place them. To think. To hope.

Walked to the table. Still she didn’t look at him.

Three years. They changed. Got older. Got bigger.

‘Anneliese,’ he whispered.

Remembered what Liesbeth had said, had scolded him with.

‘Liese.’

The grimy fair hair didn’t move. Face locked on his battered, bare pine table. Her hands were covered in muck. Black grime beneath her short fingernails.

He sat down opposite her, held his hands tight. Knew he wanted to touch her. Knew too this was the last thing he should do.

‘You’re safe now,’ Vos said in a quiet, shaking voice. ‘Your mother. She needs to know . . .’

The face lifted. The lank hair fell back. He looked and realized that Theo Jansen was right. He was an innocent. Naively looking for something that wasn’t there.

Bleak dead eyes, pink from tears, wide with dread, young face lined and full of hurt, Katja Prins stared at him across the table. Opened her mouth. Said nothing. Tried. No words.

‘Safe,’ Vos whispered and still he had to stop himself reaching out and touching her scrawny, filthy fingers. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t . . .’

Footsteps on the old boat’s planks. He looked up, saw Dirk Van der Berg coming towards them. Phone out. Watched him sit down too, look at the girl.

‘Jesus . . .’ Van der Berg stared at Vos. ‘Pieter—’

‘We need an ambulance for Katja,’ Vos broke in. ‘I want her seen by a doctor before anything else. I want—’

‘Pieter!’

Vos felt angry and that was rare.

Fighting to control his temper he turned to the man and said, ‘Are you even listening to me?’ Van der Berg nodded.

‘I am. I’ll fix it. But something’s happened. In Marnixstraat . . .’

Katja Prins’s head went down on the table, rested on her bare, thin arms.

‘I’ll call then,’ Vos said and took out his phone.

It was Suzi’s idea to go to bed. Jansen wondered about the wisdom of it. Sex hadn’t bothered him much, not for years. It wasn’t what drew him to her in the first place. Or the thing that had divided them in the end. In truth the naked ritual was more a way of saying something neither could phrase in words. An expression of affection or regret. A way of closing an argument that would otherwise have festered.

They wrestled wordlessly on her double bed, locked together the way they used to be, panting, sighing, heads over shoulders, eyes not meeting. No fond kisses. No words. Just a desperate stab at affection, a hunt for release.

And then it was done. He held her, since this was what she wanted. Felt the damp stain of her tears against his shoulder. She kissed his cheek very quickly, whispered a single word.
Sorry
. Rolled half over, looked at the ceiling. Closed her eyes.

From the courtyard of the Begijnhof came the low soft crooning of a pigeon. A few passing voices, footsteps tapping across the cobblestones. The light never left this room. It streamed in yellow as a dying sun from the old lamps beyond the tall wooden house, close to the cobbled gutter where an old woman asked to be buried so that coming generations would step over her bones.

Soon she was asleep. He recognized the rhythm and sound of her breathing. That was the same as ever. Her neck had grown folds and wrinkles, her skin pores and blemishes that were never there before. Still she was beautiful and always would be. Unlike him, an ugly man from the start. Irredeemable. Black inside.

Theo Jansen knew what he was. Knew too that he hated this place. Hated Suzi after a fashion. Even hated, if he tried, their daughter. A man like him had ways of dealing with treachery. Brutal means to bring about brutal ends. That was his business. His life.

And now the woman who’d schemed with Rosie lay next to him, slumbering. In a kind of peace. A brittle, hypocritical pact with an uncaring God. One that allowed her to cheat and steal and lie, but excusing the fact always because of who he was. A criminal. The fallen. A blind and gullible idiot when it came to the most intimate conspiracy of all, the one called ‘family’.

Slowly, he rolled over, looked at her in the yellow light falling on the soft down duvet.

His hand stole slowly towards her neck, stopped just short. He found himself entranced, captured by the sight of her. A face that seemed so little changed, still lovely and now, in sleep, without the pain and doubt and guilt that had come to mark her waking hours.

Jansen’s huge fingers hovered over the soft pale skin below her chin. Darker than he remembered, marked with wrinkles.

We are old, he thought. The line that joined us from vivid, loving youth to here is broken. And in its place . . .

Until the day before he’d never harmed a woman. But that was principally from purpose not principle. There hadn’t been a need. Or any gain.

But now . . .

Twenty minutes later, dressed, wallet replenished with the money he’d asked her to retrieve that afternoon – five thousand euros, all small notes – Theo Jansen let himself out of the house. Walked through the dark, damp streets of De Wallen. Bought a razor, shaving foam, soap and some cheap clothes from an all-night shop along the way.

Then went through the door of a cheap flophouse in Zeedijk and booked a room for the night.

It was the kind of place that asked no questions. Which was just as well.

A face on the pillow. Eyes closed. Gentle rhythmic breathing. Fair hair cleaner now. Sleep seemed to take away so many lines on a face that might have been sixteen. Not pushing twenty.

Vos stood at the door of the private room in the hospital in Oosterpark, watching her. Watching Liesbeth by the girl’s side too. It was seven on a bright spring morning, the sun strong even behind the hospital venetian blinds. The night had been long and busy. Just two hours’ sleep, snatched in Marnixstraat. Then here to find . . . silence.

A uniformed woman police officer had stayed with them. She confirmed Katja hadn’t spoken a word. Post-traumatic stress. Liesbeth stayed with her throughout, held her hand, tried to talk. But it was useless. She’d been sleeping now, medicated, for five hours. No sign when she’d wake.

The case was edging its way to a resolution of a kind. Katja Prins was alive. Loose threads were being tied. Everyone seemed, if not happy, close to satisfied.

Everyone except him.

‘You should take a break,’ Vos said in a low, concerned voice and got the stare. Liesbeth motioned to the corridor. They stepped outside. He’d talked to the doctors again. Katja was physically unharmed as far as they could see. But whatever experience she’d been through had taken its toll. They’d bathed her, fed her. Made her comfortable. The block still remained and could stay for days. Weeks even.

Liesbeth dragged him through the doors to an outside patio and lit a cigarette.

‘Why don’t you trust me?’ she asked.

‘You mean now? Or generally?’

‘Why do you need a policewoman in there with us?’

‘Because Katja was abducted. We don’t know what happened. Where she was. How she got free. It’s possible she could wake and try to leave. Or that . . .’

He didn’t go on. She knew what he was thinking anyway. They’d lived together long enough for that.

‘Or that I try to stop her telling you something?’

‘This is a criminal investigation, Liesbeth. Don’t expect favours.’

Nothing.

‘Do you still think Wim couldn’t be behind her disappearance?’ Vos asked.

Eyes tight shut. That look of pain he’d seen so often.

‘We lived together for years and still you didn’t know me. I was married to Wim for less than two. Why . . .?’

‘You knew him longer than that.’

A brief smile, not bitter.

‘True.’ She launched the half-spent cigarette into a nearby bin. ‘He always seemed gentle to me. Unhappy, disappointed in some ways. I thought I could help him. He thought he could help me.’ A shrug. ‘I guess we were both wrong.’

Her eyes turned on him and they were sad and serious.

‘So perhaps he did. He was at the end of his tether with Bea. I know that. If Katja found out he’d harmed her . . .’ She was considering this as a possibility, for the first time it seemed. ‘I don’t know what she’d do. Something. But why now?’

This had been troubling him too. He’d got Koeman to look into the Yellow House’s methods. Regressive therapy involved forcing ‘patients’ to face up to hidden secrets from the past.

‘Because he sent her for counselling,’ Vos said. ‘Recovered memory or something. Or maybe Katja just finally found someone who’d believe her.’

‘What happens next?’

‘We wait. An officer stays with her. With you.’

‘In case—’

‘In case of nothing. We can’t press the girl. The doctors wouldn’t allow it even if we wanted to. We’ve got to explore other possibilities.’

‘Like what?’

‘I can’t go into that.’

‘Something happened, didn’t it? Last night? I heard the policewoman talking to one of the nurses. She said it was terrible.’

Vos glanced at his watch. Time to go.

‘It’s on the news,’ he said. ‘Probably more than I can tell you anyway. When Katja’s awake . . . I’ll come back.’ He waited until she was looking into his eyes again. ‘You’re going to have to look after her. She’ll need someone. You’re all—’

‘She hates me,’ Liesbeth Prins said. ‘Will you never listen?’

‘Then why are you here?’

‘Where else would I be? What happened, Pieter?’

‘They’ll have a TV somewhere,’ he repeated.

Then went downstairs, over to the emergency department. This was where they took Laura Bakker the previous night while he and Van der Berg were waiting for a team to deal with Katja Prins. This was where she stayed.

Vos waited until seven thirty. The time he was given.

Then he asked at the desk. Was guided to a public ward a few minutes away. For women only and it was outside visiting hours. So a scowling nurse cast a suspicious look at his police ID card and told him to stay in the waiting room.

Ten minutes later she marched in. Small pink plaster on her cheek. Bruise around her eye. Tartan jacket. Green trousers. Shiny black boots.

‘How dare they keep me in here?’ Laura Bakker demanded in her loud northern monotone. ‘What right do they—?’

‘They were worried about concussion. Worried about you. We all were.’

She frowned. Puzzled.

‘I wasn’t the one Koeman shot.’

‘No. But . . .’ He pointed at the garish tartan jacket. ‘Shall we call at your place on the way? Get you a change of clothes?’

Hands on hips. Pale face livid.

‘I’m sick of all these cracks about what I wear.’

‘It wasn’t a crack exactly.’

He pointed again. Laura Bakker looked at her right sleeve. Held it up. A long knife slash had torn the fabric in two.

She ran her fingers along it and said, ‘Auntie Maartje’s going to be mad about that.’

A shake of the long red hair then she pulled out an elastic band and started tying it back behind her neck.

‘Mulder’s dead, isn’t he?’

‘Let’s talk along the way,’ Vos said.

The Begijnhof was quiet in the morning. They didn’t let the tourists in early. Still she’d rarely slept this well in years.

And she’d told him, finally. A burden lifted.

Suzi Mertens still didn’t understand why she’d taken him to bed. Why he’d so easily accepted the invitation. She didn’t feel the need to apologize. Rosie was adamant: they were owed something. This wasn’t a man’s world any more. They deserved a part of it too. Their own cut of a business so large everyone else was taking something on the side.

‘I earned that, Theo,’ she said aloud, naked, cold, alone.

Now he was gone. Just like the old days. Vanished in the morning without a word.