The Wrong Girl (12 page)

‘Money comes. Money goes.’ He picked up a wad of euros and held them out. ‘All I require is your agreement to join my little family of ladies. No more freezing in cold cabins. You meet better gentlemen. They pay more. You work less.’

And I am your slave.

He knew that was what she was thinking. It was written in his face.

‘She’s eight years old,’ she pleaded. ‘All I’ve got.’

‘I’d like to help. But for a man like me there must always be a price.’ He laughed. ‘What’s the problem? It’s one you’re paying already.’

She said she wanted to think about it and asked for a phone number. He frowned, wrote one out, asked for hers, then put the bundle of notes back in the drawer.

‘I’ll ask around in any case,’ he added. ‘I’m not a heartless man. Just a practical one.’

He opened another drawer, pulled out a vial of oil and took off the top. It smelled strong yet fragrant, almost feminine.

Yilmaz held out the bottle and said, ‘You can do me a favour now and rub it in if you want.’

She got out her phone and typed in his number. The voicemail icon was flashing. Nervous, with shaking fingers, she found the one message there.

It was Vos, asking her to come into Marnixstraat. They had something.

‘I have to leave,’ she said. ‘The police want me.’

He watched her go without a word.

Outside, in the graffiti-stained alley of Spooksteeg she wondered about the Turk. Did he really know people? Or just want her as part of his tame circus of willing whores?

There was no way of knowing. So she called Vos, got his voicemail then, and left a message that she was on her way.

Henk Kuyper was adamant: they were interviewed together or not at all.

Van der Berg listened to his whining and shook his head. Vos sat at a desk wondering when forensic might have a finished version of the phone recording. They were late. Bakker kept crossing and uncrossing her long legs, punctuating the performance with awkward, tetchy sighs.

‘We’re not accusing you of anything,’ Van der Berg told the tall, unsmiling man across the table.

‘I don’t want Saskia left on her own. You can’t interview an eight-year-old as if she was a criminal.’

‘No one was suggesting anything of the sort,’ Vos broke in. ‘We’re just . . .’ He’d had a quick chat with Bakker before the interview began and checked through her notes. ‘We want to make sure we understand what you think you saw yesterday.’

Kuyper sat back in his chair. His wife was at the end of the table. The girl stayed between them, close to her father.

‘I’m not a fan of the police,’ he grumbled. ‘I don’t like the way you’re partial.’

Van der Berg blinked.

‘Partial? We’re trying to find a kidnapped girl. It might have been your daughter.’

‘But it wasn’t. Maybe if you’d been doing your job none of this—’

‘Ask your questions,’ Renata interrupted. ‘Ask anything you like.’

A cold, bleak moment between the two of them. The girl took out a shiny new phone and started to play a game on it. Bakker placed a laptop on the table and took them through the CCTV. If the timings were right – and there was no reason to think they weren’t – she had spotted something. Natalya Bublik was snatched just moments after Saskia vanished. It wasn’t impossible this was a mistake on the part of whoever kidnapped her. Two people looking for a pink jacket. But something still seemed odd.

Renata followed everything carefully, listening to the timeline Bakker set out.

‘I don’t know what you want me to say?’ she told them. ‘Saskia wandered off while I was in the square. She wanted to see Sinterklaas. Then we heard the explosions. Henk turned up. He went into the crowd and found her.’

‘Where?’ Vos asked, looking straight at him.

‘Around the back of the theatre,’ Kuyper said. ‘It seemed the obvious place to look.’ A sly, caustic glance at his wife. ‘At least it seemed obvious to me. If you were a frightened child, running away from a stranger and all that panic in the square, you’d try to hide, wouldn’t you? Saskia?’

The girl looked up from her phone and said in a bored, petulant tone, ‘I was trying to hide. Then Daddy found me.’

Bakker looked at the phone.

‘You’ve got a new one, Saskia?’

‘I keep spares,’ her father snapped. ‘Don’t most people?’

The girl went back to her game.

‘How did you get away from Black Pete?’ Bakker asked.

‘Ran.’

That was it.

‘Wasn’t he holding you?’

‘Not when I ran. He let go.’ She looked at her father. ‘That was the right thing, wasn’t it?’

‘The right thing,’ he said and patted her hand. ‘Then I found her. And brought her back.’

Saskia was still in the pink jacket.

‘Given the circumstances,’ Bakker said, ‘I’m surprised she’s still wearing that thing.’

‘Not my choice,’ Renata snapped. ‘I asked her to wear something else. Ignored as usual.’

Kuyper glanced at her, briefly furious.

‘Why shouldn’t she wear it? She likes it. We were lucky. That’s all it was. I don’t know about your . . .’ He waved a finger at the laptop. ‘Timings. Why you’re asking us. Wouldn’t you be better helping that woman? Finding her child?’ He hesitated then said it anyway. ‘You could let Alamy out of jail too. He’s no reason to be there.’

‘You know about the case?’ Vos asked.

‘Enough. You don’t have a shred of evidence he’s committed a crime here. Just because he says things you don’t like you want him extradited to a country that doesn’t even pretend to care about justice. Or democracy. Or freedom. What . . .’

His wife cast him a vicious look.

‘Wrong time for a lecture, Henk,’ she said quietly.

‘Is it? If Alamy wasn’t in jail for no good reason would we even be here?’

There was an urgent knock on the door. Bakker went to answer it. Koeman was there. She listened and looked at Vos. He got the message and went outside.

‘We got something off that call,’ the detective said. ‘There was the sound of ducks. And trains. When they got it as loud as they could they think there’s an announcement.’ He paused. ‘It’s got to be near a station. We’re guessing Centraal.’

‘A boat,’ Vos said. ‘I knew it was a boat.’

‘You did,’ Koeman agreed. ‘That probably means somewhere around Westerdok. Closest place I can think of. I’ve got uniform down there asking questions.’

‘I want to see,’ Vos said, and glanced at Bakker. ‘Get us a car.’

‘What about this lot?’ she asked looking back at the interview room.

Van der Berg had joined them.

‘Sadly,’ he said, ‘it’s not illegal to be a complete jerk. I think that stuck-up bastard likes to wind us up. Best we don’t give him the pleasure.’

‘They’ve nothing for us,’ Vos added. ‘You saw what it was like in Leidseplein. If there were two, three, more Black Petes looking for a kid in a pink jacket it’s hardly surprising they got confused . . .’

‘The timing!’

‘Westerdok,’ he said. ‘A car.’ A nod at Van der Berg. ‘Three of us.’

‘Also,’ Koeman added, ‘that nice lady from AIVD has been on the line asking how we’re doing. And the mother’s in an interview room wanting to see you. She says it’s important.’

‘Tell Mirjam Fransen we’re still looking. I don’t have time for the mother right now. Keep her happy.’

The detective grimaced.

‘She’s still pissed off with me for giving her a hard time yesterday. Every reason to be.’

‘Buy her a coffee,’ Vos added, patting his shoulder. ‘Make amends. Say you’re sorry. See if she’ll accept some help. She’s a decent woman. No fool.’

Then he returned to the interview room. Kuyper got to his feet. His daughter did the same.

‘Thank you for your time,’ Vos told them. ‘We appreciate it. You can leave now.’

‘I know,’ Henk Kuyper said and led his family out into the corridor, down towards reception and the street outside.

Footsteps in the cabin outside again. Natalya closed her eyes and listened intently. Through the cracks in the timber planking she could see it was starting to get dark. Trains somewhere. People going out, going home.

A few hours earlier he’d come back with more food: a sandwich of strong Dutch cheese, a packet of crisps, a fizzy drink. She’d told the black balaclava she didn’t like fizzy drinks. He’d said nothing, just gone out and got a glass of water from somewhere. Left her little cabin and took a phone call she could just about hear. This was the man who’d given her the book. She felt sure of that. Not the one from the night before.

Bored, more than a little angry, she waited, watching the cabin door. He came in. Same clothes, same black mask to hide his features. But he didn’t put the balaclava on until he was just inside.

She saw something. Saw him.

And maybe he noticed too.

Trying to look stupid she stared at the food as he cleared away the wrappers from the sandwich.

‘I did the sums you gave me.’ She pulled out the colouring book and went to the page she’d done that morning. ‘Don’t you want to check?’

He grunted something about being busy. This one had an accent. Much like the one from the night before. The Black Pete who’d snatched her.

Only two of them, she thought. They took turns, leaving her alone for hours, locked in the tiny bows of a boat somewhere near the station.

‘Are you frightened of me?’ Natalya asked.

He stopped, hands full of rubbish like one of the hunched men she saw on the street, clearing out the bins.

‘Be silent, girl,’ this Black Pete told her. ‘Know your place.’

She cocked her head to one side and looked at him.

‘What place is that?’

He raised his hand. She didn’t flinch. This one was very different.

‘Eight years old, Natalya Bublik. Shut up and be grateful you’re alive.’

The other man had never mentioned her name. Nor asked it. And yet they knew.

She put her head down, picked up the colouring book and a crayon. Drew something on the page.

He didn’t look. Then his phone rang again and he left her, bolting the door behind him.

Natalya found the blank page behind the cover. Drew and drew. And wrote.

First though she remembered the brief conversation she’d heard and thought about what she saw.

Then she turned to the back of the colouring book and in careful writing, in Dutch so someone else would easily understand, set down two lines.

One of them is called Carleed or something. I think he’s a kind of boss.

He’s got dark skin, a big beard, all black and shiny, like a pirate.

Then, her hand shaking at the thought . . .

I think he knows I’ve seen him.

In a small and stuffy interview room in Marnixstraat Hanna Bublik sat with a miserable, embarrassed Koeman. Not saying what she wanted to tell Vos because that was for his ears only. This man was the fool who’d let them down the day before. Eyed her suspiciously as a questionable foreigner when he should have been helping, listening to her pleas.

She ignored the coffee and listened to him trying to justify what he’d done.

‘Can I get you something to eat?’ he asked eventually.

‘I’m not destitute.’

‘I was trying to be polite.’

She scowled and looked at her watch.

‘When will Vos be back?’

‘I don’t know. I can call you when we know something.’

She looked into his sad, bleary eyes.

‘Will they find my Natalya?’

‘Yes,’ he said without conviction.

‘Then I’ll wait.’

There was a commotion outside in the corridor. Through the door she could see the hard-faced woman who wasn’t quite a cop marching purposefully past. She was with the big man who’d been with her the day before in Leidseplein. Hanna understood these people were intelligence or something. They didn’t like the police much. The feeling was reciprocated.

Koeman saw too, and heard. Then muttered a curse under his breath.

In a loud and uncompromising voice Mirjam Fransen was demanding to see Frank de Groot. She didn’t sound happy.

Westerdok ran out from the railway lines into the stretch of water called the IJ. Once a run-down port area it was now in the midst of redevelopment. On the station side stood new hotels, cafes and a modern courthouse to replace the old building on the Prinsengracht, not far from Vos’s home. The adjoining islands housed apartment blocks, industrial buildings, dead warehouses . . . and lines and lines of houseboats along the grey canals.

By the time Vos, Bakker and Van der Berg got there uniform had twenty officers out in the street, knocking on doors, asking questions. Van der Berg parked the car not far from the sparkling new courthouse, looking at the long line of boats that stretched alongside the straight road running north. Fifty or more of them. Uniformed officers were a third of the way along already.

‘Can’t be here,’ Bakker said. ‘It’s too obvious.’

‘True,’ Vos agreed.

This area wasn’t made for cars. The streets were narrow. Sometimes roads ended in nothing more than a pedestrian alley or bridge.

He got out, talked to a crew of uniform and relieved them of two bikes.

Van der Berg looked worried. He wasn’t a cycle man. Vos told him to stay near the car, work the radio, keep them up to date. Then he passed a bike to Bakker and the two of them rode to the adjoining islands, working their way into the centre of the quiet, half-residential, half-industrial streets there, just a stone’s throw from the busy city.

After a few minutes they were on the opposite stretch of water to the courthouse, looking at the boats, Vos frowning. There was money coming into Westerdok. This was more a marina than a community made for living. Fancy speedboats, cruisers that could cope with the sea if necessary. Real houseboats never moved. They were wired into the mains, plugged into the phone system, connected to water and drainage. Permanent homes on the water.

‘What are we looking for?’ Bakker asked as they came to a halt next to a fancy yacht with a couple seated by a gas fire in the stern, sipping wine, watching them suspiciously.

‘Something old,’ he said. ‘Like a klipper barge. It never moves.’

He got off the bike and went to the yacht. The man in the back stood up. He was smoking a cigar. Looked fat and comfortable. Didn’t react when Vos showed him his police ID and asked about strangers and barges.