The Wrong Girl (20 page)

Renata listened to the excited tones of the reporter and asked, ‘What does that mean? For the little girl?’

He seemed lost in his own thoughts. Deeply miserable again.

‘Henk?’

‘I don’t know,’ he grumbled, back to his recent self in an instant.

She left him there staring at the screen, went out into the street, looked at the playground and the school.

Fear kept them together, on both their parts. As always there was a logical, cold, indisputable side to his argument. But there was something else too: a picture in her head. One she couldn’t lose. The man she’d married, behind the curtain of a red-light cabin. Grunting over a woman who’d take . . . how many men a day? Ten? Twenty?

The city changed with every step. Soon the bourgeois trappings of the Herenmarkt were gone. The streets were grubbier. The people too. Grubbier and more mean.

She walked down Oude Nieuwstraat with fingers crossed. Hoping, hoping. Wondering what the woman would look like when she was trying to hook men for the morning.

It was mid-afternoon. A few of the curtains were closed, busy. Most of the women were out on show, for sale. Half-naked figures behind a pane of glass, bold beneath the red light. All kinds. Big and small. White and black and in between. They all met her searching eyes with puzzlement.

Then, in the last but one cabin, she saw one who shrank back a little in puzzlement. She was thin, long blonde hair, ruby lipstick. Cream satin bra and knickers. Stretch marks on her stomach as she sat on the narrow stool in the window. Though perhaps the men never noticed that.

Renata Kuyper put her finger on the intercom and waited.

From the office window Vos and Bakker watched the AIVD pair leave Marnixstraat by the front entrance, getting into a long black Mercedes saloon that was waiting for them.

‘Let me guess,’ Bakker said. ‘Schiphol.’

‘Going to be a circus,’ Van der Berg told them. ‘The media are waiting outside. We’ve got protesters too. People who think he should be strung up from the nearest lamp post. A few who feel that should happen to us.’

He briefed them on the hunt for Natalya Bublik. There were prints in the klipper barge in Westerdok. Nothing on the system. Some DNA samples. Clearly the girl’s. The rest couldn’t be identified but they indicated that three different individuals had been in the boat, excluding the rental man and the cleaner. A resident in a local house had seen someone going in early the previous morning. He didn’t have much to say except that he was white and in his thirties.

Vos got to his desk and turned up the volume on the TV. Bakker called up the
Telegraaf
website. Alamy’s release was the lead item, along with news of the kidnapping. The Dutch media had made a collective decision to break the embargo requested by the authorities after the story broke internationally.

‘Are AIVD bugging Kuyper’s phone?’ Vos asked.

Van der Berg frowned.

‘The lovely Mirjam didn’t seem too interested when I put it to her. Bigger things on her mind.’ He tugged at his chin. ‘They really want to keep their hands on Alamy. Something about this Barbone figure they’re chasing. She’s desperate.’

‘If we had the evidence I’d turn the key on the cell myself,’ Vos said, scanning the
Telegraaf
story. ‘Do we?’

‘Not a thing I’ve seen,’ Van der Berg replied. He hesitated then asked, ‘What happens with the girl? If Alamy goes free? I don’t get it.’

Vos waited. Bakker said, ‘Get what?’

‘These people have put the story out there. They sent it everywhere. Photos. Details. Names. All the usual propaganda crap. But . . .’ He looked round the office. ‘They haven’t set a price. Why would you do that?’

Bakker nodded at Vos and said, ‘He knows. At least he thinks he does.’

‘Do we get in on the secret?’ Van der Berg asked.

Vos closed the web page. He didn’t want to see any more.

According to the internal bulletin on Schiphol Alamy was due to be released at five thirty. They were expecting big crowds.

Plenty of time.

‘Get us a car,’ he said then, as Bakker went about it, called Hanna Bublik again.

Still voicemail.

‘Vos,’ he said. ‘Call me please. When you can.’

‘I don’t do women,’ said the tinny voice coming through the intercom.

Renata Kuyper pulled out her purse and with shaking fingers removed some notes.

‘What does it cost?’ she asked, trying not to look at the slim blonde woman in her underwear behind the glass.

‘I . . . don’t . . . do . . . women.’

‘For God’s sake I need to talk. My husband . . .’

‘Talk to him.’

‘What did he pay you? Here.’ She waved a couple of hundred notes in the cold winter air. ‘Have more if you want.’

A long pause and then the lock buzzed on the door.

The tiny room was hot and smelled of sweat and cheap shower gel. Hanna Bublik drew the thin red curtain to hide them from the street then sat on the bed and watched as Renata Kuyper took the stool by the window.

‘If you want an apology you should ask him. Not me.’

Renata put the notes on the table. Then added another fifty.

‘I’m not looking for an apology,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m just trying to understand.’

Hanna found a flimsy dressing gown on a hook behind the bed, threw it round herself, got a can of Coke, opened it, offered some, swigged at it when Renata said no.

‘Understand what?’

‘Why he did it.’

‘Ask him.’

‘I’m asking you. What did he say?’

‘The usual. Life’s not so good at home. Their wives won’t do the things they want. They’re bored. They’re lonely. They need to feel . . . wanted.’

It seemed so pathetic. And quite unlike Henk.

‘Fifty euros buys them that?’

‘No. It buys them the pretence. And a little relief. Then they put on their clothes, go out into the street. Walk home. Go to their offices or a bar. I don’t know.’

Questions. She didn’t know where to begin.

‘Did he enjoy it?’

‘I don’t think so. I thought maybe I wasn’t going to get paid. That second time I couldn’t even make him come.’

She winced. The woman watched her, amused.

‘I’m sorry. Did that offend you? I thought you wanted to know. Otherwise . . . why?’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Why are you here?’

Renata got up.

‘This was a mistake.’

The woman rose and put a hand to her arm.

‘You asked . . .’

‘Why are you working? If you can call it that? Your daughter’s missing—’

‘Do you think I forgot?’

There was a phone at the back of the cabin by the wall, plugged into a socket. It looked dead.

‘Why aren’t you doing something?’

There was a look on Hanna Bublik’s face. Unpleasant. Daunting. It was a cruel remark and Renata knew it.

‘I’m doing what I can. I’m not . . . like you. Didn’t you notice?’

She picked up the money and held it out.

‘I don’t want this. I didn’t earn it.’

‘Why did he give you that jacket?’

The question seemed to interest her.

‘I don’t know. I thought perhaps he felt guilty. He said he saw us in the street. Natalya reminded him of his own kid. Only a lot worse off.’ She shrugged. Got her clothes out of a tiny cupboard at the back. ‘I’ve had enough of this.’

‘If he hadn’t given her that thing . . .’

The woman picked up a pair of black jeans, a black sweater.

‘If it means anything I don’t think his heart was in it. You can tell the ones who do it all the time. They know what they want. What it costs. What to ask for. He hadn’t a clue. I couldn’t believe it when he was back a second time. Like I said—’

‘He didn’t come,’ she broke in. ‘I got that message. Thanks.’

‘Funny. They usually manage it in the end. You get problems if they don’t. That’s why they’re here. But . . .’ She dragged the jumper over her head, pulled back her hair, put it in a tie, then climbed into the jeans. ‘He was just bored and curious. That’s all.’

She picked up her mobile. Started to swear at the cable. Renata came and looked. There was nothing on the screen. The power point must have been dead.

‘Even the phone hates me,’ Hanna Bublik whispered and looked ready to fling the thing onto the floor.

Renata stopped her. Pulled out her own.

Then told her what she’d heard. The story on the news about Alamy being released.

‘I thought you knew. I’m sorry. That’s why I said what I did.’

Hers was a new smartphone. All the stories on there. Video too.

Just about every reporter in Amsterdam seemed to be camped outside the detention centre at Schiphol, waiting for the preacher to walk free.

While Hanna raged Renata keyed in Vos’s number and got straight through. Then passed over the call without a word.

A marked police saloon on the way to the airport. Down dark streets, blue light on to cut through the traffic. Bakker sat next to him on the passenger seat, making calls as they went. He got her to shut up.

‘I’ve been trying to reach you,’ Vos said, hoping it didn’t sound like criticism. ‘Things are happening.’

In the hot cabin, watched by Renata Kuyper, the air full of cheap scent, she said, ‘They’re letting that man out. Those bastards don’t need Natalya any more. They can let her go.’ A long, pained pause. ‘Can’t they?’

‘I don’t think it’s as simple as that. They still want money.’

She shrieked. So loud the sound was painful in the tiny cabin.

‘Who do they think I am?’

‘Forget about that,’ he said. ‘We’ll find an answer. They called. Tomorrow they’ll come back to me.’

‘Tomorrow . . .’

‘I know, I know. We’re going to try to talk to Ismail Alamy again. See if he’ll ask for her release without any conditions. If he’ll listen . . .’

‘Why should he listen? He didn’t yesterday.’

Silence then. For some reason she felt bad for yelling at him.

‘Please,’ Vos said eventually. ‘Go to Marnixstraat. Wait for me there. I’ll fill you in. If we make any progress with Alamy at Schiphol I’ll call you straight away.’

The line went quiet. Then he disappeared and didn’t come back.

Renata was staring at her. She felt bad for the way she’d treated this woman too.

‘What did he say?’

‘What they always say. Sit and wait. They know best.’

She stared at the woman. Her clothes were casual but expensive. Just like the bob haircut and the careful make-up.

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘They do always say that.’

‘I want to go to Schiphol. I want to be there when they let that man go. If I can plead for my daughter . . .’

Renata looked at her watch.

‘I’ll take you,’ she said and didn’t wait for an answer.

The mob was building by the time the unmarked police car pulled into the entrance to the secure detention area. Lines of TV cameramen and reporters held back behind a makeshift fence erected by hordes of busy uniform officers. They knew Vos. Started yelling questions the moment he and Bakker got out of the car.

He said nothing then looked around. Uniform seemed to be in control. On one side of the media pack was a bunch of right-wing protesters carrying the usual anti-Islam slogans, yelling abuse that stopped just short of arrest. On the other, separated by both the press and a line of officers on each side, was a second group, this time waving banners complaining about illegal detention, racial and religious discrimination, and a few anti-war slogans citing Iraq, Syria, Somalia and Afghanistan.

‘No one ever mentions Libya,’ Bakker grumbled, eyeing them. ‘Were we right or wrong there?’

‘Who knows?’ Vos answered with a shrug. They went to the secure entrance he’d visited the day before with Hanna Bublik, showed ID and got led into an anteroom.

No sign of Alamy. Or anyone who looked like his defence team. Just Mirjam Fransen, her sidekick Geerts and three lawyers, two men and one woman, all of them whispering anxiously down their phones.

‘Still trying?’ Bakker asked.

The lawyers wore the wearily detached air of defeat that seemed the privilege of the legal profession when it found itself on the losing side.

‘We need your help, Vos,’ Fransen pleaded. ‘You’ve got to have something we can hold him for. I don’t care what it is. If we let him out of here we can’t stop him crossing that road, walking straight into Schiphol and out of the country. God knows where . . .’

Bakker shook her head.

‘I thought you wanted rid of him.’

Fransen told the lawyers to get out of the room. Just the four of them. Two police. Two security service officers.

Vos wasn’t sure if it was a trick or not. But Mirjam Fransen looked genuinely lost at that moment.

She caught Geerts’s eye. He took a deep breath and nodded.

‘I could lose my job for this,’ Fransen told them. ‘You don’t say a word to anyone. You don’t—’

‘Then don’t tell us,’ Vos cut in and headed for the door.

Geerts got there first, put his big body in the way.

‘De Groot knows,’ he said. ‘No one else in Marnixstraat. Three of you now. Keep it that way.’

The big intelligence officer wasn’t moving. Vos shook his head and returned to Bakker. She was listening intently with all the enthusiasm of the young.

‘Ismail Alamy’s bigger than you know,’ Fransen said in a flat and jaded tone. ‘As far as we can work out he’s the liaison man for Barbone. His fixer. He’s dealt with money, recruiting. Operational planning.’ She leaned forward and said, half to herself. ‘If we could turn him. Christ, if we could get him to point us towards Barbone himself . . .’

Bakker nodded.

‘You’re saying he’s behind actual attacks?’

‘Planning, yes,’ Geerts agreed.

‘But you can’t prove it?’

They turned awkward again.

‘Not without jeopardizing our own,’ Fransen went on. ‘These are muddy waters. We can’t hand him over to the Americans for rendition. The courts have blocked that. We can’t prosecute him for anything meaningful. So the policy’s been one of containment. Keep him here. Keep putting him through the courts.’

She pulled up a chair, sat down.

‘If Alamy gets out he can take a plane to a neutral destination. Then he’s gone. For good. If he’s faced with going back to a Middle Eastern country that’s on our side I’ve got leverage. He can have a choice. If he helps us find Barbone he’s a free man.’