The Wrong Girl (33 page)

‘Have you heard something?’

‘He called me. When I was in Marnixstraat.’

A worried pause.

‘Did you tell the police?’

‘No. They don’t know anything.’

‘It’s important it stays that way. What interests them is not what interests us. So long as Natalya gets free . . .’

‘Don’t tell me what I know already,’ she interrupted.

A pause in the conversation. He didn’t like it when she answered back.

‘And the money?’ Yilmaz asked. ‘What did he say about that?’

‘I can get hold of sixty myself. If you come up with a hundred . . .’

Silence.

‘I told him I could make a hundred and sixty.’

‘I offered you seventy. That’s what you’re worth.’

She’d understood this argument was coming.

‘He won’t take any less. I’m thirty short. If you come up with it I’ll do . . .’

Anything.

‘I’ll do whatever you want.’

‘Your daughter . . .’

‘Yes. Natalya.’

He thought for a moment.

‘Then it’s settled, you’ll have a hundred from me. I won’t ask anything of the child until she’s older. I’m not an animal.’

The room shrank in on her when she realized what he was saying.

‘No, no, no. Please God no. She’s my little girl—’

‘You want her alive, don’t you?’

‘Of course but—’

‘I fail to understand you, woman. If this profession is acceptable to you why should it be objectionable to your daughter. Besides . . . these things tend to run in the family.’ He laughed. ‘Unless you think she’s going to be a lawyer?’

No words. The enormity of what she’d just accepted unwittingly silenced her completely.

‘That’s my offer. There’s no going back,’ Yilmaz added. ‘Don’t think that, please. A bargain’s a bargain.’

Silence. She wasn’t sure how she could say it.

‘I’m a busy man,’ Yilmaz added briskly. ‘I require an answer now. Yes or no.’

‘Yes,’ a frail voice said and it was her.

‘Good. Then we have an understanding. What else did he say?’

‘He’s going to call me in the morning and arrange the pickup. After that they’ll let Natalya go.’

‘So I’ll add one hundred to your sixty on this basis. Bring along your contribution so I can see it. Do what the man asks. Cem Yilmaz will get your daughter back. You keep my name out of this. Understand?’

She couldn’t think of anything to say.

‘Are you still there?’ he demanded. ‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘The police must suspect nothing. I require you to act normally.’ He was thinking. ‘They’re not stupid. Perhaps they’ll be watching you.’

Hanna Bublik leaned over on the bed, wanted to cry.

‘Normally?’

‘Don’t do anything to make them suspicious. Go to work tonight. Find a window. Be visible. I know I said I wanted no more of this. But it would be best for appearances. I stake my claim when your daughter’s back home. Then we speak of future arrangements.’

Her mind was racing. There was nothing she wanted less than work at that moment and he surely knew it.

‘Not tonight . . .’

‘I risk much here too. For no immediate return. You’ll do what I say or I can’t help you.’

She whispered something. Wasn’t sure what it was.

‘Call me tomorrow when you hear something,’ he said. ‘Goodnight.’

Natalya’s bed was in the corner of the tiny room, close to the gable window. All made up. She walked over and tidied the sheets. It felt as if she’d been gone for weeks, not days. The room seemed empty without that smart, questioning voice, the sudden laughter that came from a book or a cartoon on the little TV they owned.

She called Renata Kuyper’s mobile and told her they’d need the money in the morning.

‘Fine,’ she said and didn’t sound that way.

‘Can you do it?’

‘I’ve got our thirty. Henk’s father’s matched that. I’ll bring it round when you tell me.’

‘Thanks.’ It was hard to say that word. ‘When I get the chance I’ll repay you . . .’

‘That’s hardly likely, is it?’

‘No,’ she agreed. ‘It isn’t.’

Renata Kuyper hesitated then said, ‘I have to ask. Have you seen him?’

‘Who?’

‘Henk.’

‘Why would I see your husband?’

‘He went out this afternoon. I haven’t heard from him since. He doesn’t answer his phone.’ There was something curious in her voice. Puzzlement more than trepidation. ‘It’s not like him.’

‘I’ve not seen your husband. I’ll call tomorrow.’

That was it. No more prevarication. Yilmaz had told her what he wanted and asked a price she couldn’t refuse. Doubtless he’d have his men check the street to make sure she did as she was told.

She went to the wardrobe and got the things for work. The cheap satin underwear. The condoms. The gels. The wipes and two clean towels.

And an old shawl that had followed all the way from Georgia. She’d put it round her shoulders to hide the wound on her back.

Then she went out into Oude Nieuwstraat. There was only one empty cabin. The red neon light flickered manically and would, she knew, make her headache worse. But a few minutes later she was sitting on a stool in the window, half-naked, staring out at the passing faces, praying no one would ring the bell.

Twenty minutes Vos and De Groot talked alone in the side room of forensic. The rain had turned heavy, the sky black. The downpour made a constant drone beyond the barred windows. Even that didn’t cover the angry voices from forensic. Louder and louder they rose until everyone in the adjoining office could hear.

Laura Bakker and Dirk Van der Berg did their best to work. Koeman checked the logs to see if there were fresh leads. Nothing came in. Hanna Bublik remained on voicemail.

The case, such as it was, had slipped into the debilitating rhythm of failure. It needed Vos to take it somewhere new. And Bakker thought she understood exactly how that ought to be done.

They had to bring in Lucas Kuyper, his son, Henk’s wife, and the girl Saskia. Go through everything that happened that previous Sunday in Leidseplein. Try to sort truth from myth. Then work out where to go.

She watched Van der Berg’s face as she went through all this again. He was mid-forties, a few years older than Vos. A detective who’d never go further up the ranks. Too lacking in ambition for that. Happy with his lot at the foot of the scale. She’d be his boss in a few years if things went right. And at some point probably have to give him hell.

‘We can’t ignore those photos,’ she added. ‘Can we?’

He blinked and asked, ‘What photos?’

‘Kuyper. Thom Geerts. What do you mean . . . what photos?’

He shook his head.

‘The commissaris took that memory card, Laura. It’s up to him and Vos now. We just do as we’re told. It’s how things work.’

‘That’s the oldest excuse of all, isn’t it?’

‘One of them,’ he agreed. ‘Stay here long enough and you’ll come across plenty of others.’

‘There’s a little girl missing out there . . .’

‘Do you think De Groot doesn’t know that? Or Pieter?’

‘Then . . .’

His face fell. She saw something rare: a sign of temper. A considerable one.

‘You fight one battle at a time, Laura. The one that matters. Whatever those bastards in AIVD have been up to they don’t know where Natalya Bublik is. Not now.’

‘You seem very sure of that.’

‘We’ll find out what went on there. When we do . . .’

He stopped. There was a sound coming from along the corridor. Loud voices. Angry shouts.

It took a moment for Bakker to realize who one party was. She’d heard De Groot roaring with anger dozens of times. Vos never raised his voice with anyone. Now she realized he could shout down the commissaris any day of the week, with a vocabulary to match.

Red-faced, fist clenched, De Groot followed him into the office.

‘Clear your desk now, Vos,’ the commissaris roared. ‘And I want your card. I was a fool ever to think you deserved it back.’

Bakker and Van der Berg watched in shock. Vos had a look about him Bakker hadn’t seen in a long time. Defeat, despair. He’d been this way when De Groot first sent her to lure him back into the police from his lost days spent staring at the Oortman doll’s house in the Rijksmuseum.

‘I always think this kind of conversation is best settled at leisure, over a beer or three,’ Van der Berg suggested. ‘Can we calm things down a little?’

‘That’s it!’ De Groot bellowed, jabbing a finger as Vos went to his desk and picked up a few things. ‘Go boozing with these losers you surround yourself with. Lock yourself in that damned boat of yours and smoke your life away. You’re done here . . .’

He followed, grabbed Vos by the shoulder, clicked his fingers. A big man with a powerful physical presence. Vos looked slight by comparison.

‘The card,’ De Groot ordered. ‘Your weapon.’

Vos reached inside his jacket and took out his police ID. Then fetched a key from his drawer.

‘The gun’s still in the locker, Frank. You know I don’t like those things.’

‘Think you’re too damned clever for us, don’t you?’ De Groot said. ‘Didn’t work out so well for this girl.’

A crowd was slowly assembling on the edges of the argument. Hanging on every bitter word.

Vos looked into De Groot’s florid face. Thought of saying something. Changed his mind.

‘No,’ he agreed eventually. ‘It didn’t.’

Then he picked up his donkey jacket and headed for the stairs.

‘This sideshow’s over,’ De Groot shouted at the group of men and women who’d come to watch. ‘Back to what you were doing.’

He was still furious, breathing hard.

‘Speaking of which,’ Bakker said icily, ‘I assume you want us to bring in Lucas Kuyper and the Fransen woman?’

De Groot glanced at his watch.

‘You two are both over shift now. Go home. Be in my office at eight tomorrow. I’ll be handling this case personally from now on.’

She stayed where she was.

‘You can’t bury this,’ Bakker told him. ‘Don’t think that. I won’t allow it.’

Next to her Van der Berg sighed and covered his eyes for a moment. The commissaris came up to them.

‘Won’t you?’ he asked.

‘No. The law’s the law. And those people have broken it.’

‘Jesus,’ De Groot muttered. ‘It’s bad enough taking lectures from Pieter Vos. Without listening to his little girl.’

‘I’m not little, Commissaris,’ Bakker replied. ‘Or a girl.’

‘No. You’re a pain in the arse like him.’ He pointed to the door. ‘Eight o’clock tomorrow in my office. Now goodnight.’

The monster was real. In that little basement room. A big man, foreign. With a cruel laugh and something wicked in his eyes.

He kicked the stupid kid from Anadolu. Punched him. Banged his bleeding head against the wall. Then when the boy was nothing more than a bag of broken bones, still by the stone stairs, the monster came and sat next to the trembling Natalya Bublik on the bed.

His strong arm went round her slender, shaking shoulders.

‘See, child,’ the monster said. ‘This is what happens when a little girl doesn’t do as she’s told.’

The big arm squeezed her wrist. She thought she might pee herself.

‘You don’t want to be bad, Natalya. I’d have to tell your mother then.’

She steeled herself to stare at him.

‘Yes,’ he said. His arm let go. He placed his giant’s hands on his lap, nodded. ‘I know her. This . . .’

His hand swept the room.

‘This is the grown-up world. The real world. My world. Not a place for children and their dreams. There are matters that do not concern you. Important ones. Life and death.’

Natalya glanced at the stairs and wished she had the strength to run from this place.

‘Your mother and I have agreed,’ he added. ‘You’ll stay here until the time’s right to leave. It’s safest that way.’

His head came down. Two calm, dark eyes bore into hers.

‘Safer for both of you. You want that, don’t you?’

She nodded. He expected that.

‘So you’ll do as your mother wants. Be good. No more trouble, please.’ He nodded at the prone shape across the room. ‘You did this, Natalya. You’re a bright girl. You know what you’re responsible for.’

The eyes were back on her. She wanted to cry but wouldn’t.

‘Who did this?’ he asked.

In a faint, firm voice she said, ‘Me.’

His big hand slapped her leg. Then he got up. Said as he walked towards the body across the room, ‘I’ll send someone else to look after you. Tomorrow, if you’re good, you’ll see your mother.’

The monster lugged the kid from Anadolu up the stairs. The boy didn’t move, didn’t make a noise, didn’t even breathe as far as she could see.

After that the creature was gone, leaving in his wake the sharp and caustic smell of blood.

Van der Berg followed Laura Bakker through the front doors into the constant rain. She knew where Vos would go. Straight down Elandsgracht into the warm, familiar interior of the Drie Vaten. There he’d sit at one of the battered tables and stare into his beer, Sam the terrier curled at his feet.

She got her bike. Van der Berg caught up with her before she could ride away.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

‘Where do you think?’

‘Laura. Just for once will you listen to me?’

He looked so desperate she agreed. And so the two of them went to a place she didn’t know a couple of streets from Elandsgracht. A gay bar from the look of it. Lesbian. A charming woman with a crew cut served up a couple of beers she’d never seen before.

Van der Berg thanked her by name then found them a table in the corner.

‘Do you know every beer joint in Amsterdam?’ Bakker asked.

‘Big city. I have to keep looking.’

He raised his glass. The beer was the colour of honey. Then the woman came over with two freshly boiled eggs, a little saucer of salt and some napkins.

‘God we know how to live, don’t we?’ she whispered.

He laughed, raised his glass.

‘It’s nice to hear you cracking jokes. Means you’re getting settled.’

‘That was a joke?’

He tore the egg in half, dipped a chunk in salt and popped it into his mouth.

‘What’s going on?’ Bakker wondered.