The Wrong Girl (8 page)

‘You could always have a word with Cem,’ Chantal said. ‘Just do what he wants. You’ll get the money. Maybe . . .’ Her hand went to her hair. ‘Maybe he can help with Natalya too. He knows people.’

‘Like terrorists?’

That’s what Marnixstraat said. They’d snatched her thinking she was the granddaughter of a notorious Dutch soldier, one who’d been mixed up in a massacre a couple of decades before.

A black monster rolling up the stairs. An idle boast:
I’ll kill it
. What kind of mother had she been?

‘I don’t know,’ the girl whined. ‘It was just a thought. You could call the police. About the money . . .’

‘I didn’t say they took money. Did I?’

‘Why’d you want some from me, then?’ Chantal snapped then walked back downstairs and slammed her door shut.

No choices now. None at all.

Hanna Bublik showered and got some work clothes. As she was about to go out her phone rang. It was the brigadier from Marnixstraat, Vos.

‘Do you know anything?’ she asked.

‘We’re working on some leads.’ He sounded like a bad liar. ‘I meant to ask. Do you know anyone with a boat?’

The question astonished her.

‘A boat? Are you serious?’

He sighed. It was a patient sound. Not aimed at her.

‘Yes. I’m serious. I think she’s on a boat.’

‘We don’t really know anyone here. No one with a boat.’

He made sure she had his mobile number, said she was to call him any time, day or night.

‘Is there anything I can do to help now?’ he asked.

She looked at the little room and the ripped brown envelope.

‘Nothing I can think of. Apart from the obvious.’

‘I’ll get Natalya back. We’ll give them whatever they want.’

‘Including money?’

‘If it comes to that.’

There didn’t seem anything left to say or ask. When he was gone she got her clothes, the cheap condoms, the gels, put them in the little plastic washbag that came with the beauty kit her husband bought her the last Christmas he was alive. Then she walked up Oude Nieuwstraat until she found a spare cabin, called the number for the rental guy, paid for three hours. That took half the money she had left.

The tiny booth was too hot from the electric fire. It smelled of damp and sweat from whoever had it before.

She stripped down to her cheap gold satin bra and knickers then perched on the high stool in the window. There to discover what she should have known. No one wanted a weeping whore, at any price.

Across the city Natalya Bublik sat where she was told, arms round herself in the pink jacket she’d hated from the outset. The only fixed points in her small life at that moment were sounds: the gentle lap of water against a wooden hull, the occasional screech of a bird, the rattle and hoots of trains pulling in and out of Centraal station.

Black Pete was still in the boat. Maybe two of them, beyond the locked wooden door. She’d do whatever they wanted, everything they said. Because somewhere, deep in the soft, formless depths of her memory, was an echo of this strange sequence of events. In a story her mother told her. Or a half-forgotten, deep-buried recollection hidden inside the nightmare that kept returning, that of a shadowy monster rolling up the stairs.

Real or imagined there was a message here, one she would not forget.

Do not move and do not speak.

Be nothing. Do nothing except wait and watch and think.

Then one day you will be invisible. And in that single precious moment slip free.

2

Hanna Bublik was waiting for Vos when he showed up at Marnixstraat the next morning. Sam trotted along beside him on a lead. Sofia Albers had to go out of town to see her sick mother. Someone in admin could look after the dog until she got back.

‘What kind of policeman brings his pet to work?’ she asked as the little terrier sat at her feet, bright eyes begging for attention.

‘Sam’s not a pet. He doesn’t like being left on his own.’

The dog put a paw on her leg. Same clothes as the day before. Fake designer jacket, nylon masquerading as leather. Cheap jeans. No make-up on her thin, lined face. Poverty hung around this woman and she didn’t like it.

‘Down, boy,’ he said gently and passed the lead over to the genial clerk from the back office who’d come out to greet them.

She watched the woman walk Sam away, chattering to him.

‘I promised Natalya a dog. When we get our own place.’

‘Then I’m sure she’ll get one someday.’

He found some coffee. Bakker turned up. She’d started to dress less conspicuously now she was settling into Marnixstraat. No more home-made suits from her aunt back in Dokkum in Friesland. Today black trousers, a blue jacket, a plain jumper underneath. Her red hair tied back tightly behind her head. A look that said:
professional.
And . . .
I’m here to stay.

The three of them went into an interview room together. The voice recorder stayed off.

‘So you know nothing?’ Hanna said when he had briefed her on the investigation.

‘No,’ Vos insisted. ‘We know he took your girl by mistake. We know she’s still in the city. We’re looking for some associates of the man who was shot.’

‘Nothing,’ she repeated.

‘Hanna,’ Bakker said. ‘This is the most important inquiry we have at the moment. We’ll do everything we can to bring Natalya back.’

‘And he’ll call,’ Vos added. ‘He has to. They want something. As long as they do . . .’

The lost look on her face silenced him.

‘Do you know anyone in Amsterdam?’ Bakker asked her.

‘Most of the people I meet don’t give me a name. A real one anyway.’

Vos glanced at his watch without thinking. She glared at him for that.

‘Am I wasting your time?’

‘No. I was wondering when he might ring.’

‘He said he wants money. How much?’

That had puzzled Vos. Still did.

‘He was vague . . .’

‘How can I pay him? The likes of me?’

A good question. One that worried him.

‘Let’s deal with that when it happens.’

‘And this man he wants released? Who’s he?’

Vos had thought he might not need to address that question. That the papers would offer all the answers that morning. They were full of the outrage in Leidseplein and the shooting of a young Briton who’d adopted a foreign name and thrown three flash grenades into the crowd. But there wasn’t a single word about the kidnapping of a child. Given the time the press had to work on the story there could be only one explanation. Someone, De Groot or AIVD, had demanded and got a media blackout on the grounds that it might jeopardize the case.

He gave her the brief facts.

‘I want to see this man Alamy,’ Hanna Bublik said. ‘I want to look into his face and ask him why my daughter’s been stolen from me.’

‘Why don’t we find you somewhere to sit here?’ Bakker suggested. ‘We can keep you up to date during the day.’

‘No!’ Her voice wasn’t shrill. Nowhere near hysterical. It was firm and controlled and when she spoke she looked only at Vos. ‘What good am I doing like that?’

‘If . . .’

‘You wanted to go over the CCTV footage,’ Vos cut in.

Bakker nodded.

‘Then do it. We can talk to Alamy. If he can say something. Give us a message to pass on . . .’

Hanna looked at him, surprised. As if not many people took note of what she said.

‘You’ll do this?’

He got up, checked Renata Kuyper’s phone. Lots of battery. A good signal.

‘We need to go now. Laura, have a word with De Groot’s office. Get us clearance into the secure unit at Schiphol. We’ll keep it brief. Either Alamy plays along or he doesn’t.’

Hanna finished her coffee, got up from the table. Looked grateful.

‘What if the kidnapper calls?’ Bakker asked.

He took out the phone.

‘Everything coming into this line gets monitored whether I’m here or not. Control can listen in the moment I answer. He won’t ring from a traceable phone. We know that . . .’

‘But . . .’

He pointed to the door.

‘Talk to Frank’s office,’ he said. ‘We’re leaving now.’

An awkward breakfast in the narrow house on the Herenmarkt. Saskia picked at her cereal, barely eating. Henk Kuyper ate steadily in silence, going over the details in the paper. He looked a little hung-over.

‘Why’s there no mention of what happened?’ Renata asked when he wouldn’t look up from the page. ‘The girl . . .’

‘They print what they’re told,’ he muttered and reached for another croissant. ‘What do you expect?’

She blinked, fought to hold back the fury.

‘This isn’t a game. One of your crusades. It’s about real people. That little kid’s gone missing . . .’

Saskia brushed back her long fair hair and put her hands over her ears. Then shut her eyes tightly.

A nod at their daughter.

‘Don’t you think she’s been through enough?’

‘Jesus! It’s nothing to what that poor woman’s having to face. Are you serious?’

He reached out and touched Saskia’s hair, then stroked her cheek. She opened her eyes and smiled at him. Renata couldn’t read the look on her daughter’s face. The girl was always closer to her father. Henk was never there to tell her what to do. He was in his study, working the computer, making quiet phone calls. Fixing the world. Drinking wine. She was the one who had to tell Saskia to tidy her room. To stay and do her homework however much she hated it.

‘Go and get ready for school, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Mummy and Daddy need to talk.’

Straight away the girl got up from the table and went into the bathroom, closed the door.

‘She’s not going to school,’ Renata said. ‘It’s not safe.’

He laughed.

‘There’s nothing to worry about. If there was we wouldn’t be able to move for police.’

‘Your father . . .’

He leaned over the table and took her hands. The way he did when he wanted something.

‘Do you think I’d let her out of the front door if I thought there was the slightest chance she’d come to harm?’

Put the onus on her. Always. She recognized this gambit so well.

‘No. But if Lucas is willing to pay for some security . . .’

‘I’m not taking any more from him than we need. He’s the reason they targeted her in the first place.’

‘All the same . . .’

‘He said he’d hold the Georgian kid instead. You heard that, didn’t you? You told me.’

That bugged her too.

‘Where did you go? Why weren’t you there?’

His face fell.

‘I had to take a call. This is getting tedious.’

‘From work? On a Sunday?’

‘From work. It was international. Couldn’t miss it.’

The police had taken the Georgian woman to Marnixstraat after her daughter was snatched while she and Saskia got interviewed in a van near the Melkweg. Henk had joined her there part way through.

‘I needed you . . .’

His hand left her.

‘I found Saskia. I walked that square until I spotted her jacket. She was alone, hiding near the stores. While you—’

‘I didn’t know what to do!’ she shrieked.

‘You’re upset,’ he said. ‘It’s understandable. I’ll take her to school today. I’ll talk to the teachers. Make sure they keep an eye on her.’

‘Why can’t we be normal?’ she murmured.

‘I don’t know what you mean. How exactly have I failed you now?’

‘I still don’t understand how she got away from that man.’

He stared at her and shook his head.

‘She told us. She ran away when he wasn’t looking.’

‘When he wasn’t looking?’ she echoed, voice high and cracked. ‘Just like that?’

‘You sound as if you wished she hadn’t.’

She dashed her knife on the table. From somewhere a church bell sounded. Pigeons cooed out in the street. A car honked its horn. The city went about its business, unaware that somewhere tragedy was hiding in the shadows, waiting for its moment.

‘Don’t say that, Henk! Don’t you dare say that.’

‘I’ll get her ready for school . . .’

‘I want to take Saskia away for a few days.’

His head went to one side.

‘Where?’

‘Spain. Italy. Just for a week.’

‘Who’s going to book the tickets? Organize the hotel? How will you cope?’

‘I can cope . . .’

He laughed off the idea. She watched him check his watch, pick up his tablet computer, flick through the messages there as if this strained conversation was of no consequence.

‘You want me to leave, don’t you?’ she asked and waited for the sudden storm to break.

Yet that rarely happened. Even when he was arguing with his father.

‘Not again,’ he said with a sigh. ‘You’re upset. If you want to go away for a while. That’s fine. On your own. Saskia stays here. We can manage.’

He tapped at the screen.

‘Say where. I can book it. Rome? Might be warmer in Morocco.’ He kept his eyes on her. ‘If you meet someone I really don’t mind.’

She closed her eyes and muttered an obscenity.

‘Have we come to this?’ Renata whispered.

When she opened them Saskia was back, ready for school. Henk had his arms round her.

‘I really think Mummy should take a break,’ he said looking down at their daughter. ‘Don’t you?’

Daddy’s girl. Always.

‘Yes,’ Saskia said.

Renata rushed to the door and grabbed her coat. ‘Time for school,’ she said. ‘Get your things.’

Saskia stayed at the table, head down. Pretty fair hair combed and straight and clean. Only came the third time her mother demanded.

He watched them go. Checked his watch. Made a call. Then went out himself.

De Groot cleared Vos’s visit to the Schiphol detention centre straight away. Bakker went back to her office and found Van der Berg. He was hunched over a computer screen watching CCTV from the night before.

‘I should have known something would happen,’ he said. ‘As soon as Pieter said we were going to have dinner.’

‘Beer. A tosti. A boiled egg.’ She pulled up a chair and sat next to him. ‘I’m used to it by now.’

It was almost six months since De Groot took her on full time after the doll’s house case. The brittle, naive young woman she’d been back then had matured a little. Marnixstraat had come to accept her. Laura Bakker had brought Vos back into the fold after his breakdown and fall from grace. No one else had managed that.