“I’m looking for Dirk Martens.”
The man stepped forward.
“I’m Dirk Martens. Are you all right? What can I do for you?”
Martens was short and chubby and wrinkled and he had a grey comb-over that flopped over one ear. He was wearing orange shorts and a khaki safari jacket with four or five pens in each pocket. He had an armband with something written on it in Dutch.
One of the women came forward and Martens and the woman helped Paul to a chair and he sat down and felt very tired.
Paul pulled out the photo and held it up to Martens.
“Do you know this girl? The one with the piercing.”
Martens glanced at the photo and then back at Paul.
“Who are you? And why do you want to know?”
“My name’s Paul Boyd. I’m looking for Sarah. That’s not Sarah but I need to know who she is and where she lives. I’m guessing she may have been a student at the Barlaeus Gymnasium. I think she might live near the Westerkerk.”
He felt water on his neck and looked up and the woman was wiping the blood off him with some cotton wool. She dabbed something onto another piece of cotton and pressed it against his head.
“That’s a nasty cut”, she said. “Does it hurt?”
“No, unfortunately. I think that’s a bad sign…”
“Could be concussion”, said Martens.
“Probably”, said Paul. “I’m not firing on all cylinders. So do you know the girl?”
Martens looked back at the picture.
“Yes I do. She’s called Kristel Dekker.”
“Dekker.”
“Yes. This is more than ten years old…”
“Fifteen.”
“Quite likely. What’s your interest?”
“I think she tried to kill me. I think she hit me on the head with a baseball bat.”
“You should go to the police. And see a doctor.”
“I will, I promise. But I have to find her. Do you know where she lives? Or lived?”
Martens was watching him. He exchanged a look with the woman.
“No, I don’t. I remember her, and for good reason. She was a trouble-maker. I know her family were butchers, generations of butchers, quite well known in Amsterdam at one time, but I don’t know where. I think you should see a doctor… there is a first-aid post not far away…”
Paul stood up.
“I’m fine, thanks. And thanks for your help. And you too, madam.”
He waved at them as he stumbled away and carefully lifted his feet over some more cables and he found the path next to the clearing and he started walking back to Jordaan.
Clouds had moved in and the air was colder now and Paul shivered as he left the park and was hit by a cool wind blowing along Singelgracht. He tried to ignore the pulsing in his head although he was getting worried that he might be more seriously injured than he had thought. But he sensed a tingling in his bones and felt strangely energised. He knew where he was going and what to look for, but he needed another boost to help him along. He stopped at a café where a group of West Indians were playing some old ska tunes and he bought a coffee and a genever and drank a glass of water. He went on-line and looked for phone numbers for Marieke Dekker and Kristel Dekker and found nothing useful. He sipped the genever and lit a cigarette and listened to ‘The Israelites’ and was ready for the next part of the hunt.
The population of Amsterdam had found their second wind now and every café and bar and street-side vendor was awash with thirsty punters. The noise level had moved up a notch or two. Every amplifier and sound system was on overdrive and everyone had to shout to be heard.
The streets were filled with plastic goblets and tin cans and paper cups and Paul saw two young kids throwing up into a flower-pot. They weren’t the first and they wouldn’t be the last to lose their lunches today. He headed into the smaller streets and wondered what he might find when he discovered where Kristel Dekker had lived.
Someone bumped into him and he fell down, smashing his elbow against the kerb and ripping a hole in his trousers.
“Sorry, mate!”
An arm was held out and he grabbed it and he was hauled to his feet by a bearded Australian wearing a kangaroo outfit. He turned away and walked on. He came to Prinsengracht and looked across the canal at the Anne Frank Huis and to his right past the Pulitzer where the Westerkerk clock tower was illuminated with orange lights.
He decided to start at the church and to spiral outwards, taking every street and looking at every doorway. The Jordaan area had once been working-class, a district for tradesmen of all kinds, and above the entrances to the numerous courtyards in each block were carved stone signs representing the profession of the craftsmen or artisan who lived and worked there. Tailors displayed a stone tablet depicting a pair of scissors. The sign for a butcher was a pig. Paul had seen dozens of such signs and had often pointed them out on tours, but he couldn’t remember any specific butchers’ signs in this area.
The sky was grey now, but the lights and lanterns and fires and barbecues lit every wall and doorway and he had no trouble spotting the professional emblems. He did an anticlockwise tour of the church, spreading out a little further for the next lap along parallel streets, crossing over Keizersgracht and then back over Prinsengracht and Bloemgracht and his neck was hurting from looking up all the time and after almost an hour he was feeling faint again and hungry and then he swung into a narrow alley off Nieuwe Leliestraat and he saw it.
A stone pig with a curly tail on an oval medallion with oak leaves around it. It was inlaid into the wall above an arched doorway leading to a large courtyard where he could hear music and a sound like wooden hammers.
He stepped under the arch and walked forward. The courtyard was maybe twenty yards square and people were crowded around the sides, three or four deep, watching a group of children in the centre performing a traditional dance in clogs. There were no butchers here any more, although to one side it looked like there had been some kind of professional premises fairly recently, and he thought he saw the outline of an old sign with a name… But there was nothing here except for flats now, he thought.
There were a dozen doors leading off the courtyard, some open, some closed. He saw stairs leading off a couple of them to apartments on the four floors above. People clapped and he clapped along with them. He hoped they would all go away, go home…. But then maybe this was their home. Maybe they lived here.
He tapped an elderly man on the shoulder.
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
“Do you know the Dekkers?”
“Who?”
“The Dekkers, I think they live here…”
The man shook his head and put his finger to his lips. Someone was talking into a microphone, and there was more applause as children stepped forward and took bows.
He went back out into the alley and lit a cigarette and sat down and tried to think. To one side of the doorway, a woman opened a window and started to water a few plant pots on the windowsill. Paul walked over to her.
“Excuse me?”
“Yes?”
“Do the Dekkers live here?”
“Not any more.”
“Really? This would be Marieke, and Kristel and …”
“Dennis. Well, he’s long gone. Marieke hasn’t lived here in years. The place is empty.”
“Oh. Right. Thanks. You don’t know where Kristel went, do you?”
“She didn’t say. Sorry. She was in too much of a hurry.”
She started to close her window.
“When was this?”
“Erm… Saturday. She had the sale last Friday, sold everything off
and chucked the rest away and then she went off on Saturday.”
“This last Saturday?”
“Are you deaf?”
“So she was here until Saturday?”
The woman sighed.
“Are you looking for an apartment? I think she paid up till the end of
June, it won’t be free until then.”
“Which one was it?”
“The ground floor, number 6. Only it’s more of a basement flat really, there’s only one room on the ground floor.”
“Do you know who the owner is, or who has a key?”
“Come back tomorrow.”
She slammed her window shut and closed the curtains.
He went back to the courtyard and edged around the perimeter looking at the numbers on doors. Number 6 was in the far corner, a simple wooden door with a small square window in the top half. There was a window next to the door and Paul peered in. There was a net curtain inside and he couldn’t make out any shapes or even see how big the room was. A spotlight over the courtyard was reflecting off the glass too and that didn’t help. The clog-dancing went on and a few people were singing now.
Paul’s head was spinning. He leaned against the wall and breathed in and tried to make sense of the children’s dance. One step forward and two steps back. Like his own obsessive pursuit. Like his own life… He stepped back against the door and felt the handle in his hand and he turned it. The door opened and he stepped inside and closed it behind him and he smelt vanilla.
Chapter 46
Tuesday April 30th 2013 – Koninginnedag
His heart was pounding and his chest felt tight and he felt queasy. He stood still for a moment, taking in his surroundings as his eyes got used to the dim light.
To his right, beneath the only window, was an old sink and draining area over a cupboard. There was nothing else in the room. It was about a hundred square feet, no bigger. He could see marks and lines on the walls where shelves and pictures had been removed.
He heard applause from outside and he smelt vanilla again. She had been here, just three days before.
He stepped forward towards the door in the far wall and opened it. A staircase descended into darkness. He turned his back to the window and flicked on his lighter. The stairs were steep and there was another door at the bottom. He saw a light switch. He closed the door and felt along the wall and flicked the switch but nothing happened. The electricity must have been cut off. He stepped carefully down the stairs and reached the door and found the handle and turned it and the door opened. He flicked on his lighter again. He was in a bigger room, but there were no windows. The floor was bare boards and the walls were a dull white colour, with damp patches and mould in the top corners. Off to his left he could see a door leading to a small bathroom and he could see a toilet and a shower stall. There was nothing else in the room apart from a built-in shelf unit against the far wall and an old box-spring bed base. A single light-bulb hung from the ceiling and he found the light switch but it didn’t work. He sat on the edge of the bed and wanted to weep. There was nothing here. There were no signs of anyone being here at all. No clues, no personal belongings, nothing. He took his finger off his lighter and he sat in the darkness and he felt all the energy drain from his body and then he heard something. He flicked on the lighter and saw a rat scurry across the floor and disappear under the shelf unit. He slumped to the floor and closed his eyes and heard cheers and laughter from the courtyard, perhaps coming in from an air vent somewhere.
Cellars must be rare in Amsterdam he thought, like in Venice. They’d be below the water level. Or close to it. He heard the sound again and lit the lighter and two sets of rat eyes were looking at him from the floor below the shelf-unit. He stood up and they vanished as he walked over to the unit. He ran his fingers along the edges and realised it wasn’t actually built into the wall. It was free-standing, but exactly the same size as an alcove in the wall. It was held in place by a couple of brackets at the top with wing-nuts holding them tight. He held the lighter in his left hand and reached up and loosened the nuts with his right hand. The whole unit tilted forward a bit and he thought it was going to topple over on top of him. But it stayed upright. He put the lighter in his pocket and grabbed a couple of shelves and pulled. The unit shifted a bit and then jammed and he wiggled it and it slid forward and he could feel it leaning against him. It was heavy. The wood wasn’t MDF or pine, but solid oak or beech and he felt it slipping and it crashed to the floor as he stepped back, colliding with the bed. He lit his lighter again and looked at the bookcase on the floor and listened. There was no sound at all. He went over to the wall and looked at it. The alcove was maybe three feet wide and six feet high and a foot deep and again he ran his fingers along the edges. He looked at them. They were wet. There were traces of wet plaster or grouting or something similar and he felt his heart pounding again and the tightness in his chest. He opened his wallet and took out a plastic video-club card and ran it along the edges of the alcove where the plaster was. It dug in and cut and he felt it slide in a good inch or so and he kept sliding it along the angle and he saw a slit lengthening and he kept at it. His finger was burning on the lighter so he switched hands and forced the card along the top edge. He tried pushing the wall but it didn’t move and he tried to wedge a finger into the crack but it was too tight. He kept cutting with the card and eventually he had a clear gap around the edges of what appeared to be a solid piece of plaster-board. He stopped to get his breath back and suddenly felt very thirsty and hungry and his head was spinning again. He kicked at the plaster-board and felt it give, perhaps a millimetre… He tapped on the surface at various places and felt a hollow point here and there… He kicked at one of them and the board split. He kicked it some more and dug out a hole with his foot maybe three inches across. He held the lighter against it and looked in. He saw a wooden stay or beam, to the side. New wood. Like the new plaster. Which might have dried out by the end of June, more than 2 months away… The plaster-board was on some kind of frame, behind it, making the whole thing pretty solid. He felt something drip down his neck and wondered whether it was sweat or blood. He worked at more of the hollow-sounding places and kicked and removed some plaster and then he got a grip of a bigger piece and yanked it and it split and then came away. He felt a cold draught come through the hole and he smelt damp and something feral… rat shit maybe… He tried to look through the hole with the lighter but couldn’t see anything. He breathed in for a while, aware of counting his breaths, and he attacked the plaster-board again, ripping off piece after piece until his hands were throbbing and he felt blisters and friction burns and knew he was bleeding. He looked at the bed-base and went over to examine it. There was a metal bar across the base to support most of the weight and it wasn’t screwed down or bolted to anything, but he couldn’t see how he could get it free. He went into the bathroom and searched it and found nothing. He went back up to the kitchen and looked around and couldn’t see anything there either. He looked out of the window and most of the people had gone, but someone was setting up a barbecue and another man appeared carrying a stack of plastic tables. He thought about going outside and asking if anyone had a spare jack-hammer or a power saw but he didn’t think it would be a good idea.
Then he saw something glinting on the floor under the cupboard beneath the sink and he bent down to pick it up and it was a knife. It was a cheap knife, like from a canteen or Ikea or somewhere, but it was a knife.
He went back downstairs and he ripped into the plaster-board with the knife and after ten minutes he was sweating and he had a good hole carved out in the centre of the board. He leant forward with the lighter and peered into the hole and he saw a sheet of metal in front of him. To the right and the left, above and below, about a foot behind the wooden frame. And then the lighter went out. No more gas.
I’m alone in the kitchen.
Mum and Dad have gone to Bradford to see some friend or other. They know Sarah’s gone.
Mum ran her fingers through my hair and said “I’m so sorry” and then she picked up her bag and went out to the car where Dad was waiting, tooting the horn.
The phone rings.
I let it ring.
It rings on and on and I pick it up and I say “Fuck off! There’s no-one here!”
An
d I sit down and the phone rings again.
“Hello.”
“Paul…”
“Sarah!”
“I’m at the airport. I managed to get away for a minute. Are you all right?”
“What do you think?”
It sounds wrong so I say: “How are you doing?”
I hear some muffled sounds and a voice that might be Greville’s and then I hear Sarah from a long, long way away:
“Paul, Paul!”.
The line goes dead.
Paul lay on the floor and counted his breaths again and thought of the phone call with Sarah and something clicked in his head and he reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile. He switched it on and found the torch app and saw that he had 60% battery power left and he looked at what he still had to do to break through to what must be a metal door on the other side of the plaster-board.
He switched off the phone and felt with his hands and hacked and cut and pulled and ripped and tore the plaster away and felt the wooden frame behind the plaster and smelt more damp and cold and worked on.
His nostrils were filled with plaster dust and he sneezed and spat out mushy powder and woodchips. Sweat was dripping into his eyes, and he suddenly felt foolish, stupid, absurd; a blind man beating against a wall, standing there in the dark in a basement room, pounding and scratching and scraping at something he couldn’t even see… and he had no idea what lay beyond it. His hands were wet, from sweat or blood, and he tore off more bits of plaster and then more and more until there was only the frame left, and he could feel the wooden struts and nothing else. There was a pile of debris on the floor around his feet. He switched on the phone.
The frame was solid, with three vertical and six horizontal joists, but it had been finished from this side, from inside the room, because there were some screws visible in metal angle joints. He tried the end of the knife in the screws but it kept slipping and he couldn’t get any grip. He saw the metal door behind the frame. A green metal door, with a stone support either side and a concrete lintel. There was no lock or handle visible.
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