by Graham Ison
‘Not me, Harry, but my Inspecteur Piet Janssen will be,’ said de Jonker, speaking so mysteriously that I was beginning to wonder what the hell this was all about. ‘Let me know your arrival time as soon as you can.’
When I’d finished speaking to de Jonker, I sent for Kate, Dave and Colin Wilberforce.
‘Kate, you’ll be coming with me to Ieper. I can’t explain why at present, Dave, but you’re going to have to stay here. If and when I ring in, Colin, I’ll use the special number in the incident room, which only you or Dave will answer.’ I paused for a moment. ‘This time we’ll call it the Daventry Club.’ We were always extremely cautious on occasions such as this to use the specially installed phone with an unlisted number. If anyone did call it to test where it was, they would think they’d got a wrong number. I then turned to Dave again. ‘It’s probably as well to leave you here anyway, Dave, because if there are further enquiries to be made while Miss Ebdon and I are in Belgium, you’re more conversant with what’s going on than anyone else.’
‘What is going on, guv?’
‘I haven’t a clue, Dave, but I’m assured by Commissaris de Jonker that all will be made clear when Miss Ebdon and I get there.’
After Dave and Colin had left the office, Kate remained. ‘Do you really not know what this is all about?’ she asked.
‘No, Kate. You know as much as I do now.’
‘How long are we likely to be in Belgium? D’you at least know that?’
‘Probably just the one night, but be prepared for two or three. And for God’s sake don’t call me “guv” once we’re on our way.’
‘I’d better get my Old Bailey outfit ready, then.’
Kate’s Old Bailey outfit, as she termed it, consisted of a black suit, black tights, heels and discreet gold earrings, in addition to which her hair was always immaculately coiffed. If it was done for effect it certainly succeeded at the Central Criminal Court, where she beguiled the judge and barristers alike and caused the female ones to spit chips when she entered the witness box.
‘No, come as you are, Kate. Pim de Jonker suggested that we try to look like tourists.’
‘That makes life much easier, but I still don’t know what to take.’
‘I’ve got news for you in your moment of crisis, Kate,’ I said. ‘They do have shops in Belgium.’
‘Really?’ said Kate. ‘I asked for that, I suppose.’
On Tuesday morning, Dave collected me from my flat in Surbiton and then went on to New Malden to pick up Kate before delivering us to Heathrow Airport.
Kate had dressed as I’d suggested and was wearing her usual jeans and white shirt. For the trip, she’d added a denim bomber jacket and a baseball cap with her ponytail poked through the gap at the back. That and an expensive pair of trainers completed the outfit. She assured me that her large brown-leather shoulder bag contained all she would need for ‘our holiday’.
For my part, I was wearing a blazer and chinos, but had decided against wearing a tie. At the last minute I’d grabbed my old panama hat, which these days I hardly ever wore, but just as quickly decided to abandon it. I too had a shoulder bag with a few basic necessaries in it.
After a forty-minute flight we arrived at Louis Blériot Airport at Marck, just outside Calais, at ten o’clock. It was now four days since Dirk Cuyper’s murder and so far we had got nothing. But that I hoped was about to change.
We presented our passports to an officer of the Police aux Frontières, who gave them no more than a cursory glance before returning them.
As we moved away, I spotted a vaguely piratical figure wearing jeans and a leather jacket standing near a door at the side of the concourse. His hair was long enough to touch his collar and he had a beard and square rimless spectacles. He was holding up a piece of cardboard upon which was written ‘TAXI – MR BROCK’.
‘I’m Brock,’ I said, as Kate and I approached the man with the sign.
‘Inspecteur Piet Janssen, sir, Belgian Federal Police.’ The piratical one mouthed my name without actually looking at me. ‘Please to follow me.’ And without waiting for an acknowledgment, he strode out of the terminal building and across to a BMW saloon with a taxi sign on the roof. There were several superficial dents in the bodywork and it was apparent from its filthy state that it hadn’t been washed in months.
Janssen ushered us into the taxi. ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ he said, once we’d settled in the back seat. ‘It’s actually a police car that we normally use for undercover work, and it’s maintained to a very high standard.’ That claim was confirmed once we were on the motorway and he accelerated to a steady 130 kilometres an hour, which was the speed limit. I noticed that he was careful to drop to 120 when we crossed the border into Belgium.
Just under an hour later, we drove into a market square and then took several turnings before stopping outside a hotel.
Although I’d ventured one or two questions during the course of the journey, Janssen had chosen to remain silent, concentrating on his driving. However, once we’d stopped he turned in his seat.
‘My apologies for all the cloak-and-dagger stuff, sir, but the Commissaris will explain everything. He’ll be in the bar when you’re ready. He appreciates that you’ll probably want to unpack and have a shower, and he asked me to tell you not to hurry on his account.’
‘Where are we, Inspecteur?’ I’d tried reading signposts, but by the time I’d converted kilometres into miles I’d missed the next two or three.
‘It’s better if you call me Piet, sir. For security,’ Janssen added mysteriously. ‘We are in Poperinge, which is about twelve kilometres from the local office of the Federal Police in Ieper.’ He escorted us through the door of the hotel, pointed out the reception desk and left us to register.
‘Do you speak English?’ I asked the pretty young girl behind the desk.
‘Of course, sir,’ said the young woman and smiled.
‘Good. My name is Harry Brock, and this is Miss Kate Ebdon. I understand that bookings have been made for us.’
The receptionist keyed this information into her computer and glanced up. ‘You are in room two-one-seven, Mr Brock; and your room is two-one-eight, Miss Ebdon.’ She glanced enquiringly at us, possibly wondering why we weren’t to share a room.
‘We’re not married. Yet,’ said Kate, smiling at the receptionist. ‘The rooms do include en suite facilities, I hope.’
‘Of course, Miss Ebdon,’ said the receptionist and gave Kate another smile. ‘Every room in the hotel has an en suite shower. Welcome to Belgium. I hope you enjoy your stay here.’
SIX
I had a quick wash and ran my electric shaver across the stubble that had grown since this morning. I was about to knock on Kate’s door when it opened and she emerged. She was dressed in a denim skirt, loose sweater and what my mother would have described as sensible shoes. And she was wafting enticingly of Miss Dior perfume. I was amazed that she had managed to pack all that into a shoulder bag.
‘Time to go downstairs and meet Commissaris de Jonker, Kate,’ I said, and ushered her towards the lift.
‘Hello, Mr Brock, Miss Ebdon.’ The receptionist waved as we walked through the reception area.
‘Hi!’ said Kate, and waved in return. ‘Where’s the bar?’
‘Through there, madam,’ said the receptionist, and smiled as she pointed to a set of double doors over which was a large sign that read ‘BAR’.
I wasn’t sure whether Kate was playing the part of the dumb tourist or whether she hadn’t seen the sign. With Kate you never can tell.
The bar was a large room, and I wondered how we would recognize Pim de Jonker or, for that matter, how he would know us, given that there were other casually dressed couples at different tables and one or two seated at stools in front of the copper-topped bar. But I needn’t have worried. A man stood up from a table in the far corner and walked towards us.
‘Harry, I’m Pim.’ De Jonker was tall and slender, somewhere between forty and fifty years
of age – it was difficult to tell – and immaculately dressed in a light-grey suit that was clearly of a continental cut. I like to think I know a thing or two about suits. His face bore a woebegone expression that implied he was carrying the troubles of the world on his shoulders. It was an expression that was rarely to change during our brief acquaintanceship. His hair was greying slightly at the sides and his old-fashioned wire-framed spectacles, set beneath bushy eyebrows, were perched on the bridge of a hooked nose: a combination that gave him a slightly evil, almost Faginesque appearance. Although he didn’t look like a typical policeman, I could imagine that his sudden arrival among the unrighteous would scare the life out of the average Belgian criminal or, come to that, a villain of any nationality.
‘How did you know what I looked like, Pim?’ I asked, as we shook hands. I hoped that the casual wear into which both Kate and I had changed would have made us appear less like police officers.
‘It was not too difficult.’ De Jonker produced a photograph taken of Kate and me crossing the car park at Calais Airport, walking behind Inspecteur Piet Janssen towards our ‘police “taxi”.’
‘Good on yer, Pim!’ exclaimed Kate enthusiastically. She was always impressed by efficient police work. ‘I’m Kate Ebdon,’ she added, seizing de Jonker’s hand and shaking it firmly.
‘It is good to meet you, Kate.’ De Jonker inclined his head very slightly, but I noticed that he did not hold on to Kate’s hand any longer than was necessary. Unlike my friend Henri Deshayes of the Police Judiciaire in Paris, who had unashamedly flattered Kate with Gallic charm, it seemed that de Jonker intended treating her as a fellow police officer and nothing more. ‘And now let’s have a drink before we go in for lunch. Incidentally, Harry, the Federal Police are paying all your expenses. It’s the very least we could do.’
We crossed to the table where de Jonker had been sitting, and at his suggestion each of us settled for a glass of Stella Artois. Given the heat of the day, it was a sensible suggestion that was thoroughly approved of by Kate, who muttered something that sounded like, ‘I’m good for a tinny.’
‘This hotel is one we use for confidential meetings,’ de Jonker began in little above a whisper, ‘and we trust the staff here completely. Even so, it would be as well not to mention that you are police officers. Or that I am. The fewer people who know of our meeting the better.’ He paused to take a sip of his beer. ‘You are probably wondering about the secrecy I’ve insisted on, and why we are meeting here, twelve kilometres away from the office in Ieper.’
‘I must admit that it is a bit unusual, Pim, but it’s something we have to do in Britain from time to time.’
‘I’m glad you understand.’ The grave expression on de Jonker’s face became even graver. ‘It was a shock to hear that Dirk Cuyper had been murdered, Harry. Have you any leads yet?’ He moved his head a little closer as though fearful that he might miss something of vital importance, the expression on his face becoming graver still. ‘What I am trying to ask is if you have any names of suspects, people he might have associated with and who might have intended to do him some harm? Any names of people associated with the sex-slavery racket he was investigating would be a great help to us.’
‘Nothing so far, Pim. From our enquiries it would seem that he was very much a lone operator, at least as far as the residents in the apartment block where he was living were concerned.’
‘I’m pleased to hear that; it was in line with his orders.’ De Jonker moved even closer and was still speaking in a whisper. ‘Dirk Cuyper was working under cover, and that is why the Chief Constable at Scotland Yard was not told of Dirk’s presence, if you wondered why you did not know about this plan. But, as I think I said on the telephone, the fewer people who knew about him the safer he was.’ He paused to spread his hands in a gesture of despair. ‘But it was not enough. Ironically, that was one of the reasons that our chief decided to select one of my officers, rather than send an officer from Brussels who might have been known in London.’ He sighed and looked out of the window. It was unfortunate that at that very moment a funeral cortège consisting of a white Mercedes hearse and three identical white Mercedes saloons passed the window. ‘It seems to have gone horribly wrong,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Am I to understand that Dirk Cuyper was not your choice for the assignment?’
‘No, he wasn’t. Personally, I didn’t think he had sufficient experience. He was an inspector, you see, Harry. But he was well educated and he’d been to university – Ghent, I think – and the chief was adamant that he should be the one to go. I’m afraid they are a little remote in Brussels, and all they have to go on are the personnel records.’
‘I know exactly what you mean, Pim.’ I’d encountered similar decisions in London. ‘Would it help you at all if I spoke to your people in Brussels and explained what we know?’
‘Certainly not, Harry,’ said de Jonker hurriedly, and looked extremely nervous at the prospect. ‘Protocol demands that I inform them. I could be in trouble if they knew I had asked you to come here. Visiting officers should go first to Brussels, you see.’
‘If that’s the case, how are you explaining the expenses of this hotel?’ I asked.
‘I shall hide it in the accounts somehow,’ said de Jonker after a moment or two of thought.
‘What was Dirk Cuyper’s precise mission in London, then, Pim?’ asked Kate, as usual getting straight to the point.
De Jonker sighed and launched into a brief lecture that I suspected he had given many times before, and which was along the same lines as the briefing Wilberforce had given me about the reconstruction of the Belgian police, although not as detailed. In fact, it was so similar that I wondered if de Jonker had obtained it from the same source. But I didn’t comment on it.
The waiter appeared at de Jonker’s elbow and leaning forward deferentially, whispered in his ear.
De Jonker turned to Kate and me. ‘Our table is ready. Shall we go in? We can continue our discussion while we’re eating.’
We were shown to a table in an alcove in the far corner of the restaurant that had clearly been selected for its distance from other diners, most of whom appeared to be German or British tourists.
Before either de Jonker or I could do so, the solicitous waiter had pulled Kate’s chair back, waited for her to sit down and flicked a crisp linen napkin across her lap. He then promptly gave each of us a menu, but as it was in Flemish Kate and I had to wait for de Jonker’s advice.
‘I would recommend the dish of the day,’ said de Jonker and, glancing up from the menu, added, ‘Today it is a plate of cold Belgian meats and cheeses, and I usually follow that with some ice cream made with Belgian chocolate.’ He paused and patted his stomach. ‘But don’t tell Mrs de Jonker,’ he said, with a slight softening of his features that could almost have passed for a smile. ‘If you would prefer something more substantial, I can make recommendations.’
‘No, Pim, that will suit me fine.’
‘Sounds ripper,’ said Kate.
Seeing de Jonker’s bemused expression, I said, ‘Kate is Australian, Pim, and she sometimes lapses into her own language. Roughly translated, it means that it all sounds perfect.’ It was a comment that caused Kate to smack me on the back of my hand, followed by a laugh in which I joined.
‘Ah! Ripper! That’s a good word. I must remember it.’ For the first time since our meeting de Jonker’s face broke into a smile. I think we were at last softening his reserve.
The waiter was there in an instant, and de Jonker ordered the meal and three more glasses of Stella Artois, confiding to Kate and me that it was the only thing to drink with meats and cheeses.
‘I take it that Dirk Cuyper was actively pursuing something to do with sex slavery, then, Pim,’ suggested Kate.
‘That was his mission, yes. Usually, the women are enticed from Eastern Europe with promises of employment on the domestic staff of some European Union bigwig in Brussels. On other occasions they are even offered a part
in a film.’ De Jonker shook his head, as though finding it hard to believe that anyone could be hoodwinked that easily. ‘Believe it or not, the Belgian film industry is beginning to get more adventurous with their productions,’ he added, as though defending it. ‘However, to suggest that a part awaits these girls is merely a lure because these poor women – usually young girls – finish up in brothels, where they virtually remain prisoners.’
‘If these women come from Eastern Europe, Pim, what was Dirk Cuyper doing in London?’ I asked.
‘You have a large number of migrants from other parts of the European Union, Harry, as well as illegal immigrants who have somehow made their way to Calais from the Middle East – from Libya and Syria, for example – and then are smuggled into Britain.’ He stopped to give a scornful laugh. ‘Or just walk through the Channel Tunnel, I believe. But I don’t have to tell you that people smuggling is a big operation.’
‘And it’s almost impossible to prevent,’ said Kate. ‘Over five thousand lorries pass through Dover every day, Pim, and even accepting that half that number are inbound it’s still impossible to search every one of them.’
‘As many as that, Kate? I don’t think you will ever stop it,’ continued de Jonker. ‘The trouble is that many of these migrants – even the legitimate ones – find that when they get to your country, or ours for that matter, it’s not the paradise they thought it would be. And that gives the sex slavers easy pickings. You say you don’t have the resources to prevent people being smuggled into England, let alone out of it, and they finish up here.’ He paused to wipe his mouth with his table napkin. ‘I was wondering, Harry,’ he began tentatively, ‘what information you are able to tell me about the situation in London?’ He took out a notebook and looked up expectantly, his pen hovering over a blank page.
‘I can’t help you at all, Pim,’ I said. ‘You see, Kate and I are in the department that deals with murder and other related serious crimes. I’m afraid we know nothing about sex slavery.’