The Wrong Girl

by David Hewson

  The lights played on the glass. Red, blue and green, a pretty pattern against the window.

  ‘Henk!’

  Her voice was harder, full of angry trepidation. The way it used to be.

  Kuyper stared at himself . . . at them . . . reflected in the panes.

  Red, green and blue.

  One of the red lights was bigger than the others. It was dodging around rapidly, which seemed curious.

  Moving on him. Up towards his temple.

  Hanna walked straight into the room. A figure on the leather sofa turned to look.

  Cem Yilmaz, naked from the waist up. A glass of something in his hand. No one else there. No smell of sweat. Just something like a fragrant tea.

  The old green holdall she’d bought in the Noordermarkt an age before was beside him on the floor. Top open. Money ruffled around inside as if he was counting every note.

  The big Turk got up, furious as hell, big fist waving, yelling some kind of abuse.

  He stopped in front of her, face twisted with rage.

  ‘Who asked you here?’

  She retreated a step, out of his reach.

  ‘You promised me my daughter back,’ she told him. ‘Instead you took her.’

  The anger abated for a moment. Amusement there instead.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Why?’

  He laughed.

  ‘Why not?’

  So much determination before she came in here. Now, faced with the decision, the will began to desert her.

  She couldn’t find the words.

  ‘You make a poor whore. Maybe you think it’s beneath you.’

  Hand in coat, shaking, struggling to keep hold of the gun.

  He leaned forward.

  ‘Trust me. It’s not. But . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I got sixty thousand profit. Dmitri won’t dare say a word. Nor you either.’

  Another step closer.

  ‘No recriminations. Nothing owed on either side.’ He held out his hand, fat fingers stretched wide. ‘Deal?’

  Hanna said nothing.

  The big hand turned into a fist. The smile vanished from his face.

  One more step and his forearm was out, trying to trap her neck. Moving with a speed that seemed unreal.

  Gun slipping in her grip as she retreated to the lift.

  She tore off the glove. Got her sweaty fingers round the butt, the trigger.

  Tried to lift it, to aim.

  One shot.

  It rang out over the Herenmarkt, echoed round the courtyard of the old mansion where the burghers of Amsterdam once gathered to carve the new world into convenient and profitable pieces.

  Renata Kuyper watched unable to comprehend what she saw.

  Like a dream. A nightmare contained in seconds.

  There was a crack at the window. The sound of breaking glass.

  He flew back from his chair with a single, offended sigh.

  Fell on the plush dining-room carpet. Head a mess, blood everywhere, much else besides.

  No sound from him. No time for her to scream, to think.

  She stood up, hand to mouth. Went towards him.

  Whispered, ‘Henk . . . ?’

  One shot.

  Missed.

  Cem Yilmaz roared. Kept staggering towards her. Arm up. Furious. Beast not man.

  A single thought.

  This was Natalya’s monster. He came for me not her.

  The elbow took her in the throat. Fingers round her neck. The grip of a fighter, a wrestler, looking to snap the life from her while his foul breath pumped with anxious pleasure.

  The gun faltered in Hanna’s grip again, pushed to one side by his force.

  She gasped for air. Saw the darkness start to close in from the edges of the too-bright room.

  ‘You fuck up everything, woman,’ he spat. ‘Everything . . .’

  Renata Kuyper stood at the head of the table, looking at her husband’s broken bloody frame on the floor.

  No movement. No breath. Whatever had entered the room at that moment took him completely.

  The night breeze gusted through the shattered window. Christmas lights tinkling against the broken pane.

  Wondering what to do. What to touch. Who to call.

  Outside, across the street, by a grubby playground sandpit, a figure held a long and complex rifle against the metal fence.

  His scrubbed cheeks hurt. A red fire burned in his head.

  Soon to be extinguished. Dampened by the needs of flight and the catharsis of a sudden vengeance.

  The man once called Khaled peered through the sights of the Remington MSR.

  Saw someone there, stiff and shocked in the room across the street. Thought for a moment about justice and decency. Those who deserved to die. Those who didn’t.

  Didn’t think long.

  Second shot.

  A woman in an expensive dress jerked like a marionette tugged by invisible strings.

  He pulled the sight from his face. Threw the weapon into the sandpit.

  Set off for Haarlemmerstraat on the long straight walk to Centraal. And a deliverance from this place.

  Second shot.

  The gun went off as her shaking index finger struggled with the trigger. Could have gone anywhere.

  But Yilmaz was staggering back holding his gut. Mouth open. Eyes in shock.

  No one hurt the king. He lived forever.

  Not any more.

  Third shot.

  It went into his big broad chest and blood came back, spitting out of a fresh livid wound that opened like a blinded eye.

  Cem Yilmaz fell to his knees, mouth flapping, no words, just a grunt of shock and anger. And pain.

  Fourth shot.

  The chest again. That wall of muscle bounced but still he knelt, swaying back, gazing at her in disbelief.

  Monsters do not die easily.

  She lifted the gun, watched his bloody lips try to form a word, a plea.

  Hanna stood over him, jerked on the trigger until nothing happened any more.

  Van der Berg was with Natalya and Sam now. Throwing the rope bone between them in a game the little dog loved.

  He scampered through the rickety chairs and tables. Yapping. Squealing. Not minding what he hit, how many things he knocked over.

  Back and forth the rope bone went. Vos and Laura Bakker watched from the bar.

  Finally, as Sam lost his footing, fell sideways scuttling across the polished timber before retrieving the toy just as it was about to reach her hands, Natalya Bublik laughed.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ Bakker said. ‘I can’t believe they didn’t keep her in hospital.’

  ‘Her mother insisted.’

  She looked at him.

  ‘And no one dare say no to her.’

  He raised his glass and said all the things he’d planned. Thanks. And praise. And an apology.

  ‘Will you ever trust me?’ she asked.

  ‘I do already.’

  ‘So why wasn’t I in on the secret? Why did you let me think Frank had really kicked you out?’

  It was a question he’d expected. She knew the good ones to ask now.

  ‘Because if it had gone wrong the consequences—’

  ‘To hell with consequences, Pieter! Do you think they bother me?’

  ‘No. Which is one more reason to do what we did.’

  Her red hair was tied neatly back. She still kept knocking things over all the time, but that was a trait that would stay with her. Mostly Laura Bakker had mellowed and matured these last few months.

  Her long index finger jabbed his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t protect me. I can look after myself, thank you.’

  ‘So I gather,’ Vos added and chinked her glass.

  One last breath. It sounded like an angry beast giving up on itself. Then the Turk’s sweaty, bloody chest was still and he tumbled sideways onto the bloodied carpet.

  She dropped the gun. Forgot about the glove. If they wanted her they’d find her anyway. She lacked
the talent for this.

  Not a speck of his blood on the green holdall she’d lugged on the train and left beneath the seat. Hanna tucked the stray notes back inside. From what she saw it was all still there. A hundred and sixty thousand euros.

  Then she went to the drawer she’d seen before. The one where he’d kept the weapon among the money and jewellery.

  It was closed now but still unlocked. With trembling fingers she pulled it open. Looked at the piles of notes. Euros. Dollars. Currencies she couldn’t name.

  In all the years of struggle, on the long journey from Georgia to the Netherlands, she’d never stolen, not until she met this man. And even those few notes she took two days before with the weapon that killed him still left her with a sense of shame and hurt.

  No more.

  She grabbed the money, placed it on top of the stacks in the holdall.

  Looked at the rest of the things. The jewellery. The watches.

  Picked up the necklace her husband had given her a lifetime ago in the little cottage on the edge of Gori they called home. Back when the world was whole and Natalya a little baby, their precious child, dependent on them, looking to a future full of love and hope.

  No tears now. No time for them.

  Hanna Bublik lifted the silver chain and stared into the amber pendant.

  It was real, he’d said the night he surprised her with the gift. A piece of history. Resin from a prehistoric tree turned into a precious gem by all the long centuries. Sometimes there were insects trapped beneath its shining surface. But those pieces were expensive. Hers was plain. Yet beautiful all the same.

  No more, she thought and placed the thing back in the drawer.

  That life was gone.

  Hanna went to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Washed the blood off her hands. Dabbed at the few spots on her brown coat.

  Then, green plastic and canvas holdall tight beneath her arm, she left the weapon, the bloody glove, the corpse of the Turk behind. Went into the lift. Out into the street. Found the Prinsengracht. Marched steadily back to the Jordaan.

  ‘The thing is . . .’ Laura Bakker began, finger still jabbing away at Vos’s jacket.

  A tall familiar shape appeared at the door. She fell silent.

  Frank de Groot walked in beaming. Hung his big overcoat on the stand. Grabbed the beer Vos offered with glee.

  Then he looked around and asked, ‘Where’s Mrs Bublik?’

  ‘I want my mum,’ Natalya said, breaking into the conversation.

  ‘Of course you do,’ Laura told her. ‘She’s—’

  ‘She’s there!’ the girl cried.

  A shape across the road, visible through the long window, threading through the light traffic by Vos’s boat.

  Brown coat. The spectacles were gone. She looked worn out and pensive.

  Vos watched her dodge a passing taxi. Thought to himself.

  De Groot was at his most charming. He opened the door, beckoned her in.

  ‘A drink,’ he said. ‘I know you must want to rest. You and . . .’ He beamed at Natalya. ‘Your little girl. All the same . . .’

  Just a quick smile for Natalya who slid to her side, held her hand, and then Hanna Bublik asked, ‘Have you arrested anyone?’

  De Groot’s cheerful demeanour stayed fixed.

  ‘That Russian crook. Those two Belgian creatures.’ He nodded, looked important. ‘Those three won’t see the light of day for a while.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘I told you, Hanna,’ Vos cut in gently. ‘It takes time. Tomorrow . . .’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she repeated. ‘Natalya?’

  Hand in hand they went outside. Then the girl stopped on the pavement. Sam had come to the door, whining pitifully, wagging his tail, disappointed the games had come to an end.

  It was an embarrassing moment and De Groot never enjoyed those. He told Vos to deal with it then went back to chatting with Bakker and Van der Berg at the bar.

  Outside Hanna Bublik caught how entranced her daughter was by the little terrier.

  ‘One day,’ she said as Vos came near. ‘We’ll get one.’

  ‘I’m sure you will.’

  She looked at him. Puzzled. Perhaps worried.

  ‘I’m sorry, Vos. I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m tired. We both are.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ He nodded at the holdall. ‘That looks like the bag you left on the train.’

  Natalya, sensing an awkward moment, went back to the door and knelt down to talk to the dog.

  ‘What?’ Hanna asked too quickly.

  ‘It can’t be,’ Vos added quickly. ‘I know—’

  ‘Do you suspect everyone? Every minute of the day?’

  He couldn’t take his eyes off the bag.

  ‘Sorry. Stupid of me.’

  She sighed, closed her eyes for an instant.

  ‘Renata Kuyper gave me some things for Natalya. Toys and clothes her daughter didn’t need.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s her bag.’

  A pause.

  ‘Ever the policeman. Would you like to check?’

  Her eyes were on him. Begging.

  ‘Should I?’ he asked.

  ‘I just . . .’ The words were a struggle. She gripped the green holdall more tightly. ‘For God’s sake let us go, Vos. I never asked you for anything except my girl back. Now one thing more.’

  She looked away and called to Natalya. The girl came straight away, held her hand, and the two of them gazed at him. They were a pair. What was left of their family.

  ‘Goodnight,’ Hanna said in a voice so soft he scarcely recognized it. ‘I know what’s best for us. Honestly.’

  Silence. He didn’t move and nor did they.

  Then she reached out and for a moment touched the lapel of his crumpled jacket.

  ‘Please . . .’

  ‘Goodnight,’ he said, as brightly as he could manage. Then tugged at his long dark locks. ‘When you learn to cut hair . . .’

  Tears in her eyes. He felt guilty he’d put them there.

  ‘You’re my first victim. For free,’ she murmured and turned to go.

  He watched the two of them cross the Berenstraat bridge then went back into the Drie Vaten and joined the others.

  ‘What was that about?’ Bakker asked. ‘Or am I being nosy?’

  ‘You’re always nosy. It was about tomorrow. She’s going to talk to the social people about getting somewhere new to live. Training for a job. Hairdressing.’

  ‘Good on her,’ Van der Berg said, raising his glass. ‘Too bright and decent a woman for that kind of life. Especially with that bastard Yilmaz on her back.’

  De Groot was staring directly at Vos.

  ‘Is there anything I should know?’ the commissaris asked.

  ‘Such as what, Frank?’

  Sam was seated at De Groot’s feet holding up the rope bone and whining for attention.

  ‘If I understood that I wouldn’t be asking, would I?’ the commissaris replied, still pulling at the toy.

  ‘It’s your round,’ Van der Berg told him. ‘I know that. Can’t remember the last time . . .’

  De Groot grunted something and pulled out some cash. Vos took a small one. Bakker said no. Van der Berg was running through the bottles behind the counter, finally picking out something expensive from a Belgium monastery.

  ‘We should focus on that Russian and those two Belgians for now,’ Vos insisted as De Groot paid up. ‘Let’s charge them. Get them in court. See if they’ll implicate Yilmaz. Kuyper and Mirjam Fransen can wait a while. So can Hanna Bublik and her girl. They need some peace and quiet.’

  ‘No argument there,’ De Groot agreed.

  Then he patted each of them on the shoulder and raised his glass.

  ‘Here’s to Sinterklaas. We got there in the end. Proost.’

  On the other side of the canal a taxi had slowed. Two figures. One tall, one small had climbed in carrying a single big bag.

  ‘Proost,’ Vos answered and watched the car move sl
owly off, almost tracing the outstretched arm of the silver ballerina on his boat.

  In the back of the cab, out of earshot of the driver, Natalya clutched her mother’s hand and asked, ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Somewhere nice,’ Hanna said.

  She called one of the all-night travel agencies and checked what flights they had still free.

  Then she booked two tickets to be paid for at the airport, one under the name of Natalya Bublik, the other on Hanna’s second passport, the old one with her maiden name, carried with her all the way from Gori. It was Georgian: Tsiklauri. And felt as if it belonged to someone else.

  ‘Somewhere warm,’ she added when the call was finished.

  Cyprus. A country she couldn’t even find on the map. But one that wasn’t picky about visas. The other East European women working the street had told her that.

  She’d had to read out some details from the old passport to make the booking. Ever inquisitive, Natalya bent over to look. They both stared at the woman there. Short brown hair, like it was now. A face much younger. Fuller. Less careworn.

  ‘You were pretty,’ Natalya said.

  ‘Were?’ Hanna said with a sob.

  She rubbed her cheeks with the backs of her hands and pretended to cry.

  A joke between them. The way it was before.

  ‘You are pretty, Mummy,’ the girl insisted and hugged her.

  Hard. Both arms around her waist, head against the brown coat. The two of them close and warm.

  At Schiphol, clutching the precious holdall, they picked up the tickets then got through passport control. Close to panic, Hanna took Natalya into the toilets and padded out their pockets with money. It seemed a futile, desperate gesture. If the bag was spotted at security they’d surely be stopped and searched anyway.

  But all this was new. She did what came into her head. Had to think it all through later.

  When she did she changed her mind. Back into the toilets. All the money came out of their clothes.

  They went into the fancy airport stores. Bought clothes and toiletries. Then a large suitcase. Too big to be hand baggage.

  The store opened up the case and let her store the new clothes there. The woman assistant was friendly and offered to arrange for it all to go in the hold.

  Hanna took the bag with all the money off her shoulder and said they might as well save some trouble and place that in the case too.