by David Hewson
‘Jillian. Do you remember a young woman in Leiden?’
‘What . . . ?’
He sat down next to her, so close his arm touched hers.
‘She needed help.’ His face was different, stern and disapproving. ‘Her father was unable to offer that, you see. He was engaged in other matters. The call of duty. Not to his family but to others. To a badge. A cause that cared little for him. So he didn’t know his own flesh and blood was in agony.’
‘What are you . . . ?’
Even the words were hard.
‘Lie down.’ She couldn’t stop him as he pushed her down on the hard bench seat then pulled out the cushion from beneath. ‘It’ll be easier that way.’
She did, had no alternative really, and found herself staring at the cream plastic ceiling, head spinning round and round so relentlessly she thought she could feel its whirling motion.
‘Let me ask again. Do you remember that young woman?’
‘No . . . I . . . what are you talking about?’
‘A life.’ His voice had risen. ‘That’s what. A young life lost. Discarded as if it had no value. By a thoughtless bureaucrat whose only thought was for her own career. Who believed . . .’
He pulled up a chair and moved to that, sitting beside her. Then he retrieved a plastic box from the floor, placed it on the table and opened the lid. A leaping fish was etched on the side, smiling at the line that had seized it from the water, oblivious to the sharp hook caught in its cheek.
‘Believed what?’ he wondered. He raised a finger in the too-hot humid, river-heavy air. ‘Ah. I know.’
His eyes were on her then and they were cruel, judgemental.
‘That there’s no profit in the damaged and needy. No promotion or advantage to be found in a sorry and lost young woman pleading for help, begging for someone to listen to her. Aching to be believed.’
A rag came out of the box. Something from fishing, she thought, since it bore greasy brown marks and filthy organic stains. As easily as if he was wrapping a wound he tied it round her head, slipping the stinking gag between her teeth.
Her breath caught. Her gorge rose.
Then he reached down and grabbed the long gold necklace she’d picked out carefully, wondering where the day might lead. Raised it in his hand until she could see and ripped it from her neck. It didn’t hurt much.
I am a bloody fool. I drank the wine he brought knowing it should have tasted better. Thinking these things happen to others, never me.
Jillian Chandra started to moan, tried to shape a pitiful plea for help, for mercy, for anything. But the drug and the gag and the fear meant all she could do was utter a low and pitiful whimper that no one heard but him, a man who was not called Pieter, a creature who didn’t care.
The red silk shirt he ripped off next. By then she was barely conscious at all.
The uniforms cuffed Marly Kloosterman and put her in the back seat, pushing her head down the way they always did.
Bakker was still on the call. When she finished she watched the patrol car drive off and said, ‘Nothing. Dirk’s come up with nothing. How the hell are we going to find her?’
Vos pulled a number out of his phone and called. A voice so bright it took him aback said, ‘Ja?’
‘Is that Annie Schrijver?’
‘It was the last time I checked. Who is this?’
‘Brigadier Vos. I really don’t want to bother you—’
‘Then don’t,’ she said and the line went dead.
Bakker watched as he hit redial.
‘We need to talk, Annie. It’s not about you. I know it’s painful all the same . . .’
‘Don’t you get it, Vos? I’m out of all this.’
‘We let Rob Sanders go. I thought you ought to know.’
A pause and then she said, ‘That was on the news last night. What’s this really about?’
‘The man who woke you at Zorgvlied—’
‘Do you never give up?’
‘Not till it’s done. Do you remember anything—?’
‘Yes. He slapped me awake. Made me mumble something to my dad. And straight after that I blacked out again.’
‘It wasn’t the one we thought. He’s still loose.’
She hesitated then said, ‘Can’t help. Your problem. Not mine. Bye.’
Bakker had been following every word.
‘We need someone he dealt with, Pieter. Normally. Not pretending to be someone else.’
The Zuidas. Zorgvlied. Amstelpark. Everything happened around there. Brouwer surely couldn’t be far away.
Again he called the park office. The same surly woman answered the phone.
‘This is Brigadier Vos from the police. We spoke earlier. You didn’t help me then. If you don’t now I’ll go to your superior and tell them you’re obstructing a murder inquiry—’
‘What murder inquiry?’ she demanded. ‘You were asking about Toine. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. You should see him with the kids.’
‘I need his address.’
‘I told you! He’s a volunteer. We don’t—’
‘The man has to be insured, for God’s sake,’ Vos barked. ‘He’s driving that train.’
Silence, then he heard the clattering of keys.
‘Well,’ she said eventually. ‘There’s an insurance address. Of course.’
‘Where?’
‘I’ll be damned. Bovensluis in Willemstad. We’ve been there. It’s a holiday camp. Nearly bought a chalet once but they were a bit pricey. There’s a coincidence. Toine never mentioned it—’
A good hour and a half south of the city. A long commute.
‘He didn’t drive all that way, surely.’
‘No,’ she agreed. ‘He didn’t.’ It was like pulling teeth.
‘So how did he turn up to work? By bike?’
‘Now that’s the funny thing.’ She sounded very satisfied with herself. ‘Most people do cycle here. I do. I’d say—’
‘Please,’ Vos begged. ‘How?’
‘I saw him sometimes. Toine walked. Came in the back way, the little footpath from Amsteldijk. No bike. Just him on foot.’ She thought about that. ‘He must have a place down by the water. More money than me . . .’
Like a winding artery, the river ran south into the open countryside that began beyond Zorgvlied. There was just a single crossing close to the park: the triple bridges that carried the busy ring road and the train tracks into the centre. Vos ordered a second team to take the area around the opposing bank. Bakker at the wheel, scanning the low, calm water, he headed for the eastern side.
Five minutes, light flashing, and a funeral procession blocked the single track road at the cemetery. A hearse bedecked with flowers, black saloons filled with grim, dark-suited mourners.
There was a logical reason Brouwer would have picked this area and he cursed himself for not seeing it. A base here would be close to Braat, make it easy to pounce when he and Launceston found their prey, started a new cycle. Before they’d even started assaulting Annie Schrijver in all probability. Maybe they’d invited him round.
They left the Volvo on the verge and headed for the nearest boats. One empty. On the deck of the other a young woman was busy with yoga on a mat next to a small altar burning incense. She didn’t like being disturbed, didn’t recognize Brouwer from the park photo or Chandra from the picture he had on his phone.
The funeral crawled slowly through the cemetery gates. The track ahead was clear until they reached a restaurant by the water next to a lane leading back into the Zuidas.
There was a waiter clearing up. Vos flashed the photos and his face lit up.
‘They had lunch here.’ He smiled. ‘A friendly one.’
‘Do you know where he lives?’
A frown.
‘No. Somewhere close. He’s been here quite a bit. Picky about his wine.’ The waiter pointed down the river. ‘They went off that way. She looked a bit worse for wear. Two glasses of white. I ask you.’
The next boat
was a wreck. Vos was about to climb on board when someone shouted, ‘Hi!’
Across the water, on the other bank, a tall man sat on a canvas chair in the stern of a cruiser. He had a fishing rod in one hand and a can of beer in the other. The hat he wore was familiar: floppy, broad, dark.
‘What kept you, Vos?’ he cried.
A bleary-looking individual of around sixty, bearded, probably half drunk, emerged from the barge in front of them.
‘Who the hell are you two?’ he asked.
‘Police. I want your rowing boat.’
‘Didn’t say the magic word.’
‘No, mate,’ Bakker said, untying the battered dinghy from the bank. ‘We didn’t.’
Vos hadn’t rowed since the days when he used to take his daughter out on the lake at the park. He sculled across the grey-green water, watching Toine Brouwer sit idly on the back of his boat, casting, recasting, sending his line out into the depths.
‘Call in backup,’ Vos told Bakker. ‘Medics too.’
When they got there she was first off, gun out, heading for the cruiser.
The cabin was empty. There were clothes strewn across the timber floor. A navy jacket. A torn silk shirt. Underwear.
Vos got past her and went to the back. An open cooler box stood next to the door, cans of beer poking out from ice.
Brouwer reeled in the line then swung something onto the boat: a stiff perch, spines, slime and blood, entangled in a set of fierce triple hooks. Dead bait, he said, unpicking it from the sharp metal, then threw the fish over the side, stood up and cast the empty rig very deliberately towards a patch of water close to mid-stream.
Bakker walked round him, weapon out, tense.
Toine Brouwer scowled at her, disappointed.
‘Put that thing away, young lady. I’d rather not break your arm.’ He nodded at the beers. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Where is she?’ Vos asked.
He had bright eyes, the ghost of a smile, blood on his thick fingers as he reeled in his line.
‘I knew I should have quit this place earlier. But the fishing. It’s too good to waste.’
He eyed Bakker’s gun again.
‘Put it away, Laura,’ Vos ordered.
With a grunt she holstered the weapon. There was nothing else near the boat. Just fields behind with a ragged line of bushes, shrubs and weeds. And the river. Vos couldn’t stop thinking about the river.
Brouwer nodded and said, ‘Thanks. You found me how exactly?’
‘We looked,’ Bakker told him.
The smile turned grim.
‘Time you started, wasn’t it?’
He heaved his rod up hard, striking at something beneath the water, trying to find purchase for those sharp triple hooks.
‘Oh!’ Brouwer’s eyes lit up as the tip bent double. ‘See. I said it was a good day for fishing.’
Something was getting dragged from the depths.
Bakker was on the phone, talking to control.
‘Jillian Chandra?’ Vos began.
He wasn’t answering that question.
‘As I said . . . you miss things. A pity. Everyone says you’re a good man. My daughter especially and she’s no fool. How’s your dog? I’d never have hurt him. Not willingly.’
Vos walked over and sat on the side of the boat. The line ran taut into the water, forty-five degrees. Brouwer was having to work hard to bring in whatever was on the end.
‘I’m sorry we didn’t do better. Didn’t find Lucas Kramer. Jillian Chandra isn’t responsible for your daughter’s death. She doesn’t deserve—’
A scowl and he saw the violence in the man.
‘Please. Don’t demean yourself. Life’s not about what you deserve. It’s about what you take. What you get.’ A shrug and another hard heave at the line. ‘Still. Thanks for not saying it.’
‘Saying what?’
‘That my girl was beyond saving anyway. The damage was done. I was invisible. Her mother had given up. Had we been paying attention . . . Still, you should have done better.’
‘It’s not easy. Trying to stitch the world back together as fast as people manage to break it.’
Brouwer glared at him for that.
‘Are you talking about me? Surely not. I spent most of my adult life working for the same people as you. What did I get in return?’ He raised the rod again and reeled in more tight line. ‘A bullet in the hip. A funeral I never hoped to see. One daughter dead. The other, her life ruined. A bastard for a husband who walked out just when she needed him. Night after night of agony wondering why I didn’t see any of it coming. Why?’
Bakker was off the phone, scanning the area round the boat.
‘Because I was being you. Caring about what others wanted when I should have been thinking about my own.’
‘It’s the job,’ Laura Bakker cut in. ‘You can’t blame yourself for that.’
Puzzled, he said, ‘Mostly I don’t.’
Ten metres away a swirl of dark green weed appeared, writhing in the current like a long, sleek serpent.
A powerful draw on the rod, so bent it seemed about to break, then the thing broke the sluggish green surface just beyond the boat.
It was a blue tarpaulin bundle a couple of metres long. Black tape round the sides.
‘Shit,’ Bakker cried and grabbed the rod from him.
Toine Brouwer let her, stood up, wiped his hands, went to the cool box and picked out another beer. While he popped it Vos found a grubby cloth among the fishing gear, took hold of the line, tugged hard. The two of them hauled in the blue bundle, hand over hand.
When it was close enough Vos reached out and took hold of the edge, pulling it into the boat. A minute and more effort and then they had the thing on the deck.
‘That’s the delight of fishing,’ Brouwer declared, raising his beer to them. ‘The serendipity. The surprise. You never really know what’s down there. You never see what’s coming up next.’
She had her knife out, was sawing at the black tape, band by band. Vos tore at the plastic from the top as soon as he could. The tarpaulin opened. Dark green and slimy weed came pouring out.
Then a hand, bloodless and limp, two fingers clearly broken, flesh and bone showing through.
Vos ripped away the remaining ties. The rank stink of the river hit them and they saw a face streaked with weed, covered in bruises, a ragged cut above the eyes, a grimace halfway to a dead smile, neck to one side at a crazy angle.
Brouwer came and looked. Rob Sanders lay a stiff, drenched and bloodied corpse on the cruiser’s shiny white deck.
‘You should know . . . I’m a tidy man. I hate loose ends. When the news said you’d let him free, well . . .’ He shrugged. ‘It seems to be my lot in life to do the jobs that others deem beneath them.’
Vos took the corner of the plastic shroud and covered the dead man’s face.
‘Where’s Commissaris Chandra?’ Bakker demanded.
Brouwer sat down in the canvas chair, cut the fishing line with scissors and started to tidy away the gear, whistling to himself all the while. She lost it then, was yelling at him, too close. A trick.
‘Laura . . .’ Vos began, starting for them.
Brouwer moved. Arms up, one quick punch, he reached round, seized the Walther from her holster. Stood behind her, one hand round her neck, the other jabbing the barrel of the gun to her skull.
‘You heard me, girl?’ he asked, holding her tight as she struggled in his arms. ‘Choose your time. Else the time chooses you and there’s a world of hurt.’
‘Let her go,’ Vos said, measuring the moment, wondering how and when to strike.
He didn’t need to. The barrel of the gun came away from Bakker’s temple and Brouwer shoved her back towards the cabin.
‘We’re supposed to teach them lessons, Vos. This one needs them.’
There was the sound of a vehicle coming from the direction of the bridge. A blue light. A patrol car. Then another racing along the single track from the opposite d
irection.
Vos took a step towards him, held out his hand.
‘Give me the gun. I want to know where Jillian Chandra is.’
‘Don’t want much, do you?’ He shook his head. A shadow of despair darkened his face, a sign of a moment approaching.
The nose of the weapon nudged through Brouwer’s close-clipped grey hair.
‘Can you begin to imagine what memories, what sights I’ve got in here?’
Vos shrugged.
‘You put them there. No one else.’
‘I did. And I don’t regret it. But if you think a man like me’s going to fester in jail . . .’
Vos looked surprised.
‘So you really want your daughter to stand in the dock alone? No one else to blame. No one by her side. No one to share the guilt. Not very brave. Or loving. The action of a caring parent. Is that what this is? Toine? Just an act? You’re nothing but a common murderer?’
The man’s hard grey eyes were on him.
‘I made Marly do it.’ He glanced at Bakker. ‘I threatened her. You’re my witnesses. You tell them that.’
The patrols were stopping in the lane. Two officers in each. The first pair saw them, came over, guns out. Vos waved them back, told them to start searching the river bank.
‘All I ever wanted was for what happened to Hanna to be remembered. By you. By kids who walk out into the night and think there’s nothing there but pleasure.’
‘Won’t be like that,’ Vos told him. ‘They won’t even know her name.’
The gun came away. The barrel waved towards them.
‘The only thing they’ll remember is a police officer who turned as bad as the men he hated. It’s Marly who’ll pay. How many years do you think she’ll spend inside? What—’
‘This was me! All of it. You’re my witnesses. I forced her . . .’
Vos shook his head.
‘I didn’t hear that. I’ll say you told us it was her idea. She brought you here. Made you feel so guilty you had no choice. She arranged for De Graaf’s release. Found Braat. Helped you kill the others and kept Lucas Kramer for herself. You were just the means. The plans were hers.’
‘I heard that too,’ Bakker added. ‘How the pair of you let a damaged young woman be a victim twice over . . .’