The House of Dolls

by Hewson, David

  Vos sighed. The kid flew off the handle, started throwing a flurry of curses, at Bakker, at him. The cigarette fell from her trembling fingers.

  Taken aback by the sudden violent outburst Bakker retreated. The men with the bubble pipe didn’t move. No one did except Pieter Vos who retrieved the cigarette from the dirty floor, held it out in front of Til Stamm, waited for her to calm down, then placed it back in her fingers.

  ‘Do you like her?’ he asked when she quietened down.

  ‘Katja’s OK. Not snooty. I think maybe . . .’ She twirled a finger at her ear. ‘Her head’s not quite straight. But she never pushed her old man at us. We just saw him when she needed something.’

  ‘Like what?’ Vos asked.

  ‘Like money. Or a get-out-of-jail card.’

  ‘Why would she need that, Til?’

  His voice was calm, his manner friendly.

  Her eyes were on Laura Bakker. Only a few years separated these two but they might have come from different worlds.

  ‘The usual,’ the girl replied. ‘I haven’t seen her for a week or so. I told you. Sometimes she goes off on her own somewhere.’

  She walked to the front door and flung the cigarette out into the chill day. Pulled a hand-rolled smoke from her jumper pocket, thin and half-gone. Her fingers trembled so much she couldn’t light it. Vos took the matches and did that for her.

  ‘This is important,’ he said. ‘She must have someone. A friend she liked more than anyone else. Was that you?’

  The juvenile shrug.

  ‘What about men?’

  ‘I don’t tell tales.’

  Laura Bakker started squawking at that. Then went quiet when Vos looked at her.

  ‘All we want to do is find her,’ he said. ‘Make sure she’s safe. And then we’re gone. Then . . .’ He pointed at the joint. ‘You can go back to doing whatever you want.’

  ‘What kind of trouble?’ she asked.

  ‘The getting kidnapped kind,’ Laura Bakker said.

  Til Stamm looked at both of them, frowned, then meandered towards the worn wooden steps in the hall. They followed, up and up. The girl walked at the pace of an old woman. The sour, sweaty smell of unaired rooms got worse.

  Four flights. At the top Til Stamm stopped, out of breath. Gasping, sucking on the joint.

  ‘Are we here for the view?’ Bakker asked, glancing out of the window. Nothing there but more dreary ancient terraces on the other side.

  ‘She’s shit at her job,’ the girl said, staring at him. ‘I’m surprised you put up with it.’

  Vos smiled.

  ‘She’s learning. Country kid, from Friesland. I’m an Amsterdammer. Indulgent by nature.’

  The door was already ajar. A room with a single bed. The sheets half on the mattress, half on the bare plank floor. Smell of dirty clothes and resin.

  ‘A while back she brought this guy here. He was old. Weird.’

  Vos walked in, looked around.

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Jaap. Never heard him called anything else.’

  She walked to a chest of drawers, one leg of which was broken, a brick supporting the corner.

  ‘Never paid his rent. Never paid for anything. Food. Smoke. You name it.’ She clutched at her waist again. ‘Who’d kidnap Katja?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Vos said. ‘That’s why we’re looking. This Jaap . . .’

  ‘He never said much.’

  ‘She was with him?’ Bakker asked.

  ‘I don’t do bedtime stories either.’

  Vos raised an eyebrow.

  Til Stamm folded her arms.

  ‘I . . . don’t . . . know. I think they were just friends. Katja brings people here sometimes. If she thinks they need a place to stay. She’s a nice kid. A bit simple.’

  He walked to the drawers, went through the papers there. Some were official. Reports from a probation officer. Court orders. A letter from a lawyer. He picked up the last and read it.

  ‘Katja said we ought to put up with him,’ the girl added. ‘Jaap had been in trouble or something. It was all going to come good. One day we’d get paid . . .’

  Her arm circled the squalid bedroom.

  ‘Get all the money we’re owed for this.’

  ‘When did he leave?’

  ‘About a week ago.’

  ‘Around the last time you saw Katja?’

  She frowned.

  ‘I guess. I wasn’t keeping tabs. Why would I?’

  ‘What does Jaap do?’ Vos asked.

  ‘Do? He went out in the morning and came back at night. I didn’t ask.’

  That was it. Vos waved the paper he’d picked up, told her he was taking it, then the three walked downstairs.

  The air outside was a little fresher. Laura Bakker looked uncomfortable. Vos didn’t speak.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘The girl talks to you but not to me. What did I do wrong?’

  ‘Nothing I wouldn’t have done at your age.’

  ‘I need to know.’

  Vos looked at the paper again, thinking.

  ‘She’s nineteen. Dropped out of school. Out of home. Out of what we think of as life. How many job interviews do you think she’s had?’

  Bakker put her hands on her hips. An expression of exasperation he was coming to recognize.

  ‘How many do you think I got?’

  ‘Enough. You’re bright. Educated. You wanted to be a police officer. In a quiet little country town called Dokkum.’

  ‘You don’t know me!’

  He nodded.

  ‘True. But I know Til Stamm. You behaved the way she expected. Life’s easier sometimes if you do the opposite. When they think you’re going to play hardball be charming. If they think you’re the nice guy . . .’

  ‘Always the nice guy. That’s you. How was the dope they were smoking? Good?’

  ‘Frank talking out of turn?’

  ‘It’s in the files, Vos,’ she said, a little shame-faced. ‘On your record when they gave you sickness retirement. I thought . . .’

  She didn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘Thought what?’

  ‘I thought you’d look older. And more wasted.’

  He laughed at that and said, ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the files.’

  ‘Does this go down on mine?’

  Before he could answer her phone rang. She took the call. Change of voice. Deferential not defensive.

  ‘Any news from Frank?’ he asked when she was done.

  Bakker said, ‘You’ve got to stop doing this to me.’

  ‘It’s the way you talk.’ Vos unlocked his bike. ‘From aggressive to . . .’ He was about to say defensive but that wouldn’t have been right. ‘You’ve got to learn to listen to people, Laura. Especially when what they say doesn’t seem to matter.’

  ‘That kid in there was lying.’

  ‘She was,’ he agreed. ‘So what?’

  The round green eyes widened.

  ‘So what? She was lying.’

  ‘Til Stamm was doing what comes naturally with people like us. Does it matter?’

  A quiet curse beneath her breath.

  ‘Wim Prins finally got around to going to Marnixstraat,’ she said. ‘De Groot wants us back there to talk to them. Prins is busy apparently. A meeting to go to. He can’t stay long.’

  Vos held out his hand for the phone. She passed it over. He returned the call. Asked De Groot some questions. Gave no reasons for them. Then passed the phone back and pointed to her bike.

  ‘Time to go, Aspirant Bakker.’

  ‘To Marnixstraat?’

  ‘To court. According to Frank they’re going to let Theo Jansen out sometime over the next hour. He’s promised to be a good boy. Let’s hope we get there in time.’

  She didn’t move.

  ‘Commissaris de Groot specifically told me to get you back to Marnixstraat. If I don’t . . .’

  ‘Frank can talk to Wim Prins. I don’t want to miss Theo. It’s been a
while.’

  ‘Will you please tell me what’s going on?’

  He showed her the piece of paper he’d taken from the bedroom.

  ‘Katja’s friend is Jaap Zeeger. A pointless little druggie and petty crook who was, for a while, the primary suspect in my daughter’s disappearance. Turned out to be wrong. At least I thought so.’

  She read the document. A summons to the court for that afternoon.

  ‘Zeeger was on Theo Jansen’s payroll,’ Vos said. ‘Maybe a few other people’s too. Klaas Mulder got him to turn informer and put his boss in jail.’ Vos climbed on the bike. ‘Now he’s retracted everything. He’s going to help Jansen go free.’

  The letter said Zeeger would be in court for the hearing.

  ‘Why’s he changed his mind?’

  ‘Let’s ask him. After we find out what he knows about Katja Prins. Since you’re so good at multitasking you can phone Frank and tell him where we’re going.’

  Vos set off down the narrow alley back towards Warmoesstraat.

  She followed, getting more shrill along the way.

  ‘Vos! Vos! Why don’t you call . . . ?’

  Her voice rang off the dingy brickwork. Spots of rain. Shouted pleas from behind. Something about him being infuriating.

  Which was wrong, Vos felt. More . . . preoccupied.

  He turned, smiled, waved, then rejoined the busy street where, three and a half centuries before, Petronella Oortman had lived with her little wooden mansion and her family of dolls.

  Vosbent down, pulled the elastic bands out of his pocket, bent down to put them on his jeans.

  She was there straight away, hand on his shoulder.

  ‘No, Vos. I’ve seen that once and I don’t want to see it again. Here. I brought you a present. They’re spares.’

  A pair of shiny black bicycle clips. Brand new. He looked at her loose grey trousers. She had the same.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  13

  Two o’clock in Marnixstraat. Koeman sat silent in a chair, rubbing his droopy brown moustache, reading the Telegraaf sports pages.

  Liesbeth Prins was in a huddle with her husband, eyeing the sharply dressed woman talking to Klaas Mulder outside the interview room.

  ‘It’s Katja’s voice. In the doll,’ she said. ‘Her blood. Her hair.’

  De Groot had played them the tape when Prins finally arrived. Fifteen seconds of agonized screeching. One word at the end, over and over again.

  Vader. Vader.

  ‘She never called me father,’ Prins said.

  ‘It’s her . . .’

  ‘I know it’s her. She never called me father. Think about this. Please . . .’

  He took her hands. Tried to peer into her eyes.

  ‘I know this is my fault. I couldn’t stop it happening with her mother. I should have done something . . .’

  Liesbeth was starting to get angry.

  ‘Katja couldn’t do this herself. She’s not up to it.’

  ‘One of her druggie friends then.’

  ‘Someone’s taken her, Wim! The same man who took Anneliese. I know what this is like. I don’t want to go through it again. I don’t want it for you. We have to do something . . .’

  ‘Such as?’ he asked and the question silenced her.

  He was glancing at the corridor. Margriet Willemsen was talking earnestly to Mulder.

  ‘I don’t like that woman,’ she whispered.

  ‘Mulder’s our link man for De Nachtwacht. We’ve got a meeting.’

  ‘Is Katja getting in the way of your schedule or something?’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ He hardly ever raised his voice. ‘I’ll do whatever they ask. Just don’t expect to—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Believe it. The crap I’ve put up with from that kid. You don’t know the half of it.’

  She realized how much her anger hurt him. Struggled for something to say.

  ‘I watched her mother lose it,’ he said in a low, aggrieved voice. ‘Day by day. Then Katja went the same way and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do to stop her. Don’t lecture me, Liesbeth. I don’t deserve that. Why do you think I came up with De Nachtwacht in the first place? I want these scum and their poison off our streets for good.’

  ‘This isn’t about politics.’

  ‘I never realized you and Katja were so close,’ he said with a bitter look in his face.

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘You can stay here if you like. If someone gets in touch . . .’

  ‘I asked for Pieter. He’s better than any of . . .’

  He looked at her, open-mouthed, astonished.

  ‘You think your crazy old boyfriend can fix this? He did that before, didn’t he?’

  It was so quick she never even thought about it. Liesbeth Prins slapped her husband hard on the face. One swift blow, open-handed.

  She’d never struck him before. Thought about it though.

  He had his hand to his cheek. Face going red, through fury, through the slap, she wasn’t sure which.

  The door opened. Klaas Mulder came in. The Willemsen woman stayed outside, staring at the blank walls.

  ‘Is there anything else you want to ask?’ Mulder asked, looking at both of them.

  Prins straightened his tie.

  ‘Is Pieter Vos back with the police?’

  No expression on Mulder’s stony face.

  ‘He’s helping out today. The commissaris thought it was a good idea. If there’s a link—’

  ‘They get cunning when they need something,’ Prins broke in. ‘Addicts have no morals. No feelings. They’ll do anything. Doesn’t matter how much it hurts. Their friends. Their family. Themselves . . .’

  ‘We’ve got an open mind,’ Mulder said as Koeman noisily rustled the sports pages then folded the paper and placed it on his lap. ‘As soon as we know something I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘You or Vos?’ Prins asked.

  ‘He’s just helping out,’ said Koeman from the chair. ‘Don’t you hear too well?’

  Prins, in his smart politician’s grey suit, bristled.

  ‘I don’t want any crap from you people over what we’re doing. We won the election. We’ve got the right—’

  ‘Like your wife said. This is about your missing daughter,’ Koeman interrupted. ‘Not you playing sheriff in the Wild West.’ He got up. Stretched. Stared at Prins. ‘Katja.’

  ‘I’ll remember you,’ Prins said and walked out.

  Mulder was staring at Liesbeth Prins. Amused.

  ‘What am I supposed to do?’ she asked.

  ‘Go home. Wait. Keep your eyes open,’ Mulder replied. ‘If you see something odd let us know.’

  She didn’t look happy with that.

  ‘Your daughter’s case was all over the papers,’ Mulder added. ‘Anyone could copy it. There’s nothing in what we’ve seen that hasn’t been out there already. It could just be a bad practical joke.’

  ‘Nice to see you’re trying,’ she said.

  The two cops watched her leave.

  ‘I never liked her when she was with Pieter,’ Koeman observed. ‘That bitch was playing him for a fool all along. Can’t believe she’s dragged him back into it again.’

  ‘I told you. Vos is just helping out,’ Mulder insisted. ‘One day only.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Koeman agreed with a smile. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

  14

  Red kid. Blue kid. Bored in the boat, feet kicking the bag with the guns.

  Empty cardboard cones smeared in mayonnaise and chip fat in the bows.

  The phone was in blue kid’s hand. It rang. He listened, checked the map again.

  Black voice. Jamaican accent. The big man from the coffee shop doing just what he’d promised. Telling them where to go.

  ‘Yeah,’ blue kid said and put the ancient Nokia back into the pocket of his shiny tracksuit.

  The canal reminded him of the broad, lazy river that ran through Paramaribo. The Surinam. It gave the
country its name. Slow and grey too. Opaque. A place to hide things. He’d done that. Wondered if red kid had and whether he ought to ask his name. Not that he talked much. Or seemed to want to.

  In a few hours they’d both be on a plane to somewhere new. He hadn’t had time to do a lot in Amsterdam. One hooker, some smokes. Then Jimmy Menzo called.

  His uncle had a boat on the Suriname river. When he was young and the family was still intact they used it to go out of the city for picnics in the country. Good times. All gone. There was no future for his kind back home. They had to go abroad, to Venezuela, the Caribbean, across continents for that.

  A tourist cruiser went past. People standing up to take pictures. Japanese mostly, cameras round their necks. These people weren’t like him. They had money and real jobs. Enough to take them to Amsterdam then get out again. He didn’t resent that. It was how things were. They couldn’t help being born in Tokyo or Los Angeles or London. Any more than he had a choice about growing up four to a room in a Paramaribo slum.

  ‘Are we going?’ red kid asked then yawned as if this was just another boring day.

  It seemed colder. The wind had got up. Rain was spitting from the dull, heavy sky. The trees that lined the canal kept shedding their light-green seeds. When the breeze caught they whirled around the little dinghy in a sudden storm.

  His uncle let him steer the outboard when he got older. Those were good days.

  Blue kid walked to the back, yanked on the cord, got the engine going, worked the little boat into the slow traffic of the Prinsengracht. Another throw of the die and he might have been one of the traders running up and down these waters, delivering things, moving them. Never having to worry about people like Jimmy Menzo. Never having to touch a gun.

  But that wouldn’t happen. In a day he’d be in Cape Town, at the foot of Africa, red kid by his side. He really had to ask his name. Not now though.

  Four, five faster tourist boats cruised by, all of them taking pictures, which bothered him, not that he could do much except try to bring his hood up round his face. Then he checked the map and realized they’d almost passed the spot the West Indian had marked. He flung round the outboard, cut the engine to idle, steered towards a rusty metal ladder leading up to the pavement above.