The House of Dolls

by Hewson, David

  ‘You ought to talk to that Thai woman. Not me. She ran the place. All I did was ferry money and stuff from time to time. Never went past the front door.’

  ‘She’s flown,’ Maarten told him. ‘Marnixstraat picked her up yesterday. Moment she got out of the station she took a plane back to Bangkok. So we’re asking you. What went on there?’

  He wriggled.

  ‘It was your place, Mr Jansen. Why ask me?’

  ‘Because I don’t know!’ Jansen roared. ‘I was running an empire, for Christ’s sake. I didn’t manage every damned piece of it.’

  The swarthy thug had come back in. He smelled of cigarette smoke. Had been biding his time. In his hands he had a hammer and some nails.

  Zeeger was shaking again.

  ‘That’s how that Thai bitch managed to sell the whole thing to Jimmy Menzo under my nose,’ Jansen bellowed. ‘And then God knows what went on . . . God knows . . .’

  ‘I didn’t have any dealings with that man,’ Zeeger said. ‘Don’t ask me about him . . .’

  ‘Something happened in that place!’ Jansen yelled. Big finger pointed across the table. ‘I think you know what that was. I think it’s why I don’t have a daughter any more.’

  Zeeger blinked.

  ‘I don’t know nothing. It was yours when I was around. Not Menzo’s. He only got it later. After . . .’

  One word – that was all it took. One word.

  Jansen glowered across the table. Just like the old days. The ones Zeeger believed would never come back after all the time and pain and work he’d put in with Barbara Jewell at the Yellow House.

  ‘After what?’

  ‘You knew, didn’t you?’ Zeeger shrieked. ‘You must have done. Maarten . . .’ Jansen’s sidekick sat unmoved. Seemingly baffled too. ‘You tell him. I thought you all knew.’

  The thug with the hammer and the nails sat down, put the tools on the table.

  ‘I never heard the details,’ Zeeger went on. ‘Didn’t want to. We weren’t supposed to go near or put any business that way. They had kids in there. And then . . .’

  Those times were a blur when they were happening. Even more so now.

  The man he didn’t know picked up the hammer, weighed it in his hands, started to play with the nails.

  ‘It was Rosie who ran the Doll’s House. Rosie who used to make me fetch and carry for it.’

  Jansen’s face was a mask, frozen in anger and disbelief.

  ‘Rosie who sold it to Jimmy Menzo. I thought . . .’ Jaap Zeeger pulled at his lank hair, felt the sweat start to run on his face. ‘I thought you knew. She was your daughter, Mr Jansen. You had to, didn’t you?’

  22

  Downstairs interview room. Liesbeth Prins slumped in a corner smoking constantly, an empty coffee cup in front of her. She didn’t look up when Vos and Bakker walked in. Didn’t even seem to notice when he sat next to her, Bakker on the other side, voice recorder out, notebook and pen.

  Vos knew all the phrases for these occasions. The simple meaningless questions: how are you? The useless expressions of sympathy and regret.

  Went through them in a distanced, unreal fashion, trying to give as much meaning to each word as he could. He hated seeing her like this. It was just as bad as the time Anneliese went missing. She seemed drained of all life. When they were breaking up she stopped eating, lived off booze and cigarettes, spent hours staring out of the window of their small apartment in the Jordaan, looking down an empty street for a young, bright figure who would never come.

  Now even that was beyond her.

  Halfway through she looked up at him and said, ‘You were there? At the airport?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You saw?’

  ‘We both did.’

  She glared at Bakker and asked, ‘Why’s she here?’

  ‘Because this is an interview. And those are the rules,’ Laura Bakker said quietly, with a sympathy Vos hadn’t noticed much before.

  Liesbeth Prins glared at her.

  ‘Not much use are they? Rules. Wim thought he lived by them. Thought all he had to do was teach us to do the same and everything would work out.’

  Vos glanced at Bakker. Wanted her to keep out of this as much as possible.

  Then told Liesbeth what Jaap Zeeger had said this morning. Watched as her face screwed up in disbelief.

  ‘Are you serious? Wim never hurt a fly. He never even raised a hand to me. God knows I gave him reason.’

  ‘The rehab place Katja was going to confirmed she said it,’ Vos told her. ‘We’ve got to look into this.’

  ‘Why? They’re both dead now.’

  ‘And maybe Katja too . . .’ Bakker slipped in before a look from Vos silenced her.

  ‘Katja hates us both. I don’t know what did that. I tried with her. Really I did. Wim too.’

  ‘She thinks he murdered Bea,’ Vos repeated.

  ‘He didn’t. It’s impossible. Katja’s not all there. She’s a junkie living in a world of her own. In some squalid den somewhere . . .’

  Vos shook his head.

  ‘I don’t think so. We’ve three witnesses who say she was off drugs. Katja had straightened herself out. No one’s seen her for more than a week. Is it possible the kidnapping was something . . .?’ He hesitated to say it. The words didn’t sound right. ‘Could Wim have made this up? The dolls? The calls? The photos?’

  ‘How?’ she asked. ‘You’re the police. You tell me.’

  ‘If he tried he could,’ Bakker said. ‘Is there another property in the city he uses? A flat? An office?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he mention a reporter called Anna de Vries?’

  The laugh again, and sharp, angry eyes.

  ‘The one who was killed? This is ridiculous. He was out last night getting drunk. They’d dumped him from the council. He wasn’t going back whatever they said.’

  ‘You don’t know what he was doing,’ Bakker pointed out.

  ‘He wasn’t murdering someone in De Wallen. I know my husband. Is this the idea, Pieter? Blame everything on Wim now he’s gone?’

  ‘I’ve got to find Katja,’ he said.

  She shot a furious glance at Bakker.

  ‘I want to talk to you. Not her.’

  ‘This is an interview,’ Bakker pointed out again. ‘It needs two officers otherwise . . .’

  ‘The interview’s over,’ he said and nodded gently at the door.

  One low curse and then she was gone, taking the recorder and the notebook with her. No protests this time.

  ‘She’s a stupid northern cow,’ Liesbeth moaned when Bakker was gone. ‘Is that the best you’ve got?’

  ‘I like her,’ Vos said. ‘She’s different. A determined young woman. Wants to make her mark. A bit bemused. A bit out of her depth.’ He frowned. ‘Laura Bakker’s not alone in that. Are you going to be all right? Is there something I can do?’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s why I asked.’

  ‘Wim didn’t kill anyone,’ she said. ‘I never saw him violent. He hated confrontations. It used to drive me mad.’ A brief moment of amusement. ‘He was like you. I could shout and scream and throw things at him. And he’d just sit there and take it.’

  ‘But he ran, didn’t he?’

  ‘So did you,’ she said with a sudden vehemence. ‘Don’t you remember? Ran right inside yourself and hid there, frightened to come out.’

  ‘Katja—’

  ‘I can’t help you with Katja. I’ve told you everything I know.’ The cold sad eyes fixed on his. ‘More than I ever wanted.’

  Her fingers reached out for his hand.

  Vos got up. Saw Laura Bakker’s red hair at the frosted window by the door. Leaning against it like a teenager, scribbling something on her pad.

  ‘What’s she doing here?’ Liesbeth said. ‘She’s just a kid.’

  ‘I know. That’s what worries me.’

  ‘When can I bury my husband?’

  ‘Soon,’ Vos told
her. ‘I hope.’

  23

  Theo Jansen looked at Maarten the barber. Then Max Robles.

  ‘Nothing to do with me,’ Robles protested. ‘I never knew Jimmy did that deal for the privehuis until it was all over. He kept all that stuff to himself.’

  ‘He didn’t do a damned thing with it afterwards,’ Jansen threw at him. ‘Why?’

  Robles shrugged.

  ‘I don’t think he really wanted the place. A creepy flophouse for little girls or something. That Thai woman wanted out of there. We didn’t know anyone who was into that kind of thing. Jimmy wasn’t stupid. He picked it up for the property. Said he got the place so cheap it was stupid to turn it down.’

  Maarten wriggled on his seat, uncomfortable, silent. Robles put a plank next to the hammer and the nails on the table.

  ‘Let’s see what else he knows? Gimme a little time—’

  ‘He knows nothing!’ Jansen bellowed.

  Jaap Zeeger sat on the chair, rigid as a schoolboy in trouble.

  ‘Except about Rosie.’ Jansen looked at the thin, frightened man opposite. ‘You’re sure about that, Jaap?’

  ‘I’m sure she got me running things there, Mr Jansen. That’s the truth. I thought it was for you. I thought you’d know . . .’

  ‘Yeah, well. I didn’t.’ Jansen leaned down, looked Maarten in the eye. ‘Did I?’

  ‘Once I went there,’ the barber said. ‘Once. Rosie asked me to check out the Thai woman. See if she was lifting more than she should from the books.’

  Jansen asked, ‘And was she?’

  ‘Sure.’ He shrugged. ‘I gave her some advice. Got out of there dead quick. It was a creep’s place, Theo. Like Jaap said. Men in suits and little girls. We thought it was yours. You running it. Your business. Not ours. So we stayed clear . . .’

  ‘And left a teenage brothel in my name?’

  ‘You were the boss, weren’t you?’ Maarten cried. ‘The only person I knew brave enough to stand up to you was Rosie. She had the damned place in the palm of her hand. And then . . .’ He looked at Robles. ‘Then she sold it on to Jimmy Menzo when you were inside. We were all glad of that.’

  Jaap Zeeger nodded.

  ‘Glad,’ he agreed.

  ‘Who was Rosie keeping sweet in Marnixstraat?’ Jansen demanded.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Maarten said. ‘She never talked about the place. Not to most of us. It was a private thing. We didn’t want to intrude.’ He hesitated then said it anyway. ‘To be honest I don’t think anyone dared.’

  Jansen held out his hand, palm open. Maarten shook his head and asked, ‘What?’

  ‘Money,’ Jansen said. ‘As much as you’ve got.’ He looked at Robles. ‘And you. Take it out of the pot when we get back. With interest.’

  The man from Paramaribo reached into his jacket. It looked as if he’d been out collecting debts. With Maarten’s wad it came to almost five thousand euros. Jansen checked it, passed it across the table to Zeeger.

  The thin man there looked at the cash, more scared than ever.

  ‘I don’t want this, Mr Jansen. I’ve got a job—’

  ‘Forget about the job. I want you out of the country until this blows over. I want . . .’

  Jansen tried to get this clear in his head. It was more about an apology than anything.

  ‘We fuck up people’s lives, right?’ He looked at Maarten, at Robles. ‘But not our own. Not our families. I always looked after the men who worked for me. Always will so long as they deserve it. Something I don’t understand went wrong here. Until I know what it is I don’t want you around, Jaap.’

  He held out his big hand to Zeeger.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault. Shake on it. You can walk to Centraal station from here. Get a ticket on that new train to Brussels I heard about. Go have a holiday somewhere warm. Call Maarten here in a month. He can fill you in.’

  Gingerly, Zeeger took his hand. Then just as tentatively scooped up the money from the table, stuffed it into the pockets of his leather jacket.

  Got up, looking at them as if he couldn’t believe this. Walked to the door, went outside, free.

  Maarten and the man from Surinamese didn’t know where to look.

  Jansen couldn’t get the picture of Jimmy Menzo out of his head. Trapped in the front of his smashed Mercedes. A bullet through each knee. Maarten pouring petrol everywhere. The dead Miriam Smith in the back.

  I didn’t touch Rosie. I swear . . .

  ‘My own daughter was screwing around behind my back all the time. Even before I went to jail. After . . .’ He was racking his brains to make sense of this. ‘What didn’t I give her? All she had to do was ask.’

  Maarten’s hand went to his arm.

  ‘You did everything you could, Theo. You were a great father. The best—’

  ‘Bullshit!’ Theo Jansen screamed.

  His big hands went beneath the table, flung it up, turned it over. Coffee cups on the floor with the hammer and nails.

  A sudden act of violence. The old Theo. The one who’d never died.

  You look good without that stupid beard and hippie hair. Like a new man . . . But you’re not, are you, Theo? New?

  ‘Get me out of here,’ Jansen ordered. ‘I want to go home.’ A stupid thing to say. ‘Wherever the hell that is.’

  24

  Almost six o’clock, past the end of the shift, and they were still in the forensic garage looking at Bea Prins’s white BMW 3 series soft top. Van der Berg had been kept out of the Chinatown exercise. So he’d spent most of the day wrapped up with the case reports on her death and chasing down the car.

  The new owner was a doctor. She wasn’t pleased to have her shiny toy taken from her. Even less so when Van der Berg explained the history that meant he needed it.

  Vos and Bakker sat at a desk in the garage listening to him run through the files.

  Bea Prins was forty-one when she died. Her medical records showed sporadic treatment for drug and alcohol abuse. The effects of both were evident in the autopsy report. There was a statement from Wim Prins in which he spoke of a difficult though loving marriage. Both had determined to stay together for the sake of their daughter. Bea had worked briefly as a legal secretary in her twenties, which was how they met. A nanny looked after Katja most of the time. There’d been no other job.

  They went through the contents of the car when it was found with Bea Prins’s body in it. A handbag, nothing in it except money and some personal belongings. Three hundred grams of cocaine in a plastic bag in the glove compartment. No note. She’d been shopping, her husband said, which was why she took the car not her bike.

  ‘No woman goes shopping and kills herself,’ Bakker said.

  ‘Maybe she couldn’t find what she wanted?’ Van der Berg suggested.

  She glared at him.

  ‘It was a bad joke,’ the detective added. ‘Sorry. There was no shopping in the car. She hadn’t been seen on any of the CCTV cameras in the nearby stores. She was lying.’

  The nanny was away for the week. Prins said he’d stayed at home reading and watching TV. Katja was on a school trip. When Bea didn’t come home he assumed she was out late with a ‘friend’ and went to bed. She wasn’t there when he woke up so he called the police.

  Her body had been found by then, first thing when the car park opened for business. Time of death was thought to be between eight and ten the evening before. One shot to the left temple from an unlicensed .38 Ruger LCP pistol. Powder residue on the left hand. The weapon in the passenger footwell. The bullet lodged in the rear seat.

  Vos flicked through the last of the pages.

  ‘Did she kill herself?’ Bakker asked.

  ‘Frank knows his job. It’s thorough. Professional.’ A pause. ‘Routine.’

  ‘Everyone was worn out by that stage,’ Van der Berg chipped in. ‘We’d spent months chasing Pieter’s girl. Got nowhere. It’s not Frank’s fault he didn’t have enough people to go round.’

  ‘No,’ Vos agreed. ‘It’s not.�
�� Van der Berg wasn’t nagging for a beer. This was unusual. ‘So what’s bothering you?’

  The detective picked up one sheet from the forensic report and walked them over to the white car on the ramp. The two duty mechanics dealing with it had worked in the garage for years. This hadn’t been one of their jobs when the car came in. Both had been on holiday at the time. Temporary staff from an agency had handled the investigation. No one knew who they were, how thorough they’d been.

  One line in the forensic report bugged Van der Berg. It showed minute traces of isopropyl alcohol on the upholstery and the dashboard. There was no explanation given.

  The first mechanic stared at him when he read this out and said, ‘Valet. They use that stuff when they’re cleaning the car. It’s no big deal.’

  Van der Berg wasn’t convinced.

  ‘But you’d also use it to wipe something down for evidence, wouldn’t you? Get rid of prints?’

  The second man rifled through the glovebox, came up with the service records. The car had been in for an annual service the week before.

  ‘BMW,’ he said. ‘They come back nice and clean. No surprise there.’

  Van der Berg asked them to lower the ramp. Both doors were open. He got Laura Bakker to sit in the driver’s seat, walked round to the passenger door on the right.

  ‘Imagine this,’ Van der Berg told them. ‘Bea Prins is behind the wheel. Say she starts fiddling with her bag. Wondering whether she needs a quick snort for the ride home.’ His fingers rapped on the door window. ‘Someone she knows turns up. Maybe it’s arranged. Her dealer. Who knows? He opens the passenger door. Reaches over.’ His hand went up to her face. ‘Bang. Straight to the temple. Dead.’

  They looked at the direction of his arm. The bullet would have been where they found it.

  ‘There was residue on her left hand,’ the first mechanic said.

  Van der Berg nodded, walked back round to the other side. Took Laura Bakker’s hand, pressed a pretend-gun in her fingers, pretend-fired it out of the open passenger door.

  ‘Residue,’ he said. ‘And yes, she was left-handed. So this was someone who knew her.’