The Harbour Master

by Daniel Pembrey

  ‘No,’ Stefan said. ‘He was there earlier, remember? Liesbeth saw him when you went into that sex worker’s cabin.’

  Irena’s cabin. It was true.

  I tried to make sense of it. ‘So he was there earlier, and he went back out again.’

  ‘Only I don’t see him going out again.’

  ‘Doesn’t add up. You’re saying Slavic only returned to his den in the evening, when you and I pursued him to Molensteeg… yet he was already there?’

  ‘So the images show.’

  This was turning into a Hungarian wild goose chase.

  ‘Unless there’s another way out of his den?’ Stefan added. ‘A back way?’

  I thought about that. ‘It’s possible,’ I acknowledged. ‘Especially if he’d identified Liesbeth and me. He may well have retreated to his den, and used a hidden exit…’ I weighed up the risk of returning to Molensteeg to check that out.

  Another call was incoming: Petra.

  ‘Hold on, Stefan, my wife’s on the other line. Please keep looking.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I’ll get back to you.’

  I answered Petra’s call.

  ‘Henk?’

  ‘You got the sound file I emailed to you?’

  The recording of my conversation with Joost.

  ‘I already visited Lottman,’ she replied. ‘Or tried to. He wants to see you instead. Right away.’

  ‘At Stopera?’

  ‘Yup.’

  Stopera is the seat of city government. There’s a music theatre in the same complex; the name ‘Stopera’ runs together stadhuis (‘city hall’) and opera, an apt label for the melodrama of Amsterdam city politics.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ I told Petra. ‘You hear from Nadia?’

  ‘Christ, Henk. Is it the street thug or you who’s harassing her now?’

  But I could hear concern beneath her anger.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no…’

  ‘I’m on my way over to the university now.’

  ‘Good. Start at the Kriterion.’

  ‘OK!’

  *

  Stopera is a modern, fortress-like building on a bend in the Amstel river, maybe a kilometre as the crow flies from IJ Tunnel 3. The fortress took decades to plan and build, and the project was mired in controversy from the start. As early as 1915, the city elders had deliberated over a site to house a new city hall and opera house, finally deciding on Waterlooplein square. The Jewish street market that was held there was cleared out by the Nazis during the Second World War.

  After the war, plans lurched between commissions, competitions and budget crises. Finally, in 1980, the city council approved a new design by Cees Dam and the Viennese architect Wilhelm Holzbauer. National government approval followed, but so too did fierce resistance from squatters, displaced groups and the Provo protest movement. Riots broke out when construction started in 1982, the year I returned to Holland. The project ran wildly over budget, and it wasn’t until 1988 that the new city hall finally opened for business.

  I’d been there several times, so knew the layout – and where the aldermen sat. Rem Lottman’s office was on the fourth floor.

  An impeccably dressed PA closed the thick double doors of Lottman’s large office with an unnecessary sense of occasion; I didn’t have an appointment, the urgency of the matter apparently requiring no announcement. Clearly, he had something to protect.

  Lottman was like a giant beetle: his stomach filling out his dark waistcoat, his hair shiny black, his brow sheened with perspiration. He wore horn-rimmed glasses. Even his thick eyebrows, peeking out over the frames, had a faint lustre.

  I walked towards him, feeling the deep carpet give.

  His thin pupils bored into me as his plump hand shook mine, weighing me up, evaluating. Then he waved me over to a pair of leather easy chairs beside his desk. The room was lit by an art deco table lamp; beyond the pool of light sat cardboard boxes. Destination: Brussels?

  ‘So,’ he began. ‘Two for the price of one: journalist and cop. You make quite the little power couple.’

  I ignored the provocation, taking the recording device out of my pocket and laying it on the glass tabletop. I ran my palms together in the manner of a croupier leaving the blackjack table: nothing concealed.

  Lottman stared at me, nodding slowly. ‘What do you want?’ he said.

  ‘To help you. Your police appointees are getting it all wrong. Listen…’

  I pressed play. I’d stored a few of the sound bites in the device’s memory:

  ‘Why’s the harbour case not being worked?’

  ‘Do you really think the majority of Dutch voters care about some prostitute gone missing?…

  ‘I don’t remember anyone inviting these Eastern European thieves and whores to come and live here… There are always trade-offs…

  ‘Jan’s already been briefed.’

  I pressed stop.

  Lottman sat still for a second, then shrugged. ‘An over-zealous station captain. Most Dutch voters would probably agree with him.’

  ‘They possibly would. But that can’t play well on your watch, with the new social-policy dossier I hear you’ve been handed. People-trafficking is a hot topic in Brussels.’

  He was silent.

  ‘You’d better hope this is all Petra and I find out about him – and Jan Six, too.’

  He canted his head. ‘To play devil’s advocate’ ­– he adjusted his bulk in his chair – ‘as I occasionally like to… Word has it your wife’s not long for Het Parool, if that’s your intended outlet for this –’ he waved his hand at the device, not deigning to finish his sentence.

  ‘But there’s always the Internet, Alderman Lottman. Blogs, social media… If you can’t beat them, join them.’

  He looked at me, entirely impassive. The perfect poker face.

  ‘You’d know better than me,’ I continued, ‘but I believe there’s a phenomenon in media called the sleeper effect? That, over time, people only remember the message, the words… not the source. And words most certainly matter in your realm.’

  Thieves and whores…

  ‘You realise this makes you a snitch?’

  ‘I prefer whistle-blower.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. Words matter in your line of work, too.’ He paused. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Reinstatement to full police duties.’

  Lottman nodded, clearly expecting this. ‘What else?’

  ‘There’s a street thug named Jan To˝zsér menacing my family. I need him neutralised. Right away.’

  He made a show of thinking.

  ‘The police, the prosecution: they all answer to the mayor, not me.’

  ‘Please.’ My impatience broke though. ‘You have influence at all levels. Everyone knows that. So what if you’re moving to a bigger stage? No successful politician neglects their base, and yours is right here in Amsterdam.’

  He sat back, interlacing his fingers over his belly.

  ‘Travel’s a fascinating thing, isn’t it, Henk?’ He looked past me at the packing boxes.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Your father. He was in the merchant navy, I’m told. But there was a problem, as I understand it. A man inexplicably found dead on his watch. And all the fingers pointed to him. Do I have this right?’

  There was a dull ringing in my ears, like when I’d first found the body in the harbour…

  ‘No wonder you went into a different service – the army,’ Lottman continued. ‘But tell me: what was it like, growing up overseas…’

  We’d kept moving on whenever questions started to be asked, you see. Questions that never received any answers…

  ‘… feeling banished from your homeland…’

  South Africa, Ghana, the Dutch Gold Coast…

  ‘…
through no fault of your own. Or do you blame yourself, a child growing up that way – an outsider, wherever you go?’

  Lottman held up an appeasing hand before I had a chance to answer.

  ‘Let’s just be a little careful here,’ he said, leaning forward slightly. ‘We don’t need any more unnecessary hurt caused.’

  I picked up the recording device and stood up; my legs felt like lead.

  ‘Perhaps you could let me know your answer,’ I managed, before walking out.

  10

  THE BIKE TRIP

  It was raining hard as I left Stopera. I would have turned my collar up but my bomber jacket didn’t have one. Just as I was lighting a cigarette, Petra called.

  ‘Henk, I can’t find her.’

  ‘Nadia?’

  I stopped.

  ‘I went to the Kriterion. They said she left at lunchtime, at the end of her shift.’

  ‘She’s still not answering her phone? Even when you call?’

  ‘No. And there’s something else: I went to the university administration and got her class schedule. She didn’t show up to her tutorial this afternoon.’

  ‘She could have just skipped class.’ It was my turn to play devil’s advocate. ‘What about her halls of residence?’

  ‘She’s not there. I don’t know where else to turn.’

  ‘University security? The campus police?’

  ‘I’ve been to see them all. They won’t do anything till she’s been gone twenty-four hours. They asked if she was at a boyfriend’s and just hadn’t told anyone.’

  ‘Does she have a boyfriend?’

  ‘No one serious, I’m pretty sure. She mentioned someone once… I don’t know,’ she said despairingly.

  I attempted to stay calm. ‘What about that friend of hers? Famke?’

  ‘I’ll try.’ Petra was silent for a second. ‘What happened with Rem Lottman?’

  ‘He may be able to help. I think he’s thinking about it… I don’t know, Petra.’

  The rain was running beneath my jacket and shirt, trickling down my back. I sought shelter.

  ‘Henk, what do we do?’

  ‘Johan’s offered to help. I’m on my way over to see him now.’

  If I couldn’t put my family out of harm’s way, I had to remove the harm itself.

  ‘Henk,’ Petra said imploringly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Be careful.’

  ‘Don’t worry. And don’t go back to the boat. Check in to the Ibis instead.’

  This time, she didn’t debate it.

  *

  I stood astride my BMW on Nieuwmarkt, on the edge of the RLD. It was dark, the rain coming in squalls now, whipping the umbrellas of the few tourists braving the terrible weather.

  Fully suited and booted, I kept my hands in the bike’s handlebar muffs, partly for warmth, mostly for readiness. Water ran off the visor of my crash helmet in rivulets.

  The helmet had a built-in Bluetooth intercom, allowing me to communicate with Johan. It had a video camera as well, though the picture quality was usually too poor for it to be useful, particularly at night.

  Johan was a hundred metres away, at the entrance to Molensteeg. Him, not me, in case Slavic recognised my build.

  ‘Copy?’

  ‘Copy.’

  The sound via his mike was clear enough. The only interference was the faint sound of the rain.

  ‘How’s the repair going?’

  ‘It’s looking more and more realistic in this weather,’ he said. He was pretending to have broken down, all the while monitoring the street. ‘There’s still time to go to Rødby,’ he joked.

  ‘You think the Baltic Sea would be any better? That’s where this weather system’s coming in from.’

  ‘OK, Piet. Just keep your eyes on the road, and I will too.’

  Piet Paulusma was a famous Dutch weatherman who’d been hit by a car on camera. It was a joke, mocked up for a Kwik-Fit commercial, but it still had an impact when viewed on YouTube.

  I watched the cars come and go. Occasionally, a dark saloon pulled up and two or three girls would be helped out. The business of the RLD went on. Little umbrellas folding in on themselves, the girls being hurried along by their ‘boyfriends’ or ‘loverboys’ – whatever they called themselves these days.

  ‘Hold on.’ Johan’s voice came to life again.

  ‘See anything?’

  Silence.

  ‘Johan?’

  ‘Nah, it’s not him.’

  ‘Did you study that photo at all?’ I was only half joking.

  ‘It’s strange,’ Johan said. ‘He has one of those faces that’s so hard to fix somehow.’

  A police bike trundled past, the yellow livery spectacularly fluorescent against the watery gloom. I couldn’t tell who the rider was, but I felt a jolt of unease. In my left pannier was Johan’s ex-army Sig Sauer.

  ‘Wait, I think it’s him,’ Johan said.

  ‘Slavic?’

  ‘Yup, coming up the lane on his moped, weaving between pedestrians…’

  I fired the trusty flat-twin engine; it was still warm. ‘Is he wearing a crash helmet?’

  Silence.

  ‘Johan!’

  ‘No… shit… he’s heading the other way, north on Zeedijk. I’m turning round to follow –’

  ‘Towards the train station?’

  His mike was still working but he was breathing heavily with the exertion of manoeuvring his bike. I’d moved my motorcycle forward off its stand, ready to follow suit, when a black BMW saloon slowed down in front of me. A familiar figure stepped out of the shadows, reaching for the rear door.

  ‘Johan,’ I said. ‘D’you copy?’

  I could hear the whine of his bike moving at speed. ‘Copy.’

  ‘You’ve got the wrong guy. Slavic’s getting into a car right ahead of me.’

  ‘You sure?’ His engine was loud. ‘’Cause I’m pretty sure I’ve got him. We’re already opposite the station, bearing right…’ skkrrrr ‘… Oosterdok…’ skrrrr.

  Shit, the intercom only had a range of one kilometre. I tried to shine my headlight at the car, but the rear door was already closed and the windows were tinted. The only movement was from the rain and the car’s front windscreen wipers.

  Skkrrrr skrrrr ‘… DoubleTree…’ skrrrr skrrrr.

  ‘Johan?’ I yelled, my breath misting my visor.

  I’d lost him.

  The jagged-shaped DoubleTree hotel, beside the station: it made sense, but one of us must be wrong. And I was sure Slavic had entered the idling saloon car that faced me like some dark beast – rain dancing wildly in the beams of its headlights.

  I reckoned it was sixty or seventy grand’s worth of car, even used. That surely put it above Slavic’s pay grade. A money courier’s ride, perhaps? But I hadn’t seen a bag. Maybe Slavic had the cash concealed inside his coat…

  There was a short screech as the car took off to my left, across Nieuwmarkt.

  ‘Johan?’

  I was speaking into a void. I kicked my bike into gear and gave chase, slapping my visor down against the rain.

  The saloon was moving fast, down towards Waterlooplein. I gunned the engine and was just able to keep up without endangering the wobbling cyclists we overtook. The car bypassed the turning to Stopera and rounded a dogleg curve to Weesperstraat, an urban canyon of modern buildings. The driver was choosing open roads – avoiding the risk of getting boxed in?

  My speed was showing seventy… eighty… eighty-five kilometres per hour – the rain turned to little dancing dots on my visor as I tried to close the gap between me and the tail lights. I tucked in behind the water splashing up in the car’s wake, afraid of aquaplaning. I was also trying to read the licence plate in my headlight beam, but it was heavily mud-spattered – how conve
nient.

  The red tail lights flared, flying towards me as the car braked to turn right towards Stadhouderskade. The bike’s telelever suspension barely prevented the front end from diving as I squeezed the brake hard, veering to follow.

  We shot past the Amstel Hotel and over the river there. My speed was at eighty… ninety… one hundred… I dropped back – I couldn’t risk being pulled over carrying the gun. Traffic lights spangled green as we continued past the Dutch central bank. I thought of Rem Lottman, Brussels-bound, and how little my meeting with him seemed to have achieved in this unfolding nightmare.

  We were racing alongside the Singelgracht canal, getting ever more central. The monolithic brick Heineken brewery, another vivid reminder: this time Freddy Heineken and his infamous kidnapping, one of my first assignments. I’d been a junior member of the rescue team, no older than Stefan was now.

  Around the side of the Rijksmuseum we swung, past the diamond houses at the foot of Paulus Potterstraat, gaining speed once more. Suddenly the car’s tail lights reddened again as it turned right into the rear of the Conservatorium Hotel.

  I slowed but didn’t follow it in, instead riding around to the front and parking further along Van Baerlestraat. I pulled my crash helmet off; I was cold, but sweating too. Something about this whole situation – make that everything – wasn’t right.

  The odometer showed that we’d done four kilometres in as many minutes. But we couldn’t have travelled further from the sleaziness of the RLD. The Conservatorium was Amsterdam’s ritziest, most fashionable hotel. A new glass structure had been added at the rear, creating a giant, open atrium. I started to jog around the building, reluctant to leave the Sig Sauer in the bike’s pannier but with no time to lose. I pulled out my mobile to call Johan as I went. There were missed calls from Petra.

  As I approached the rear entrance, phone to my ear, the BMW saloon pulled out onto Paulus Potterstraat and turned back towards the Rijksmuseum. It was travelling more slowly but there was no time to return to my bike and give chase now. I cursed the evening’s events.

  ‘Henk?’

  ‘Johan, where are you?’

  ‘Still by the DoubleTree. What happened?’

  ‘I tracked him to the Conservatorium, I think. But I’ve lost him. Shit.’