The Harbour Master

by Daniel Pembrey

Max harrumphed. ‘He asked me the exact same question you did, actually.’

  ‘About the woman picked up at Koningslaan and Willemsparkweg?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I doubted it was Bergveld. He hadn’t witnessed Lucinda Channing-West getting into that executive cab.

  But Wester had witnessed it.

  So too had Stefan.

  Stefan.

  Enquiring at whose request? Not mine.

  ‘Will I get some peace now?’ Max asked.

  ‘That depends on your conscience.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Max said, hanging up.

  The boat rocked softly as I went through to our cramped bedroom.

  Petra appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. ‘What happened?’

  ‘The bruise? Oh, it was just a scuffle with a suspect,’ I said vaguely. I found my battered overnight bag.

  ‘So where’s the harbour master sailing off to this time?’

  ‘Brussels,’ I replied, easing past her into our yet-smaller bathroom.

  She followed me. ‘Again?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I threw a toothbrush and some other toiletries in; I needed to get to Amstel 81 as soon as possible to catch Lucy Channing-West.

  ‘You’ll have people talking,’ Petra said.

  ‘How so?’ I looked up at her.

  ‘A girl in every port…’

  Though she’d become prickly since quitting her job at the paper, she was joking. Wasn’t she?

  ‘I’m not sure how well the attaché for the Dutch energy minister in the Council of Europe would take to being called a girl.’

  ‘Rem Lottman?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Is that who you went to see on Saturday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  In the mirror, my wounded temple looked even worse, the bruise now green-edged. I thought about changing my clothes but there wasn’t time. I did remember to remove the reefer that Frank Hals had given me. That might require some explanation in Brussels, at the European Parliament building.

  ‘Why are you going to see him again? Why didn’t you tell me this?’

  ‘I’m doing so now, aren’t I?’

  I went back through to the bedroom.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘My team is abandoning me for my rivals, the station is going to be closed down because I’m unable to bring charges against a cannabis-growing former acquaintance, and a gang of Ukrainian bikers is personally threatening me. Apart from that, it’s a pretty good day.’

  I sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted by everything going on and the prospect of a three-hour drive to Brussels in traffic.

  ‘Sometimes it just feels like the sky’s falling in,’ I said.

  Petra sat down too, and took my cut hand, much like Liesbeth had.

  We sat in silence for a few seconds, then I asked, ‘What’s going on with Nadia?’

  ‘She’s gone to Paris.’

  Of course – she’d reckon on not needing a passport for that. ‘With Sergei?’

  My wife nodded. ‘Shopping.’

  ‘Just like my team… finding brighter opportunities elsewhere.’

  Petra spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘Sometimes in life you have to create the sense of certainty about those around you, Henk. Create your own sense of order. What is this trip to see Rem Lottman about?’

  I explained the situation with Lesoto briefly, concluding: ‘Whatever’s going on, there’s an element of corruption involved. That much I’m sure of.’

  ‘So be it. But I married a man who didn’t just react to his circumstances. I saw someone who had the ability to shape them.’

  ‘Had?’

  ‘Had, has. You should do whatever you need to with Lottman to gain influence over the station and your team.’

  I looked at her. ‘You mean be complicit in corruption?’

  ‘Just don’t become a victim of it, is all I’m saying. The rest is up to you.’

  I eyed my watch. ‘There’s something else. There’s a Ukrainian woman who was badly beaten up at the Royal Hotel on Sunday night. We can’t find out the name of the guest – her attacker. Joost shut down the case.’

  ‘You want me to find out?’

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘I’m an investigative journalist, Henk. How do you think a lot of these celebrity gossip stories emerge? Even the most exclusive hotels have an army of random insiders – bellhops, maintenance crews and suppliers. There are invariably ways and means.’

  ‘Legal ones?’

  ‘Would I reveal my sources?’

  ‘The victim’s name is Elena Luscovich.’

  ‘Then leave it to me.’ She squeezed my hand again. ‘Leave it to Team van der Pol.’

  My phone was ringing again. It was Max once more.

  ‘I have some information for you,’ he said.

  ‘I thought we police had taxed you enough?’

  ‘You amuse me.’

  ‘I’m flattered. Go ahead.’

  ‘Your woman just ordered a car for Schiphol Airport.’

  ‘The English woman?’

  ‘Correct. We can delay it, but not by much.’

  ‘I’ll be right there.’

  *

  I parked the car on Nieuwe Kerkstraat. Petra had come with me.

  ‘Perhaps one day you’ll take me to Brussels,’ she said wistfully.

  ‘You really want to go?’

  ‘I’ve never been.’

  ‘You’re not missing much, but let’s plan on it for another time.’

  We walked around the corner onto Amstel and kissed goodbye. She carried on to the hotel; I stopped beside the Magere Brug.

  Two sisters living on opposite sides of the river had built the famous wooden bridge to visit each other. I couldn’t help but wonder why they hadn’t just lived on the same side. Why did we Dutch have to make things so difficult for ourselves? And yet, the result was something wondrous, particularly at night: a thousand little light bulbs gently illuminating the old drawbridge, reflecting in the rippling currents beneath…

  But it was mid-afternoon now. The clatter and rumble of a roller bag’s wheels brought me back. Lucy Channing-West had emerged from number 81. Was it a short-let apartment? A friend’s place? Dressed in another immaculately tailored suit, she looked up and down the street for her cab, then at her slim watch.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, approaching her. ‘Henk van der Pol, Amsterdam police. We met at the Pelt house yesterday.’

  ‘A miracle…’ I could detect the sarcasm immediately. ‘A policeman around here actually showing some interest,’ she continued caustically. Her blue eyes held me, took in my bruise. ‘I’m afraid I have a flight to catch.’

  I made a show of looking around. ‘I don’t see any means of transport. Tell you what – I’m driving to Brussels; I could give you a lift.’

  She looked at her watch again, unsure. ‘Is the airport even on the way?’

  ‘More or less. They’re both south of here.’

  ‘Most things are. Apart from the North Sea.’

  ‘You’ve an excellent sense of geography. I can get you there in twenty minutes. Here, allow me.’ I picked up her bag, leading her to my car.

  I put her luggage in the small boot, then we got into the vehicle. ‘It doesn’t sound like you’ve had the best stay here,’ I said, glad that I’d cleared out the passenger seat for Petra. Lucy Channing-West’s expensive-smelling scent filled the car’s interior.

  ‘I’ve never known any constabulary take such little interest in a priceless artwork.’

  ‘Art crime is a difficult one to assign resources to,’ I said. ‘People tend to see murders as more important.’

  ‘Yet everyone acknowledges that Pelt’s death and the burglar
y are linked. Do you know how much that Verspronck was insured for?’

  I shrugged, heading towards the ring road. ‘I thought priceless meant just that: you couldn’t put a price on it.’

  ‘It was actually over-insured.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Her phone rang. She ignored it. ‘We had an argument over what we’d insure it for… compared to the amount the Norwegians wanted. Ever since that Munch went missing from their National Gallery in 1994, they’ve been cautious. But we didn’t feel the Verspronck was worth that much today.’

  Only a foreigner would say that about a Verspronck.

  ‘It’s a nine-figure sum,’ she added.

  Jesus. Over one hundred million euros?

  ‘Not content with their sovereign wealth fund and all that bloody oil money sloshing around… a nine-figure sum!’ She was incredulous. ‘Do you have any idea what this will do to us? We’re a small syndicate!’

  Sometimes when you give people a chance to share their problems, the floodgates really open.

  ‘And why the hell aren’t you investigating it?’ she demanded.

  ‘How d’you know we’re not?’ I countered. ‘Officer Bergveld –’

  ‘Pah!’ She cut me off. ‘Don’t even mention that man’s name. He’s done nothing.’ She snorted, beside herself now. ‘Nothing other than provide the paperwork for the Norwegians’ insurance claim, that is.’

  I just kept driving, and listening intently.

  ‘Of course, the Norwegians have taken it all over. Their military police.’

  I recalled the Scandinavian man at the Pelt house.

  ‘What have they found out?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing that I’m aware of! Their only concern is with substantiating the insurance claim, too.’

  I couldn’t believe that. The Norwegians would be intensely interested in finding the killer of one of their diplomats, I was sure. Only, they wouldn’t have any means of leading an investigation here in Holland on their own. Why didn’t they want to work with Bergveld and the Dutch police?

  ‘Aren’t they taking any investigative steps?’

  ‘You tell me.’ She looked at me.

  I kept driving.

  ‘It would appear not,’ she said. ‘Which is very unusual for the police in these circumstances, whoever’s jurisdiction it is. Do you not agree?’

  I couldn’t disagree.

  ‘I offered them everything: help using the Art Loss Register – not that the ALR’s in any way difficult to use – but also access to our three-factor model.’

  ‘What three-factor model?’

  Her phone rang again. It was the taxi company; she let them know she no longer needed the cab. Then she answered my question. ‘There are three types who steal valuable paintings, we’ve determined. As classified by motive.’

  We were already on the E19, nearing the airport. It was too fast. I needed to slow down; I needed to hear this.

  ‘The most common type is the “Delusionals”,’ she said. ‘That is, the people who think they can actually sell the paintings, or hoard them for later sale. But tracking capabilities and auction-house regulations are only going in one direction.’

  I thought of the big diamond heist at Brussels airport the prior year, and the gang getting caught as they tried to sell on the stolen diamonds: how do you even begin to sell a famous painting illicitly?

  Then I remembered something. ‘I thought the painting had already been stolen, during the war?’

  ‘The title was legally clear. Your country grants dispossessed owners just three years to challenge a title change. Which brings us to the second type: the “Opportunists”. Now these are the tricky ones. Valuable art has turned out to be surprisingly versatile collateral, in different kinds of exchanges.’

  ‘What exchanges?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ She eyed me doubtfully. ‘It can be anything from favours to large drug deals these days. Artworks are highly portable and can be moved easily across borders. Surely you know all this? Their financial value doesn’t even need to be realised for them to allow other important deals to go through…’

  A plane screeched low overhead.

  ‘You mentioned three types of fine-art thieves.’

  ‘Yes.’ She unbuckled her seatbelt as I approached the front of the main airport terminal.

  ‘The “Nutters”. There are some people who just really like staring at a particular painting in the privacy of their own home.’

  ‘Does appreciation of art necessarily make someone a nutter?’

  ‘You haven’t met some of these people.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure.’

  She smiled primly and presented me with her business card. ‘Should anything new come to light, please do let me know. And thank you for the ride, officer.’

  ‘It was my pleasure.’

  Or it would have been, had I not been thinking of Frank Hals.

  25

  BELGIUM AGAIN

  I continued on to Brussels for my appointment with Rem Lottman, trying to work out the pattern between these events. Had Joost been right all along – at least in part – about the need to focus on Frank Hals?

  I passed the turn-off to Rotterdam, and there the traffic slowed. It was past 4 p.m., and I’d agreed to meet Lottman at six. Gripping the steering wheel, I sat up, trying to see past the cars in front to where the hold-up was.

  On the other side of the motorway, a car came into view – it was flipped over onto its roof, the tarmac slick-black around it, rainbow colours shimmering over the scene. There must have been a petrol spill. The screams and blares of a fire engine were coming from the opposite direction. Drivers on my side of the motorway had slowed to look. Traffic sped up once it got past the scene, the drivers just nosy about the fate of others.

  Petra was calling me.

  ‘Hoi oi.’

  ‘I have some information for you,’ she said.

  ‘From the Royal? Already?’ My wife had accomplished in two hours what we’d taken days to fail to do. ‘How?’

  ‘You know I can’t reveal my sources,’ she said. ‘But the woman’s client was a sheikh. From Abu Dhabi or Dubai, my source reckons. One of the Emirate countries, anyway.’

  ‘To be clear, we’re talking about the guest who booked the suite she stayed in?’

  ‘To be clear, my source isn’t sure whether the guy booked the suite himself or not. But this sheikh was in the bedroom the night the woman was attacked.’

  ‘How does your source know that? Was he bringing them room service or something?’ He could have been an eyewitness, I thought hopefully.

  ‘Henk, I’m not joking when I say I can’t reveal my sources. I may no longer be a journalist, but the journalistic ethic is still part of me.’

  ‘And long may it remain there.’

  ‘Oh look,’ she said, distracted. ‘There’s a fire.’

  ‘Huh?’

  She said, ‘I’m walking away from the Royal and there’s black smoke on the horizon, the other side of the river.’

  It seemed symbolic somehow. Was everything about to go up in flames, here and there?

  ‘Do you want me to go on and get the sheikh’s name?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  But I could guarantee that this guy had already left the country, and I could see the connection now anyway.

  ‘Will you take care of yourself in Brussels?’ she asked. ‘No more nasty bruises, please.’

  ‘I’ll try. And thank you. You’ve earned yourself a trip there, too, once I’m through with all this.’

  ‘Aren’t I the lucky girl? Can we stay on the Grand Place?’

  ‘We can stay in the Palace of Brussels if it’d make you happy.’

  *

  I was still trying to piece together the different peoples
’ parts in the puzzle when I saw the turn-off to Antwerp Airport.

  It was five minutes off the E19 and I was able to park alongside the terminal building with ease, the structure tiny in comparison to Schiphol’s.

  I jogged in through the sliding doors, thinking back over the events that had taken place there yesterday morning. Would the same immigration guards be waiting beside arrivals?

  No – when I got there, I found two different men.

  ‘Hoi,’ I said, pulling out my warrant card as I approached them. ‘Henk van der Pol of the Amsterdam police force. I was here yesterday morning when a Ghanaian diplomat arrived.’

  They conferred for a moment. ‘You want Thierry and Loïc, but what’s this about?’

  ‘Your guys were suspicious of this diplomat – what he was bringing into the country. I’d like to ask them about it.’

  ‘We’re suspicious of everyone, you know that. Who is this diplomat?’

  ‘His name’s Lesoto.’

  ‘Hold on.’

  One of them disappeared through a grey door.

  I eyed my watch. Lottman was one person I couldn’t be late for.

  The guard reappeared. ‘We need some higher-level clearance for this,’ he said.

  ‘How about the attaché for the Dutch energy minister in the Council of Europe? Here’s his assistant’s number.’ I waved my phone at him.

  ‘All right, all right. Leave it with us overnight.’

  ‘No, there’s not enough time. I’m meeting with the attaché at six – I need to brief him. This whole bloody thing came out of nowhere.’

  All law enforcement officials can relate to being hijacked by a last-minute briefing request from a superior.

  The guard hesitated, then said in a low voice, ‘With that guy, it wasn’t so much what he was bringing in.’

  ‘What was it then?’

  ‘What he was taking out – without export clearance.’

  I thought back to the exchange between Lesoto and myself in the back of the Bentley, when he’d shown me the Ghanaian Star. ‘And this is a gift?’ I’d asked him.

  ‘Yes,’ he’d replied.

  ‘You’re going to make someone very happy.’

  ‘Yes. I am’ – those were his exact words.

  Lesoto himself was the happy someone…