by David Hewson
Then came the office and not long after the summons from upstairs.
‘Bakker did well,’ De Groot noted, pulling Vos out of his reverie.
‘She went off on her own. Entered a dangerous situation without even alerting us to the possibility. Could have got herself killed. I don’t call that doing well.’
De Groot leaned back in his chair and uttered a long, pained sigh.
‘Going to be one of those days, is it?’
‘Don’t know what you mean.’
‘I was trying to be positive. She’s closed two murders.’
‘There was nearly a third.’
The commissaris glanced at his computer screen.
‘There is a third. This Englishwoman. You were right. Those Timmers kids didn’t kill the nurse or their uncle. But they—’
‘I doubt that.’
De Groot hesitated then said, ‘What?’
‘We only have Kaatje Lammers’ word. I talked to your man Snyder this morning . . .’
‘He’s not my man.’
‘Vera Sampson was stabbed to death. A violent, frenzied attack. We have the knife. It was wiped. No prints. There’s blood on Lammers’ clothes—’
‘She says she was there. She tried to intervene.’
Vos had gone through the overnight interview. It was all so pat. So obvious. Lammers was about to be returned to a secure institution in the south later that morning. Out of the loop.
‘A frenzied attack,’ Vos repeated. ‘If you intervened you’d at least have been cut. She’s lying. I think she killed the woman. She just wants to lay the blame at their door. The way Sara Klerk did. Can’t you see, Frank?’
‘No,’ De Groot muttered. ‘Enlighten me.’
Vos wasn’t sure he could but he tried anyway.
‘They’re scapegoats. Maybe they have been from the start. When Ollie Haas found them in Volendam next to that musician’s van.’
‘Wait, wait.’ De Groot was getting louder. ‘Are you now telling me they didn’t do that either?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then why are we pissing around like this? I’ve got the media chasing me about that doctor woman you ran off the road. I’ve got—’
Vos almost laughed.
‘Are you serious?’
‘There’s an internal inquiry.’
‘Yes. About two uniform traffic police who screwed up.’
‘Another murder. Two convicted killers on the loose. And here you are trying to dig up a dormant case from ten years ago. If you want to prove those sisters innocent you’re going to have to bring them in first.’
‘I may need to talk to Jaap Blom again.’
De Groot went silent for a while then asked, ‘Why?’
Vos told him. According to an anonymous tip-off left with the night team a black Mercedes coupé had been seen in Volendam not far from Stefan Timmers’ cottage on the night Van der Berg was attacked.
‘Someone stole what I can only assume was incriminating evidence that night—’
‘An anonymous call?’
It was from a pay phone in a Volendam bar. De Groot was unimpressed.
‘There are a few people out there who don’t like Blom,’ he said. ‘He’s successful. Not many are. It’s probably just a malicious call. If it wasn’t, why didn’t they leave a name?’
It was a good question so Vos didn’t answer it.
‘I suspect there’s been some kind of paedophile ring operating in that area. The Flamingo Club wasn’t just for a nurse from Marken. He didn’t have the money, for one thing.’
De Groot stabbed his finger on a sheet of paper on the desk.
‘This is Snyder’s prelim report from that place. It says the opposite. They’ve got Klerk’s prints all over the spot. All the others are small. Girls probably. You’ve just got one pervert. No one else.’
Vos hadn’t seen that document. Snyder must have sent it directly to De Groot. He picked up the paper and read it.
‘This is all recent forensic,’ he said when he was done. ‘What’s been going on there goes back years. I need to talk to Blom.’
‘No.’
Vos asked, ‘Why?’
‘Because your priority is to find those girls. I don’t see how bringing in a local politician who hasn’t seen them for a decade takes that forward.’
It wasn’t worth arguing with De Groot in circumstances like this.
‘The director of Marken. Veerman—’
‘The answer’s no to that too.’
‘Oh come on, Frank! He had a nurse abusing the patients there. Shipping them out at dead of night to entertain God knows who . . .’
De Groot closed his eyes and said with a pained impatience, ‘We’ve been there already. Klerk was the only one using that place.’
‘You can’t bury this. Not possible.’
‘I have no desire to bury anything and it offends me deeply you should even suggest it. If—’
‘There are clear signs of historic sex abuse. On a scale—’
‘I’m a family man!’ De Groot roared. ‘More than you’ll ever be. Don’t lecture me . . .’
He stopped and there was one of those awkward silences that occasionally fell between friends trapped by a sudden and unwanted outburst of candour.
‘I’m sorry,’ De Groot said finally. ‘That was unfair and uncalled for. It’s just . . .Christ . . .this kind of thing . . .it’s disgusting.’
Vos shrugged.
‘It’s OK, Frank. You’re right. I was never good at the family stuff. Work always seemed more compelling somehow.’
De Groot gathered himself.
‘Don’t think for one minute this will be swept under the carpet. But it is historic. We do have more pressing matters to deal with. Marken’s a penal institution. It comes under the control of the ministry, not us. I talked to them last night and told them what we have. They’re closing the place today and shipping the remaining inmates elsewhere. Veerman’s suspended pending an investigation—’
‘Who?’ Vos cut in. ‘Whose investigation?’
‘Theirs.’
‘We’ve got criminal offences here! Rape. Assault. Murder for all we know. That kid who died five years ago. Maria Koops. She’d had sex not long before—’
‘And there wasn’t the least sign of violence. She killed herself. Or just drowned. Then there’s this.’
He slapped a printout on the desk. It was a report from one of the neighbourhood teams cleaning up after Vera Sampson’s murder. A local girl told them she’d been abducted by a young woman living in the same house, forced to go inside and sing for them. She’d only escaped by talking her way out.
‘This pair are dangerous.’
‘It’s clear—’ Vos began.
‘Cut it out. The ministry have their own investigations team. They’re perfectly capable of handling the initial inquiry into Marken. If they uncover criminal activity by any individual still alive they can call us. If all they’re doing is writing a history book I’m happy to leave it to them. We don’t need to waste time trying to implicate dead men.’
Vos didn’t know what to say.
‘You do see the sense in this?’
‘Will they exhume Maria Koops? Will they find out who paid for her burial?’
De Groot looked at him and shook his head.
‘If it comes to it. Or I imagine they’d ask us to do it. I don’t understand. Usually you’re so good at focusing on what matters. Right now—’
‘More than one story,’ Vos muttered.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. What do you want me to do?’
‘What I keep saying. Find the Timmers girls. Perhaps if you’d done that this Englishwoman would still be alive. Would you like to tell me where you plan to start?’
He’d been thinking about this ever since he woke up and checked the overnight logs. Kaatje Lammers said she’d no idea how Kim and Mia found their way to Vera Sampson’s house in Vinkenstraat. There had to be some connect
ion to Waterland. The strange phone call they’d received the previous Monday, supposedly from a former girlfriend of Ollie Haas, continued to bother him too. Who made it? Who attacked Van der Berg? What did they take?
‘An answer would be nice,’ the commissaris added.
In spite of what Gert Brugman had said they did look different now, according to Kaatje Lammers. Long blonde hair gone. Mia’s was black. Kim’s a kind of purple. All the same they were strangers in the city. Everything must have been alien to them. Someone had lured them there. Arranged the house. Paid for things. Now Vera Sampson was dead they’d be on their own for the first time in their adult lives.
‘I think they’ll go back to Volendam.’
‘Why?’ De Groot asked.
Apart from Marken it’s the only place they’re familiar with. If we talk to people who knew the family—’
‘Good. Focus on those two. If anything comes in from Marken I’ll let you know.’
Vos got to his feet.
‘Pieter?’
He stopped at the door.
‘Yes?’
‘We’re in the spotlight here. From lots of angles. The press. Politicians. God knows who else. Let’s not do anything that makes things worse. Get those two girls back where they belong. Inside. Then we can talk about the rest. If there’s anything left to discuss.’
‘Can you give me a name for who’s handling the Marken inquiry?’
De Groot didn’t need to check his notes for that.
‘He’s called Jonker. Leave him to me.’
Bakker was at her desk, staring at the computer. Van der Berg was two seats away doing the same. He pulled a chair between them. Sara Klerk had been charged with the murders of her husband and Stefan Timmers, along with the attempted murder of a police officer. She’d appear in court later that morning.
‘I don’t have to go, do I?’ Bakker asked. ‘Court’s dead boring.’
He checked his messages. Nothing.
‘Has anyone asked for you, Laura?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Well,’ Van der Berg broke in, ‘then the answer’s . . . no.’
Vos reached over and called up one of the news websites. Vera Sampson’s photo was there alongside a story that said the Timmers sisters were being hunted in connection with her murder. They had an old file picture of them as girls, blonde hair and smiling faces. The Golden Angels.
‘That got out quick,’ Van der Berg grumbled. ‘We didn’t give them a statement, did we?’
‘Not that I know of,’ Vos said. He looked at Bakker. ‘Are you OK going back to Volendam?’
The question baffled her.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Just asking.’
‘If you mean the Flamingo Club . . . Snyder’s people are still crawling all over that. He left Aisha behind. She’s not happy.’
‘No,’ Vos said. ‘Not there.’
‘And me?’ Van der Berg asked, full of hope.
‘I need a few addresses.’
He passed them over. Blom. Veerman. Ollie Haas’s he had already.
‘Just keep the fact I asked for them under your hat. Doesn’t need to go on the file. Not yet.’
‘My hat,’ Van der Berg said with a nod. ‘God that gets used a lot. Oh. Gert Brugman’s been calling again. He’s still eager to talk. Wants it to be you. Apparently he’s heard you’re . . .’ Van der Berg scratched his chin. ‘What was the word he used? Straight. That was it.’
Vos cursed himself. He should have spoken to Brugman before.
‘You deal with it. Tell him I’m busy.’ He glanced back at the office. ‘Don’t talk to him here. Go to a cafe. Or his place.’
And remember my hat?’
‘Hat weather all round,’ Vos agreed.
72
They’d barely slept in the tiny flophouse in Chinatown. The night sounds were unlike any they’d ever heard. Fighting. Drunks yelling and shrieking in the street. Music blaring, loud rock, obscene punk.
Someone in the adjoining room must have shoved a bed up against the partition wall at some stage. They listened to it banging rhythmically, frantically, so hard the force shook the plaster. Behind it a man was screaming filth, a woman moaning.
Kim had held her harder during that and started to cry. So Mia kissed her forehead and whispered in her ear.
This will end.
It would too. She just didn’t know when. Or how.
The banging stopped. Then started again twenty minutes later. Three times it happened and the last just ended in him screaming, frantically, about how he couldn’t come. And that was what he’d paid for.
The sound of slaps, Kim hugging her more tightly. Then the slam of a door and a woman sobbed for a while. If her sister hadn’t been there Kim would have walked out into the corridor and knocked on the room to see if she could help. But not now. They were fugitives. Lost somewhere they didn’t know and couldn’t begin to understand.
Finally the woman left too and the sisters understood what kind of place this was. Somewhere a room was bought by the hour, rarely for the night. It wasn’t until three that the rows and racket ended. After that they slept for a while. When they woke Mia turned Vera’s phone back on. It was close to nine. The sounds outside were different. The music quieter, people’s voices more ordinary.
She checked the news headlines. What she saw there made her mad and scared all at the same time.
‘What is it?’ Kim asked in a quiet, frightened voice her sister hadn’t heard before.
‘Nothing.’
She turned off the phone. Kim reached for it.
‘We don’t need this any more,’ Mia said and threw the handset in the bin. ‘No one to call.’
There were such decisions in front of them. To run. To hide. To give up. To confess. And none had welcome outcomes.
‘Kim,’ she said, taking her sister’s hands. ‘You’ve got to listen to me. We have to do this together.’
‘Can’t go back. They’ll find us. Maybe Vera—’
‘The police are at Vera’s. Kaatje took them there. Kaatje . . .’
The news had said the rest. And who was responsible. She didn’t think Kim was ready to hear that.
‘They’re going to find us,’ Kim muttered.
‘Sooner or later.’
Kim thought about this and said, ‘Do we let them? Or make them?’
‘Make them,’ Mia insisted. ‘Timmers girls. Awkward little cows.’
That made her sister laugh.
There was a black void between them. Something they both recognized but never mentioned. Now that chasm had to be crossed.
‘We never talk about it, do we?’
‘No,’ Kim agreed.
That night so long ago back when they were still the Golden Angels. Two girls walking home from a talent contest on the sea-front. Discovering an unreal horror in their home. Then running, shrieking down the street and finding themselves in something even worse.
‘Visser said we shouldn’t,’ Kim added. ‘All those policemen too. They said . . .’ Even this was somewhere new. An exciting place. A room they’d wanted to enter for years but never dared. ‘They said we shouldn’t. It would let out all the demons again.’
‘That’s because the demons were us.’ Mia smiled. ‘They said that too.’
Just those brief sentences felt good. Like a window opening in a darkened house to reveal a sunny day outside.
‘They let us out though, didn’t they?’ Kim said.
‘Visser had to. They couldn’t stop her. We were too old. We were . . .’
There was a word they never used because they were always told they were the opposite.
Innocent.
Not yet. They weren’t ready.
‘Not quite as guilty as they . . . as we . . . supposed.’
She realized the phone had been on for part of the night anyway. Perhaps that was as good as wearing a tag.
‘We’ve got to move. Right now.’ She took Kim by the arms. �
�You have to do what I say. Please. No arguments. No running away.’
One more thing too.
‘No Little Jo. Or imaginary friends. It’s just us. It always will be now.’
Kim looked at her, blank, dumb, as good as eleven years old and said, ‘’Kay.’
They picked up their things and got out of the place. In a nearby shop they bought hair dye and make-up. Then they found a cheap clothes outlet, rock gear, Goth stuff. Jeans with chains and ripped T-shirts, heavy boots, some face jewellery. In a public washroom they locked themselves in a cubicle.
Thirty minutes it took. After that they reappeared, old clothes dumped in the bags for the things they’d bought.
Chestnut hair, thick white face paint, black clothes, black boots, chains, rings in their noses. The Goth look. Identical almost.
There was a sign for Centraal station. They could catch the bus back to Waterland from there.
‘Uncle Stefan—’ Kim began.
‘Uncle Stefan’s dead,’ Mia interrupted.
A long silence.
‘Who then?’
Mia couldn’t answer for a moment. Her head was full of memories of green fields, cows quietly grazing, dykes thickly weeded, herons standing sentry, ducks and chicks on the water. A decade they’d been kept away from the dreamy paradise they remembered as home.
How much of what she remembered was an illusion? How much real?
Two questions they could ask of everything if she was being honest. Not that honesty got them anywhere.
‘Do you trust me?’ Mia asked and gazed at her sister directly, in a way she’d never have dared before.
‘Yes,’ Kim answered.
‘Then don’t ask questions. Just do as I say.’
It was thirty minutes to the bus station. Another forty before the Waterland bus came in. No one gave them a second glance.
They sat on the hard seats at the back, the way people dressed like them did. Entering the black mouth of the IJtunnel Mia reached out and took her sister’s hand, squeezing as they headed down into the dark.