‘Quite. But that isn’t what I’m asking, is it?’ Connors shook his head, repeated himself, lowering his voice to match Franquin’s: ‘What are you afraid of ?’
Franquin stood silent. It was a rhetorical question, it had to be. Connors knew damn well what the danger was.
‘That she’s going to talk? Is that it? That we’re going to let her out and that she’s going to tell the world what we know?’
Franquin didn’t answer. Of course that’s what he was afraid of. That and a long row of problems that would follow.
‘Because if that’s the case,’ Connor said, ‘I think you’re afraid of the wrong thing. If we ever do let her go, it’ll be because this is all over. And that isn’t a scenario I’m afraid of. Quite the contrary.’
Franquin sighed.
‘I’m afraid because our greatest enemy is panic. And if there’s one thing I want to avoid —’
‘Don’t you think it’s a bit late for that?’
‘I’m not a fatalist, Connors. Are you?’
It was Connors’ turn not to answer.
‘Good,’ said Franquin. ‘Because if any of us are, they’re in the wrong place to begin with.’
They stood there, watching Sandberg in the monitor. Watching him without a word.
They’d talked themselves into a dead end, one they’d been in before and where the only way out was silence, and they both kept staring in front of them until the moment was over and their positions weren’t as entrenched.
‘I gave him the key,’ Connors said.
And Franquin knew what he meant. Knew that whatever happens now, happens.
‘We can only hope, then, can’t we? Hope they’re not going to find out.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Connors.
Glanced back at Franquin.
Knew that he shouldn’t, but couldn’t help himself.
So he said it.
‘Or perhaps that’s the only hope we have left.’
19
The man who sat alone, staring blankly on the other side of the glass panes to the narrow meeting room, had lost a lot of weight since his last visit.
Back then, he’d been healthy, well built and with a body that clashed completely with expectations of what a professor in archaeology ought to look like. His eyes had been stressed and worried, naturally, but they had been awake, alert, full of energy.
Today, Albert van Dijk looked ten years older. Yet it had only been a matter of months since their last meeting. The humour he had displayed then, constantly ready to tackle his problems with an odd, wry wit, had been replaced with a weary sorrow, the restless energy that had kept him perched on the edge of his seat now reeking more of desperation than of hope.
Inspector Neijzen of Amsterdam’s Central Police Division watched him from afar while the espresso machine spurted out two cups of polite pointlessness, a black goo that was neither coffee nor espresso but something in between that never made anyone happy.
His breathing was laboured. Not that this was unusual – Neijzen had stopped watching his scale at two hundred and twenty-six pounds, and judging by the protests from his knees and his heels his weight hadn’t changed for the better, any more than his eating habits.
But today he was panting because he’d had to rush to get here. He’d been relaxing at his country home when his secretary called to tell him there was a young man in his office, and that the man refused to talk to anyone else but Neijzen.
So van Dijk had been waiting in there for almost fifteen hours. He’d slept on the same chair as he was sitting in now, the same one he’d been sitting in since showing up the previous afternoon, assuming he’d slept at all, which judging by his appearance wasn’t a foregone conclusion.
Neijzen couldn’t help feeling there were a million reasons to feel sorry for the guy. It wasn’t his job to get personally involved, nobody would gain from having him pity them, but there was something about the way the young professor had dealt with the situation that made it hard to keep a distance. Screaming, panic-stricken victims who vented their fears, cursed the police and the authorities and some arbitrary divine power for not doing enough, those he could easily handle. Or the ones who cried and blamed themselves, or withdrew and sat there, catatonic, rocking back and forth as if they’d lost the will to live. Years of experience had taught him to maintain a distance from victims overwhelmed by grief and stress; it was a shame that they were suffering, of course it was, but that was life.
Albert van Dijk, however, remained composed. Measured and composed and maintaining a sober distance, and if there was such a thing as a capable victim of crime, Albert van Dijk was the epitome.
Which, of course, didn’t change a thing.
His partner was gone. She had been gone for seven months.
And she wouldn’t ever come back.
‘Have you slept?’ was Neijzen’s first question as he squeezed himself into the tight space between his chair and his desk, breathing heavily as he placed one of two steaming cups of coffee in front of the young man. Hesitating for a moment; perhaps he’d better give him both.
‘Since yesterday? Or since we last met?’ Irony without a smile.
‘I came as fast as I could,’ Neijzen said without elaborating.
‘I’m grateful for that,’ said Albert. And repeated the words he’d been saying over and over since last night: ‘I wanted to talk to you.’
Neijzen’s secretary had made that perfectly clear. There’d been at least five others on duty who could have dealt with van Dijk considerably more promptly, but whatever it was the man had to say, he steadfastly refused to say it to anyone else.
‘Please,’ said Neijzen. ‘Tell me.’
Albert cleared his throat. Explained that of course he understood that the police had closed the case long ago. And Neijzen was about to interrupt, but Albert cut him off, saying that he fully understood why, and there was sincerity in his eyes as he said it. How long could you keep looking when everything pointed to her disappearing of her own free will? Just because some sad boyfriend protested and refused to believe he’d been dumped?
He knew the police had helped as much as they were able. And he’d chosen to stay out of their way, didn’t want to make a nuisance of himself, electing not to contact them again unless he had something useful to tell them.
‘And now you do?’ Neijzen asked.
Albert nodded. ‘I’ve always said she was taken against her will.’
‘And we’ve followed up on everything you’ve said. And it hasn’t led anywhere. Whatever you might believe, there’s no evidence to support it.’
‘I know that,’ said Albert. ‘But now I can prove it.’
Prove it? He had actual proof? This made Neijzen sit up in his chair.
‘And how can you do that?’ the detective asked.
‘Because I know where she is.’
Neijzen looked at him. Leaned across the desk. And the cup that was neither coffee nor espresso remained untouched in front of him until it was stone cold.
Janine Charlotta Haynes looked at the blue piece of plastic in her palm.
And then at the man opposite her.
She hadn’t expected to see it ever again, and now that she did, there was only one explanation she could come up with. It must be a test. What kind she couldn’t decide, but she had no doubt whatsoever that it was.
‘We really should stop meeting like this,’ she said, not even a hint of a smile on her face.
The bull-necked man who’d once claimed his name was Roger and who now said it was Martin Rodriguez and who frankly could be called whatever he liked for all she cared, stared back at her. Steady, penetrating eyes. But behind them there was something else, something she couldn’t quite make out. Pity?
Hardly, she told herself.
‘I understand you had rather a long night,’ he said.
‘About average,’ she replied. As if she were thirteen years old, as if the only weapon she possessed was to obstruct the conversation a
nd as if she wanted him to see she was going to use it as much as she could.
‘Can you stand a couple more questions?’
‘That depends,’ she said, ‘whether it’s going to be you or me asking them.’
‘You’re welcome to try,’ he replied.
‘What did you do to Helena?’
‘Watkins?’
‘Unless there are other Helenas around, then yes, probably her.’
He gave her a look. His face was as flat as their conversation, and it struck her that their tone hadn’t changed much since the first time they met. The game was the same: their efforts to answer with a question rather than divulge anything.
Except now the playfulness was gone.
‘She was careless,’ said the bull neck.
‘Is that a threat?’
‘No. It’s an observation.’
‘Difference being?’
‘Significant.’
A pause. It was her turn, but she didn’t want to play now. She shook her head, waved at him to get on with it and tell her what he was there for.
‘So,’ he said. ‘I’m here for two reasons. Firstly, to ask you to tell me everything you know.’
‘You know what?’ she said. ‘I’ve been here for almost seven months. In that time I’ve done nothing but tell you things. And if you have even the slightest bit of understanding about what goes on here – and maybe I’m over-estimating you, maybe your remit is just to abduct people and keep them locked up here – but if you do have the bigger picture, then you must be aware that since I arrived here all I’ve done is read and interpret and translate and tell you. Everything I know, you know too. End of story.’
She leaned back, said no more. She’d raised her voice, she’d let her anger seep out, and now she sat in silence as if cursing herself for not controlling her temper.
But in actual fact, she had. Her temper was a deliberate diversionary tactic. She hadn’t told them everything, there were things she was starting to put together, and she wanted to keep those things to herself.
Martin Rodriguez shook his head. She had misunderstood his question:
‘You spoke to William Sandberg.’
‘Not for long.’
‘How long?’
‘I think you probably know that better than me. Because I assume you know exactly which doors we passed through, and when.’
He couldn’t deny that. Of course they knew.
‘So. How long did we talk?’
‘You were out on the terrace for a little under twelve minutes.’
‘There you go. And how much do you think a person can say in that time?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m here to find out.’
She heaved a sigh. Letting him know the conversation was boring her. ‘And the second part?’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re listing things. You’re currently at firstly.’
She stared blankly at him, waiting for him to figure out for himself how highly she thought of people who got lost in a two-item list.
‘Secondly,’ he said, ‘it’s my job to make sure you have everything you need to do your job.’
Janine hesitated. What was this about? First the key card, now this. ‘Such as?’
‘That’s my question to you. What do you need?’
‘What are we talking about? Pens? Paper? Books? Internet?’
‘Can’t offer you Internet. Otherwise, just ask.’
‘In that case,’ she replied, ‘tell me exactly what the texts I’ve been given are about.’
‘You know I can’t do that.’
‘So when you say everything, what, in fact, does that include?’
It was his turn to sigh. ‘I’m going to be perfectly honest with you. I’m not happy that we brought you here the way we did. Nobody here is, I can promise you that. But we are in the middle of…’ – he paused, looked for the right word – ‘an extremely sensitive security situation. Because of that, some information isn’t available to you.’
‘So I’m supposed to solve a riddle without hearing the whole question?’
‘We have given you as much as you need.’
‘Apart from the context.’
‘Which is of no interest.’
She stared at him. Stared for several seconds. And then she said:
‘Two trains leave London for Brighton, one at two p.m. and one twenty minutes later. The first train travels at a hundred and twenty kilometres an hour, the other at a hundred and fifty. How large is the distance between the two trains at three o’clock?’
He studied her, expecting her to continue, but she was finished. And she waited, confident that sooner or later he’d ask the inevitable question.
‘What’s your point?’
‘Context,’ she said. ‘Without context, what have you got?’
He looked for an answer, but she wasn’t done yet.
‘If I only give you abstract values, and if you don’t know how they fit together, then you can’t solve the problem, because you don’t know why you’re solving it. That’s the reason every school textbook on the planet frames everything in little scenarios: everything is important. The solution comes from the whole picture.’
‘I dare say it does. Nevertheless, that whole picture is something we can’t —’
‘In that case,’ she interrupted him in a razor-edged voice, ‘if you won’t let me know the background, how can I ever solve your problem?’
He paused. Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he said: ‘One hundred and twenty times one, minus one hundred and fifty times forty divided by sixty.’
She looked at him. He was quicker than she’d anticipated.
That was the formula to solve the problem she’d given him. The numbers, but without context.
‘I don’t know where you’re going with this,’ he said, ‘but it isn’t any harder than that. The context makes no difference. It could be London to Brighton, Earth to the moon. For crying out loud, it could be two snails creeping across a lawn. It isn’t your job to see the whole picture. We give you the relevant details, and your job is to help us deal with them. With all due respect.’
He gave her an almost apologetic look. ‘Twenty,’ he concluded his little speech. ‘The answer to your problem is twenty.’
She raised an eyebrow. Just enough for him to notice. And that frustrated him; he didn’t want to lecture her, but for fuck’s sake. She’d forced him into it.
‘It isn’t your job to know if it’s a train. It isn’t your job to know if it’s kilometres or miles, you don’t even need to know it’s a distance. Your job is to look at the texts we give you and translate each of them and get back to us with the result. Irrespective of the context.’
He held out his hands: Okay? Agreed? Can we let this go now?
By all means, her shoulders answered.
‘So. I take it you don’t need anything more at the moment?’
‘Yes, I do,’ she said. ‘I want to speak to William Sandberg.’
He looked at her. Saw her face prepare for a no.
‘What you use that key card for is entirely up to you.’
That took her by surprise. She tried to read his expression, didn’t know how to interpret it. Was he kidding?
But all he did was get up and move to the door.
She let a second pass. One more. And then:
‘The thing is,’ she said.
He turned.
‘The thing is that the answer is zero.’
Now what was she trying to do?
‘From London to Brighton is ninety kilometres. By three o’clock both trains will have arrived, cleaners are walking around emptying waste bins and the passengers are already checking in at their hotels. The distance between the trains is zero.’
She looked at him, savouring his confusion.
‘You see, that’s how it works. If you don’t look at the whole picture. If you focus on the details and don’t consider the c
ontext. Then you’ll end up shooting yourself in the foot. No matter how clever you think you are.’
Rodriguez was unable to come up with an answer.
‘With all due respect,’ she added.
She looked him in the eye. She might be their prisoner, but she didn’t intend to let them think they were smarter. She was there because she had skills they didn’t, and if nothing else she could at least keep reminding them of that. It was her only card, and it was a card she would play as often as she could.
It took a second. Two. And then, when Rodriguez eventually stopped staring at her, she saw him smile for the first time that day.
‘He’s in the chapel,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe you need me to show you how to get there.’
Inspector Neijzen’s breathing was loud enough to drown out the whine of the photocopier in front of him, the humming sound as the light slid back and forth under the glass and scanned the letter squeezed under its lid, inch by illuminated inch.
His hands were shaking, and it wasn’t from the coffee. His cup was sitting untouched on his desk, and hopefully van Dijk was still sitting right next to it – Neijzen had a long list of things to do and the last thing he needed was a worried victim hanging on his heels.
She’d sent him a letter.
The young professor had told him about it with agitated excitement in his tired eyes, and Neijzen had been filled with sympathy. He’d known what he’d had to say. He had prepared his most mournful face, the one where he tipped his head to the side to say the same words he always said to others in the same situation.
‘The world is full of sick people,’ he’d say. ‘We all know it is, it doesn’t come as a surprise to anyone, but the extent,’ he’d say, and he’d put emphasis on the word, ‘the extent is worse than anyone can imagine. I couldn’t imagine it myself, not until I came here.’
That’s how he would start, and he would go on by recounting how many times in his career he’d been forced to crush the hopes of someone’s relatives, all because some lunatic had read about their case in the paper and sent in a clue, or a made-up eyewitness account, or even claimed to be the person they were searching for.
Chain of Events Page 18