Calvino jumped out of the car, flashed his ID at the man in the guard booth and ordered him to open the gate immediately. After some heated negotiation – to which Marouan contributed by screaming from the driver’s side window ‘Police, dammit, police’ – the gate finally opened. Calvino gestured for Marouan to keep going while he’d answer to the squad of security guards now hurrying towards them from every direction.
Marouan pulled the Toyota right up to the front door of IRIS TV’s facility just as another guard came rushing outside. Damn, thought Marouan, they’re like rats crawling out of the woodwork. But this one had been given a head’s up by the gate. Calvino apparently had the situation under control. This guy would escort Marouan to Studio 7, where the taping of The Game of Love was in progress.
As if in a feverish trance, Marouan followed the signs for Studio 7. His heart was racing uncontrollably. Sweat poured from his body and a dull, throbbing headache pounded his temples. He climbed the stairs and took the corners and curves at rapid speed, following the broad yellow line that finally brought him to a door that appeared to be hermetically sealed.
‘Sorry,’ said the guard who’d been talking constantly into his portable CB radio, ‘you’ll have to wait. I’ve got orders not to disturb the taping.’
‘Is that so?’ Marouan sneered and pushed at the solid door. To his surprise it gave way. Diba was immediately submerged in semi-darkness. He could see the contours of the technicians behind their large, rolling TV cameras and beyond them the audience in the stands and a towering heart-shaped backdrop. The spray-tanned man on the set, dressed in a glittery suit, had his arms spread like the statue of Jesus in Rio.
‘Hello, all you wonderful people, welcome to The Game of Love, already in our third season. On today’s show …’
Cameras as big as Hummers glided from one position to the next. Where the hell was Calvino? A looming figure materialized out of the darkness and was now facing Marouan. Not his partner, but a Shrek-like figure sporting a large headset with a single earpiece and a built-in mike on his bald head. Gesturing like a crazed conductor – as if this gatecrasher was the first violin in need of a good dressing down – he tried to stop Marouan.
Flashing his ID at Shrek, Marouan said the magic words, ‘Police for Dennis Faber.’
The bald fathead with his cauliflower ears, his hand planted on Marouan’s sweaty chest, whispered something into his microphone, listened intently to a voice Diba couldn’t hear and then said, ‘No way. Access denied by the director.’
‘Is that so?’ Marouan replied as he shoved the man aside and marched on to the set: past the cameras, fatheads, security men and confused audience. On the studio floor, which was so brightly lit he felt like he’d just landed on a tropical island, Marouan searched for the lowest-possible pitch in his voice as he went and confronted the astonished game-show host.
‘Dennis Faber?’
A nervous smile appeared on Faber’s heavily made-up face.
‘I’m Detective Diba. You’re under arrest on suspicion of being an accessory to vehicular manslaughter.’
As Marouan steered a shocked Dennis Faber past the cameras towards the door, he caught his partner watching him from the wings. With a deadpan expression, Calvino was clapping for him in soundless slow motion.
18
Right after lunch Farah had requested some archive materials on child trafficking and ploughed through these, searching for clues that might point to an international trade in boys used for Bacha Bazi. What she read turned her stomach. Slavery had long been officially abolished the world over, but in the twenty-first century other horrendous illegal practices flourished as never before. Girls from Nigeria, boys from the former Eastern bloc, babies from China – they were all for sale.
As soon as a hurricane wreaked havoc, some of the earth’s tectonic plates shifted or civil war broke out in the poorer parts of the world, human trafficking was suddenly big business there. Thinking their child could have a better life thousands of miles away, desperate parents would go as far as to sell their last piece of land or even their house to pay the traffickers promising to transport their child.
And those traffickers were cunning. If the parents couldn’t afford the passage, they could pay off their debt in small instalments. But if, in the end, they failed to cough up the full amount, the children would be used for other purposes. Crime usually. Prostitution and drugs.
And so desperately poor mothers and fathers would plunge themselves into even greater, lifelong poverty, unaware that on the other side of the world their children were being used as thieves and whores.
Farah had spent much of the past few years doing assignments for the city news desk. She’d made a name for herself with her stories about the murky goings-on around a huge building project, the so-called New Golden Age Project, the brainchild of property tycoon Armin Lazonder. Her recent three-part series about the country’s asylum policy had also been well received. But setting up and carrying out a large-scale criminal investigation was completely new to her. Still, she’d never been so keen to throw herself into a story, especially since she had a hunch that it was something really big. She already pictured the first bold headline: THE LOST BOY OF AFGHANISTAN.
At the same time she was well aware that her eagerness to delve into this subject was disproportionate to the amount of time she’d be given. Because of the dwindling number of subscribers, the paper was cutting costs where it could and advertising revenue had become more important than ever. Unlike a few years ago, these days investigative projects were rarely given the go-ahead. After all, once journalists had been assigned to a long-term project, they were no longer available for the daily features. That meant bringing extra staff on board. So in effect you were pulling journalists off a job without the rock-solid guarantee of a scoop at the end of it.
The buzzing phone on her desk interrupted her train of thought. The second she heard Cathy Marant’s voice she regretted answering.
‘You’ve been a naughty girl, Hafez,’ Marant said in a sugary voice. ‘Beating the crap out of another woman and putting her in hospital. Anger management issues?’
Farah had known Marant since the time she wrote slick pieces for the AND’s media supplement. But that was years ago. These days Cathy Marant, who had the look of an Aryan camp guard in a Nazi porn film, could be seen showing off her trout pout and plunging neckline behind the presenter’s desk of The Headlines Show, the hugely popular current affairs programme on commercial broadcaster IRIS TV. They didn’t speak often, but when they did Marant got under Farah’s skin, without fail.
‘What are you insinuating?’
‘You inflicted grievous bodily harm on that woman.’
‘Two broken ribs and a mild concussion.’
‘That’s known as “grievous bodily harm”. And you’re responsible. Anything to say for yourself?’
‘To you? Nothing whatsoever,’ Farah said and hung up. It wasn’t hard to work out what was going on. The entire editorial team of The Headlines Show was drooling at the prospect of getting a juicy quote from the AND’s punch-happy star reporter. ‘No comment’ wouldn’t do.
‘We were cut off,’ Marant said when, ten seconds later, Farah answered the phone again.
‘That’s right,’ Farah said drily. ‘And it won’t be the last time.’
The third time she rang, Marant sounded downright antagonistic. ‘I think you’re a coward. A high-handed journalist who’s always going on about other people’s misconduct but who keeps mum when she slips up herself.’
‘I know, I know,’ Farah said, ‘you’re just doing your job.’ She hung up again.
A second later her mobile rang. Marant was a bully and her tenacity knew no bounds.
‘I miss you,’ a deep male voice now said.
Farah remembered the arms that had carried her into the bedroom last night.
‘Where were you off to so early?’
‘Hospital. Long story, David.’ Her voice trembled.
/>
‘Is something wrong?’
‘Not with me, no. Sorry. I’ll tell you tonight.’
‘I’ll be having dinner at Hotel de l’Europe this evening. That’s why I’m calling. No qabili palau at my place tonight, I’m afraid.’
‘What’s going on in Hotel de l’Europe?’
‘A fundraiser for investors. And I’d like you to join me. All you need to do is smile, so I won’t have to do too much sweet-talking and I can still rake in a load of cash for the Verne Project.’
These past few weeks Farah had given his project a great deal of thought. It was meant to be David’s magnum opus. Taking inspiration from Jules Verne’s fictitious trip around the world, he was planning to cross the continents in a myriad of ways and chart the huge changes the world had seen since the book’s publication. All together, the expedition would probably take over a year.
David had asked Farah months ago if she might be interested in joining him as a reporter. She’d raised it with Edward, but he’d been dead against it. Not because he begrudged her an adventure like this, but because it meant she’d be unavailable for what could be eighteen months and it remained to be seen whether her travelogues would be a hit. However, surprisingly the paper’s management team thought otherwise, and kindly suggested she take a sabbatical, David had included her in the budget as his researcher and line producer.
It all seemed too good to be true. As a child she’d fantasized about the big wide world outside her walled garden. Now, more than thirty years later, she was a Dutch journalist with the chance to travel the world and chronicle her experiences.
Her only reservation was the prospect of spending day and night in David’s company. What would it do to their relationship? But it was such an amazing and challenging project that now wasn’t the time to chicken out.
‘What time are you expecting me?’
‘I’ll pick you up at eight, okay?’
‘Fine.’
When she hung up, she felt lost in a hazy no-man’s-land, suspended between two worlds. The wonderful promise of David’s project clashed with the harsh reality of the suffering amassed in the files on her desk. She got up and went to the bathroom.
With her wrists under the cold tap she gazed at her reflection in the mirror above the washbasin. Two Farahs, two worlds. Were anyone to ask her which of the two she belonged to, she’d choose the world on her desk.
19
It had been Diba’s idea to let Angela and Dennis Faber sweat it out in separate interrogation rooms. ‘Cal, you’ve got the magic touch with women,’ he’d said, so once again Joshua found himself face-to-face with the famous television host’s wife. She was even more confused than the first time they’d spoken – frightened and distant at the same time. Her eyes were teary but appearances can be deceiving. Joshua knew that Angela Faber wasn’t the dumb blonde that her face-lifted façade might suggest.
He spoke to her in a relaxed manner as if it was a routine conversation to which she’d freely lent her cooperation. Yet with his eyes he communicated a very different message. You and I both know why we’re here and now it’s time for you to come clean. He saw in her eyes that the message had been received loud and clear.
‘Do you have any idea what happens when a child is hit by a car and just left for dead?’ He didn’t wait for her answer. ‘It’s literally and figuratively “all hands on deck”. Ambulances race to the scene of the accident with police and criminal investigators hot on their heels. Code red alarm. Trust me. And meanwhile everybody involved is busy asking the question: What’s a child doing alone in the Amsterdamse Bos? In the middle of the night? In the rain? Nobody seems to know.’
He paused to give her a moment to absorb his intro.
‘Can I get you something to drink, Mrs Faber?’
‘Water, please.’
After getting her a glass of water, he sat down again. He stared at her as he leaned forward with his elbows on the table and his fingertips touching each other.
‘It’s a boy.’
‘A boy?’ Angela Faber’s eyes, swollen from crying, suddenly seemed to open wider.
‘Surprised?’ Calvino said drily.
‘I thought …’ Angela Faber’s voice faltered.
‘It was a boy,’ Calvino continued. ‘They dressed and made him up to look like a girl. It’s tragic, such a young child. If the doctor hadn’t intubated him, he would have died there on the spot. Then the person who ran him down would have the death of a child on his or her conscience.’
In the ensuing silence, Angela Faber blankly stared into her glass of water and her shoulders started heaving.
‘Was he crossing the road?’ Joshua asked softly.
She shook her head, no.
‘He was already lying there,’ she sobbed, and began to cry uncontrollably.
Calvino pushed a box of tissues in her direction. With faltering words, the whole story came out.
Angela Faber had been out dancing with friends. Something they usually did at least twice a month. What you’d call a sophisticated girls’ night out: letting your hair down by drinking highly creative cocktails in trendy lounge bars. But she was ‘a bit on edge’ that evening and decided to head home early. When she got home, she understood why. The gods of fate had given her a heads-up: so she’d discover her naked husband in a rather unnatural, compromising position on the llama rug of their guestroom. Unnatural because he was on top of another man, whom Angela Faber immediately recognized as The Game of Love’s set designer, despite the fact that he was stark naked too. She couldn’t get back to her car fast enough and then sped off in something of a blind panic. Going in the direction of the Amsterdamse Bos had been a completely unconscious decision.
At this point Angela Faber confessed – and here came yet another cliché – that she’d wanted to total the Picasso and herself in it. Then she mentioned a detail that aroused Joshua’s interest. On the woodland road, she was blinded by the lights of another car speeding towards her in the other lane. And right after that she saw the girl, no, sorry, the boy, lying on the tarmac. She’d had enough presence of mind to brake, turn the steering wheel hard and come to a standstill against a tree. Only when she’d called the emergency number did she think about the consequences of her actions. The entire world would think that she’d run down this child.
Joshua tried to control his disgust. It took an immense amount of restraint on his part to not lean across the table and give this one-dimensional bimbo a good hard shake.
‘You left a dying child in the middle of the road with the likely chance that another car would come along and finish off the job. Didn’t that occur to you?’
Yes, Angela Faber realized it now. In hindsight. And she was extremely sorry about this, she said, with a big show of tears yet still an air of deception.
20
‘I have nothing to say,’ Dennis Faber said.
Marouan Diba entered the room where Dennis Faber was being interrogated and nonchalantly placed his wife’s signed statement on the table.
‘Suit yourself,’ Marouan said. ‘As long as you listen closely, Mr Faber. You’re not here because we’re curious about your sexual preferences. Or because you’re cheating on your wife, for that matter.’ He saw Faber’s face turn beet red under his pancake make-up.
‘You’re also not here because in a rage your wife decided to speed through the Amsterdamse Bos and end it all in a spectacular fashion. No, you’re here because when she returned home with the badly damaged Citroën Picasso, plus a hysterical account about possibly hitting someone with her car, you saw the chance to keep your adulterous adventure behind closed doors. And you made your wife play along, Mr Faber.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Marouan pretended not to hear him. He leaned forward as far as he could and said in a hushed tone, ‘I’ll help you, if you help me. Don’t make a fuss about the arrest and I’ll make sure everything related to the collision is swept under the rug. Agreed?’
He leaned back and patronizingly stared at the TV host, who was getting more agitated by the minute.
‘Here’s the gist, you deliberately tried to conceal evidence related to a serious crime. Am I warm, Mr Faber? Because if I’m not then your wife has been lying through her teeth, with this false statement as the upshot.’
As he said this, he slid Angela Faber’s account towards her husband.
‘And let me not forget to mention, for the sake of clarity, that your wife’s story matches the findings of our forensics team. A significant detail, as you might imagine. If you cooperate and you’re wise enough to corroborate your wife’s story then we can wrap up this entire unfortunate incident quickly and discreetly, you understand? Give my offer some thought.’
Without waiting for an answer, Marouan shoved back his chair. He stood up and walked out of the interrogation room, with the knowledge that he had played bluff poker in order to save face.
They didn’t have much to go on.
Angela Faber hadn’t really been involved in the hit-and-run that injured the boy. Moreover, Marouan realized that even if he could locate the driver of that second car, he still had no idea why the child had been at that place at that point in time.
His phone rang in his jacket pocket. As he glanced at the display, he felt his legs go numb. When he heard that despicable, thick Slavic accent address him in English, his chronic heartburn immediately flared up.
‘Chort poberi! So it’s true what they say about Moroccans. You’re a bunch of sheep-fuckers with the intellect of a pig’s ass. The last thing I needed was for you to pull such a brainless stunt!’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Arresting Dennis Faber, that’s what I’m talking about. I asked you to keep this whole thing under wraps. But no, there you are in widescreen, you Moroccan fathead.’
‘I don’t understand …’ Marouan stammered.
‘Listen Diva, this bizarre behaviour of yours has to stop. You make damn sure that the mess you’ve created by arresting Dennis Faber is taken care of quickly. No more fuck-ups. There’s no escaping this! Your line of credit is cancelled. Just do what’s expected of you like the obedient family man you are. Because a good father makes sure nothing happens to his children, you hear what I’m saying?’
Butterfly on the Storm Page 8