‘Is everything all right?’ Mariella asked as she showed me to the door.
‘Yes, I just need to be back in Amsterdam for a couple of days.’
She handed me my jacket and I paused on the threshold. ‘What about the children?’ I said, remembering the framed photo in Boomkamp’s office. ‘How are they?’
‘What children?’
‘I thought I saw a photo of two children on pushbikes…’ Had I imagined it? ‘At the office,’ I added.
‘What photo?’ She looked confused. ‘Which children? We don’t have any photos of our younger selves. Not ones that we set out, anyway. Manfred hates to dwell on the past.’
Were they distant relatives? Was he trying to create some erroneous impression around the office of a happy family life? I recalled my own family troubles, and forced a smile.
Mariella returned the smile, but as the door closed the smile vanished, her mouth becoming hard-set.
6
ALLSAFE
I was glad to escape the claustrophobic, hothouse feeling of Driebergen. The storage facility in Leiderdorp was surrounded by nondescript, light-industrial premises. Along the front of the ALLSAFE building ran a bay of customer parking spots. I pulled into one and waited for Rijnsburger to arrive.
It was just before 2 p.m. on Friday afternoon and there was that sense of things winding down for the weekend. I stared at the garish yellow-and-blue building ahead. ALLSAFE. More and more Dutch households were turning to remote storage arrangements like this for their possessions, space always being at a premium in Holland. I was willing to bet that once most of these possessions were put away, the only trace of their existence would be a recurring monthly bank charge.
I was thinking, too, about the Boomkamps’ pristine house, and their domestic arrangements, when I glanced at my watch and noted that Rijnsburger was late.
I wanted to get out of my car and smoke, but the instructions had been clear: Wait in your vehicle until he arrives. Was this how it would be now – everything on The Hague’s terms? With annoyance, I saw a small tear near the zip of my bomber jacket.
I called Stefan de Windt, another former team member of mine in Amsterdam.
‘Hoi,’ he replied cheerily. A dog barked in the background. A good sign: he was away from the police station…
‘Thought I’d see how you’re doing.’
‘I was doing fine,’ he joked. ‘You?’
‘Hey, less of the cheek,’ I said. ‘I just started in Driebergen.’
I’d already told him about my new role – in general terms.
‘It’s our loss,’ Stefan said. ‘This place isn’t the same without you.’
His words sounded genuine enough, but I noted a more relaxed tone in his voice than when he’d been working for me. He was still in station operations – surveillance – and I needed to tread carefully, given that he had a new boss.
‘I’ll be back in Amsterdam over the weekend. I wondered if you’re free for a drink?’
‘This weekend?’
‘Why not?’
‘What’s going on?’
‘It would be good to catch up.’
‘Is there something I can help with?’
He knew me too well. ‘I’m no longer your boss, Stefan. That said, I could use a little help…’ Just then I saw a large black panel van swing into the parking bay, two spaces over. ‘I’m going into a meeting right now, but perhaps we could grab a coffee at De Druif tomorrow or Sunday?’
De Druif was my local bar in Amsterdam.
‘I’m free either morning, just text me.’
‘Will do. Good to talk.’
As I ended the call, another one was incoming. Mrs Rosen, at ARS Nationwide.
‘My manager is available to meet with you right now, Mr van der Pol.’
*
The van’s cabin was upholstered in dark leather. Rijnsburger sat in the middle front seat. Rheumy-eyed as before, he greeted me with a stare. A motionless driver sat to his left. I wondered who, or what, was in the back.
‘This is too soon to be coming in,’ Rijnsburger reproved me. ‘What’s going on?’
I began my update with the rumours about Jacques Rahm – the bomber scandal in Luxembourg. ‘Yes, we’re aware of all that,’ Rijnsburger interrupted. ‘Why set up a crash meeting? What else have you got?’
So this was how it would be? No discussion, just me feeding them information?
I cleared my throat. ‘Tommy Franks: there’s evidence of unusual personal wealth – expensive car, a girlfriend who sounds considerably younger. It might be worth looking at where the extra money is coming from.’
‘You should.’
‘Franks and Rahm are definitely on the outside of the power structure within SVU X-19.’
‘Loose cannons?’ Rijnsburger asked, showing a bit more interest.
‘I wouldn’t go that far. But something’s clearly dysfunctional in the way the team is set up.’ I hated reporting on people like this, like some glorified informant. ‘It’s surprising, in the case of Tommy Franks at least.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of his background: CEOP in the UK. The Flying Squad, the Special Reconnaissance Regiment…’
Rijnsburger pulled out a little leather-bound notepad, detaching a propelling pencil from its interior. He wrote something down in a way that the words evaded my view.
‘Look, could we have some two-way traffic here?’
‘Say again?’
‘Could you give something back, or at least respond to what I’m saying? Wouldn’t our arrangement work better that way?’
His bloodshot eyes found the middle distance. A stray cat was pacing along the strip of concrete between the parking bay and the ALLSAFE building.
‘OK,’ he agreed. ‘Tommy Franks was never in the Special Reconnaissance Regiment. That much I know for a fact. Is that helpful?’
It was. If Tommy had lied about that, what else had he lied about?
‘What about the others?’ Rijnsburger demanded.
How to summarise my first impressions of Boomkamp, Vermeulen and Engelhart? ‘From what I’ve seen so far, they’re almost exclusively focused on one suspect.’
‘Who?’
‘Heinrich Karremans.’
‘The Heinrich –?’
‘Yes.’
I had his full attention now.
But did Rijnsburger really not know that? I’d come here ready to complain about him not mentioning Karremans…
‘What evidence do they have?’ There was an urgency in his voice.
‘Images, which they’ve apparently linked to Karremans’s IP address. The images they showed me also appear to have been taken inside buildings that Karremans designed.’
Rijnsburger wrote down several more words, then said, ‘What are they planning? How are they moving the operation forward?’
‘They’re using an online alias to engage Karremans and draw him into a compromising situation.’
Rijnsburger’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like what he was hearing. ‘How do they know they’ve got the real Heinrich Karremans? Are they not planning physical surveillance?’
Wouldn’t this kind of information be expected, even demanded, by the justice ministry – and passed on to the secret service in relevant cases such as this?
‘They haven’t planned any physical operations, yet. Or should I say, not ones that they’ve told me about. They’re focused on technical surveillance.’
Rijnsburger contemplated the situation for a few seconds. He said, ‘What do you make of it?’
The generality of his question caught me off guard.
‘Of Karremans potentially being in a paedophile ring, or of how SVU X-19 is progressing the case?’
‘Both.’
I wasn’t sure, was the
problem. ‘I find the idea of Karremans’s involvement particularly shocking, given how admired he and his buildings are.’ I puffed out my cheeks and expelled the air. ‘There are two scenarios. One is that Karremans is a legitimate suspect – and that Boomkamp is trying to manage the risk of tip-offs, after the previous leaks. The team does appear to have split, with Vermeulen and Engelhart carrying out the lion’s share of the surveillance work. Franks and Rahm are effectively sidelined.’
Rijnsburger looked up from the notes he was writing. ‘You mentioned two scenarios.’
‘If Karremans is not guilty, evidence is being misinterpreted, or worse.’
‘Worse?’ he prompted me.
‘The team is clearly feeling the pressure to get a result, to maintain its independence… the more so after the merger with the national police force.’
Rijnsburger was nodding.
‘That’s what I inferred from Boomkamp’s off-the-record remarks, anyway,’ I said.
‘Have you spent much time with him?’
‘Enough to have formed a reasonably solid first impression. I went to his house last night.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes. Look, shouldn’t we be trying to get out in front of this? What do you think about initiating alternate surveillance of Karremans?’
‘By who?’
‘Whoever you think makes sense.’
I was fishing for what Rijnsburger might be planning. I needed to know, before asking my favour of Stefan in Amsterdam.
‘We’re going to need a few days to work through the implications of this,’ Rijnsburger said.
‘OK.’ If true, that might buy me just enough time. Quickly, I changed subject. ‘Here’s another suggestion: what about bringing in someone who could do a psychological assessment of the different team members?’
‘Who? Why?’
‘Someone in an ongoing training-slash-counselling role. Something required by Police HQ.’
‘Do you not think that might stir up a hornet’s nest? Why would we take that risk?’ Rijnsburger was clearly considering it, though.
‘They’re doing a lot of things on the computers there at Driebergen.’ I was thinking of Tommy’s comment about the content on Jacques Rahm’s laptop. ‘The question is, who’s monitoring the monitors?’
‘Boomkamp, in the first instance. He’s the commander.’
‘So who’s monitoring him?’
‘You are, on the ground.’
‘I have no idea what they’re doing on those computers, and I doubt I’ll be allowed to find out anytime soon.’
‘It’s not hard to remote-access the computers at Driebergen,’ Rijnsburger said, thinking aloud.
I liked the way he was opening up now, like a reluctant liqueur, past ideal drinking age but worth persevering with.
‘That’s good, but all it will show us is that a lot of illicit material is being viewed,’ I challenged him. ‘It doesn’t tell us anything about their states of mind, their intentions…’
What had the justice minister said in our very first meeting? These operatives have to stare at a lot of images. Perhaps, yes, it could… release certain things in certain men…
It had been Petra’s warning and objection, too.
‘Ongoing training,’ Rijnsburger repeated, meditatively. ‘There’s a police psychologist near here – in Leiden – who might be interesting for that role.’
‘Not the one claiming that as many as one in five of us have paedophilic leanings?’ I shook my head. ‘That would be too much indeed. That might put them too much on the defensive. We want them to act, not pull back.’
Rijnsburger’s bloodshot eyes stared again into the middle distance. ‘Let’s keep it as an option.’
‘OK,’ I agreed, eager to preserve the newfound spirit of cooperation.
He appeared to be thinking again. ‘We should wrap things up here. What else do you have?’
There was something I’d observed in Driebergen that was nagging at me, which I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It’s really true, what they say about short-term memory going as you get older. Things that had happened ten or twenty years ago I could recall with absolute clarity; events that had occurred more recently seemed lost in some memory soup.
Conscious of the seconds ticking by, I said, ‘I can’t think of anything else right now.’
‘Nothing about the leaks relating to Night Market and Operation Guardian Angel?’
There was Tommy Franks’s remark about the leaked suspects being small fry… We let them go. We let the bigger fish feel a bit safer, see? We’re here to hook the biggest fish… But could Franks be trusted now that he’d been caught in a lie?
‘I’m afraid not,’ I replied.
‘Well, keep going,’ Rijnsburger urged. ‘We should speak again next week.’
I agreed and we shook hands.
As soon as I got out of the van, its engine started. It disappeared into the grey afternoon, leaving me alone once more.
*
Driving up to Amsterdam, I put my headset on and tried Petra again. She still wasn’t picking up, and I was becoming concerned.
I tried my daughter Nadia instead.
‘Can I come over?’ she asked.
I glanced at the phone to make sure I’d dialled the right number. ‘Nadia?’
‘Oh, Dad. I thought you were –’
‘The boyfriend?’
‘He has a name,’ she said.
I’d heard the rebuke before. ‘And how is Sergei?’
‘He’s just bought a place here, and I’m due over –’
‘Bought a place where?’
‘Amsterdam,’ she said. ‘Where else?’
‘Are you moving in together?’
I’d almost forgotten why I was calling now.
‘I don’t have time for this,’ she said.
‘Neither do I. Is everything OK with your mum?
‘Why don’t you ask Petra yourself?’
My wife had started encouraging Nadia to call her by her first name; their relationship had grown up. They were as much friends as mother and daughter now.
‘She’s not picking up,’ I said.
‘Well, maybe if you didn’t spend your days looking at child porn, she might!’
Jesus, Petra had told her that? We’d specifically agreed she wouldn’t.
A car swerved in front of me and I broke hard; the juddering anti-lock braking system cut in. I shoved my palm hard against the centre of the steering wheel and kept it there, the horn blaring.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Nadia said.
‘I need to concentrate on my driving.’
I was about to end the call when a very unwelcome thought intruded. ‘Have you mentioned any of this to Sergei?
‘What, about your job? Please,’ she said with a faintly disgusted tone. ‘The last thing I’d want to own up to is –’
‘Then that’s all,’ I said, hanging up.
7
SEPARATION
The door was unlocked when I arrived back at our houseboat on Entrepotdok in Amsterdam’s docklands.
I could hear the shower running. The air was warm, humid and sour-smelling. Unwashed dishes sat in the sink.
I hung my jacket over a dining chair. On the table sat orange plastic cylinders. Pharmacy medication. I picked one up: Bioglan Fluoxetine.
Antidepressants were not prescribed lightly by family clinicians in the Netherlands.
A shriek split the air. ‘What are you doing creeping around?’ Petra cried.
‘Excuse me?’ I set down the antidepressants. ‘Do I not live here anymore?’
‘You startled me!’ she said, grabbing a towel.
She padded across to me, leaving wet footprints on the wooden deck, and gathered up the objects fro
m the kitchen table. ‘Leave these alone.’
‘You didn’t return my calls. I’d no idea what was going on.’
She put away the medication in a wooden cabinet above the sink. I remembered fitting it… Happier times. Or, at least, easier times. Dark tendrils of hair curled down Petra’s back as she reached up into the cabinet. The towel unravelled and she hastily gathered it back up to chest height. I was torn between the anger I still felt over Nadia’s revelation and the need to make up with my wife. I sat down, waiting for that tug of war to resolve.
Petra leaned over the sink, facing away from me.
‘Henk,’ she said in a tone of voice that filled me with sudden dread. ‘I didn’t want to speak with you until I’d arrived at a decision, but I think we should consider a separation.’
‘Oh?’ I tried to hide my surprise but felt my face flush red. Shock – and anger, too. ‘All because of this new role I’ve taken?’
She turned to face me. Her eyes looked dulled.
My phone rang: Stefan. I pressed ignore.
She sighed angrily. ‘It feels like the life has gone out of our relationship. I don’t know why it left, or where it went… or how to get it back. I should be excited to see you again on occasions such as this, to be around you. I’m not.’
I was silent.
‘But,’ she conceded, ‘everything has turned into a struggle, a daily battle of late…’
‘This is sudden,’ I managed.
‘It’s not, really.’
Lost, I waited for her to go on.
‘Ever since I left my job at the newspaper…’ The sentence trailed off. Her eyes were moist.
‘Maybe we can talk about it over dinner.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘OK then,’ I said. ‘Skip dinner. But one thing we need to be absolutely clear about is what we agreed: not to share my new role with anyone, including Nadia.’
‘Nadia found out that I was depressed, so we talked.’
I felt banished from my own family.
She continued: ‘And you promised that you wouldn’t look at images – that you were there only to “watch the watchers”. Tell me that you haven’t!’
Night Market Page 5