Night Market

by Daniel Pembrey

  Her family psychologist’s brow was crinkling. ‘You were about to say something?’

  ‘Yes,’ I cleared my throat, ‘about the challenges of a father’s relationship with his daughter.’

  Where was I going with this? I was talking too much. This was precisely the kind of trap I encouraged suspects into during police interviews. My upper chest was hot; I tugged at my collar.

  ‘Please,’ she encouraged me to continue, pen in hand.

  ‘I think that it’s very important for people to be allowed to establish their own course in life, and their own identity – to be able to do what’s comfortable and right for them, that is.’

  ‘Has this been an issue between you and your daughter?’

  I tried to make light of it: ‘Perhaps you should ask her.’

  ‘I’m asking you.’

  ‘Well, I hope I’ve managed to avoid that trap, through an awareness of it…’

  The truth was that I’d hoped Nadia might go into law enforcement, creating a bond between us, but she’d opted instead for liberal arts, studying media at university – following in Petra’s footsteps. Like many young Amsterdammers, she cared too much for material things. And I flat out didn’t trust her Russian boyfriend, as Nadia knew well.

  ‘When I consider how things went with my dad,’ I went on, ‘I’m proud that I’ve been present for her, and provided a reference point, of sorts.’

  I wasn’t sure what I was saying anymore. It was like I was trapped in a narrow corridor, and each door that I tried was locked.

  Sonja’s pen made a scratching sound. ‘Is there anything else you want to add?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ I blurted out, ‘I can’t help but blame myself.’

  ‘About your daughter, or your father?’

  ‘My dad.’

  ‘He left you in South Africa, didn’t he? After an incident in the merchant navy there…’

  ‘Yes. I believe it’s a common experience, to feel guilt, when…’ I narrowed my eyes, suddenly seeing a parallel with the victims of child abuse – a crazy thing to say, unprompted. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, recovering my thread. ‘Sometimes I feel I’m doing things in life to put it right, if you follow me. To show that, if I’m doing the right thing, then it couldn’t have been my fault… back then.’

  She put her pen to one side.

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘Yes, that was all fine,’ I said impatiently. ‘We weren’t particularly close, but things were cordial. Stable, rather.’

  ‘OK,’ she said. She was about to say something else, then stopped herself. ‘As I mentioned, I only have half an hour. Is there anything you’d like to ask me?’

  Surely the interview couldn’t be over already?

  ‘What happens next?’

  ‘Your recruitment coordinator will advise you. Thank you for coming over to Willemspark.’

  She smiled neutrally and stood up, ready to shake my hand. The sudden formality was like a slap in the face. The interview was ending too soon.

  I got up with effort, refusing to let it show. ‘Thanks,’ I said, shaking her hand.

  There was a conversational void, which she allowed me to fill.

  ‘Right,’ I said, turning towards the door. ‘I can see myself out. Thanks again.’

  *

  Two streets away, on Willemsparkweg – wary of crossing paths with Sonja on her way to her next appointment – I sucked hard on my cigarette.

  Why had I mentioned all that guff about putting things right with my dad? It was a goal that could never be achieved. I knew that my profile wasn’t the type they were looking for anyway. I’d been opened up like a filleted herring, just as she’d doubtless intended. With one fist I banged the side of a car. An alarm erupted.

  Quickly I walked on. I thought of calling Kelly Verhagen, but decided against it; I knew instinctively that Sonja would recommend against me, and I needed to get ahead of events now. Instead of calling Kelly, I dialled the justice minister’s office in The Hague. His assistant picked up.

  ‘It’s van der Pol calling from Amsterdam, I’m the one –’

  ‘I remember you,’ the assistant cut in. ‘The minister isn’t available.’

  I shuddered with frustration. ‘I suffered a bloody collapsed lung in Driebergen! He said I should hear soon about a new police role in Amsterdam!’

  ‘Wait.’

  Long-spaced beeps – I’d been put on hold.

  ‘Wait for his call back.’

  A click.

  I wandered towards the distant towers of the Rijksmuseum in the late-afternoon gloom, still hearing that bloody car alarm. Would ‘Willem’ already be receiving Sonja Brinkerhof’s assessment? My best bet now was surely to rejoin my old police station in a lower-profile role. It would get me back inside, in the relevant precinct – and give me access to both data systems and cases that I could use as cover…

  I lit another Marlboro Red.

  My old team at the IJ Tunnel 3 police station was now run by a middle-ranking cop named Bart Mulder. I knew this from occasional chats with my former team member Stefan. Mulder was a targets-obsessed bureaucrat. But perhaps there was opportunity in that. One thing I knew how to do was deliver results. Not necessarily the results asked for, but still…

  I’d almost reached Museumplein when my phone rang. A withheld number.

  ‘Van der Pol?’

  It was the minister.

  ‘I did as you suggested and applied to Internal Investigations,’ I told him.

  ‘I know – these things can take time.’

  ‘You said you’d fast-track it. You said –’

  ‘You need to be patient, van der Pol. Even if you’re successful, there’s special legal training required now for the Rijksrecherche. It doesn’t just happen overnight.’

  Even if…

  ‘No special training was required for Driebergen.’

  ‘That was different.’

  ‘In what way, minister? In that no one else was willing to do that dirty work?’

  ‘We needed to clean house, which we’ve now done.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ I said. Then, with urgency: ‘At least get me my old role back at IJ Tunnel 3. I just need to get my feet under a desk.’

  I thought to mention the reappearance of Frank Hals, but knew the minister’s patience was wearing thin. He was saying something about not prejudging things.

  ‘I almost died on that assignment of yours,’ I reminded him.

  ‘All right, Henk,’ he said exasperatedly, coming to a conclusion. ‘Let me see what I can do.’

  16

  CONCEALED CHAMBERS

  ‘So, what are you working on?’ I asked Stefan.

  This time, we’d be working alongside one another, as my new station chief, Bart Mulder, had informed me over the phone.

  Stefan and I were having Sunday afternoon drinks at De Druif. Outside, clouds had gathered. A half-finished plate of bitterballen sat between us. We needed more mustard.

  Stefan answered, ‘Mulder’s brought in an assistant – more like a chief of staff, in fact.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Her name’s Sandra Wittgens. We suspect she’s there to check up on us, only she’s cute. So I’m trying to find a way to disarm her, and ask her out… maybe.’ He took a hasty sip of his lager. ‘What do you think?’

  I laughed. ‘About what?’ The lights of the small bar glinted in Stefan’s fair hair. ‘Do you even know that she’s single?’

  ‘No ring on her finger. No mention of anyone else, and she doesn’t seem to have a life outside the office, so…’

  ‘The only thing I’ve found to work with women is to be straightforward with them. And that’s hardly fail-safe.’ I thought of my wife and my daughter. ‘It’s a little close to home, isn’t it?’

 
‘Is that all?’

  ‘All what?’

  ‘All the advice you’ve got for me?’

  ‘Just don’t burn any bridges, Stefan. I thought you were seeing someone, anyway?’

  ‘I was – past tense. Look, it’s not me we should be discussing here, it’s you! I can’t believe you’re rejoining the team.’

  ‘It’s temporary.’

  ‘It’s great news, is what it is. Things have been so dull.’

  ‘With Mulder?’

  ‘He’s like an accountant – the targets, reports, paperwork…’

  Deep down, I sensed Stefan liked things that way. He’d always preferred station work to fieldwork. I wondered if he’d been interested in that chief of staff role for himself.

  I held up the empty dish of mustard and caught the eye of Gert, who was drying glasses behind the bar. He nodded, signalling that he’d bring over a fresh dish. ‘So, what are you working on?’ I asked, turning back to Stefan. ‘When not pining after Sandra.’

  He shook his head and smiled. ‘Let’s see…’ He looked around. The bar was quiet. ‘Some small-time stuff. Moped theft is trending. Also, there’s a drugs situation in the harbour.’

  ‘Oh?’ I said over the top of my inclined glass. My beer was almost finished; Stefan was barely halfway through his. He waited before explaining further, as Gert set down the fresh dish of mustard and I ordered another round.

  ‘Go on,’ I said once Gert had left.

  Stefan leaned in. ‘There’s a nightclub called Blip.’

  My eyes narrowed. ‘Is that the old Icefish-class submarine? It’s famous, isn’t it?’

  ‘Infamous, more like. It’s been a problem since it opened – insufficient fire escapes, after-parties till noon…’

  HNLMS Ijsvis had been Holland’s largest submarine in its day. Still, it was hard to imagine it as a club. It would be cramped. Perhaps that meant ‘exclusive’, in the hip world of Amsterdam nightclubs…

  ‘And now three people have died aboard it.’

  ‘You’re kidding me?’

  ‘No. MDMA.’ Commonly known as Ecstasy.

  ‘Bad batches,’ Stefan went on. ‘The club’s owners deny all responsibility, blah-di-blah. But it happened on their watch, so naturally their licence has come in for review.’

  ‘Are you working with the drugs team?’

  ‘Not yet. Word came down from on high that it was to be handled locally.’

  It made sense… assuming the supply or consumption of the drugs wasn’t organised. ‘Has the licence been suspended?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Pressure, from all sides.’

  ‘What kind of pressure?’

  ‘Most visibly, a social media campaign to keep the club open. An online petition just reached ten thousand.’

  I was amazed. Trying to get car alarms banned on our street (the bane of our nightly existence), Petra and I had barely scraped together ten signatures.

  ‘What’s so great about a rusting old submarine, which three people have now died aboard?’

  ‘The hipster crowd are behind it. I’ve never been there, but apparently the acoustics are phenomenal. It’s known for its techno music, hence the club’s name.’

  ‘How did you learn this?’

  ‘Erm, from Sandra. A lot of DJs want to play there. Famous ones, from London and Berlin. The kind who will only play there and Paradiso.’

  Paradiso was a storied music venue in the shadow of the Rijksmuseum.

  ‘The city fathers are keen to keep brand Amsterdam cutting-edge, eh?’

  ‘I guess so,’ Stefan said. ‘But then there are the families of the three who died. Anyway, the deal worked out was that the club’s owners would pay for extra security. Four police-trained sniffer dogs costing five hundred euros a night.’

  ‘Sniffer dogs on an old Icefish submarine?’ I’d known some odd cases in the harbour, but this one took the biscuit.

  Just then, Gert arrived with two fresh beers. ‘It’ll do you good,’ I assured Stefan, nodding at his new glass.

  ‘More bitterballen?’ Gert asked.

  ‘We better had,’ I conceded. Once we were alone again, I asked, ‘Who’s the owner?’

  ‘Several people, via a holding company. The visible one is a guy named Angel Westerling. He manages the club day to day. Night to night, rather.’

  I frowned in concentration, trying to remember something. ‘That his real name?’

  ‘I think it might be Angelo.’

  Stefan sipped his lager.

  ‘What’s his form?’ I asked.

  ‘Westerling’s? I’m still finding out. I’m due to visit him tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘He lives on Java-eiland.’

  It was an extension of the Eastern Docklands, a short distance away.

  ‘Mind if I tag along?’

  ‘Sure. If Mulder’s OK with it.’

  ‘But will Sandra be?’ I said, winking.

  *

  ‘Where are you?’ Bart Mulder demanded over the phone the following morning.

  ‘Just wrapping up a couple of things before resuming active duty.’ I affected surprise: ‘Did we have a meeting?’

  ‘We need one,’ my new boss informed me. ‘I understood you were starting today?’

  ‘Yes, I thought I’d ride along with Stefan to meet Angel Westerling this afternoon.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Stefan works on your team, sir.’

  ‘No,’ Mulder snapped, ‘I meant Westerling!’

  ‘He’s the Blip owner. The nightclub in the harbour –’

  ‘I know what Blip is. Who’s agreed this? Listen, van der Pol, we’re running a different ship at IJ Tunnel 3 these days. I know Stefan once worked for you, but things are different now, like I told you. Why do two of you need to meet Westerling?’

  ‘Three people died in that nightclub. Doesn’t that trump moped theft?’

  ‘No, this is not how things work here now. I don’t care if the King himself got you your job back – you and I will work out your assignments and targets, according to the grid.’

  The grid?

  The phone went muffled. Over the loud scratching sound made by his palm, I could hear: ‘Sandra, what time are we both free today?’

  There was some female muttering.

  ‘Check later, then,’ came his muted voice.

  I adjusted the phone headset. I was passing Eindhoven on the A2.

  ‘No, we can’t move any of those…’

  It was barely 10 a.m. I’d avoided rush hour and was making good progress towards Liège.

  ‘Van der Pol?’ Mulder came back on clearly, ‘be in my office at nine a.m. tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  *

  It was 10.57 when I pulled into a parking spot outside Lantin, Belgium’s largest prison. I don’t know how you design a prison to look good, but in this case the architects had excelled themselves. It was a truly dismal sight. Before me stood a long, dark concrete wall with brutal observation towers rising above the undulating landscape. In the field opposite, a herd of cows lowed beneath a tree. The grey skies threatened rain.

  There wasn’t enough time for a cigarette. I wrapped my arms round my ribs and made for the main entrance.

  ‘Officer van der Pol from Amsterdam.’ I held up my new warrant card. ‘I have an appointment to see Jan Stamms.’

  Inside, there were three dreary clusters of buildings, each enclosing its own courtyard. A guard escorted me to the building in the far cluster. I asked him if it was intentional that Stamms was housed furthest away from the entrance. He merely shrugged.

  Jan Stamms was waiting for me in a light-grey interview room. His appearance was immediately disconcerting: he had
large, liquid eyes, and a couple of days’ beard growth.

  ‘You can leave us,’ I told the guard as I sat on the opposite side of the bare table. The guard readily did so.

  ‘Jan, I’m Henk van der Pol from the Amsterdam police force.’ I paused for effect. ‘Do you prefer Jan, or Paul?’

  He tilted his head. His eyes clouded over, like milk poured into tea.

  ‘I know you changed your identity, Paul. And I know that – just as there was a concealed second basement in that nondescript house of yours in Liège, where those two boys were found – you have a hidden past, too.’

  His voice was quiet. ‘Who are you?’

  I raised an appeasing hand. ‘We’ll come to that in a moment.’ With my other hand I retrieved from my inside pocket a 20 x 25 cm photo that I placed face down on the table. Stamms eyed it, then me.

  ‘First, I want to clarify my understanding: you’re from Holland, yet you ended up in a boys’ home in Ghent. Beau Soleil. Is that correct?’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  I decided to tell him the truth, on the basis that it may open him up. ‘I worked with a policeman called Manfred Boomkamp.’

  ‘Boomkamp?’ His eyes flashed. ‘Became a cop? Where?’

  ‘You knew Boomkamp at the boys’ home, correct?’

  He didn’t deny it.

  ‘Boomkamp died in a forest… on a police exercise. I was with him when he passed. Before he went, he told me about you, and your background.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of your link to the Night Market child network. The one on the Dark Web. Look, Paul, I’m going to make a deal with you. I haven’t mentioned your past to anyone else. I don’t know what Boomkamp might have said to others, but he was keeping many secrets himself. This conversation can remain between us – you don’t talk about it, I won’t either. Now, help me understand how a boy from Amsterdam ends up in a Ghent foster home like that in the first place.’

  He looked like he’d gone into a trance.

  ‘Paul,’ I said sharply, trying to snap him out of it.