Night Market

by Daniel Pembrey

  ‘Nine thirty-eight. I remember looking at my watch while thinking about tram times.’

  I wrote it all down. Prins Hendrikkade, which ran south-east from Centraal station, was a busy thoroughfare. It would have been quieter at that hour, and dark. Still, there would have been people and traffic in the vicinity. It gave me hope that these thieves were willing to take risks.

  ‘So you’re approaching the bike – Vespa, rather – and you notice two men beside it. Now, before you describe them, tell me how you keep your Vespa locked.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, slightly flustered, ‘I, of course, have the key required for the ignition.’

  ‘But how do you secure it? Chains, alarm?’

  ‘I use a chain.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  She forced open the front door against the wind, which shrieked. The noise grated on my nerves, already frayed by lack of nicotine. While she went to fetch the lock from her bike, I gazed out through the windows. Across the bright water, on Steigereiland, was Heinrich Karremans’s house and architecture studio, frustratingly hidden from view behind other residences.

  Perhaps this bike case wouldn’t serve my purposes so well after all.

  ‘Here,’ Jody said, shutting the door behind her with a bang and handing me the chain. It was plastic-covered, functional, and no match for a strong pair of cutters.

  ‘You don’t have a tracker device or alarm?’

  ‘A lot of people complain about vehicle alarms sounding accidentally,’ she said. ‘I’ve lived in Amsterdam for eight years, and this is the first time anyone’s tried to steal my Vespa –’

  ‘OK, OK. You’ve done nothing wrong. So you thought these two guys might be Moroccan?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. The man at the front desk of the police station suggested it, but those were not my words.’

  ‘This was when you reported the attempted theft?’

  ‘Yes, I did so straight away.’

  ‘Let’s go back to where the Vespa was left.’

  Before continuing, I made a note to check any CCTV, though I knew from past experience – chasing the Hungarian pimp – that camera coverage on Prins Hendrikkade was poor, even near that fateful junction with the tunnel…

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine.’ I snapped out of the memory. ‘Let’s get back to what happened when you approached the men.’

  She drew a sharp breath. ‘Well, it had started to rain. And as I approached my Vespa, I saw two men crouched over it. I slowed my pace, thinking that this was odd – that perhaps I was mistaken, perhaps I had parked it somewhere else. But no, it has the distinctive mirrors. So I crossed Prins Hendrikkade, and as I got closer, I saw that one of them was wielding an implement looking like a large pair of garden shears. I knew then that he was trying to cut the chain. I was angry and afraid at the same time.’ She paused, frowning.

  I gave her a moment to remember that emotion. The sensation of it might come in handy in a moment or so. Finally, I said, ‘Go on.’

  ‘One of the men – not the one with the cutters – looked up.’

  ‘You saw his face?’

  ‘Barely. Both wore dark hoods. His face was dark.’

  ‘Dark-skinned or in shadow?’ I probed.

  ‘I think dark-skinned.’

  ‘What else can you tell me about their appearance?’

  ‘His eyes were dark, too. He looked up, directly at me. Then he tapped the other man on the shoulder. They didn’t even run – they just walked away, the other man putting his shears in a bag. My heart was beating very hard. I was relieved, of course, that they hadn’t taken my Vespa… but then angry that I hadn’t thought to do anything about it.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Taken a photo with my phone?’

  ‘I’m not sure that would have been such a great idea, Jody… What about the man with the cutters – did you see his face?’

  ‘No, they both walked away from me along Prins Hendrikkade at an angle so that I couldn’t see their features.’

  ‘Was there anything distinctive about the way they walked, or anything else you can tell me about them?’

  ‘I think one of them might have been wearing trainers, but I may be imagining that. Perhaps he was just the sort of person who I imagine would wear trainers, if you see the difference. I’m sorry.’

  It never ceased to dismay me how fragile witness testimony could be, even from people as conscientious as Jody. So often, witnesses are in situations of stress, or at least heightened emotion, in the crucial moments. And then there is the question of whether they are recalling actual events or memories of imagined ones, as Jody had just alluded to. Paradoxically, her remark instilled further confidence – in her honesty and credibility as a witness. She was aware of what she didn’t know.

  ‘How tall were they?’

  ‘Both were tall. Perhaps one ninety.’

  ‘What about their build?’

  ‘I don’t know. They both wore dark clothes. Their outlines sort of dissolved into the unlit buildings behind. It was night-time, and raining.’

  ‘Yes, you said.’ I looked over my notes, wondering what else I could ask her. ‘The one who faced you – you said he was dark-eyed and possibly dark-skinned?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘But not necessarily Moroccan?’ I tried prompting her. ‘Could he have been South American? Surinamese? Or Asian?’

  ‘I just don’t know, I’m sorry. His face was in shadow, and I didn’t want to make eye contact.’

  ‘I understand. And no one else was around?’

  ‘There were other people – cyclists, and drivers, but no one I could immediately turn to.’

  ‘So you went to the police station round the corner.’

  ‘That’s right. I hesitated between taking the Vespa or going straight there on foot, but decided to ride, in case the two men came back for it.’

  I nodded. I knew the rest: the signed statement she’d given to the new desk sergeant at IJT3, which didn’t add anything more to what she’d just told me – apart from some unnecessary speculation about the two men’s nationality, and the fact that this was the thirty-eighth moped theft (or attempted theft) reported in our precinct since the summer.

  ‘Tell me, have you parked there again?’

  ‘That same spot on Prins Hendrikkade? No! I take the tram now.’

  ‘It’s a shame for you to be inconvenienced like that.’ I ran my palm over my stubble. ‘I’d like you to park there again.’

  ‘And risk it getting stolen once more? I don’t think so.’

  ‘They’ll likely come back for it, that’s true.’ Statistically, victims of theft – even attempted theft – are far more likely to be burgled again, either because of the prospect of goods replenished on insurance, or simply because thieves work to patterns, like all of us. ‘We’ll take countermeasures. I’d like you to bring your bike round to IJ Tunnel 3 police station, before returning it to that same spot.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Look –’

  ‘I’ll fit the trackers myself. One of them I’ll leave in an obvious place. They won’t find the second one. I know you’re reluctant to risk your Vespa, Jody. I would be too. But imagine, say, that you were a single mum, and that you relied on your moped to get to work… and that this gang stole your only means of transport. How would you feel then?’

  Her eyes were downcast as she considered the scenario. I could only hope that it evoked the strong anger and fear of a few moments ago.

  ‘We need to get these guys.’

  She said it.

  *

  Before jumping back on a tram, I walked along IJburglaan onto Steigereiland and around the marina there. The wind whistled through the masts and halyards of the small pleasure craft, but there was a strength and clean
ness to the light, too, which buoyed my nicotine-starved spirits.

  At the far end of the marina sat the office–studio of Karremans Architectuur. The owner’s five-storey house stood behind it, on stilts – some theory in work–life integration perhaps, though he never seemed to be there.

  The studio was glass-walled. A couple of guys in uniform black were studiously hunched over their iMacs at the communal wooden table.

  It wasn’t obvious where the entrance was.

  Finally, a curious young man got up and opened a glass door, previously invisible.

  ‘Yes?’ he asked, as if interrupted from something terrifically important.

  I showed my warrant card quickly. ‘There’s been a lot of reported moped theft in the vicinity. We’re doing some house-to-house enquiries.’

  ‘Er…’ He looked over his shoulder, rather helplessly, then back to me. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Whether anyone here has been affected, or seen anything untoward in the neighbourhood.’

  A couple of other faces turned my way.

  ‘Erm…’

  ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Maybe I should make an appointment – with the manager?’

  ‘Sure…’

  ‘Mr Karremans?’

  ‘Well, he’s away –’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, in London,’ he said indignantly, ‘but the studio manager could maybe –’

  ‘When is he back?’

  ‘Did you say moped theft?’ He frowned. ‘Maybe you should leave your card.’

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself – the next house along may be more helpful. Thanks for your time.’

  I left him looking wrong-footed and nonplussed. He would be happy to see the back of me rather than pass on word of my visit, I hoped.

  Norway, China, and now London – Heinrich Karremans was certainly proving elusive. But getting closer, I sensed.

  *

  The number 26 tram back into town was noticeably more full than it had been on the way out to IJburg. Most of those sitting near me wore earphones and looked to be in a stupor, courtesy of their smartphones. One teenage girl had her feet up against a vertical handrail, but I let her be.

  I called Stefan. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘I’m making some headway with this nightclub case,’ he updated me. ‘But it’s hard getting people interested.’

  ‘That’s understandable.’

  ‘Why understandable?’ he asked, surprised.

  My own head felt spacey from the lack of tobacco. ‘Recreational Ecstasy’s hardly the greatest threat to the state now, is it?’

  Water and buildings flashed past, then we dropped into darkness below the ring road.

  ‘Stefan? Hello?’

  He was still there, very much so. ‘I can’t believe you just said that. What about the three people who died?’

  ‘How many people die each year in Holland from lung cancer or liver cirrhosis?’

  ‘But you smoke! And drink!’

  ‘I quit. Smoking, at least.’

  The tram rode back up into the light.

  ‘Oh!’ Stefan sounded surprised again. ‘Well, tobacco and alcohol aren’t illegal – MDMA is. We don’t decide the law, we enforce it. Isn’t that one of your sayings?’

  It sounded familiar enough. My head lolled from side to side with the carriage’s sway.

  ‘And consider this,’ Stefan went on, ‘Pieter Westerling – Angel’s father – is another owner of Blip.’

  I sat forward. I knew that the name Westerling had been familiar. Pieter was the same generation as myself – and Frank Hals. We’d run in the same pack, more or less. A former hippy and political activist, Pieter Westerling had, like Hals, gone on to find fortune in the redevelopment of Amsterdam, and specifically its docklands. He’d also served a short spell in prison for fraud and tax evasion, I seemed to recall.

  ‘The Westerlings own a chunk of Werf 83 – the company that, in turn, owns Blip.’

  I looked round the tram, dropping my voice. ‘Is that name also an address?’

  ‘I think it references the year the company started.’

  ‘I see.’ It was the year that the submarine had been decommissioned. ‘Good work.’

  ‘I thought you just said that Ecstasy cases weren’t important?’

  ‘I changed my mind. Look into Westerling’s full police record, both father and son. Also, who owns the rest of the Werf 83 company?’ I checked myself, remembering once more that I wasn’t Stefan’s boss. ‘It’s just a suggestion.’

  ‘I will. What about you?’ he asked. ‘What are you working on?’

  ‘Mulder and Scully have got me working on bike theft.’

  ‘I think you mean Mulder and Sandra.’

  I’d been referencing the lead characters of The X-Files, popular in Holland, but remembered why it might ruffle Stefan’s feathers.

  ‘They put me onto someone who interrupted the theft of a Vespa on Prins Hendrikkade beside the IJ tunnel. It would be helpful to check the CCTV.’

  ‘Didn’t we look at that spot in connection with the Hungarian you were chasing? It was hopeless.’

  ‘Has camera coverage got any better since?’

  ‘Worse. Spending cuts and the civil liberties crowd… not a good combination.’

  ‘No,’ I agreed. I would have to rely on tracking the Vespa myself. Hopefully Jody Klein’s insurance was up to date, and comprehensive. ‘Not to worry, then. Any luck with Scully?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Weren’t you going to ask Sandra out?’

  ‘We met yesterday, actually. But just for a coffee. I don’t think you could call it a date.’

  ‘At the station?’

  ‘No, at the café of the Maritime Museum.’

  ‘Now there’s progress.’

  ‘More as I get it. Bye for now.’

  We ended the call.

  The tram rattled and creaked around the final corner before Centraal station. I jumped out and doubled back across the Oosterdoksdoorgang waterway to the large Saturn electronics store there.

  Amid the endless aisles of consumer gadgetry, I found the section for trackers. They all seemed to work on the same principle: GPS, with software that you could download so as to map the location of the device. All of this could have been handled by the police station’s technical team, but I didn’t want to wait to collect the hundred points that Mulder and Scully had assigned to my goal.

  I tried calling Johan, who was well versed in such technical matters. There was no reply, so I chose the most discreet-looking model I could find, bought it and a more obvious-looking variant, and then left the store, tucking the receipt away safely.

  Beside the Saturn store was a sleek new Koffie & Theehuis. There was no cannabis to be found in this latest brand of coffee house… rather, clean-cut businessmen and tourists. It may as well have been a Starbucks.

  For a moment I thought it was a Starbucks, but then found a waiter and asked him if he could spare a cigarette.

  He obliged.

  I poked the cigarette between my lips, tasted it, and then scrunched it into a bin beside the counter, suitably confounding the poor guy.

  ‘I just quit.’

  Outside, I looked at my watch. There were two hours to go before Jody Klein was due at the police station. I wished we’d made the appointment for sooner. My head in a fog, I returned to the houseboat to join my wife for lunch.

  19

  BAITING THE TRAP

  In place of my usual hunger I felt stomach cramps, tinged with nausea.

  ‘How about some soup?’ Petra suggested. She had some pasta bubbling away on the hob. Her laptop was lit up on the galley table. Bossa nova filled the boat.

  ‘No, really. Just water… and some paracetamol.’
>
  ‘What’s wrong? Is it your ribs and lung again?’

  ‘In a way. I just gave up smoking.’

  She stood stock-still. ‘Just like that?’

  I spread my palms: It was time.

  ‘Oh, Henk, well done.’ She gave me a hug. My ribs had only just healed; I hadn’t realised how much I’d needed one. I exhaled all the air I could.

  She drew back to face me, frowning and smiling encouragingly at the same time. ‘For real this time?’

  I nodded and smiled back. ‘You can thank Nadia.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I went to see her. My God, their apartment! It looks like it belongs in Vogue or something.’

  ‘Doesn’t it, though?’

  ‘I can’t even begin to imagine what it cost.’

  ‘She’s lucky to have found such a well-resourced man.’

  ‘Hmm. Anyway, we made a bet – she wouldn’t take any MDMA, and I wouldn’t smoke.’

  My wife’s frown remained, but the smile had gone. ‘That’s a little one-sided, isn’t it?’

  I assumed she meant that the agonies of withdrawal were all mine. ‘Whatever brings us closer together.’

  ‘No, I meant depriving her.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I said, confused.

  ‘Smoking’s unquestionably bad for you, but Ecstasy…?’

  ‘Is illegal –’

  ‘And wrongly so.’

  This was incredible. ‘I can’t believe –’

  ‘Henk, I wrote about this in depth.’

  ‘For your blog?’

  ‘Many hours of work went into that article, which you never read!’ She paused, as if swallowing her annoyance. ‘MDMA is an empathogen. It enhances sociability, communication, and closeness with others. Maybe you should try it sometime.’

  I didn’t respond.

  ‘And,’ she went on, ‘for a world in which the younger generation is increasingly addicted to smartphones and technology, is that such a bad thing?’

  ‘What about the side effects?’

  ‘If it’s unadulterated and taken in moderation, then the side effects are typically some pupil dilation and mild hallucination at most.’

  ‘Let’s not get into a fight about it,’ I said, reaching for a chair. I blinked exaggeratedly as I sat down, seeing stars. ‘I’ll take that glass of water if it’s still on offer.’