Night Market

by Daniel Pembrey

  ‘Fine.’

  The reality was that Petra and I belonged to an Amsterdam generation that believed in the kind of ideas she’d just mentioned. The difference being that, back in the days we met, the younger generation had been fighting for a better society. Now it was all about the individual experience, merely indulged among other people. Or so it seemed to me.

  Then again, I’d joined the police. So what did that say?

  ‘Let’s change the subject.’ I gulped down the water she’d handed me, then noticed her laptop again. ‘What are you writing about now?’

  She sighed wearily. ‘The mariners’ chapel off Kattenburgerstraat. It’s at risk… Developers.’

  ‘You’re kidding me?’ With its maritime history and rosewood pews, the mariners’ chapel was one of my favourite places in all Amsterdam. ‘That can’t be allowed.’ But my concern sounded off-key – caring about this, and not her other piece.

  ‘There’s a community meeting being organised…’

  ‘Well, let me know how I can help. Hold on–’ My phone was ringing. ‘Johan,’ I answered. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘You tried calling me,’ my friend said.

  We hadn’t spoken in a while. He sounded distant.

  ‘Wait a moment.’ I ascended the wooden steps and went out onto the bright deck. ‘I have a question for you.’

  He didn’t say anything, so I jumped straight in: ‘I need to track a bike that I believe a gang of thieves is about to steal. The question being, where to put the tracker so they don’t find it?’

  ‘What kind of bike?’

  I told him.

  He stayed silent. I filled the gap. ‘I thought about the fuel tank. Isn’t there a float, which the fuel gauge reads? If I could wrap the tracker in something petrol-resistant, then –’

  ‘You won’t get a signal.’

  The GPS. ‘Of course.’ I wasn’t thinking straight.

  ‘If the software can’t read the GPS ping, it will likely step down to GSM cellular triangulation,’ he said, his voice growing stronger, more confident – more like the Johan of old… before the shooting, that is. ‘What type of tracker is it?’

  I explained.

  ‘I don’t know it,’ he said, ‘but GSM triangulation is only accurate to about two hundred metres. That’s hardly going to bring you to the thief’s doorstep in a city as crowded as this one, is it?’

  True.

  ‘The thing is, three dozen mopeds have gone missing of late,’ I said. ‘That’s a lot of bikes to fence and move on – even smaller ones. What if the bikes are going through a chop shop? Which external parts would be left on?’

  Johan was silent again. Finally he remarked, ‘I don’t know with those mopeds. But no part’s immune to being swapped out if they go through a chop shop. You may as well stick it on the back or wherever the hell the signal is good, and hope for the best.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. I was pacing the deck, suddenly conscious that it might be annoying Petra below. I stood still.

  ‘So, how are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, keeping busy, more or less.’

  ‘We should go for a drink sometime.’

  ‘OK.’

  I dropped my voice. ‘Johan, there’s something else. I need to get some information about a website. It’s on the Dark Web.’ I was referring to Night Market. ‘Do you know of anyone who may be able to help with that?’

  ‘A hacker, you mean?’

  ‘Someone who could do some digging around, incognito.’

  ‘What sort of site?’

  ‘Underage sex.’

  ‘Child porn?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  He paused. ‘Look, Henk… after everything that’s happened, I’m not sure I’m your guy.’

  ‘I understand, but maybe this will help with the other situation.’

  ‘The shooting?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘How?’

  At that moment, a stark image came to me of the racketeer Zsolt To˝zsér, his face frozen, submerged in the water of that dyke north-east of Amsterdam… a silver trace of bubbles rising in the white headlights of the approaching vehicle.

  I winced.

  ‘Henk, you there?’

  Joost was the key to it all. Only how?

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I don’t know yet how it all fits together.’

  ‘OK…’ he said slowly.

  ‘Let’s discuss it in person.’

  ‘OK,’ he repeated.

  Why couldn’t I remember all the events leading up to Johan shooting him? Elements of the night still eluded all recall. So why didn’t I just ask Johan about it, now? He was my oldest friend…

  Was it embarrassment, maybe, about my failing memory?

  No – something else I now saw. Fear.

  I was afraid, of what he or I might recall.

  ‘You’re right,’ I finally said, ‘it’s not a good idea.’

  With growing unease in his voice: ‘OK…’

  ‘Let’s get that drink sometime.’

  We managed our goodbyes. I pressed the edge of the phone to my closed lips, reflecting again on the events of the last couple of years. When I went back down into the galley, Petra was working at her laptop, tapping the keys determinedly. I collected the trackers that I’d bought from the Saturn store, grabbed a half-used tube of superglue, and headed to the police station.

  *

  Jody Klein arrived at the station on her silver Vespa at 3 p.m. precisely. Sunlight flashed over its chrome and mirrors before it turned into the garage entrance. She killed the engine and pulled off her helmet.

  Her elfin features looked pinched and apprehensive.

  ‘This should be quick,’ I said reassuringly, taking the handlebars. Compared to my old BMW, the Vespa felt incredibly light – like it might fly out from underneath me if I tried to ride it. I put it on its stand and eyed the various potential locations for the trackers. My gaze settled on the tan leather seat. There was a strap round the back of it.

  I tore open the smaller tracker’s packaging with my teeth. The device itself was round and no bigger than one of my fingernails. I unsnapped the leather strap and placed the device over the back of one of the strap’s poppers; it fitted and looked inconspicuous enough. The signal emission should be fine.

  I produced the superglue from my pocket. My fingers tingled. I needed to find a tobacco substitute, a smoker’s methadone. Why was I fiddling around like this with trackers and glue, anyway? Who cared if these yuppies’ mopeds went missing? I cursed my lack of a small vice to hold it all in place while the glue set. Perhaps I could use a heavy object to speed the process up. Not the Vespa – rather, the liveried BMW F800GS police motorcycle parked beside the garage entrance…

  ‘Here,’ I said to Jody. ‘If I hold up the rear end of this bike, could you place these very carefully on the ground beneath it?’

  I handed Jody the strap and tracker and she did as I asked. No sooner had I let the wheel down than a voice shouted, ‘Hey!’

  I knew that voice, and turned to find Kurt Larsson – a medical examiner I’d worked with in the past. Only, the jovial Swede was wearing fluorescent-yellow police gear now. ‘What are you doing with my bike?’ Then, as he got closer: ‘Henk?’

  ‘What’s the world coming to, Kurt? You left the medical profession to join the traffic cops?’

  In one hand, he held a polystyrene cup of black coffee. With the other, he clasped my own hand. ‘I’d had enough of dead bodies,’ he said, smiling toothily.

  ‘Well it’s good to see you again. I’m just making use of your bike for a little DIY project here.’

  ‘Oh, what’s that?’

  I explained and introduced him to Jody. ‘By the way,’ I told her, ‘if you’d like to get coffee yourself, there’s a vending machine ov
er there. It’s free, and this glue still needs a couple of minutes to set.’

  She followed my suggestion.

  ‘So how’s life?’ Larsson asked me.

  ‘Passing too fast,’ I replied. ‘You?’

  ‘Good,’ he said, patting the seat of his bike and looking admiringly over the BMW’s instrumentation. ‘I can’t believe I’m being paid to ride this thing all day.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were a biker,’ I said. ‘I would have suggested going out on a ride sometime.’

  He picked up the discarded packaging curiously. ‘You can track these from our trip computers now.’

  ‘Oh, they work via the web,’ I said. ‘You can track them via any phone or laptop, in fact.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s a bit awkward if you’re in a pursuit, isn’t it?’ He winked.

  ‘God willing, it won’t come to that.’ I glanced at my watch – the glue should have set. ‘Could you lift up the back wheel?’

  Larsson obliged.

  I snapped the strap back onto the moped’s seat, then sat on it to test that the tracker was both secure and inconspicuous. Jody rejoined us.

  ‘OK,’ I said, handing her the Vespa. ‘I’ll walk round to Prins Hendrikkade and wait near the spot, just to make sure you’re OK. Give me five minutes, then ride over there. Park it up and leave the scene as naturally as possible.’

  ‘Should I put the lock on?’ she asked apprehensively.

  ‘Yes. Just like before. Everything as normal.’

  Then I remembered about the decoy tracker. The most obvious place I could think for it was the bottom of the luggage compartment beneath the seat. I dropped it in there.

  We were ready.

  ‘Good to see you, Kurt,’ I said, walking out and waving.

  ‘You too, Henk.’

  I made my way round to Prins Hendrikkade, surveying the harbourscape and its irregular skyline as I went – the masts of the old ship moored beside the maritime museum, the copper-clad science centre built over the mouth of the IJ tunnel to North Amsterdam…

  ‘Come on then, you thieving bastards,’ I muttered to myself. ‘Let’s see if you can get me my hundred points from Mulder and Scully.’

  As Jody pulled up on the other side of the street, my phone buzzed. It was Kelly Verhagen, the police recruitment coordinator. I didn’t want to hear about my rejected application to the Rijksrecherche right now.

  I did want to hear from Stefan, however. He’d just sent me a text, asking to meet. I surveyed Jody – looping the chain through the little front wheel, walking away – then made for De Druif.

  *

  Stefan was already there, up the short flight of steps from the bar, sitting and drinking a milky coffee.

  ‘Make that two,’ I told Gert.

  I sat opposite Stefan. ‘So what’s up?’ I asked.

  ‘I did some more digging into Werf 83 – the company that owns Blip.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There’s a company called Cyclamen investing alongside Pieter and Angel Westerling. It’s Middle Eastern.’

  ‘Where in the Middle East?’

  ‘The Emirates.’

  ‘Hmm.’ There was money pouring into the harbour area from all four corners of the globe. Still, this felt significant. A sheikh from the Emirates had been implicated in the favours-for-energy racket. Or was I seeing patterns where they didn’t exist? Look for patterns long enough, and you’ll find them anywhere. Who’d said that?

  ‘Henk, are you OK?’

  Through the windows I glimpsed a young couple leaning over the canal’s railing, smoking. The canal waters looked unusually still. Like the dyke in which Zsolt To˝zsér had died…

  ‘Henk!’ Stefan prompted.

  ‘Yes. Have you told anyone about this?’

  ‘I updated Sandra,’ he replied.

  My coffee arrived, and we waited for Gert to leave again. I watched him go back to the bar. There were packets of cigarettes beneath it.

  ‘Do you want me to leave you alone?’ Stefan was asking.

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Sorry. What did she say?’

  ‘Sandra? Not much. Merely that I appeared to be veering off course with the case. It’s supposed to be about drugs, after all.’

  I thought about that. Her reaction seemed understandable.

  ‘But that’s not all,’ Stefan went on. ‘I looked more deeply into Pieter Westerling’s past. There was a lot on the system. Fraud, tax evasion, drugs… and this.’

  He slid a document over the table towards me. It was an old police complaint form. ‘A boy at a foster home near Breda filed a complaint against him.’

  My heart thumped. Breda was near the Belgian border.

  It was a while since I’d seen one of these old forms. The date showed 17 October 1993. I must have filled out hundreds over the years on behalf of alleged victims of various kinds.

  ‘And consider this,’ Stefan said, pointing to the name of the complainant, ‘Jurgen Straeffer is now a doorman at Blip.’

  I studied the complaint form. ‘This was never taken further, I’m guessing?’

  ‘No,’ Stefan replied. ‘Only, why not?’

  I shrugged. ‘The relationship between an abuser and his abused is never straightforward – if that’s indeed what happened here.’

  ‘But why would the alleged victim end up working for the alleged abuser, at Blip? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘It might, if Westerling felt he needed to make things right with him. Or buy his silence, maybe. Who knows?’

  ‘There’s more,’ Stefan said. ‘There’s another complaint against Westerling, by a young girl – right here in Amsterdam.’

  He slid another police form on top of the first. It was more recent. Much more recent: last year.

  Stefan leant in. ‘This time, the victim’s name is redacted.’ In place of the complainant’s name was a band of black ink. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘Why what – the redaction? Youth victim… privacy.’

  Stefan flushed, like he should have known that.

  The address of the alleged offence was Keizersgracht 840.

  ‘What is that?’ I asked, pointing at the address.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That address – Keizersgracht 840.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Stefan replied.

  I entered the address into my smartphone. It was almost on the Amstel river, and looked to be a private residence – an expensive one, judging by the location.

  I realised that I had froth from the coffee on my upper lip and wiped it away. ‘Have you said anything about this to anyone?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Nothing to Mulder?’

  ‘No,’ he replied.

  ‘Don’t.’

  Stefan paused. ‘Look, Henk… this is my case. You’ve told me enough times: you’re no longer my boss.’

  ‘Fine. Then work it as you see fit. But if I were you, I would work the drugs angle, the club in the harbour, like you were asked to. Everything else – the alleged child abuse, the Middle Eastern investments – I suggest you forget, and file back where you found it.’ I slid the reports across to him. ‘You haven’t told anyone else?’ I reconfirmed.

  Stefan paused again, as if choosing his words carefully. ‘I thought I was doing you a favour by passing these on?’

  ‘OK, I’m sorry.’ I held up my hands. ‘And I’m grateful to you for sharing these. I just don’t want to see you end up…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Like me.’ I exhaled sharply through my nostrils, making them flare. ‘At odds with everyone. My advice is to focus on what’s working for you. Focus on Mulder, and Scully.’

  ‘Well I most definitely don’t want to end up with amnesia,’ he joked. ‘One of these days, you’ll get Sandra’s name right.’

/>   With the lighter tone, I took my leave. I walked out into the late-afternoon sunshine, aware that things wouldn’t stay light for long.

  20

  MOONLIT DRIVE

  Back at the boat, Petra was still working on her article about the mariner’s chapel. The title read: AT RISK!

  ‘I’m going to go deep on this one,’ she promised as I pecked her on the cheek.

  My hands, arms and feet were tingling. Giving up smoking had left me in a state of nervous exhaustion – anxious yet lethargic. I thought about making a doctor’s appointment, or at least visiting the Albert Heijn on Sarphatistraat to get some pain killers, but instead retreated to the sofa.

  My head was throbbing; I was shivering. I lay down, replaying the conversation with Stefan. Eventually, I managed to doze off.

  Next thing I knew, it was night. My mouth was bone dry and there was an audible buzzing sensation.

  At first I thought I’d developed tinnitus. Then I reached for my phone: it was sounding an alert for the tracker app, telling me that Jody Klein’s moped was on the move.

  I swung my numb legs to the floor, and found and booted up my laptop, sitting with it on the leather sofa’s edge.

  Petra wasn’t in the galley. She must have gone out, to the shops maybe.

  The tracker map launched on the screen. It was still showing the location on Prins Hendrikkade where Jody had left the Vespa. I realised that I was looking at the location of the decoy tracker. The thieves must have found and discarded it.

  I opened up the map for the second, more discrete tracker. It showed a short red line, indicating that this other device had moved into the IJ tunnel.

  For what felt like minutes, nothing happened. Then the red line started again, on the far side of the tunnel – heading north on the S116. It passed the intersection with the S118 and proceeded up through Volewijkspark.

  At the next intersection, a few hundred metres further on, it turned east onto Nieuwe Purmerweg and then north again onto Waddenweg. I didn’t know these streets, nor this part of North Amsterdam. The progression of the worm-like line was slowing as it turned in on itself – into what looked like a dead end…