was a surprise. ‘Commissaris De Groot wasn’t happy.’
‘You don’t have trams in Dokkum?’ Vos asked.
‘Dokkum’s the most northerly town in the Netherlands. Did you know that?’
They found the dead-end turning down towards the canal.
‘Trams, Laura. I was asking about the trams.’
‘No trams.’ A shrug, the briefest of giggles as she put her long fingers to her lips. ‘Otherwise I wouldn’t have bashed that one here. He just came at me! I told De Groot. Wasn’t my fault.’
Vos climbed off his old bike. The little basket on the front seemed empty without the dog. He wondered how far he could push Sofia Albers, the woman who ran the Drie Vaten. The odd beer and coffee seemed scant reward for dog care and laundry.
‘Why did you pick me?’ she asked. ‘You could have had one of the proper detectives?’
‘You seemed interested,’ Vos said. He smiled. ‘And I’m not a proper detective either.’
The joke didn’t humour her.
‘I’m an aspirant, Vos. They’re going to fire me next week.’
‘In that case let’s make the best of things.’
She seemed to like a straight answer. Bakker looked up at the street sign and said, ‘This is where it came from, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘Your doll’s house. Petronella Oortman lived in Warmoesstraat.’
She did, Vos thought. Not that anyone knew where. He’d tried to find out.
‘Is it important?’ Bakker asked.
A drawing of an ancient doll’s house. A famous one. Stuck on a miniature coffin. After that nothing. Just a black and endless well of doubt and grief. Once, in a screaming match in the night, Liesbeth had yelled at him, ‘You want her dead, don’t you? You want to see her corpse?’
Not at all. He wanted to watch her walk down their street in the Jordaan the way she used to, happy, free, smiling, occasionally mischievous. To vanish like that, after such dreadful, terrifying messages, was worse than a bereavement somehow. It left them both with a wound that refused to heal. A question that came with no possible answer.
‘I think it must be,’ Vos said, coming back to the present. ‘I just don’t . . .’
Understand. It seemed the wrong word. Some things were beyond comprehension, and perhaps Anneliese’s disappearance was one of them.
Bakker wheeled her bike round the corner into the narrow lane running down to the water, checking the numbers on the terraces. The buildings became more run-down. She found a battered red door. Posters in the cracked and dirty windows. Bands, movies and dope. The sound of music from inside.
Recent rock. Which sounded like a pale copy of the originals he preferred.
‘The doll he sent you,’ she said chaining her bike on the railings. ‘Where did it come from?’
‘You mean you didn’t look in the files?’
She folded her long arms.
‘I haven’t read everything.’
This wasn’t going away. Not with Laura Bakker asking.
‘We never found out,’ he said. ‘It was expensive. Looked antique but it wasn’t. They’re made in Germany. No one sells them in Amsterdam. Not like that cheap thing you’ve got in Marnixstraat now. Someone spent real money on this. Maybe . . .’
She waited then, when he said nothing, asked, ‘Maybe?’
‘Maybe he had it already. He was a collector. Crinoline dress. Not much different from the kind of thing Petronella might have put in her doll’s house.’
‘It had her hair?’
‘Yes.’
‘And her blood?’
‘Yes,’ he said, feeling cold and miserable, wishing he was back on the boat with the dog and some beer. Maybe a smoke if things got bad.
‘So you think she was dead already?’ Bakker asked. ‘He was torturing you? Not your daughter?’
When the case was alive he’d rarely had conversations like this, even with Frank de Groot. They were too close and personal.
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘He wasn’t a lunatic like De Groot says. That’s too . . .’
Words. Sometimes they wouldn’t come.
‘Simple?’ Bakker
‘You don’t have trams in Dokkum?’ Vos asked.
‘Dokkum’s the most northerly town in the Netherlands. Did you know that?’
They found the dead-end turning down towards the canal.
‘Trams, Laura. I was asking about the trams.’
‘No trams.’ A shrug, the briefest of giggles as she put her long fingers to her lips. ‘Otherwise I wouldn’t have bashed that one here. He just came at me! I told De Groot. Wasn’t my fault.’
Vos climbed off his old bike. The little basket on the front seemed empty without the dog. He wondered how far he could push Sofia Albers, the woman who ran the Drie Vaten. The odd beer and coffee seemed scant reward for dog care and laundry.
‘Why did you pick me?’ she asked. ‘You could have had one of the proper detectives?’
‘You seemed interested,’ Vos said. He smiled. ‘And I’m not a proper detective either.’
The joke didn’t humour her.
‘I’m an aspirant, Vos. They’re going to fire me next week.’
‘In that case let’s make the best of things.’
She seemed to like a straight answer. Bakker looked up at the street sign and said, ‘This is where it came from, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘Your doll’s house. Petronella Oortman lived in Warmoesstraat.’
She did, Vos thought. Not that anyone knew where. He’d tried to find out.
‘Is it important?’ Bakker asked.
A drawing of an ancient doll’s house. A famous one. Stuck on a miniature coffin. After that nothing. Just a black and endless well of doubt and grief. Once, in a screaming match in the night, Liesbeth had yelled at him, ‘You want her dead, don’t you? You want to see her corpse?’
Not at all. He wanted to watch her walk down their street in the Jordaan the way she used to, happy, free, smiling, occasionally mischievous. To vanish like that, after such dreadful, terrifying messages, was worse than a bereavement somehow. It left them both with a wound that refused to heal. A question that came with no possible answer.
‘I think it must be,’ Vos said, coming back to the present. ‘I just don’t . . .’
Understand. It seemed the wrong word. Some things were beyond comprehension, and perhaps Anneliese’s disappearance was one of them.
Bakker wheeled her bike round the corner into the narrow lane running down to the water, checking the numbers on the terraces. The buildings became more run-down. She found a battered red door. Posters in the cracked and dirty windows. Bands, movies and dope. The sound of music from inside.
Recent rock. Which sounded like a pale copy of the originals he preferred.
‘The doll he sent you,’ she said chaining her bike on the railings. ‘Where did it come from?’
‘You mean you didn’t look in the files?’
She folded her long arms.
‘I haven’t read everything.’
This wasn’t going away. Not with Laura Bakker asking.
‘We never found out,’ he said. ‘It was expensive. Looked antique but it wasn’t. They’re made in Germany. No one sells them in Amsterdam. Not like that cheap thing you’ve got in Marnixstraat now. Someone spent real money on this. Maybe . . .’
She waited then, when he said nothing, asked, ‘Maybe?’
‘Maybe he had it already. He was a collector. Crinoline dress. Not much different from the kind of thing Petronella might have put in her doll’s house.’
‘It had her hair?’
‘Yes.’
‘And her blood?’
‘Yes,’ he said, feeling cold and miserable, wishing he was back on the boat with the dog and some beer. Maybe a smoke if things got bad.
‘So you think she was dead already?’ Bakker asked. ‘He was torturing you? Not your daughter?’
When the case was alive he’d rarely had conversations like this, even with Frank de Groot. They were too close and personal.
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘He wasn’t a lunatic like De Groot says. That’s too . . .’
Words. Sometimes they wouldn’t come.
‘Simple?’ Bakker
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