asked.
‘Quite.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said and stood there, sad-faced but pretty in an innocent, adolescent way.
People joined the police for different reasons. He wanted to be a part of something that helped. That made the world better. Laura Bakker . . . he wondered. Frank de Groot was a clever, incisive man, as good a judge of character as anyone Vos had known. That remark about how she was trying to herd the flock . . .
The police didn’t change things. He’d learned that early on. At best they offered comfort. Reined in the worst elements of a society so fractured it was incapable of healing itself. It was wise not to hold out too much hope, to set your sights too high. The cost of failure could be shattering.
‘I’m sorry I said those stupid things,’ Vos told her. ‘About drunk drivers. I don’t talk to people much these days. It’s hard.’
For the first time she looked actively cross at something he’d said.
‘You weren’t to know,’ she replied, then pushed past him, tried the doorbell. Heard nothing, banged on the woodwork with her fist.
12
The girl who answered the door had short and greasy fair hair, a face so pale it seemed like parchment, a skinny, haggard frame. Long Indian cotton dress and a threadbare jumper which she clutched constantly, holding herself by the elbows where a grubby sweatshirt showed through.
Four floors high the terraced house stank of dope and sweat and drains. A communal kitchen, no sign of food. In the front room two drowsy men passing round a bubble pipe.
She was called Til and came from Limburg in the south. The source of De Groot’s cheese. Bakker asked for her ID. Mathilde Stamm. Nineteen. The age Anneliese would have been now. Same as the Prins girl too.
They tried to talk to her about Katja. Gave up and went to the men smoking in the front room. Got nowhere. Back to the girl, pinned her in a corner, waited until she gave in.
Didn’t take long once she understood Vos wasn’t leaving without answers. Katja had lived in the squat for a year off and on. Til didn’t know where she went when she wasn’t there. No boyfriends around. Girlfriends either.
‘No friends at all then?’ Bakker asked before Vos could say another word.
The girl hugged herself more tightly.
‘What is this?’
‘She’s missing. We think she could be in trouble.’
Til Stamm laughed.
‘Just ’cos you can’t find her doesn’t mean she’s missing. Katja gets up to stuff. Gets away with it too. Her old man’s loaded. He runs Amsterdam, doesn’t he?’
‘He thinks so,’ Vos said, looking around the house. It seemed as transient as Centraal station. A place people came and went. Not much more.
‘Her dad can fix things,’ the girl added. ‘He sent her off to rehab.’ She reached into the grubby jumper, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one with shaking fingers. ‘As if Katja cared.’
‘Where?’ Vos asked.
‘The Yellow House. Behind the Flower Market. I don’t have that kind of money.’ She laughed again and it made her cough. ‘Or needs.’
Laura Bakker looked her up and down and said, ‘You mean Katja was even worse than you?’
Vos sighed. The kid flew off the handle, started throwing a flurry of curses, at Bakker, at him. The cigarette fell from her trembling fingers.
Taken aback by the sudden violent outburst Bakker retreated. The men with the bubble pipe didn’t move. No one did except Pieter Vos who retrieved the cigarette from the dirty floor, held it out in front of Til Stamm, waited for her to calm down, then placed it back in her fingers.
‘Do you like her?’ he asked when she quietened down.
‘Katja’s OK. Not snooty. I think maybe . . .’ She twirled a finger at her ear. ‘Her head’s not quite straight. But she never pushed her old man at us. We just saw him when she needed something.’
‘Like what?’ Vos asked.
‘Like money. Or a get-out-of-jail card.’
‘Why would she need that, Til?’
His voice was calm,
‘Quite.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said and stood there, sad-faced but pretty in an innocent, adolescent way.
People joined the police for different reasons. He wanted to be a part of something that helped. That made the world better. Laura Bakker . . . he wondered. Frank de Groot was a clever, incisive man, as good a judge of character as anyone Vos had known. That remark about how she was trying to herd the flock . . .
The police didn’t change things. He’d learned that early on. At best they offered comfort. Reined in the worst elements of a society so fractured it was incapable of healing itself. It was wise not to hold out too much hope, to set your sights too high. The cost of failure could be shattering.
‘I’m sorry I said those stupid things,’ Vos told her. ‘About drunk drivers. I don’t talk to people much these days. It’s hard.’
For the first time she looked actively cross at something he’d said.
‘You weren’t to know,’ she replied, then pushed past him, tried the doorbell. Heard nothing, banged on the woodwork with her fist.
12
The girl who answered the door had short and greasy fair hair, a face so pale it seemed like parchment, a skinny, haggard frame. Long Indian cotton dress and a threadbare jumper which she clutched constantly, holding herself by the elbows where a grubby sweatshirt showed through.
Four floors high the terraced house stank of dope and sweat and drains. A communal kitchen, no sign of food. In the front room two drowsy men passing round a bubble pipe.
She was called Til and came from Limburg in the south. The source of De Groot’s cheese. Bakker asked for her ID. Mathilde Stamm. Nineteen. The age Anneliese would have been now. Same as the Prins girl too.
They tried to talk to her about Katja. Gave up and went to the men smoking in the front room. Got nowhere. Back to the girl, pinned her in a corner, waited until she gave in.
Didn’t take long once she understood Vos wasn’t leaving without answers. Katja had lived in the squat for a year off and on. Til didn’t know where she went when she wasn’t there. No boyfriends around. Girlfriends either.
‘No friends at all then?’ Bakker asked before Vos could say another word.
The girl hugged herself more tightly.
‘What is this?’
‘She’s missing. We think she could be in trouble.’
Til Stamm laughed.
‘Just ’cos you can’t find her doesn’t mean she’s missing. Katja gets up to stuff. Gets away with it too. Her old man’s loaded. He runs Amsterdam, doesn’t he?’
‘He thinks so,’ Vos said, looking around the house. It seemed as transient as Centraal station. A place people came and went. Not much more.
‘Her dad can fix things,’ the girl added. ‘He sent her off to rehab.’ She reached into the grubby jumper, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one with shaking fingers. ‘As if Katja cared.’
‘Where?’ Vos asked.
‘The Yellow House. Behind the Flower Market. I don’t have that kind of money.’ She laughed again and it made her cough. ‘Or needs.’
Laura Bakker looked her up and down and said, ‘You mean Katja was even worse than you?’
Vos sighed. The kid flew off the handle, started throwing a flurry of curses, at Bakker, at him. The cigarette fell from her trembling fingers.
Taken aback by the sudden violent outburst Bakker retreated. The men with the bubble pipe didn’t move. No one did except Pieter Vos who retrieved the cigarette from the dirty floor, held it out in front of Til Stamm, waited for her to calm down, then placed it back in her fingers.
‘Do you like her?’ he asked when she quietened down.
‘Katja’s OK. Not snooty. I think maybe . . .’ She twirled a finger at her ear. ‘Her head’s not quite straight. But she never pushed her old man at us. We just saw him when she needed something.’
‘Like what?’ Vos asked.
‘Like money. Or a get-out-of-jail card.’
‘Why would she need that, Til?’
His voice was calm,
Similar Books
