back into the city. So he’d found his way into the admin office, talked to the lone officer on duty and got what he wanted
transferred to one of the tablets the younger officers loved so much. The thing sat on the table now. Turned off. Vos didn’t like technology. All too often it seemed to serve up distraction
when what you wanted was focus.
‘Long day,’ he said and left it at that.
‘I know you hate it when I say this, Pieter. But I do watch the news. Marken. Those two girls from that case years back. The Cupids. They said they were on the run or something.’
‘I can’t—’
‘I know you can’t talk about it. I was trying to tell you something.’
He pulled up a chair and she sat down. They talked like this so rarely. He took her for granted. She didn’t seem to mind and he really couldn’t work out why.
‘Gert Brugman,’ Sofia said. ‘The singer. You know him?’
‘Who doesn’t? Has he been hanging round begging for work again?’
The Drie Vaten was too small to host musical evenings. There were better bars in the Jordaan for that. But it didn’t stop some of the local bums trying to pick up money. Sofia Albers was a
soft touch and everyone knew it.
She reached over and took a sip of his beer then retrieved a piece of the liver sausage on his plate.
‘He was in here half an hour ago. Asking for you.’
The man at the counter threw a rubber ball down the bar. Sam watched it bounce on the worn timber planks, gauging its trajectory, then set off after it, racing up and down the floor skidding on
his claws. Maybe he needed to be taken to the grooming shop for a clip, fur and nails.
‘Gert Brugman doesn’t know me.’
‘Not by name. But he knows there’s a police officer from Marnixstraat uses this place. A senior one. Everyone does. He seemed anxious to talk to you.’ She pulled a piece of
paper out of her pocket. ‘He left this.’
A mobile number. She read his face and left him then. Vos tried to call but there was no answer, not even voicemail. Sam got bored with the game and did what he always did when he was tired and
wanted to go home: came over and curled up in a ball beneath the table.
Vos tried the number again then gave up. His head hurt. The beer wasn’t helping. Sofia came back with another one and he couldn’t stop himself taking a swig.
‘He looked worse than usual,’ she said. ‘Which is saying something. I think . . .’
He reached out and put his hand on hers. She fell silent instantly. They didn’t touch like this.
‘Not now,’ Vos pleaded. ‘I need . . .’ Need what? ‘I need a line. A dividing line between what I do and who I am. This place is that line. Without it . .
.’
The terrier shuffled against his legs, sensing an awkward moment as always. Vos had never spoken to her quite like this before. She seemed surprised. Embarrassed too.
The American at the counter finished his beer, threw some money on the bar and came over. He was a big man, built like a boxer but with a broad and genial face. He wore a suit without a tie. A
businessman in town, Vos thought. Looking for a few quiet hours somewhere local.
‘Got to go, sweetheart,’ he said in good Dutch, with only the slightest accent. ‘See you tomorrow. Dinner in that place I told you.’ He glanced at Vos.
‘That’s still OK?’
Sofia got up and he kissed her cheek.
‘Sure, Michael,’ she said. He nodded at Vos then went out into the warm night, ambling along the canal like any other visitor. Whistling. Vos could hear that through the open
door.
‘I didn’t realize . . .’
‘He’s here for one of the banks. A nice man. Fun. From New York.’ She went to the bar and poured herself a small glass of wine. ‘A month. Maybe longer. He says he’s
not married.’ She laughed. ‘Maybe he isn’t.’ She took a sip. ‘But it’s just a month. What the hell?’
‘You deserve better,’ he blurted out.
Sofia Albers glared at him and said, ‘How would you know? Seriously,
transferred to one of the tablets the younger officers loved so much. The thing sat on the table now. Turned off. Vos didn’t like technology. All too often it seemed to serve up distraction
when what you wanted was focus.
‘Long day,’ he said and left it at that.
‘I know you hate it when I say this, Pieter. But I do watch the news. Marken. Those two girls from that case years back. The Cupids. They said they were on the run or something.’
‘I can’t—’
‘I know you can’t talk about it. I was trying to tell you something.’
He pulled up a chair and she sat down. They talked like this so rarely. He took her for granted. She didn’t seem to mind and he really couldn’t work out why.
‘Gert Brugman,’ Sofia said. ‘The singer. You know him?’
‘Who doesn’t? Has he been hanging round begging for work again?’
The Drie Vaten was too small to host musical evenings. There were better bars in the Jordaan for that. But it didn’t stop some of the local bums trying to pick up money. Sofia Albers was a
soft touch and everyone knew it.
She reached over and took a sip of his beer then retrieved a piece of the liver sausage on his plate.
‘He was in here half an hour ago. Asking for you.’
The man at the counter threw a rubber ball down the bar. Sam watched it bounce on the worn timber planks, gauging its trajectory, then set off after it, racing up and down the floor skidding on
his claws. Maybe he needed to be taken to the grooming shop for a clip, fur and nails.
‘Gert Brugman doesn’t know me.’
‘Not by name. But he knows there’s a police officer from Marnixstraat uses this place. A senior one. Everyone does. He seemed anxious to talk to you.’ She pulled a piece of
paper out of her pocket. ‘He left this.’
A mobile number. She read his face and left him then. Vos tried to call but there was no answer, not even voicemail. Sam got bored with the game and did what he always did when he was tired and
wanted to go home: came over and curled up in a ball beneath the table.
Vos tried the number again then gave up. His head hurt. The beer wasn’t helping. Sofia came back with another one and he couldn’t stop himself taking a swig.
‘He looked worse than usual,’ she said. ‘Which is saying something. I think . . .’
He reached out and put his hand on hers. She fell silent instantly. They didn’t touch like this.
‘Not now,’ Vos pleaded. ‘I need . . .’ Need what? ‘I need a line. A dividing line between what I do and who I am. This place is that line. Without it . .
.’
The terrier shuffled against his legs, sensing an awkward moment as always. Vos had never spoken to her quite like this before. She seemed surprised. Embarrassed too.
The American at the counter finished his beer, threw some money on the bar and came over. He was a big man, built like a boxer but with a broad and genial face. He wore a suit without a tie. A
businessman in town, Vos thought. Looking for a few quiet hours somewhere local.
‘Got to go, sweetheart,’ he said in good Dutch, with only the slightest accent. ‘See you tomorrow. Dinner in that place I told you.’ He glanced at Vos.
‘That’s still OK?’
Sofia got up and he kissed her cheek.
‘Sure, Michael,’ she said. He nodded at Vos then went out into the warm night, ambling along the canal like any other visitor. Whistling. Vos could hear that through the open
door.
‘I didn’t realize . . .’
‘He’s here for one of the banks. A nice man. Fun. From New York.’ She went to the bar and poured herself a small glass of wine. ‘A month. Maybe longer. He says he’s
not married.’ She laughed. ‘Maybe he isn’t.’ She took a sip. ‘But it’s just a month. What the hell?’
‘You deserve better,’ he blurted out.
Sofia Albers glared at him and said, ‘How would you know? Seriously,
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