coffee shop or bar. He understood that. Appreciated where they stood in the world.
‘Stop,’ he said when he couldn’t take her screams any more.
It went on for another minute or more. Red kid was quiet. Didn’t even moan about his arm.
‘I said cut it out!’
Menzo came back on the line and said, ‘It’s up to you, kid. You know what to do.’
He sounded so calm he might have been ordering pizza.
‘Say you won’t hurt her.’
Stupid words. Pointless.
‘I won’t hurt her. There.’
Blue kid opened the window and threw the phone out onto the grubby pavement.
Red kid watched him then asked, ‘Where are we going if we don’t go to Africa?’
‘What’s your name?’
A moment’s pause then, ‘Etienne.’
Blue kid wiped his nose with his sleeve and said, ‘Forgive me Etienne.’
Then picked up the gun that lay between them, shot him once through the head the way he’d learned on the hard streets back home.
The canal was watching him. Listening. Waiting.
The Mercedes couldn’t have been more than six months old. Clean and shiny. Nice black leather. Still had that new smell. He’d have ripped off something like this back home. Jacked it in a flash. Maybe in Cape Town he could have bought one for himself.
Manual though. What an American hood he knew called a stick shift. Not automatic like this.
Blue kid wound his arms around the steering wheel as if he was hugging it. Then he slammed his right foot onto the accelerator and clung on as the silver Mercedes burst across the blocked end of the road, over the cycle track, through the low brick wall at the end, and roared down towards the leaden, opaque water below.
22
Wim Prins didn’t get home till just after eight. Liesbeth was in the living room clutching a glass of Scotch. The TV was on. Too loud.
He sat down and watched the evening news. An extended edition. Talk of gangster wars, violence on the streets of Amsterdam.
‘Mulder called from Marnixstraat,’ she said without looking at him. ‘He wanted to know if anyone tried to contact you about Katja.’
‘Of course they haven’t. I’d have told him. She’ll probably call me tomorrow and say it was all a bad joke. Then ask for something.’
She got up and poured herself another drink.
‘Go easy on that,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘You need me to say?’ He watched her top up the glass at that, glaring at him. ‘Very smart.’
‘Smarter than coke and smack, isn’t it? Did Bea get lectures too?’
‘Yes. And Katja. They didn’t work either. But . . .’ He got up and poured himself a modest glass. ‘I tried.’ He raised the whisky. ‘Sorry.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘I told you. We wait. She always comes round in the end.’
The TV was so loud. The journalist was saying the gang war might be a response to the council’s planned crackdown. That De Nachtwacht brought on this battle between the mobs. He even named Jansen and Menzo as the primary culprits.
Prins came close to his wife, took the drink away, held her hands, tried to look into her damp and troubled eyes. She could have been Bea at that moment and this thought terrified him.
‘When I’ve got everything set with the council we’ll take a break. Go to Aruba. Stay there for a little while if you like. Get some work done on the place. I’m sorry. I’m a bit . . . distracted right now.’
She reached up, kissed him briefly on the cheek and said, ‘You need a shower. You stink from being in that suit all day.’
He took off his jacket, put it round the back of the nearest chair.
‘Why would Katja do this?’ she asked. ‘To you? To me? What did we do to deserve it?’
‘You think she needs a reason?’
In the bedroom his phone bleeped. An email from an address he didn’t recognize. A massive attachment, too big for the mobile connection.
Prins sighed, went to the study next door, started the mail program, left it to work.
Then went under the shower. The second in three hours. Lots of
‘Stop,’ he said when he couldn’t take her screams any more.
It went on for another minute or more. Red kid was quiet. Didn’t even moan about his arm.
‘I said cut it out!’
Menzo came back on the line and said, ‘It’s up to you, kid. You know what to do.’
He sounded so calm he might have been ordering pizza.
‘Say you won’t hurt her.’
Stupid words. Pointless.
‘I won’t hurt her. There.’
Blue kid opened the window and threw the phone out onto the grubby pavement.
Red kid watched him then asked, ‘Where are we going if we don’t go to Africa?’
‘What’s your name?’
A moment’s pause then, ‘Etienne.’
Blue kid wiped his nose with his sleeve and said, ‘Forgive me Etienne.’
Then picked up the gun that lay between them, shot him once through the head the way he’d learned on the hard streets back home.
The canal was watching him. Listening. Waiting.
The Mercedes couldn’t have been more than six months old. Clean and shiny. Nice black leather. Still had that new smell. He’d have ripped off something like this back home. Jacked it in a flash. Maybe in Cape Town he could have bought one for himself.
Manual though. What an American hood he knew called a stick shift. Not automatic like this.
Blue kid wound his arms around the steering wheel as if he was hugging it. Then he slammed his right foot onto the accelerator and clung on as the silver Mercedes burst across the blocked end of the road, over the cycle track, through the low brick wall at the end, and roared down towards the leaden, opaque water below.
22
Wim Prins didn’t get home till just after eight. Liesbeth was in the living room clutching a glass of Scotch. The TV was on. Too loud.
He sat down and watched the evening news. An extended edition. Talk of gangster wars, violence on the streets of Amsterdam.
‘Mulder called from Marnixstraat,’ she said without looking at him. ‘He wanted to know if anyone tried to contact you about Katja.’
‘Of course they haven’t. I’d have told him. She’ll probably call me tomorrow and say it was all a bad joke. Then ask for something.’
She got up and poured herself another drink.
‘Go easy on that,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘You need me to say?’ He watched her top up the glass at that, glaring at him. ‘Very smart.’
‘Smarter than coke and smack, isn’t it? Did Bea get lectures too?’
‘Yes. And Katja. They didn’t work either. But . . .’ He got up and poured himself a modest glass. ‘I tried.’ He raised the whisky. ‘Sorry.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘I told you. We wait. She always comes round in the end.’
The TV was so loud. The journalist was saying the gang war might be a response to the council’s planned crackdown. That De Nachtwacht brought on this battle between the mobs. He even named Jansen and Menzo as the primary culprits.
Prins came close to his wife, took the drink away, held her hands, tried to look into her damp and troubled eyes. She could have been Bea at that moment and this thought terrified him.
‘When I’ve got everything set with the council we’ll take a break. Go to Aruba. Stay there for a little while if you like. Get some work done on the place. I’m sorry. I’m a bit . . . distracted right now.’
She reached up, kissed him briefly on the cheek and said, ‘You need a shower. You stink from being in that suit all day.’
He took off his jacket, put it round the back of the nearest chair.
‘Why would Katja do this?’ she asked. ‘To you? To me? What did we do to deserve it?’
‘You think she needs a reason?’
In the bedroom his phone bleeped. An email from an address he didn’t recognize. A massive attachment, too big for the mobile connection.
Prins sighed, went to the study next door, started the mail program, left it to work.
Then went under the shower. The second in three hours. Lots of
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