water. He wondered if it was enough.
23
It was a lie about the dog. Sam wasn’t picky about his food at all. And Sofia Albers had fed him often enough in the Drie Vaten. Sometimes, when Vos lost it and couldn’t function much for days on end, she kept Sam in the bar. He seemed to love it.
Three stops along the way. Familiar brown bars in the Jordaan. Places he could sit and think. Or not think. Just sip at a beer, watch the faces, listen to the music. The singing sometimes. Old songs. Stupid songs. Refrains about the city and the neighbourhood. Community and family. Figures from the past.
Dead people.
Vos had seen too many already. As a cop he was supposed to prevent these tragedies. All too often he’d been nothing more than a prurient Peeping Tom. Even when he uncovered the truth the hurt didn’t go away. Vos could give them nothing. Could offer Liesbeth nothing, and so she went off the rails, fell into the waiting arms of Wim Prins. Left him to grieve and scream and rail in the shabby little boat beneath the lime trees where no one could hear, spending evening after evening in a haze of booze or dope.
There were no answers inside that fog. But no questions either.
By the time he got to the Drie Vaten it was gone eight. Laura Bakker was seated in the bar on her own, half a glass of Coke on the table, glaring at him as he went to the counter and asked for a beer. Grease from her bike chain had smeared the legs of her trousers. The grey suit seemed to hang on her even more clumsily.
‘Where the hell do you get those clothes?’ he asked.
‘Auntie Maartje makes them.’ She looked him up and down. ‘Where do you get those? A charity shop for ageing teenagers?’
‘Auntie Maartje’s in Dokkum?’
‘She’s got a sewing machine. Buys patterns. They’re cheap.’ She picked up a napkin, wiped at the bike grease, made everything worse. ‘Practical.’
‘Like the shoes,’ he said, staring at her heavy black boots. ‘I can hear you two streets away.’
‘You didn’t hear me when I came on your boat. Talking to De Groot.’
Vos’s head felt a little fuzzy. He was wearing what he usually wore. Ribbed blue wool sweater. Navy donkey jacket. Jeans. Everything old. A little tatty maybe. But clean. Sofia Albers, who was watching them now, saw to that.
‘You’re one to talk, Vos. Those are odd socks. One’s grey. The other’s green. Didn’t you notice?’
‘They’re just socks, for God’s sake,’ he whined, reaching for the beer.
‘Sam’s eaten. I asked.’
Behind the counter Sofia gave her a comradely salute at that.
Vos joined her, raised his glass, shut up. The little terrier scampered out from behind the counter and settled beneath his feet. Bakker pointed to a poster on the wall:
Casablanca
. Bogart and a beautiful, sad Ingrid Bergman, a pianist smiling in the background.
‘You named him from a poster in a bar?’
She folded her long arms.
‘So what if I did? He doesn’t mind.’
‘De Groot’s furious. You can’t just walk out like that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Menzo’s still in Ostend. They found the kids. One of them anyway. They stole a car.’
This was new. His head cleared a little, entirely of its own accord.
‘What happened?’
‘It looks like one of them shot the other. Then drove into the canal.’ She shook her head. Her long red hair was down around her shoulders. ‘They’ve got one body. Still dredging for the second.’
Vos nodded.
‘It’s terrible,’ she added. ‘They were children.’
‘Why don’t you say a prayer for them then go back to Dokkum?’ he asked.
A sudden flare of anger.
‘Is that the best you’ve got?’
He sipped his beer and wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
‘Say a prayer?’ Laura Bakker repeated. ‘Why? Because I’m the village idiot? Is that it?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ Vos pushed the glass away. He didn’t want it in the first place. ‘This is the city, Laura. When it turns bad it turns . . . unforgiving.
23
It was a lie about the dog. Sam wasn’t picky about his food at all. And Sofia Albers had fed him often enough in the Drie Vaten. Sometimes, when Vos lost it and couldn’t function much for days on end, she kept Sam in the bar. He seemed to love it.
Three stops along the way. Familiar brown bars in the Jordaan. Places he could sit and think. Or not think. Just sip at a beer, watch the faces, listen to the music. The singing sometimes. Old songs. Stupid songs. Refrains about the city and the neighbourhood. Community and family. Figures from the past.
Dead people.
Vos had seen too many already. As a cop he was supposed to prevent these tragedies. All too often he’d been nothing more than a prurient Peeping Tom. Even when he uncovered the truth the hurt didn’t go away. Vos could give them nothing. Could offer Liesbeth nothing, and so she went off the rails, fell into the waiting arms of Wim Prins. Left him to grieve and scream and rail in the shabby little boat beneath the lime trees where no one could hear, spending evening after evening in a haze of booze or dope.
There were no answers inside that fog. But no questions either.
By the time he got to the Drie Vaten it was gone eight. Laura Bakker was seated in the bar on her own, half a glass of Coke on the table, glaring at him as he went to the counter and asked for a beer. Grease from her bike chain had smeared the legs of her trousers. The grey suit seemed to hang on her even more clumsily.
‘Where the hell do you get those clothes?’ he asked.
‘Auntie Maartje makes them.’ She looked him up and down. ‘Where do you get those? A charity shop for ageing teenagers?’
‘Auntie Maartje’s in Dokkum?’
‘She’s got a sewing machine. Buys patterns. They’re cheap.’ She picked up a napkin, wiped at the bike grease, made everything worse. ‘Practical.’
‘Like the shoes,’ he said, staring at her heavy black boots. ‘I can hear you two streets away.’
‘You didn’t hear me when I came on your boat. Talking to De Groot.’
Vos’s head felt a little fuzzy. He was wearing what he usually wore. Ribbed blue wool sweater. Navy donkey jacket. Jeans. Everything old. A little tatty maybe. But clean. Sofia Albers, who was watching them now, saw to that.
‘You’re one to talk, Vos. Those are odd socks. One’s grey. The other’s green. Didn’t you notice?’
‘They’re just socks, for God’s sake,’ he whined, reaching for the beer.
‘Sam’s eaten. I asked.’
Behind the counter Sofia gave her a comradely salute at that.
Vos joined her, raised his glass, shut up. The little terrier scampered out from behind the counter and settled beneath his feet. Bakker pointed to a poster on the wall:
Casablanca
. Bogart and a beautiful, sad Ingrid Bergman, a pianist smiling in the background.
‘You named him from a poster in a bar?’
She folded her long arms.
‘So what if I did? He doesn’t mind.’
‘De Groot’s furious. You can’t just walk out like that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Menzo’s still in Ostend. They found the kids. One of them anyway. They stole a car.’
This was new. His head cleared a little, entirely of its own accord.
‘What happened?’
‘It looks like one of them shot the other. Then drove into the canal.’ She shook her head. Her long red hair was down around her shoulders. ‘They’ve got one body. Still dredging for the second.’
Vos nodded.
‘It’s terrible,’ she added. ‘They were children.’
‘Why don’t you say a prayer for them then go back to Dokkum?’ he asked.
A sudden flare of anger.
‘Is that the best you’ve got?’
He sipped his beer and wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
‘Say a prayer?’ Laura Bakker repeated. ‘Why? Because I’m the village idiot? Is that it?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ Vos pushed the glass away. He didn’t want it in the first place. ‘This is the city, Laura. When it turns bad it turns . . . unforgiving.
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