Doesn’t choose. Between children and adults. Between good and bad. Guilty and innocent . . .’
‘I’m here because I want to be. De Groot can fire me. You can’t. Why should those boys die like that?’
‘Culture,’ he said. ‘Jimmy Menzo. The Surinamese hoods take it on themselves. It’s a question of pride. Probably family too. And I doubt they had a choice. If they didn’t fall on their swords there’d be repercussions.’
His answer seemed to make her angrier.
‘See. This is why De Groot needs you.’
‘What about Katja Prins?’ he asked, trying to shift the conversation. ‘Have they found Jaap Zeeger? This rehab place her father sent her. It needs checking—’
‘Why ask? You’re not a police officer. None of this touches you. I’m just an aspirant about to get fired. Why throw this at me?’
Her voice was flat and furious. The dog was moving beneath the table.
‘This is not my doing,’ Vos broke in. ‘Not my responsibility.’
‘No. I can see that now.’
She got her bag. The keys to her bike lock. Looked outside at the black night, the shape of Vos’s boat beyond the pavement.
‘Do you feel safe here?’ Bakker shot at him as she gathered her things. ‘Do you feel immune?’
‘I’m no damned good!’ Pieter Vos roared, half stumbling to his feet. ‘Don’t you get it? I couldn’t save my own daughter. Why the hell does Frank think I can help anyone else?’
The dog was a hunched bundle of white fur beneath the table. That made Vos feel bad. Laura Bakker too from the way she knelt down, stroked his trembling back.
‘I can see why,’ she said. ‘Pity you can’t. Here . . . If you need it.’
She scribbled a phone number on a beer mat, threw it at him, walked out of the bar, got her bike, pushed off into the darkness and the rain.
Vos finished the beer, went to the counter and asked for an old jenever.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Sofia Albers said, arms folded, looking cross. ‘Shouting in my bar? Scaring your little dog? Home with you, Pieter Vos. You should be ashamed.’
‘It’s not been a good day. Another beer then.’
He stood there until she relented. Then spent the best part of a miserable hour nursing it, sip by sip.
What he told Sofia had been the truth. This wasn’t a good day. The outside world had seeped back into his life, nudged there by Laura Bakker’s sharp, insistent elbows.
Seeing Liesbeth. Realizing she was as miserable, as depressed and introverted as when she left him. Dealing with the case, even briefly. That had brought back memories of the job. And the realization that in some ways he liked and missed it.
Vos picked up the beermat with Laura Bakker’s phone number, put it in his pocket, hooked the little leather lead to the dog and walked to the door.
Something he hadn’t noticed before. There was a light on in the houseboat. A dim one near the kitchen table.
Bakker, he thought. She probably walked in before she came to the bar. It was easy enough to get inside.
The rain was gentle and cold.
Closer he heard music. ‘My Funny Valentine’ sung in the sad, broken voice of Chet Baker.
More corpses.
The frail American jazzman had died in the red-light street of Zeedijk in 1988, falling from a window of the Prins Hendrik Hotel. Vos had catholic musical tastes. Venerable hard rock, obscure modern jazz. Even a few more recent artists. But he adored the studied, resigned melancholy of Chet Baker too. The singing and the trumpet playing. He had that CD. Been playing it recently. Top of the pile.
In front of the boat the little dog started to bark. No movement inside that Vos could see. Not that the windows showed everything.
He walked across the gangplank, pulled at the door. The lock lay on the ground, the broken clasp next to it.
Vos pulled out his phone and the scrap of paper Laura Bakker had given him then called her.
Swore when she was on voicemail.
‘You pay for any damage,’ he said after the message beep. ‘Don’t ever go
‘I’m here because I want to be. De Groot can fire me. You can’t. Why should those boys die like that?’
‘Culture,’ he said. ‘Jimmy Menzo. The Surinamese hoods take it on themselves. It’s a question of pride. Probably family too. And I doubt they had a choice. If they didn’t fall on their swords there’d be repercussions.’
His answer seemed to make her angrier.
‘See. This is why De Groot needs you.’
‘What about Katja Prins?’ he asked, trying to shift the conversation. ‘Have they found Jaap Zeeger? This rehab place her father sent her. It needs checking—’
‘Why ask? You’re not a police officer. None of this touches you. I’m just an aspirant about to get fired. Why throw this at me?’
Her voice was flat and furious. The dog was moving beneath the table.
‘This is not my doing,’ Vos broke in. ‘Not my responsibility.’
‘No. I can see that now.’
She got her bag. The keys to her bike lock. Looked outside at the black night, the shape of Vos’s boat beyond the pavement.
‘Do you feel safe here?’ Bakker shot at him as she gathered her things. ‘Do you feel immune?’
‘I’m no damned good!’ Pieter Vos roared, half stumbling to his feet. ‘Don’t you get it? I couldn’t save my own daughter. Why the hell does Frank think I can help anyone else?’
The dog was a hunched bundle of white fur beneath the table. That made Vos feel bad. Laura Bakker too from the way she knelt down, stroked his trembling back.
‘I can see why,’ she said. ‘Pity you can’t. Here . . . If you need it.’
She scribbled a phone number on a beer mat, threw it at him, walked out of the bar, got her bike, pushed off into the darkness and the rain.
Vos finished the beer, went to the counter and asked for an old jenever.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Sofia Albers said, arms folded, looking cross. ‘Shouting in my bar? Scaring your little dog? Home with you, Pieter Vos. You should be ashamed.’
‘It’s not been a good day. Another beer then.’
He stood there until she relented. Then spent the best part of a miserable hour nursing it, sip by sip.
What he told Sofia had been the truth. This wasn’t a good day. The outside world had seeped back into his life, nudged there by Laura Bakker’s sharp, insistent elbows.
Seeing Liesbeth. Realizing she was as miserable, as depressed and introverted as when she left him. Dealing with the case, even briefly. That had brought back memories of the job. And the realization that in some ways he liked and missed it.
Vos picked up the beermat with Laura Bakker’s phone number, put it in his pocket, hooked the little leather lead to the dog and walked to the door.
Something he hadn’t noticed before. There was a light on in the houseboat. A dim one near the kitchen table.
Bakker, he thought. She probably walked in before she came to the bar. It was easy enough to get inside.
The rain was gentle and cold.
Closer he heard music. ‘My Funny Valentine’ sung in the sad, broken voice of Chet Baker.
More corpses.
The frail American jazzman had died in the red-light street of Zeedijk in 1988, falling from a window of the Prins Hendrik Hotel. Vos had catholic musical tastes. Venerable hard rock, obscure modern jazz. Even a few more recent artists. But he adored the studied, resigned melancholy of Chet Baker too. The singing and the trumpet playing. He had that CD. Been playing it recently. Top of the pile.
In front of the boat the little dog started to bark. No movement inside that Vos could see. Not that the windows showed everything.
He walked across the gangplank, pulled at the door. The lock lay on the ground, the broken clasp next to it.
Vos pulled out his phone and the scrap of paper Laura Bakker had given him then called her.
Swore when she was on voicemail.
‘You pay for any damage,’ he said after the message beep. ‘Don’t ever go
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