The Wrong Girl by David Hewson Page A

Henk had given her a spare phone of his that morning. The police had kept hers for the call about the Georgian girl.
    ‘Where are you?’ he asked.
    ‘I went for a walk.’
    She could hear him sigh. Traffic behind his voice. He was out in the street somewhere too. She thought she heard the rattle of a train.
    ‘That doesn’t tell me where you are.’
    ‘I’m near the school. OK?’
    ‘Those idiots at Marnixstraat called. They want to see us. Saskia too. Something about inconsistencies in the statements.’
    Lucas shuffled away on the bench as if he didn’t want to hear. The chaos of the previous day came back to her in an instant.
    ‘What inconsistencies?’
    ‘I don’t know. Get Saskia out of school. There’s a cafe in Elandsgracht, the Prinsen end, near the bridge.’
    ‘I can be there in fifteen minutes . . .’
    ‘Well I can’t. Busy. Eleven thirty I’ll see you in the cafe. Then we go in together.’
    Without another word he hung up. Lucas was clutching his hat, ready to leave too.
    ‘I’m glad we talked,’ he said, getting to his feet. She joined him. ‘As for Srebrenica . . .’
    ‘What?’
    ‘It’s not a subject I care to return to.’
    ‘Maybe you should. Maybe you and Henk . . .’
    ‘One small step at a time,’ he said. ‘A family must always try to stay together. Once those bonds are fractured it’s difficult to put the pieces back together again. Henk loves you. Saskia as well. We all do.’
    She didn’t know what to say. He tipped his hat and left.
    Vos drove Hanna Bublik back into the centre, Renata Kuyper’s phone in his coat pocket, silent. Accusing somehow.
    As they fell into heavy traffic she looked at him and asked, nervously, ‘What am I supposed to do if they ask for money?’
    ‘The important thing is to start the dialogue. After that we can deal with what they want.’
    She hugged herself in the cheap black jacket though it wasn’t cold in the car.
    ‘You can stay in my office as long as you like,’ Vos suggested. ‘The moment he calls I’ll let you know what’s happening.’
    She stared out of the window as they pulled into the long straight stretch of Marnixstraat that led to the police station.
    ‘You mean you’re going to sit around all day waiting for the phone to ring?’
    ‘I hope not,’ Vos said.
    ‘Then what’s the point in having me around?’
    ‘I’m trying to help.’
    ‘I’ve only got one thing to give anyone and it’s not something these people want.’
    ‘I can get a woman officer to be with you. We can try and get some help—’
    ‘I need my daughter back. That’s all. I don’t want anything else from you.’
    He rarely lost his temper but she was getting to him. Vos pulled into the side of the street by the secure entrance to the station.
    ‘We’re doing all we can, Hanna. We’ll find your daughter.’
    She glared at him.
    ‘You say that so easily.’
    ‘I mean it. Either we track down where this man’s keeping her. Or we negotiate some way out of it.’
    ‘She’s a whore’s kid. Illegal. What’s there to negotiate with?’
    Sometimes sympathy was ineffective.
    ‘What else do you want of me?’ he asked. ‘Say it so I know.’
    She struggled with that.
    ‘I get the message, Vos. You care. The thing is . . .’ She almost looked guilty at that moment. ‘A woman like me always worries when someone seems to care. It doesn’t work out well. Sorry. My problem. Not yours.’
    She got her bag, checked the money inside. Vos could see it wasn’t much. He reached for his wallet and she put a hand on his arm.
    ‘I’m getting out now. There’s someone I need to see. Call when you’ve news.’
    He watched her walk straight through the busy traffic, holding up a hand to stop an irate taxi when she felt like it. She wasn’t beautiful but she was striking. Tall, straight-backed in her fake leather jacket and jeans. He could imagine she’d stop people in her cabin window, seated on a stool beneath the scarlet lamp. Just half a