The House of Dolls (19 page)

The barber scribbled that down.

‘He’s been at that place on the Prinsen. The one we used as a privehuis.’

‘Jesus, Maarten. Am I expected to remember every last piece of property I own in this city?’

The barber shrugged.

‘I guess not. We kept that one off-limits. Gave the money to some Thai hooker, put it through her.’

‘I didn’t even know we had a privehuis there. What’s this got to do with anything?’ Jansen asked.

‘Maybe nothing I guess. It’s not ours any more. Seems Menzo muscled in there. Got her on his side. It had been closed for a while. With you getting arrested I don’t think anyone was watching too closely. If you like I could . . .’

Jansen waved him down.

‘What’s that to me? A stinking privehuis. I’ve got enough money to buy a million of them.’

‘Yeah well. Vos is interested in it for some reason. The Doll’s House. That’s what we used to call it. Ring a bell?’

The big man sat down, looked at the barber across the table.

‘Dolls?’

‘You never went there?’

‘I told you. I didn’t know I had the damned place.’

Maarten the barber wriggled on his seat.

‘You?’ Jansen asked.

‘Just the once.’ He grimaced. ‘They were kids. It wasn’t our kind of thing.’

‘Who was running the Thai woman?’

‘Not me,’ Maarten said quickly. ‘I didn’t like to ask.’ He hesitated. ‘It got really rough when you went inside, Theo. It was a war and we were losing.’

Before Jansen could say anything the barber’s mobile rang. He glanced at the number, nodded towards Jansen, said, ‘Yeah?’

Short conversation.

‘Menzo’s plane’s due in Lelystad at seven,’ Maarten said when it was over. ‘Probably back here an hour after. He mainly uses a place of his near the station.’

Jansen gripped the gun again, turned it in his hand.

‘How many people know I’m here?’ he asked.

‘Nobody. I told everyone you were hiding out somewhere I didn’t know. Just calling me when you needed something.’ He laughed. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’

The magazine went in easily, came out the same way. He could see the sight was prominent. Jansen put the Beretta in his trouser pocket, pulled it out, practised getting the stocky weapon free in one clean movement.

‘You want help?’ the barber asked without much enthusiasm.

‘I want transport,’ Theo Jansen said.

Vos sent Van der Berg to question the Thai woman. Then he and Bakker went to De Groot’s office. Prins was there with Liesbeth.

The politician’s welcome, coffee and biscuits on the desk. No one touched them.

Frank de Groot stood over a clear plastic envelope next to the cups.

Vos went and read it, Bakker not far behind. Then flicked through the photographs in their transparent sleeves.

‘Are they real?’ De Groot asked.

‘It’s Katja,’ Prins said. ‘What do we do?’

‘You get the money!’ Liesbeth barked at him.

They all waited.

‘I’ll get the money,’ Prins agreed. ‘I’ve stepped down from the council . . .’ He put a nervous hand to his head. ‘Just until this is over.’

Puzzled, Vos asked, ‘Why did you do that?’

‘It seemed best,’ Prins muttered. He pointed at the note and the pictures. ‘Is she making this up or not?’

‘What do you think?’ Vos asked.

All eyes were on Prins at that moment.

‘I think she hates me. I don’t know why.’

Nothing more.

‘They’ve asked for money,’ Vos said. ‘They’ll come to you with a time and a place. We need to know.’

‘Of course,’ Prins agreed.

‘So what else are you doing?’ Liesbeth demanded. ‘Apart from letting criminals go.’

‘Theo Jansen was going to be free anyway,’ Vos replied. ‘At least when we get hold of him this time he’ll stay in jail. For something he actually did.’

Back to Prins.

‘Is there anything else you can think of that might help us?’ he asked. ‘Anything you’ve noticed?’

‘Such as?’

‘I don’t know. Somebody acting strangely. Someone in the office.’ He looked at the note on the desk, moved the clear plastic across the wooden surface. ‘An odd email maybe.’

The politician stiffened.

‘No. Is that it? Can we go now?’

‘If you like,’ Vos replied.

‘What are you doing, Pieter?’ Liesbeth asked again.

‘I told you. We’re working.’ He looked at Prins again and said, ‘Have you picked up any personal email today?’

‘I’ve been in the office. Too busy. Why?’

Vos went round the desk, sat in De Groot’s chair, brought the computer to life. Took the USB stick out of his pocket.

‘Thing is . . . I’ve got a confession. I came round to see Liesbeth this morning. When she was out of the room I took a look at your computer. There was a message there.’ An amused frown. ‘I wouldn’t normally have looked. But it came from someone called Pop Meester. Which made me curious. You know the name?’

Prins blinked.

‘You read my email? That’s illegal.’

Vos waved a hand and said, ‘Lots of things are. Your daughter’s missing. The case seems to be connected with dolls. Someone called Pop Meester sends you a message.’ He smiled at Liesbeth. ‘You want me to do something. Does it matter?’

‘What did it say?’ De Groot asked.

‘Nothing,’ Vos said. ‘Nothing at all. There was just this.’

He slotted the stick into the computer, found the file. Hit the keyboard.

A video came up. They all crowded round to see.

A dark room, two shapes moving, one over the other. Sounds. Bed springs, creak of wood, sighs.

‘That’s not me,’ Prins cried. ‘That’s not me!’

Margriet Willemsen naked over a barely seen figure beneath her. Breasts rocking with the slow rhythm. Soft, almost inaudible sighs. Then a final low grunt and she fell on him, laughing. The picture froze. End of clip.

‘Pop Meester,’ Vos said. ‘The Doll Master. I asked you if you knew the name. You didn’t answer.’

‘I don’t know the damned name!’ Prins yelled. ‘That’s not me.’

‘I never said it was, did I?’ Vos pointed to the screen. ‘According to the file date this was five days ago. Eight in the evening. You were at a convention in Rotterdam then. I checked. Though you can fake these dates.’ He took the stick out of the computer, gave it to Bakker, told her to pass it on to forensic and see if they could bring up more detail. ‘It’s Margriet Willemsen obviously. Who the man is . . . I couldn’t see. Maybe they can work on it. Why they’d send it to you . . .’

Prins was sweating. Looking round the room.

‘This is to do with De Nachtwacht, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Ever since I said I’d go for those bastards they’ve been gunning for me. You!’ He stabbed a finger at De Groot. ‘You’re supposed to protect us from this.’

Bakker took the note and the USB stick and walked out of the door.

‘You’re going to get the money?’ Vos asked.

‘I said I would.’

‘Keep it in the bank until I say. Any more questions?’

Even Liesbeth was out of them at that point. The two of them left. Frank de Groot delivered a short lecture about what was and wasn’t allowed.

‘Dammit, Pieter. I could fire you for that. You could wind up in court.’

Vos pulled out his ID, placed it on the desk.

‘All yours,’ he said.

De Groot pushed the card back to him.

‘Don’t be so stupid next time.’

‘Why am I doing this?’ Vos asked. ‘What’s the point?’

‘The point is I need you,’ the commissaris said. ‘Isn’t that enough?’

‘Not really. You’ve got Mulder.’

‘Mulder’s busy chasing Jansen and whoever killed his daughter! I don’t have the people . . .’

There was something De Groot didn’t want to say.

‘Come on,’ Vos pleaded. ‘Out with it, Frank. You don’t do shifty well.’

‘I got a call from the privehuis just before you got here. Forensic thought I needed to be told first.’

Vos waited. When De Groot didn’t go on he said, ‘There’s nothing there that connects Katja Prins to the place. Theo Jansen put up the money to start it. My guess is Menzo seized it some time after you put Jansen in jail. There’s someone’s blood there. I don’t know but I think it was Anneliese. The DNA . . .’

‘They found her bus pass under the floorboards. Her picture. Her signature.’

Vos sat down, closed his eyes.

‘It’s definitely her,’ De Groot added. ‘They got a sample back and ran it through the lab straight away. Seems they had Anneliese’s DNA records out already for some reason.’ De Groot reached out and put his hand on Vos’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Pieter.’

Vos nodded.

‘There wasn’t a lot of blood,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t mean . . .’ This sounded stupid, but real too. ‘It doesn’t mean she’s dead.’

De Groot sighed.

‘When do you want to tell Liesbeth?’

‘Not now. What the hell was she doing in a place like that?’

‘Sixteen,’ De Groot said. ‘You don’t own them. You don’t follow them round every minute of the day, do you?’

‘I guess not,’ Vos agreed.

Bakker was waiting for him in the corridor.

‘There’s something you need to know—’

‘If it’s about the bus pass . . .’

‘What bus pass? Jimmy Menzo. His plane just landed at Lelystad.’

Forty-five minutes, an hour back into the city. Menzo lived in a block almost opposite Centraal station. A conspicuous crook these days.

‘Van der Berg can check out the privehuis,’ he said. ‘Let’s look at Warmoesstraat on the way.’

Jimmy Menzo parked his Beechcraft in the general aviation airfield hangar at Lelystad. Walked out through the minimal security with Miriam Smith carrying their overnight case.

No one there. Not a single cop. He hadn’t been expecting that. They had to be waiting for him in the city.

Light rain falling from a flat sky. They went to the silver Mercedes saloon, didn’t speak. There was a rule, one they always obeyed on breaks like these. Business and pleasure didn’t mix. No unnecessary phone calls. Only good food, good wine. And whatever else he felt like. They didn’t talk about Amsterdam or Theo Jansen, didn’t watch the TV. Didn’t do anything much except drink and smoke and screw once he’d dealt with the Surinamese kids, patching the call through to the sister in De Wallen.

She’d been dealt with now too. He liked to think himself a patient man, never rushed into things. He wanted time to think.

The Mercedes was in heavy evening traffic, fifteen minutes from home, when Miriam Smith finally flicked through the news headlines on her phone.

‘What is it?’ Menzo asked when she whispered a low curse.

‘Jansen’s on the loose,’ she said. ‘They wouldn’t let him free so he broke out. You shouldn’t have told everyone to leave us alone.’

‘I get a life too sometimes,’ he snapped.

He turned the radio from the rock station straight away. Caught the news midway through. Theo Jansen, one-time Amsterdam gang lord, missing after escaping from a van taking him back to prison. Then a brief account of his daughter’s murder, how her body was found in a dinghy on the Prinsengracht near the houseboat of a former police officer, not long after the attempt on Jansen’s life.

Menzo listened, turned off the radio when the item was finished. He was shaking his head, half-laughing to himself.

‘It helps if I know about things, Jimmy,’ she said in a tense West Indian drawl. ‘Being kept in the dark pisses me off. Especially when there’s a war coming.’

The line of cars had slowed to a crawl. The air conditioning made the interior of the Mercedes so cold he could feel his shirt clinging to his skin. Menzo liked that. As a kid in Paramaribo he’d spent too many long and sleepless nights sweating in the tropical heat.

‘He’s going to be mad,’ she said.

‘No,’ Menzo told her. ‘He’s going to run. Theo’s not stupid. He understands when he’s lost. They own some property in Spain. Florida too. He’ll go. And you know what?’

He put a finger to his mouth. She knew the gesture, lit him a cigarette, passed it over. Menzo took a long draw then moved it to his right hand.

‘I won’t chase him,’ he said. ‘Retired’s as good as dead.’

She folded her strong arms, leaned back in the seat, took a long breath. This was as close to mad as she got.

‘What’s it now?’ he asked.

‘All this time you’ve spent fighting that old bastard. And you still don’t understand him.’

An ice-blue Beetle cut in front. Menzo hammered on the horn, shook his fist. Got a look back and an apologetic wave.

‘Tell me,’ he said.

‘You killed his kid!’ she cried.

They were getting close to the city edge. If the traffic stayed this way they’d be outside the apartment block soon. He could call out for something to eat. Open a bottle of wine. Stay quiet, stay close for a couple of days.

The law would be waiting for them. They surely knew he was back. But there was nothing they could do except ask questions and listen to the silence that followed.

‘You killed his daughter,’ she said again and stamped her fancy shiny shoes in the footwell. ‘That’s not in the book. This shit with the Vos guy. Dumping her near his place—’

‘For the love of God shut up. I’m trying to think.’

She stared at him.

‘I’m supposed to know things, Jimmy. If I don’t how the hell am I going to deal with all this crap when it goes wrong?’

Nothing more.

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘I was going to ask you about Rosie.’ He took the road for the waterfront. Thirty minutes now. No more. ‘I thought . . .’

‘Thought what?’

‘We had a deal,’ Menzo told her. ‘Me and Rosie. We got on fine. I’d done some business with her before. We met up last week. All agreed. If she could get Jansen out of jail, make him go away, take that place in Spain. That was the end of it.’

She slammed her palms on the dashboard.

‘You never told me.’

‘What was the point?’ Menzo asked, getting loud, getting angry. ‘She was game. But then . . .’ He’d thought it through carefully at the time. Wished it might have worked. But Jansen wasn’t the kind to give up. ‘Theo was never going to play. I couldn’t risk it.’