The House of Dolls (32 page)

The detective picked up one sheet from the forensic report and walked them over to the white car on the ramp. The two duty mechanics dealing with it had worked in the garage for years. This hadn’t been one of their jobs when the car came in. Both had been on holiday at the time. Temporary staff from an agency had handled the investigation. No one knew who they were, how thorough they’d been.

One line in the forensic report bugged Van der Berg. It showed minute traces of isopropyl alcohol on the upholstery and the dashboard. There was no explanation given.

The first mechanic stared at him when he read this out and said, ‘Valet. They use that stuff when they’re cleaning the car. It’s no big deal.’

Van der Berg wasn’t convinced.

‘But you’d also use it to wipe something down for evidence, wouldn’t you? Get rid of prints?’

The second man rifled through the glovebox, came up with the service records. The car had been in for an annual service the week before.

‘BMW,’ he said. ‘They come back nice and clean. No surprise there.’

Van der Berg asked them to lower the ramp. Both doors were open. He got Laura Bakker to sit in the driver’s seat, walked round to the passenger door on the right.

‘Imagine this,’ Van der Berg told them. ‘Bea Prins is behind the wheel. Say she starts fiddling with her bag. Wondering whether she needs a quick snort for the ride home.’ His fingers rapped on the door window. ‘Someone she knows turns up. Maybe it’s arranged. Her dealer. Who knows? He opens the passenger door. Reaches over.’ His hand went up to her face. ‘Bang. Straight to the temple. Dead.’

They looked at the direction of his arm. The bullet would have been where they found it.

‘There was residue on her left hand,’ the first mechanic said.

Van der Berg nodded, walked back round to the other side. Took Laura Bakker’s hand, pressed a pretend-gun in her fingers, pretend-fired it out of the open passenger door.

‘Residue,’ he said. ‘And yes, she was left-handed. So this was someone who knew her.’

‘Evidence?’ Vos asked.

‘Give me time,’ he said. ‘The car park was mostly empty at night. I need to go round and see if there’s any sign of a second shot. But it’s possible.’ The mechanics didn’t say a word. ‘Tell me it’s possible.’

One of them had gone back to the long bench to sort through the tools and forensic instruments there.

‘Two shots?’ the remaining engineer said. ‘Two to three years ago?’

Van der Berg nodded. The second engineer came back with a spray.

‘From what I can see,’ he said, ‘they found gunshot residue round the driver’s side. Where you’d look. Logically.’

Not just on her hand. It was in the plastic and fabric of the seat and the door too.

The engineer with the spray said, ‘Everyone out of the way please.’

He talked about how long powder residue might last. How a careful killer, one with time, might try to get rid of all the traces using isopropyl alcohol wipes. But that was impossible. The blast of a weapon forced tiny particles into the fibres of the seat, the porous fabric of the sidewalls, the plastic trim. It would stay there for years. If Van der Berg was right . . .

One of the men filmed as the other climbed in and started to puff round the interior with a white bottle spray.

Then they got out, kept the camera running, waited.

A pink cloud emerged close to the top of the column by the passenger door. Small, faint, unmistakable.

‘Go buy the man a lollipop,’ the first mechanic said. ‘Two shots here. Second to get residue on the woman’s hand. Higher position. Outside the car. I’d put money on it.’ He waved a finger at them. ‘This is why you should never employ idiots from agencies.’

‘Forget the lollipop. I’d rather have a beer,’ Van der Berg answered, suddenly happy. ‘Just the one.’

Vos looked at his watch. Well past the end of their shift.

‘A beer,’ he agreed. ‘Just the one.’

‘What?’ Bakker shrieked. ‘You just worked out Bea Prins was murdered and you’re going to a bar?’

‘She’s been waiting a while for someone to find that out, kiddo,’ Van der Berg said. ‘A little longer won’t hurt. Besides . . .’ He sighed. ‘If it was the husband it’s all a bit moot. Doesn’t help us find that kid of his.’ He scratched his head. ‘Just means she was right. She knew and he knew she knew. Christ. She’s dead, isn’t she?’

No answer. In his crumpled and worn blue suit he looked deeply miserable at that moment.

‘Your own daughter. I’d like to say it’s unthinkable. Except if you work here long enough you get to learn not much is.’

‘Also,’ Vos added, ‘I need to check on Sam.’

‘You’re really going?’ she asked. ‘Now?’

‘I don’t live here, Laura. Once maybe. Not any more. Are you coming or not?’

She didn’t move.

‘Your choice,’ he said. ‘We’re gone.’

Back at the little flat in the wooden house in the Begijnhof. Suzi had returned from shopping. She was fussing round with a duster, not looking him in the eye. Jansen had taken a shower. That usually calmed him. Then he sat down to watch the news.

One story. Wim Prins. The man who the day before had ruled Amsterdam. Dead after throwing himself off a plane at Schiphol. Scandals starting to grow round him. Rumours that he might have been behind his own daughter’s disappearance. That he was suspected of the murder of a crime reporter who appeared to have been blackmailing him. And now Marnixstraat was reopening the files on his first wife, Bea, found dead from a gunshot wound in a city centre car park more than two years before.

Jansen listened, growing more morose by the minute. Nothing about Rosie. Menzo and his mistress came well down the newscast. Alongside them was the first mention of his own name. Prime suspect. Gang master newly escaped from a prison van. An Amsterdam native through and through. Focus of an intense search by the police that appeared to have thrown up not a single lead.

‘You hide well, Theo,’ she said, coming to sit next to him. She was back in another plain grey dress. Almost that of a nun. Had a mug in her hand. He caught the fragrance of herb tea and wondered how they’d ever got together in the first place. Stayed a couple long enough to gain a child.

‘No I don’t. They’re just too busy with all this other shit. The police are only human. Just got so many people they can use.’

Not a single line on TV to connect what happened to Prins with him, with Rosie, or Menzo. Did Marnixstraat really believe that? Could it be true?

‘They’re looking,’ he added. ‘Sooner or later someone will talk. They’ll find me.’ He turned to her. ‘If I stay long enough. One more day. Two. Then I’ll be gone.’ A pause. ‘Is that OK with you?’

‘Does it matter what I say?’

He didn’t like that.

‘Yes. It matters. Tell me to go now if you like. I can.’

‘Then they’ll find you. And you’ll hate me again.’

‘I’ll be in jail. So what?’

She didn’t say anything. Just gave him that judgemental look he loathed.

‘Oh,’ Jansen added. ‘I get it. What matters is . . .’ He gestured at the ceiling. ‘What
He
thinks. Did she do right by a sinner? Did he do right by her?’

‘Don’t mock me. That’s beneath you.’

He’d been thinking all the way back from the talk they had with Jaap Zeeger. An interview he fully expected to end in Max Robles using the hammer and nails he’d brought for the occasion. But it didn’t. Zeeger was telling the truth. Not all of it. That wasn’t to be expected. But enough to be real. To be honest. In a way that hypocrites like Wim Prins and this woman never knew.

Theo Jansen was happy deceiving others. That was part of the job. But he never lied to himself. Wouldn’t have allowed that.

‘Is it expensive living here?’ he asked.

‘No. Of course not.’

‘Still costs, doesn’t it?’

She didn’t answer.

‘And you never came to me for help. Not once.’

‘I didn’t want your money. Even when we were together.’

He laughed. She didn’t appreciate that.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘You.’ He nodded at the window. ‘This.’ A finger pointing at the grey dress. ‘That. The act. The pretence. The lie.’

‘I think you should go.’

‘No.’

‘You said you would.’

He went to the kitchen, got a beer, raised the bottle.

‘I changed my mind.’

Jansen waited. She didn’t speak.

He picked up the phone, handed it to her.

‘Call Marnixstraat if you like. Tell them I’m here. I can wait.’ The bottle rose again. ‘You’ve got more beer. I can hang around all night if they want.’

Suzi didn’t move and he knew then he was right.

‘All those years. Me feeling guilty because I’d deprived Rosie of her mother. But that wasn’t true, was it? That was just me being stupid.’

He could picture the moment too. Maybe ten years before when Rosie started spending less time with him. He thought there might be a boyfriend but one never showed up. It was good that she was getting more interested in the business. Not that he bothered to check much. She was family. The same blood. Family didn’t steal or deceive. Not in his world.

‘I never gave you a penny. Yet you’ve got no job. I don’t think you’ve ever had one. And still . . .’ He smiled. ‘This is a nice place. I went through your room while you were out.’

‘You had no right!’ she screamed, hands flying towards him.

One look stopped her.

‘I had every right.’

He pulled the snapshot out of his pocket, threw it on the table. Rosie and Suzi in front of a temple somewhere. The Far East he guessed. Statues of colourful monsters and dragons behind them. They looked beautiful. Happy. Mother and daughter. The perfect, secret couple.

‘The question is . . .’ Jansen said. ‘The Doll’s House. This place on the Prinsen. Were you running Rosie? Or was she running you?’

She didn’t look frightened. She was one of the few who never did.

‘It was ours,’ Suzi said in a low, hard voice. ‘That and a few other things you never knew about. Sorry, Theo. I know you think you owned us. Like everything else round here. But you didn’t.’

‘And now she’s dead.’

‘And . . . now she’s dead.’

He brought his chair closer, put the beer on the table, forgot about everything except this woman and the daughter they’d brought into the world.

‘Why?’

She shook her head. Tears again and they stemmed from anger now. This was so clear.

‘I wish I knew.’

They talked. Long and low, as the Amsterdam evening fell slowly on the quiet and empty Begijnhof courtyard beyond the windows.

It was almost eight by the time they finished. Jansen told her to get out of the place fora while. He didn’t want to see her. And he needed to think.

Then, ten minutes past eight, he reached for the computer and the cheap Skype headset, started to think about what he’d say, what he’d do. Who to call.

Vos had picked up Sam from Sofia Albers at the Drie Vaten and his clean washing too, took the clothes to the houseboat, Van der Berg watching him warily as he unpacked them and folded them into the chest of drawers near the bows.

‘No offence,’ Van der Berg began as the dog started to scamper happily round the boat retrieving toys from beneath the dining table and the chairs. ‘But . . .’

‘Don’t say it.’

‘Say what?’

‘New clothes.’

Van der Berg picked up a blue sweater. Held up the elbow. Poked his finger through the hole.

‘I’m going to have to darn that now!’ Vos protested.

A blue denim cowboy shirt came out of the basket. Collar frayed to the material underneath.

‘Only detective I ever met who looked like he was about to audition for bass guitarist in an Iron Maiden tribute band,’ Van der Berg declared.

‘I
hate
Iron Maiden.’

‘Well there you go. Have you bought any new clothes since you walked out on us?’

He thought about it. Shook his head.

‘And,’ Van der Berg added, ‘don’t give me that “I’ll have to darn it” nonsense.’

Vos snatched the shirt and the sweater, stuffed them roughly into a drawer, slammed it shut. Sam came up to Van der Berg, a rubber bone in mouth, put his paws on the man’s knees begging to play. The cop grabbed the end of the toy, hung on as the little dog tugged and growled cheerily.

‘Let me get this straight,’ he went on. ‘Sofia looks after Sam. Does your washing and ironing. Serves you beer and sandwiches. And probably nags you from time to time.’ He beamed. ‘What’s missing from this relationship? Oh, I know! Sex and marriage.’

‘Ha, ha.’

‘Shame she doesn’t do haircuts too.’

A flurry of curses. When Vos had finished, guilty already for the uncharacteristic outburst, Van der Berg was holding his hands over the dog’s ears. Sam stared at Vos with big round eyes. Not scared. Just baffled by something new.

‘This little chap’s too young to hear language of that sort,’ Van der Berg announced archly. ‘We’re going outside for a ride and a refreshment somewhere. The Pieper I think since I can’t bear to see that nice woman behind the bar of the Drie Vaten making cow eyes in your direction. Should you find the self-control to manage your temper you may join us.’

Vos bunched his fist, laughed, howled at the houseboat roof. Came over, picked up the little terrier, held him, kissed his head. Dirk Van der Berg watched, smiled and said, ‘Oh for the love of God let’s go. I’m thirsty.’

They cycled side by side, Sam in the basket of Vos’s bike as the two men rode alongside the still canal, its surface mirroring the lights from the tall terraces opposite and the odd tourist boat purring along full of gawping visitors. From the lime trees came a constant flurry of falling leaves. Then the bar, little more than a house with a front room for drinkers, greeted them as they reached the Leidsegracht bridge.

Van der Berg said he liked the place for the beer. Vos was fine with that. Sofia did so much for him and got nothing in return but his thanks and a little money. Not enough of either probably.

The Pieper was one of the more popular old brown bars at the very edge of the Jordaan but on this midweek night it was little more than half full. A couple of well-oiled men at the counter were starting to sing. Van der Berg put his hands over Sam’s ears again and then they discussed beer.