missing,’ Bakker broke in. ‘Now it’s on the news—’
‘They’re not dangerous,’ Visser insisted. ‘We don’t believe that for one moment. I’d never have allowed them out of here if they were.’
There was a knock on the door. The psychiatrist wandered over wearily to answer it. A sturdy young woman of about thirty stood there. Short black hair, eyes red from crying, plain blue dress,
something almost military about her bearing. She marched straight in, introduced herself as Simon Klerk’s wife, then asked Veerman what he was doing.
‘We have the police here,’ the director muttered, not meeting her gaze.
‘Where’s my husband?’ she demanded. ‘You let him out of here with those murdering bitches.
Where is he?
’
Vos waited for their answer. Finally Visser said, ‘We don’t know. I’m sorry. We don’t understand what’s gone wrong.’
Bakker’s phone went. She walked outside to answer it. Vos kept quiet, thinking about the people in this room. Their attitude. What appeared to worry them. Klerk’s wife, irate,
confused, looking for someone to blame. Visser, a thin, nervous woman . . . Veerman, everyone’s idea of a cold, practical manager . . .
Something remained unsaid between them and there could only be one reason: there were strangers, police officers, present.
Laura Bakker walked to the door and asked to speak to him. Vos and Van der Berg joined her in the corridor.
‘Two things,’ she said. ‘After that TV news item a bus driver called in to say he picked up the sisters from the dyke road on the mainland just after eight last night. We must
have come past the place. They stayed on the bus all the way to Centraal station. Got off around twenty to nine.’
‘And?’ Vos asked.
‘We had a uniform patrol car near the dyke. They went to take a look.’ She took a deep breath. ‘They found a couple of yokels pulling a car out of a ditch. Yellow SEAT. Simon
Klerk’s car.’
A howl of grief broke behind them. The nurse’s wife was there, eavesdropping.
‘I’m coming,’ the woman cried, jabbing at Van der Berg with fierce elbows when he tried to stop her. ‘Wherever he is . . . you take me . . . I am coming.’
Vos grabbed her arm as she tried to push past.
‘Mrs Klerk. I need to know your name. We have to talk.’
‘Sara,’ she said firmly.
‘Sara. I’ll let you know as soon as we find something. But you have to stay here. That will help us . . . help your husband more.’
‘I can’t!’ she bellowed. ‘Don’t you understand—’
‘Of course I do,’ Vos cut in. ‘Dirk?’
The detective was on it straight away, saying all the right things, edging the protesting woman into the room with Visser and Veerman.
She reached out and pointed a finger in Vos’s face.
‘Don’t you screw with me!’ Then a jab back at the room. ‘I’m not taking any shit from them either.’
Vos didn’t budge.
‘My officer will remain here and keep you up to date on anything that happens.’ He glanced at Visser. ‘I want your files on the Timmers sisters—’
‘Can’t do that,’ the woman said immediately. ‘They’re confidential. Medical records.’
‘She’s right,’ Veerman added. ‘Only a court can give you those and we’ll oppose it every inch of the way.’
‘My husband . . .’ Sara Klerk wailed.
‘Do your best,’ Vos told Van der Berg and left him there.
This time he drove. Bakker still wasn’t so good behind the wheel. He didn’t want more than one car in a ditch that day.
Back through the narrow houses they wound, past the sign to the little harbour, out onto the narrow causeway across the dyke to Waterland.
‘You can see why Simon Klerk wasn’t keen to go home,’ Bakker observed as they hit the long straight road.
14
A solitary traffic car had come across the Kok brothers as they struggled with the yellow saloon almost submerged in the green waters of the channel. When Vos and Laura Bakker
turned up Willy and Tonny were standing
‘They’re not dangerous,’ Visser insisted. ‘We don’t believe that for one moment. I’d never have allowed them out of here if they were.’
There was a knock on the door. The psychiatrist wandered over wearily to answer it. A sturdy young woman of about thirty stood there. Short black hair, eyes red from crying, plain blue dress,
something almost military about her bearing. She marched straight in, introduced herself as Simon Klerk’s wife, then asked Veerman what he was doing.
‘We have the police here,’ the director muttered, not meeting her gaze.
‘Where’s my husband?’ she demanded. ‘You let him out of here with those murdering bitches.
Where is he?
’
Vos waited for their answer. Finally Visser said, ‘We don’t know. I’m sorry. We don’t understand what’s gone wrong.’
Bakker’s phone went. She walked outside to answer it. Vos kept quiet, thinking about the people in this room. Their attitude. What appeared to worry them. Klerk’s wife, irate,
confused, looking for someone to blame. Visser, a thin, nervous woman . . . Veerman, everyone’s idea of a cold, practical manager . . .
Something remained unsaid between them and there could only be one reason: there were strangers, police officers, present.
Laura Bakker walked to the door and asked to speak to him. Vos and Van der Berg joined her in the corridor.
‘Two things,’ she said. ‘After that TV news item a bus driver called in to say he picked up the sisters from the dyke road on the mainland just after eight last night. We must
have come past the place. They stayed on the bus all the way to Centraal station. Got off around twenty to nine.’
‘And?’ Vos asked.
‘We had a uniform patrol car near the dyke. They went to take a look.’ She took a deep breath. ‘They found a couple of yokels pulling a car out of a ditch. Yellow SEAT. Simon
Klerk’s car.’
A howl of grief broke behind them. The nurse’s wife was there, eavesdropping.
‘I’m coming,’ the woman cried, jabbing at Van der Berg with fierce elbows when he tried to stop her. ‘Wherever he is . . . you take me . . . I am coming.’
Vos grabbed her arm as she tried to push past.
‘Mrs Klerk. I need to know your name. We have to talk.’
‘Sara,’ she said firmly.
‘Sara. I’ll let you know as soon as we find something. But you have to stay here. That will help us . . . help your husband more.’
‘I can’t!’ she bellowed. ‘Don’t you understand—’
‘Of course I do,’ Vos cut in. ‘Dirk?’
The detective was on it straight away, saying all the right things, edging the protesting woman into the room with Visser and Veerman.
She reached out and pointed a finger in Vos’s face.
‘Don’t you screw with me!’ Then a jab back at the room. ‘I’m not taking any shit from them either.’
Vos didn’t budge.
‘My officer will remain here and keep you up to date on anything that happens.’ He glanced at Visser. ‘I want your files on the Timmers sisters—’
‘Can’t do that,’ the woman said immediately. ‘They’re confidential. Medical records.’
‘She’s right,’ Veerman added. ‘Only a court can give you those and we’ll oppose it every inch of the way.’
‘My husband . . .’ Sara Klerk wailed.
‘Do your best,’ Vos told Van der Berg and left him there.
This time he drove. Bakker still wasn’t so good behind the wheel. He didn’t want more than one car in a ditch that day.
Back through the narrow houses they wound, past the sign to the little harbour, out onto the narrow causeway across the dyke to Waterland.
‘You can see why Simon Klerk wasn’t keen to go home,’ Bakker observed as they hit the long straight road.
14
A solitary traffic car had come across the Kok brothers as they struggled with the yellow saloon almost submerged in the green waters of the channel. When Vos and Laura Bakker
turned up Willy and Tonny were standing
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