his manner friendly.
Her eyes were on Laura Bakker. Only a few years separated these two but they might have come from different worlds.
‘The usual,’ the girl replied. ‘I haven’t seen her for a week or so. I told you. Sometimes she goes off on her own somewhere.’
She walked to the front door and flung the cigarette out into the chill day. Pulled a hand-rolled smoke from her jumper pocket, thin and half-gone. Her fingers trembled so much she couldn’t light it. Vos took the matches and did that for her.
‘This is important,’ he said. ‘She must have someone. A friend she liked more than anyone else. Was that you?’
The juvenile shrug.
‘What about men?’
‘I don’t tell tales.’
Laura Bakker started squawking at that. Then went quiet when Vos looked at her.
‘All we want to do is find her,’ he said. ‘Make sure she’s safe. And then we’re gone. Then . . .’ He pointed at the joint. ‘You can go back to doing whatever you want.’
‘What kind of trouble?’ she asked.
‘The getting kidnapped kind,’ Laura Bakker said.
Til Stamm looked at both of them, frowned, then meandered towards the worn wooden steps in the hall. They followed, up and up. The girl walked at the pace of an old woman. The sour, sweaty smell of unaired rooms got worse.
Four flights. At the top Til Stamm stopped, out of breath. Gasping, sucking on the joint.
‘Are we here for the view?’ Bakker asked, glancing out of the window. Nothing there but more dreary ancient terraces on the other side.
‘She’s shit at her job,’ the girl said, staring at him. ‘I’m surprised you put up with it.’
Vos smiled.
‘She’s learning. Country kid, from Friesland. I’m an Amsterdammer. Indulgent by nature.’
The door was already ajar. A room with a single bed. The sheets half on the mattress, half on the bare plank floor. Smell of dirty clothes and resin.
‘A while back she brought this guy here. He was old. Weird.’
Vos walked in, looked around.
‘What was his name?’
‘Jaap. Never heard him called anything else.’
She walked to a chest of drawers, one leg of which was broken, a brick supporting the corner.
‘Never paid his rent. Never paid for anything. Food. Smoke. You name it.’ She clutched at her waist again. ‘Who’d kidnap Katja?’
‘We don’t know,’ Vos said. ‘That’s why we’re looking. This Jaap . . .’
‘He never said much.’
‘She was with him?’ Bakker asked.
‘I don’t do bedtime stories either.’
Vos raised an eyebrow.
Til Stamm folded her arms.
‘I . . . don’t . . . know. I think they were just friends. Katja brings people here sometimes. If she thinks they need a place to stay. She’s a nice kid. A bit simple.’
He walked to the drawers, went through the papers there. Some were official. Reports from a probation officer. Court orders. A letter from a lawyer. He picked up the last and read it.
‘Katja said we ought to put up with him,’ the girl added. ‘Jaap had been in trouble or something. It was all going to come good. One day we’d get paid . . .’
Her arm circled the squalid bedroom.
‘Get all the money we’re owed for this.’
‘When did he leave?’
‘About a week ago.’
‘Around the last time you saw Katja?’
She frowned.
‘I guess. I wasn’t keeping tabs. Why would I?’
‘What does Jaap do?’ Vos asked.
‘Do? He went out in the morning and came back at night. I didn’t ask.’
That was it. Vos waved the paper he’d picked up, told her he was taking it, then the three walked downstairs.
The air outside was a little fresher. Laura Bakker looked uncomfortable. Vos didn’t speak.
‘So,’ she said. ‘The girl talks to you but not to me. What did I do wrong?’
‘Nothing I wouldn’t have done at your age.’
‘I need to know.’
Vos looked at the paper again, thinking.
‘She’s nineteen. Dropped out of school. Out of home. Out of what we think of as life. How many job interviews do you think she’s
Her eyes were on Laura Bakker. Only a few years separated these two but they might have come from different worlds.
‘The usual,’ the girl replied. ‘I haven’t seen her for a week or so. I told you. Sometimes she goes off on her own somewhere.’
She walked to the front door and flung the cigarette out into the chill day. Pulled a hand-rolled smoke from her jumper pocket, thin and half-gone. Her fingers trembled so much she couldn’t light it. Vos took the matches and did that for her.
‘This is important,’ he said. ‘She must have someone. A friend she liked more than anyone else. Was that you?’
The juvenile shrug.
‘What about men?’
‘I don’t tell tales.’
Laura Bakker started squawking at that. Then went quiet when Vos looked at her.
‘All we want to do is find her,’ he said. ‘Make sure she’s safe. And then we’re gone. Then . . .’ He pointed at the joint. ‘You can go back to doing whatever you want.’
‘What kind of trouble?’ she asked.
‘The getting kidnapped kind,’ Laura Bakker said.
Til Stamm looked at both of them, frowned, then meandered towards the worn wooden steps in the hall. They followed, up and up. The girl walked at the pace of an old woman. The sour, sweaty smell of unaired rooms got worse.
Four flights. At the top Til Stamm stopped, out of breath. Gasping, sucking on the joint.
‘Are we here for the view?’ Bakker asked, glancing out of the window. Nothing there but more dreary ancient terraces on the other side.
‘She’s shit at her job,’ the girl said, staring at him. ‘I’m surprised you put up with it.’
Vos smiled.
‘She’s learning. Country kid, from Friesland. I’m an Amsterdammer. Indulgent by nature.’
The door was already ajar. A room with a single bed. The sheets half on the mattress, half on the bare plank floor. Smell of dirty clothes and resin.
‘A while back she brought this guy here. He was old. Weird.’
Vos walked in, looked around.
‘What was his name?’
‘Jaap. Never heard him called anything else.’
She walked to a chest of drawers, one leg of which was broken, a brick supporting the corner.
‘Never paid his rent. Never paid for anything. Food. Smoke. You name it.’ She clutched at her waist again. ‘Who’d kidnap Katja?’
‘We don’t know,’ Vos said. ‘That’s why we’re looking. This Jaap . . .’
‘He never said much.’
‘She was with him?’ Bakker asked.
‘I don’t do bedtime stories either.’
Vos raised an eyebrow.
Til Stamm folded her arms.
‘I . . . don’t . . . know. I think they were just friends. Katja brings people here sometimes. If she thinks they need a place to stay. She’s a nice kid. A bit simple.’
He walked to the drawers, went through the papers there. Some were official. Reports from a probation officer. Court orders. A letter from a lawyer. He picked up the last and read it.
‘Katja said we ought to put up with him,’ the girl added. ‘Jaap had been in trouble or something. It was all going to come good. One day we’d get paid . . .’
Her arm circled the squalid bedroom.
‘Get all the money we’re owed for this.’
‘When did he leave?’
‘About a week ago.’
‘Around the last time you saw Katja?’
She frowned.
‘I guess. I wasn’t keeping tabs. Why would I?’
‘What does Jaap do?’ Vos asked.
‘Do? He went out in the morning and came back at night. I didn’t ask.’
That was it. Vos waved the paper he’d picked up, told her he was taking it, then the three walked downstairs.
The air outside was a little fresher. Laura Bakker looked uncomfortable. Vos didn’t speak.
‘So,’ she said. ‘The girl talks to you but not to me. What did I do wrong?’
‘Nothing I wouldn’t have done at your age.’
‘I need to know.’
Vos looked at the paper again, thinking.
‘She’s nineteen. Dropped out of school. Out of home. Out of what we think of as life. How many job interviews do you think she’s
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