years ago.’
Lucas Kuyper closed his eyes for a second, a look of pain on his lined, grey face.
‘AIVD called. They told me what happened. And why.’
Henk folded his arms and grinned.
‘Well there’s a surprise. Those bastards never let you go, do they? Did they give you a file on me too?’
‘What you do with your life’s your own business. Saskia and Renata . . .’
Henk Kuyper walked up and held open the door.
‘I can look after my own family.’ He nodded at the dark street outside. ‘Next time call ahead. I’d like some notice. Even better . . . don’t bother.’
There was a brief flash of anger on Lucas Kuyper’s stern face.
‘Can’t I even see my own granddaughter?’
‘She’s in bed. Tired.’
‘Henk . . .’ Renata intervened. ‘We can always—’
‘It’s been a long day. For all of us.’ He nodded at the street again. ‘We’ll cope.’
The stiff man in the long raincoat walked out into the drizzle. Widowed, he lived on his own in a mansion in the Canal Ring. Renata took Saskia to visit him regularly. He was lonely. Always pleased to see them. Henk never came.
‘We’d be screwed if he cut off the money,’ she said, and regretted immediately the mercenary tone of the remark. It wasn’t how she meant it.
Henk shooed her back up the stairs.
‘He’ll never do that. Imagine the shame. A Kuyper on the breadline.’
She followed him back into the dining room, watched as he sat down and reached for the wine bottle.
‘Saskia loves her grandfather. She doesn’t understand why you don’t.’
He nodded.
‘One day, when she’s older, I’ll tell her. About Srebrenica. About power and war and what soldiers like him do. Then she’ll understand.’
‘You’re too good for the rest of us,’ she said as he poured himself more wine.
‘You could drink with me,’ he suggested. ‘That might help.’
‘Would it?’ she asked.
‘Maybe not.’
She still didn’t understand why he’d found Saskia then made himself scarce.
‘Don’t open a second bottle,’ she said then went to the living room and turned on the TV.
A few minutes later she heard his footsteps clumping up the stairs to his little gable office.
There was only one story on the news. The outrage in Leidseplein. No mention of a missing girl at all. Did Henk care? Did anyone?
She steeled herself and tiptoed up the stairs. The door to the tiny office was ajar. He was at the computer, the pallid light of the monitor flooding his stolid face.
‘Can we talk?’
He sighed and got up from the desk.
‘Not now,’ he said and closed the door.
For thirty minutes De Groot listened to AIVD. Then another half hour was spent going through the logs. The commissaris set out what he wanted: an immediate review of the overnight investigation.
‘Mirjam Fransen’s right about one thing, Pieter. There are a lot of boats in Amsterdam. And we’ve nothing from this dead clown to point us in the right direction.’
Frank de Groot shook his head.
‘I want you all wide awake tomorrow when this call comes in. Talk to the mother. Tell her we’re doing everything we can. Check we’re on course. After that go home and get some sleep.’
Bakker didn’t move.
‘I’d like to run over the CCTV we’ve got of Leidseplein.’
De Groot frowned.
‘There are about forty different feeds. It’ll take days, weeks to go through all of them.’
She wasn’t happy with that. Any more than Vos. They had what seemed to be a version of events now, based on an initial interview with Saskia Kuyper and others in the square. Bouali had grabbed hold of the girl when she wandered off near the theatre then promised to find her parents. Saskia hadn’t liked the way he was acting. So when he was distracted she gave him the slip.
After that they were left with guesswork. The assumption was that Bouali alerted one of his accomplices, dressed as a Black Pete too, who picked up Natalya Bublik by mistake. The two girls did look similar and they
Lucas Kuyper closed his eyes for a second, a look of pain on his lined, grey face.
‘AIVD called. They told me what happened. And why.’
Henk folded his arms and grinned.
‘Well there’s a surprise. Those bastards never let you go, do they? Did they give you a file on me too?’
‘What you do with your life’s your own business. Saskia and Renata . . .’
Henk Kuyper walked up and held open the door.
‘I can look after my own family.’ He nodded at the dark street outside. ‘Next time call ahead. I’d like some notice. Even better . . . don’t bother.’
There was a brief flash of anger on Lucas Kuyper’s stern face.
‘Can’t I even see my own granddaughter?’
‘She’s in bed. Tired.’
‘Henk . . .’ Renata intervened. ‘We can always—’
‘It’s been a long day. For all of us.’ He nodded at the street again. ‘We’ll cope.’
The stiff man in the long raincoat walked out into the drizzle. Widowed, he lived on his own in a mansion in the Canal Ring. Renata took Saskia to visit him regularly. He was lonely. Always pleased to see them. Henk never came.
‘We’d be screwed if he cut off the money,’ she said, and regretted immediately the mercenary tone of the remark. It wasn’t how she meant it.
Henk shooed her back up the stairs.
‘He’ll never do that. Imagine the shame. A Kuyper on the breadline.’
She followed him back into the dining room, watched as he sat down and reached for the wine bottle.
‘Saskia loves her grandfather. She doesn’t understand why you don’t.’
He nodded.
‘One day, when she’s older, I’ll tell her. About Srebrenica. About power and war and what soldiers like him do. Then she’ll understand.’
‘You’re too good for the rest of us,’ she said as he poured himself more wine.
‘You could drink with me,’ he suggested. ‘That might help.’
‘Would it?’ she asked.
‘Maybe not.’
She still didn’t understand why he’d found Saskia then made himself scarce.
‘Don’t open a second bottle,’ she said then went to the living room and turned on the TV.
A few minutes later she heard his footsteps clumping up the stairs to his little gable office.
There was only one story on the news. The outrage in Leidseplein. No mention of a missing girl at all. Did Henk care? Did anyone?
She steeled herself and tiptoed up the stairs. The door to the tiny office was ajar. He was at the computer, the pallid light of the monitor flooding his stolid face.
‘Can we talk?’
He sighed and got up from the desk.
‘Not now,’ he said and closed the door.
For thirty minutes De Groot listened to AIVD. Then another half hour was spent going through the logs. The commissaris set out what he wanted: an immediate review of the overnight investigation.
‘Mirjam Fransen’s right about one thing, Pieter. There are a lot of boats in Amsterdam. And we’ve nothing from this dead clown to point us in the right direction.’
Frank de Groot shook his head.
‘I want you all wide awake tomorrow when this call comes in. Talk to the mother. Tell her we’re doing everything we can. Check we’re on course. After that go home and get some sleep.’
Bakker didn’t move.
‘I’d like to run over the CCTV we’ve got of Leidseplein.’
De Groot frowned.
‘There are about forty different feeds. It’ll take days, weeks to go through all of them.’
She wasn’t happy with that. Any more than Vos. They had what seemed to be a version of events now, based on an initial interview with Saskia Kuyper and others in the square. Bouali had grabbed hold of the girl when she wandered off near the theatre then promised to find her parents. Saskia hadn’t liked the way he was acting. So when he was distracted she gave him the slip.
After that they were left with guesswork. The assumption was that Bouali alerted one of his accomplices, dressed as a Black Pete too, who picked up Natalya Bublik by mistake. The two girls did look similar and they
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