The Wrong Girl by David Hewson Page A

‘From what we know it looks as if Black Pete Two’s snatching Natalya just around when Saskia makes a break for it. Before maybe.’
    Van der Berg screwed up his nose.
    ‘We need to get that girl and her mother back in here.’
    ‘And the father,’ she added.
    He went back to the screen.
    ‘I can’t see him anywhere. Where the hell did he get to? What . . . ?’
    She went quiet. Koeman had turned up, dyed moustache more droopy than ever. Thom Geerts, the cheerless AIVD officer, was with him, looking inquisitive.
    ‘Our spooky friends want to know if we’ve found anything,’ Koeman told them.
    ‘Still looking,’ Van der Berg replied, eyeing the big, smartly dressed man. ‘How are you doing this morning?’
    Koeman grumbled something and walked off.
    ‘I want a rundown on where you are,’ Geerts said. ‘Where’s Vos?’
    ‘He got called away,’ Bakker told him. ‘Not sure why.’
    ‘You don’t know where your investigating officer is?’
    ‘I saw him with his dog,’ Van der Berg said with a grin. ‘Maybe Sam needed a walk.’
    The AIVD man scowled at them.
    ‘Isn’t there a dress code round here? Give me an update by email. I’ve got things to do.’
    ‘I’m sure you have,’ Van der Berg murmured watching him leave, phone in hand.
    Bakker rolled back her chair and whispered a mild curse. Van der Berg had turned up in his usual scruffy brown sports jacket and black trousers, tan shoes. With Vos forever in a donkey jacket, black sweater and old jeans they weren’t a great sartorial advertisement for the force, knew it and didn’t mind in the least.
    ‘Are they always like that?’ Bakker asked.
    ‘Not always,’ Van der Berg said.
    ‘If he’d asked nicely we’d have told him. Wouldn’t we?’
    ‘Possibly,’ he replied and nodded at her black suit. ‘You look smart. Did your auntie make it?’
    ‘C&A. They had a sale.’
    He grinned. Pulled on the lapel of his brown jacket.
    ‘Me too!’
    She looked distracted. Bakker could do this sometimes. Drift off into a little reverie of her own.
    ‘When?’ she asked.
    He let go of the jacket.
    ‘A while back. A year or two . . .’
    ‘No, Dirk. I meant . . . when’s he going to call? The man who’s got Natalya?’
    A wan smile.
    ‘When he feels like it. Nothing we can do is going to change that. You have to learn to wait.’
    ‘But I hate waiting. And that nice man from AIVD isn’t throwing anything our way’ A pause. ‘What do we do?’
    He pointed at the PC monitor and the CCTV footage.
    ‘How about we try to make sense of that?’
    Vos had clearance by the time they got to Schiphol. Two duty officers accompanied him and Hanna Bublik into the secure unit next to the sprawling airport terminal. Parts of it seemed relatively normal: holding areas for people detained at immigration, due for deportation. There was an outside space for exercise. Some men were lazily kicking a football around as they walked past. Then they went down a long passageway protected by high fencing and the mood changed. A body scanner, a pat down. More ID checks. The officers didn’t like the look of Hanna Bublik at all and got quite short with her.
    When they went away to check with Marnixstraat one last time Vos said, by way of apology, ‘They don’t know. If they did . . .’
    She stared at him then asked why there was nothing in the papers. He told her about the blackout.
    ‘And if this had been that other girl? The Dutch girl? With her rich parents?’
    ‘It would have been exactly the same,’ Vos said though he wasn’t sure she believed him.
    After a couple of minutes they were led through an electronic security door into a narrow, closed-off corridor. Grey metal floor, grey metal walls. Doors at regular intervals. Nothing on them except a small surveillance window with bars and a smart lock.
    ‘Two people with you inside,’ the guard said. ‘Those are the rules.’
    Vos had read the file the night before. Ismail Alamy styled himself a preacher.