The Girl Who Got Revenge Read online

  ‘Worked, you mean. Abadi threw himself in front of the tram because he was petrified of someone in his life who would find out he’d been helping the police. I’d assumed it was the imam – al Haq. But it wasn’t, was it? We’ve been putting two and two together and completely missing the right answer.’

  George grabbed her lover and kissed him hard on the mouth. ‘Den Bosch is in bed with Baumgartner. Baumgartner’s the link between the old men’s deaths and the trafficking case. We’ve got the bastards! How did I not see that straightaway?’

  Pressing his hand to her forehead, he gave her one of those patronising, almost fatherly looks. ‘There is the small matter of you being ill. You’re burning up. You shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Like you give a shit, Action Opa,’ George said, pushing his hand away. Ignoring the hangdog expression he was now wearing. Manipulative old bastard. This was precisely how he’d got away with not changing one iota in all the years they’d been together. ‘Den Bosch and Baumgartner. How do those two come to be working together? I haven’t come across a connection, but obviously there must be one.’

  ‘Why are you shutting me out?’ Van den Bergen asked, clearing his throat as though he couldn’t quite believe he’d said something so emotionally confrontational.

  No, no, no, old man. I’m not playing on your terms. Not here. Not while I feel so shitty. The adrenalin had all but gone now. The virus had her in its grip again. ‘One place we haven’t checked,’ she said, ‘is the room between the rooms.’

  Finding the secret door, which was now entirely exposed, George switched on the light. Nothing.

  ‘The bulb’s gone,’ Van den Bergen said. ‘Has the light gone out on our love, Georgina?’

  ‘Pack it in, will you? Making corny, guilt-tripping puns! What the hell has got into you?’ She took her lighter out of her coat pocket. Went back into the kitchen and picked up the old newspaper on the side. It was dated two months ago, with a headline about a Jewish-owned Rembrandt, stolen during the war, having been discovered in the attic of a house near the Vondelpark. She rolled the newspaper up and lit it.

  ‘Torch. See? I feel like Indiana Jones in the Temple of Incontinence.’

  ‘Jesus. Be careful with that thing.’

  She waved the torch near his face, not revealing that the flames made her nervous and reminded her rather too well of being petrol-bombed as a teen. ‘One last look. Since we’re here anyway. This was where the Verhagens’ biggest secrets were kept. Stands to reason we might have missed something.’

  Treading on every single board, checking for loose fixings, they moved from one side of the room to the other. Van den Bergen took up the board beneath which they had found Rivka Zemel’s diary.

  ‘Bring the light closer,’ he said. ‘Mind my hair, though.’ He donned his glasses, grunting as he bent over to peer into the dark, musty cavity.

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shit,’ George said, feeling the blazing heat burn closer to her unprotected hand. By now, sparks of charred, still-glowing newspaper were starting to shower down onto the wooden boards. She was just about to hasten to the kitchen to fling her impromptu torch into the sink when it occurred to her that they hadn’t checked everywhere. ‘Hang on. The skirting boards.’

  Van den Bergen scanned the edging around the floor. ‘Looks solid enough. There’s a good seventy years’ worth of dust on them, for a start.’

  ‘Don’t fancy bending over, Action Opa?’ George asked, rolling her eyes. ‘Feeling a bit stiff? Tamara had you changing one shitty nappy too many?’

  ‘That’s low,’ Van den Bergen said.

  ‘No. I’m telling the truth of it. This is why I went to England. I’m sick and tired of playing second fiddle to your “girls”, like they’re real family and I’m just some worthless bolt-on, like an irritating tagnut on your arse that won’t wash off but doesn’t really bother you either.’

  He was open-mouthed. Then his lips started to move without sound, like a guppy gasping for air. Frowning. Clearly processing.

  ‘Is that what this is all about? You’re jealous?’

  The urge to kick him in the shins was intense. ‘No! Don’t switch this so it’s my issue. You’re taking our relationship for granted. You’ve stopped making an effort. Your head is only ever in work or your daughter’s shit. I’ve saved a deposit for a flat, and like a dick, I’m willing to stick my money into the pot with you. But you want to stay in your shitty thrift shop of an apartment because it’s yours and you want to keep all the control.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘That’s how it is! Jesus. Hold this!’ She thrust the torch into his hand and knelt down. Felt her way along the skirting boards, shuddering as her nails dipped into the copious amounts of dark grey fluff. ‘Kaars’s dad built this well. Can’t believe he put skirts on! Maybe it was originally meant to be his red room of pain, but old Mrs Verhagen found out.’ She laughed at her own joke. Towering over her, Van den Bergen said nothing. ‘Follow me round, and stop bloody sulking.’

  ‘I’m not sulking. I’m thinking. Look…can we not argue? Any minute, Cornelia Verhagen could walk through that door and come down on us like a ton of bricks for breaking and entering. No warrant, George. Minks will fry us both alive.’

  Moving methodically along each wall in the half-light, George almost yelped with excitement when she realised that, among the decades-old grime, there was a piece carefully cut out of the wooden strip, along with white streaks that attested to some of the filth recently having been disturbed. ‘Bingo!’ She took the blunt-as-hell carving knife from her coat pocket and used it to prise the piece of board away from the wall. It came away easily – another indication that it couldn’t have been long since the board had been last removed.

  ‘What can you see?’ Van den Bergen asked, bringing the torch close enough that George could feel its heat on her cheek.

  She coughed as the dust was dislodged. Gagged as she plunged her hand inside the hidey-hole.

  ‘I’m going to have to scrub my hands in hot bleach water for a whole week,’ she said, switching to English. ‘This is some bare skanky shit, man.’ Her fingers made out firm, straight edges. ‘It’s a box. A box!’ Thrusting her arms in as far as they would go, she grabbed hold of the container and manoeuvred it out slowly.

  ‘Ow. Come on, George! My fingers are burning off. Bring it into the kitchen.’

  Knowing their trespass might be discovered at any minute, George set the box on the battered kitchen table and removed the lid. ‘The box itself isn’t dusty at all.’

  Together they peered inside at the contents: fat sheaves of invoices, receipts and correspondence, dated from 1942 to 1944.

  ‘This is all in German,’ George said. She fingered the letterhead at the top of the receipts – an iconic black art-deco-style eagle, clutching the swastika in a laurel wreath. Beneath it was written, in German gothic script, ‘Deutches Reich’. ‘Shit a brick. What the hell was Kaars Verhagen into?’

  CHAPTER 29

  En route to Van den Bergen’s apartment, later

  ‘I’m sure we’re being followed,’ George said, glancing over her shoulder to look through the rear window of Van den Bergen’s Mercedes.

  ‘What kind of car?’ Van den Bergen swallowed hard, peering in his rear-view mirror to catch a glimpse of whatever she thought she had seen. There was nothing untoward, as far as he could ascertain. A truck. A police van. A mini. An estate car.

  She shrugged. ‘Maybe I’m mistaken. There was a saloon, but I can’t see it now. Maybe my imagination’s gone into overdrive because of all this.’ Patting the box, her attention returned to their find from Kaars Verhagen’s room between the rooms.

  Listening to George’s attempts at translating the German documents as they drove back through heavy traffic towards his apartment, Van den Bergen weighed up the evidence they had so far gathered. Was it enough to make an arrest? Enough to make a conviction stick?

 
‘We know the van on the ferry belonged to Den Bosch,’ he said. ‘And we know Den Bosch has Baumgartner as a partner. The old men were patients at Baumgartner’s practice but he wasn’t their family doctor. Are you sure British port police pulled the van over?’

  ‘Yes. I saw them do it as I was leaving. And I’ve been calling to find out what happed to the little boy I rescued. I must have left four messages, but I’m still none the wiser.’ George held up a photo and started to scrutinise it. ‘This is a picture of the Force of Five. All of them. And some others besides.’ She turned the yellowed photo over. ‘It says it was taken in 1943.’ He could hear the smile in her voice. ‘Do you know what? I think Rivka Zemel and her family are in this.’ She chuckled quietly to herself as she leafed through yet more paper. ‘Hey! I think it’s Anna Groen. Wow. She was quite a showstopper. From 1943 as well. And there’s another few photos of Hendrik here. Says so on the back. Hendrik and Anna, posing hand in hand in the park. More Hendrik and Anna. Anna showing off her engagement ring. Good God, that was a rock and a half! Ooh. Anna in her bra and knickers! Ha. Dirty sod. Sexting, 1940s stylee.’

  Van den Bergen caught sight of Anna Groen in her underwear, perched on the end of an iron bedstead, her curvaceous body arranged in a coquettish pose. ‘What the hell is Kaars Verhagen doing with a box of photos of Hendrik and his fiancée? Or the Zemels, for that matter?’

  ‘Christ knows. You must surely know someone at the Harwich port who can help me find out about more about the little boy and what happened to whoever was in that van.’

  Absent-mindedly nodding, he pulled into the parking area of his apartment complex, irritated that next door’s son had parked his Opel in his space, yet again. Little bag of bollocks. He pulled the Mercedes across the back of the Opel. If the idiot wanted to get out, he’d have to come up to the flat, and Van den Bergen could give him what for. Then again, it wouldn’t do the baby any good to be around any kind of strife. Having second thoughts, he swung the car into the disabled space and shrugged. ‘A hiatus hernia counts as a disability, doesn’t it?’

  Carrying the box, allowing George to unlock the door, he was greeted by the sounds of his infant granddaughter screeching angrily and Tamara talking too fast into the phone. She wafted into view, baby on her hip and the phone wedged between her chin and shoulder. A harried expression on her face. Poor thing looked as far from a city-slick lawyer as it was possible to be: velour tracksuit covered in what smelled like baby sick, hair in a greasy ponytail and George’s slippers on her feet. Oh God. Had George noticed? That wouldn’t go down at all well.

  ‘Are you wearing my slippers?’ George asked, staring at Tamara’s feet. ‘Get them off. Now.’

  Tamara stared at her, a vague look of disgust on her face. The baby continued to scream, her little face bright red and blotchy from the effort. Van den Bergen set the box onto the kitchen table and took Eva from his daughter.

  ‘Come to Opa, my little darling.’ He started to sing a lullaby – ‘Slaap, kindje, slaap’ – to her in the hope that she might indeed sleep, but to no avail. The baby continued to shriek. She definitely had her grandmother’s lungs.

  Tamara had ended her call.

  ‘Is she ill?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you think?’ Tamara held her hands out to take her daughter back, a stricken look on her face. ‘That was the doctor. I wondered if I should take her to A & E. She’s been crying for hours and sicked up all over me.’ Tears started to fall. Her voice was suddenly small and tremulous. ‘Maybe she’s got meningitis.’

  ‘What did the doctor say?’

  ‘Virus. He told me to give her liquid paracetamol and lots of water. Keep her cool. If she’s still bad by this evening, I’ve got to take her to hospital.’

  Van den Bergen looked carefully at the little girl. Checked her chest for a temperature. None. Checked the back of her neck for a rash. No sign. Observed her as he held her near the light. ‘She’s fine.’ He used his fingers to feel her gums. Peered inside her mouth. The gums were so fiery red, they all but glowed. He could feel a little bump just beneath the surface. ‘Teething,’ he said. ‘Give her some ice cream.’

  ‘No, Dad!’ Tamara shouted. ‘She’s ill. I’m telling you. It’s meningitis or some dreadful infection. She’s been sick!’

  Sitting on the sofa, Van den Bergen started to bounce Eva on his knee. The crying abated slightly. George appeared from the kitchen, holding a pot of Häagen-Dazs and a teaspoon.

  ‘You can’t give her that!’ Tamara shouted, clutching the sides of her head.

  George sneezed, wiping her nose on her shoulder.

  ‘And she’s ill! Why have you brought her here?’

  ‘I could ask the same of you,’ George said. ‘I’ve got flu and I live here. What’s your excuse?’

  ‘Not now, you two,’ he said, willing these two firebrands to shelve their differences. His eyes were on the box they’d found hidden behind the skirting board. His German was rudimentary but he felt they were on the cusp of a breakthrough, here. If he solved the case, Roel de Vries and Minks could go to hell. Paul van den Bergen’s reputation would be unimpeachable, and any suggestion of being suspended would be forgotten.

  Staring blankly into his granddaughter’s angry eyes, he spooned the vanilla ice cream into her little rosebud mouth. Made a mental note to get Marie and Elvis to bring Baumgartner in for questioning, somehow. Perhaps on a trumped-up traffic charge, since the link to the Stena Line traffickers was tenuous, at best, until George’s allegations had been corroborated by police in the UK. Yes. That was it. A fudged speeding ticket. The old bastard had better have a driving licence.

  ‘See? She’s calmed down now.’ He smiled at the baby. Rubbed noses with her as her mood changed entirely from apoplexy to joy. She grabbed the teaspoon and rammed it into her mouth, chomping merrily on the cold metal, dribbling as though there were a switched-on drool-tap in her inflamed mouth. ‘Teething. Opa’s no stranger to babies, is he, schatje?’ He spoke in babyish tones to the tiny girl. His little treasure. She had his grey eyes. He silently prayed that she would see far lovelier things through those Van den Bergen eyes than murder and mayhem and existential disappointment.

  ‘You shouldn’t have her here with the flu. Eva has no immunity. I can’t cope with being kept up at night.’

  ‘Where do you think I caught the flu from in the first place? Do me a favour and piss off, Tamara,’ George said in English, only just about audible enough to hear. ‘Fucking prima donna. Thinks she’s the first woman in the world to shit a kid out.’ Pausing in her search through the German documents, she looked up from the kitchen table, shooting daggers at Tamara. ‘Haven’t you got a home to go to? And a husband?’

  ‘Fine,’ Tamara said. ‘I know where I’m not wanted. All Eva’s medicines are at my place, anyway.’ She turned to Van den Bergen, accusation in her voice. ‘I’m out of nappies, out of clean Babygros and there’s nothing in the fridge for dinner. Not so much as a chunk of cheese. I’ve got that veg box on the side. Shame to let it go to waste. I reckon it was just a neighbourhood free trial and you panicked for nothing. You’ll watch the baby, won’t you, Dad?’

  Van den Bergen recalled the sinister figure on the other side of the obscured glass of his daughter’s front door. The green Jaguar. The sense that he was being watched or followed. He could feel the panic infecting and warping his very bones. ‘I’ll go. You put the baby down for a nap. She’ll be exhausted after all this crying.’

  Feeling no small degree of relief as he sat in the quiet, fine-smelling elegance of his Mercedes, Van den Bergen drove over to Amstelveen, praying as he sang along to Placebo on the car’s stereo, that the two women wouldn’t kill one another while he was gone.

  He called Elvis and gave the order to bring Baumgartner in, then he tried Cornelia Verhagen. Still no answer. He rang his old contact in Berlin – Hakan Güngör – who would surely make short shrift of translating the Nazi documentation, if George’s Collins English–German dictionary didn�
�t quite cut the mustard.

  On the quiet Amstelveen street, there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary. No Jag. No stalkers. Not even the card-playing neighbour who had led Numb-Nuts astray. It was as if the whole world was out at work.

  Using Tamara’s key, he unlocked the door. The house smelled stale, the windows not having been opened for several days. There was no sign that Numb-Nuts had been back. It was exactly as Tamara had left it when he’d picked her up in a panic.

  Half-whistling, half-singing Placebo’s Pure Morning, feeling suddenly chipper – the glorious buzz he got when he felt jigsaw pieces finally slotting into place – Van den Bergen went to the kitchen cupboard and piled Eva’s medicines into a HEMA bag. He climbed the stairs to the nursery and found a giant pack of unbleached eco-nappies. He gathered the clean clothing together. Piled everything into the boot of his car. He was so preoccupied with fantasies of seeing Den Bosch being slayed by a top prosecutor in front of a judge and a jury full of righteous, bloodthirsty, ethnically diverse citizens, that when he went back in to pick up the veg box, he didn’t notice the company livery on the side: Bosch, Boom & Tuin.

  The drive back felt like a sign that soon, the clouds would part and the sun would come out for him and George. There was no traffic. He even remembered to avoid the roadworks. And on his return to his apartment complex, he found that the spotty little turd had moved his Opel. Van den Bergen manoeuvred into his space with a degree of satisfaction that felt like a warm blanket, almost quelling the constant spring of his stomach acid.

  Taking Tamara’s baby stuff and the vegetables out of the car was a struggle, but he managed it, even climbing the stairs two at a time, though he was laden down. He kicked the door three times – no hand free to press the bell or retrieve his key.