As the plane touched down in Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport, Van den Bergen undid his seat belt before they had even come to a standstill.
‘What’s the rush?’ George said, tugging at his belt as he pulled on his raincoat.
She was all sleepy from the long flight. Still holding hands with her dad. As if he had time for that kind of oversentimental crap, no matter how valid it may be.
‘Elvis is still missing,’ he said. ‘He’s been gone too long.’ He checked his watch. The working day had not yet begun. But the time that had elapsed since he had received the email containing the gruesome photo of Elvis did not bode well for the boy’s safety. ‘If my detective is dead because I wasn’t here to supervise the investigation into his disappearance, I’ll never forgive myself.’ Abruptly, he leaned down and kissed George full on the mouth, clasping her face in his hand.
He sensed that Michael was watching him. An intelligent man like that had worked out quickly enough the nature of his and George’s relationship. But at nearly 50, Van den Bergen was not about to make excuses to any man for his romantic commitment to a woman young enough to be his daughter. The heart wants what it wants. Those had been George’s words.
Dropping the keys to his apartment into her lap, he proffered his hand to Michael. Shook it in a businesslike fashion, careful not to crush those starved, fragile fingers inside his oversized shovel. Dark circles under his eyes said he hadn’t slept in ten years, but then the doctors had said he was dangerously anaemic as well as generally malnourished and almost certainly likely to suffer from PTSD once he started to process what had happened to him. Poor bastard. It was a miracle he was alive at all. ‘Get some rest, Michael,’ he said in English. ‘George here will take good care of you. But don’t let her cook if you want to see your next birthday.’
George thumped him playfully in the thigh. ‘Twat!’
‘Make your dad comfortable at my place,’ he said, ignoring the Tannoy announcement that demanded all passengers should remain in their seat until the aircraft had come to a complete standstill. ‘Fill the fridge. It’s on me. There’s cash in the spaghetti jar. I’ll be back when I’m back.’
A flash of his ID card ensured he was first off the plane, no questions asked. Van den Bergen arrived back in Amsterdam Centraal Station, emerging beyond its Renaissance Revival redbrick façade into dank drizzle and a stiff wind that was blowing inland from the North Sea. He inhaled the choking diesel fumes from the sightseeing barges that whipped over to him from the canals like some pollutant greeting, relieved to be back on familiar ground. This was his turf. This was a place where a guy could wear a light jumper and a raincoat and feel comfortable, most of the year round. This was home. But Elvis was missing.
A cab took him to the police headquarters on Elandsgracht.
‘Well?’ he said to Marie, slamming open the door to her office.
She had been sitting with her back to him, intently poring over what appeared to be programming language on her computer screen. Now, she clasped her hand to her chest. Her normally flushed face blanched.
‘God, you gave me a fright, boss.’ Her eyes were suddenly glassy. Unexpectedly, she sprang to her feet and embraced Van den Bergen in a bear hug. ‘We’ve got to get him back.’
‘And I think I know where we can find him.’ A man’s voice came from behind the door. ‘If you’ve finished slamming the door onto my knees.’
Van den Bergen detached himself from Marie and pulled the door closed to reveal Ad Karelse’s idiotic face smiling at him.
‘What the hell are you doing here, Karelse?’ he said, eyeing his erstwhile love rival up and down. Noticing the slight paunch that had appeared since they had last met, face to face. He no longer wore glasses, which gave his face an odd imbalance and made his nose look too long. And to think George had once considered him a pretty boy.
‘Where’s George?’
Hope emanated from every pore in the spineless prick’s body. Except Van den Bergen realised that Karelse was anything but a spineless prick, given he had opted to risk his life to spy on the Rotterdam Silencer’s clandestine business lunch.
‘Busy.’ Forcing himself to do the gentlemanly thing, Van den Bergen stuck out his hand. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
But Karelse returned the gesture only with a sneering, disdainful expression. The old wound ran deep, clearly. ‘I didn’t do it for you.’
They had reached a social etiquette impasse. There was no point in trying to build any more of that bridge.
‘Where do you think Elvis is?’ Van den Bergen asked, swiping aside the pile of empty snack wrappers, knick-knacks and stationery that covered Marie’s desk to perch on the edge. ‘And why haven’t you told us this earlier?’
Karelse remained standing with his arms folded. Staring at Van den Bergen, as though he was trying to slice him from top to toe with two beams of pure vitriol. ‘I’ve been up since 4 a.m. I couldn’t sleep. I went into the office early and started to trawl through old accounting archives.’ He turned to Marie. ‘Hacking the system from the inside is easy for me.’ Smiling as though Marie would be impressed by his bullshit. ‘And I couldn’t believe it.’
‘Spit it out,’ Van den Bergen said, drumming his fingers on the sticky desk. Trying his damnedest not to wrinkle his nose at the smell of stale cabbage and onions in Marie’s lair.
‘I have a Dutch delivery address for InterChem GmbH that was used several times for chemicals ordered from Chembedrijf back in 2010. In Rotterdam.’
‘Why the hell didn’t you just phone this information through?’ Van den Bergen stood, feeling momentarily woozy. Jet lag, probably. Or possible deep-vein thrombosis thanks to a long-haul flight. Another thing to get checked out for. But that could wait. He took two steps closer to Karelse, looking down at him. There were only thirteen centimetres between them, but each one counted.
‘Well, I got the first train out of Groningen. I wanted to deliver the news to George personally. Maybe help her look for Elvis.’ Karelse seemed to puff out his chest and broaden his shoulders. He shifted his feet to stand with legs astride like that posing idiot Poldark, whom George made Van den Bergen watch on TV whenever he visited her in England. ‘But she’s not here.’ He could see the Adam’s apple in Karelse’s throat pinging up and down. Disappointment dulling the shine on his hopeful young man’s face.
‘No. She’s not. So, give me the address, and you can go home.’
‘I risked my safety and my job to get you evidence!’ Karelse shouted, looking over at Marie for tacit approval that came in the form of the briefest of nods. ‘I spent a fortune on a lunch I didn’t even enjoy and got you a sound recording, a glass and some money. Bram Borrink recognised me, for God’s sake! I had to string him some bullshit about having lunch to celebrate my dad’s memory on the first anniversary of his death.’
‘Very nice,’ Van den Bergen said. ‘Congratulations on doing your civic duty. We’ll reimburse you for your lunch. Address!’ He raised his voice loud enough to make Karelse shrink back. Felt guilt wrapping its fingers around his stomach, squeezing hard until acid erupted upwards into his gullet.