Where is it?’ Jaap asks. He’s scanning the skies, ears primed for the thundery hum of the SAR chopper which is supposed to be heading his way.
Stuppor’s co-operation factor went up by a multiple of ten once he realized that Jaap needed to get off his island. He checks his phone again.
‘Five minutes out.’
The run from the ferry terminal turned out to be a waste of time because the harbourmaster was able to confirm that a boat, a forty-two-footer called Vrijheid, ‘Freedom’, registered to Daan Brouwer, sailed half an hour before.
The light’s failing fast. Jaap needs to be in the air. Now.
He’d expected the police to have their own launch, but Stuppor had explained that cutbacks meant they shared with the coastguard, and it was currently out, a fishing vessel had sent out a distress call from the North Sea. Jaap dialled the mainland, and two boats had already been launched, but they’re still, according to the dispatcher, at least half an hour away.
Jaap’s also sent out an alert to all ports within a two-hour radius, but he doesn’t want to wait. And he’ll still need the chopper, because if Brouwer does put in somewhere and gets arrested by a local patrol then he wants to be there in as short a time as possible.
Arno, who Jaap had sent to the local supermarket, turns up just as the chopper appears on the horizon.
As it’s coming down Arno hands Jaap a bag. Jaap thanks him, delves inside and hands the single-wrapped syrupwaffel to Stuppor, who takes it suspiciously.
‘Fuck’s this?’ he shouts, the chopper just touching down, the sound beating at their ears.
‘A present,’ Jaap yells back. ‘From my partner. Inspector Tanya Vandermark. I believe you know each other?’
Credit cards can buy you stuff, but the look on Stuppor’s face? Priceless.
And from the look on Arno’s, he’s enjoying it as much as Jaap.
As the chopper springs up into the air the sun seems to slide lower, making the sea a cauldron of gold. The pilot corkscrews, giving them three-sixty views, but neither manages to spot anything resembling the Vrijheid.
Half an hour into it, the pilot gets a call. Jaap’s eyes are strained; he’s been scanning the water, hardly noticing the change from golden down to a much darker hue as the sun slips away. And still no boat. They’d headed north, hugging the coast of the next island in the chain, Terschelling. Three separate boats had spiked Jaap’s heart rate, but each time, on closer inspection, it was clear none of them were the Vrijheid.
‘For you,’ the pilot says, flipping a switch. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Inspector Rykel,’ a new voice says. ‘This is Chief Inspector De Zoet of the Terschelling force. I hear you’re airborne.’
‘Yeah,’ says Jaap, suddenly spotting another vessel, way off to the right, only just visible in the failing light. He nudges the pilot and points. The chopper veers, then straightens up. ‘We’ve just spotted a possible boat, heading towards it now.’
‘Had a call from the harbourmaster here on Terschelling, he’s been in radio contact with a man piloting the Vrijheid. Apparently he wants to dock. What do you want us to do?’
Jaap nods to the pilot who swings the helicopter round.
‘Just sit tight,’ Jaap says. ‘I’m coming.’