“You fucked up royally with the Werewolf murders.”
“I did?” he asked.
“Too many people died last time, Van Dijk,” Huijbers continued with barely a pause, “the fucking scandal will tarnish our reputation for years, and the person responsible is still on the run, in case you’d forgotten. Your girlfriend wasn’t she? Living right under your nose.”
“She wasn’t my girlfriend.”
“Shut the fuck up!” He wagged his chubby finger at Pieter, like he was admonishing a naughty child. “Make sure you don’t screw this one up as well, you hear? These people, the Bakkers, they were a very highly respected family. Dr Bakker even treated members of The Royal Family.”
He leaned even further out of the car window, the hat looking ridiculous on his big, sweaty head.
“Now listen carefully. I want this case cleared up quickly, with no loose ends. Do your job and find the fucker who did this and put him away - fucking understood?”
With that, he slapped the side of the car to signal to his driver that it was time to go, and the car pulled away.
Pieter gave a jaunty little salute as the red tail-lights disappeared down the street.
◆◆◆
While driving back to his home on Singel Canal Pieter considered his reflection in the car’s rearview mirror.
The face of the man looking back at him had changed almost beyond recognition over the past six months. With its sallow complexion and dark rings around the eyes, and sharp cheekbones and three-day stubble, it was the face of someone who suffered frequent sleepless nights or night-terrors; a person haunted by the recent past, which had affected both his physical health as well as his mental well-being. His hair was greying at the temples and a permanent frown marred his brow, and he’d picked up the paranoid habit of looking over his shoulder whenever he heard footsteps approaching, especially at night.
His psychiatrist had told him straight; he was suffering from burn-out and needed a complete break, from work and the city. Take a holiday, go somewhere to relax, perhaps a few weeks on the coast. Well, Pieter reflected ruefully as he drove through the quiet streets, that hadn’t exactly worked out had it? Not when Lotte – Charlotte Janssen, as he now knew her as – had somehow tracked him down and popped up right in the small guesthouse where he was staying. Somehow evading the massive international manhunt and paying him a brief visit, to remind him that she was still around.
He shuddered at the memory of that fleeting glimpse of her standing on the pavement below his window, smiling and mocking him. Then, in the next instant, gone. And since that day neither he nor anybody else had laid eyes on her. She had melted away, vanished, dropping completely off the radar, leaving him convinced that she was still out there somewhere, possibly still right in this city.
That was one of the reasons why Pieter had not moved house. It seemed pretty pointless as she’d no doubt still be able to find him. Amsterdam was a small city, she knew where he worked, so discovering his whereabouts would be easy for someone of her means. Besides, somewhere in the back of his mind was this vague hope that she would make a move, maybe come for him again. At the present it was probably their best hope of catching her.
Pulling down his street Pieter opened his automatic garage doors using the fob on his keyring, and after parking his car and setting the house alarm, went upstairs to the living quarters. Taking out the leftover remains of yesterday’s pizza, he popped it in the oven – a new addition to his bachelor pad – and went to take a shower whilst it heated up.
Dumping his clothes in the laundry bag, he stepped into the cubicle and turned the hot water up as high as he could stand it.
It was well after midnight by the time he’d eaten supper and drank a beer. He felt shattered. Hopefully tonight would be one of those rare occasions when he actually slept through.
But first, there was one more thing he had to do.
Bending down, he retrieved a small glass jar from underneath his bed. Unscrewing the lid, he proceeded to pour the contents onto the bare, wooden floorboards, something he did every single night without fail.
Working carefully, he completely surrounded the bed with an uninterrupted circle of salt, as protection through to sunrise.
Chapter 4
Nina
Twelve year old Nina Bakker felt rough hands pull the blindfold away from her eyes and she lay on the bed, her eyes blinking rapidly in time with her racing heart. Her blurred vision slowly came back into focus and she gasped at what she saw.
Standing over her was the figure of a short and squat man. He may not have been particularly tall, but she could see straight away that he was powerfully built, with thick biceps and a barrel chest and huge hands. He was wearing a brown boiler suit and heavy work boots, but when her gaze shifted upwards to look at his face, she gave a little gasp.
His features were hidden behind an old leather hood. At the front, where the eyes should be, was a small horizontal glass visor set in a rusty iron frame. The hood came down to his shoulders so that the whole of his head and face was hidden from view.
It was the type of hood that welders wore, Nina realized. Her grandfather used to have a similar one, for when he was repairing his vintage motorbikes in the garage. But this one was old, more like the sort that men who worked in the old docks used to wear in the past. The sight of it petrified her, especially the dark visor. The thought of those hidden eyes watching and staring at her was enough to make Nina cringe back onto the mattress, and she squirmed, her hands and feet
