The Girl Who Walked in the Shadows. Marnie Riches

got a man in A&E, found in that apartment … looks like he’s going to die from septicaemia. A drug mule. I’ve worked enough drugs cases in my time to know that much. Carrying bags in his stomach and shitting them out once he’s been safely trafficked from some far-flung shithole to Amsterdam. Bringing poison and death into my town. Are you a drug mule, too? Are you a dealer? Did the dead man use those boys as dealers? Scouts? What? Tell me!’

      ‘No comment,’ the interpreter told him. ‘She has no comment. She wants to speak to someone at her embassy.’

      He turned to the diminutive woman who was acting as linguistic go-between and steeled himself to remember she was just the messenger, that he should not shoot her. ‘There are two little boys who are going to spend the night in an emergency foster placement. Frightened out of their wits, saying she’ll beat them if they speak. Tell the hatchet-faced cow that if she doesn’t give me the info I require now I’ll have her on the next flight to whatever warzone she’s crawled out of.’ He was shouting. He knew he was shouting. He didn’t care. Let this bitch come at him with whatever she could muster. Let her try to level an accusation of intimidation or sexism or racism at him.

      ‘Syria.’

      ‘Right. Well, Syria can fucking have her back before the weekend, unless she talks.’

      ‘She wants a Dutch passport.’

      ‘Talk!’

      There was a heated exchange in the woman’s native tongue. She treated Van den Bergen and Elvis to looks of utter disdain, as though she were a Red Cross nurse, rather than a woman somehow embroiled in drug-dealing and human trafficking.

      Finally, the interpreter turned to Van den Bergen, alarmed and disconcerted, judging by her look of disgust. ‘The dead man is called Tomas Vlinders. He paid her to take the boys to rich men’s houses. They were delivering drugs for parties. Parties held by powerful men.’

      Van den Bergen sat back down. Pushed his knees beneath the low table. Leaned forward in a measured manner. ‘What powerful men?’

       CHAPTER 12

       A village south of Amsterdam, 25 May, the previous year

      ‘Phone, door keys, bag,’ Gabriella Deenen said, staring blankly at her possessions on the passenger seat. ‘Car keys. Where’s the—?’

      The police officer leaned in through the driver’s open window. His hat and the bulk of his navy and yellow Politie jacket filling the space. ‘Are you sure you want to drive yourself?’ He sounded incredulous. His furrowed brow said he didn’t believe her. ‘You can come in the squad car and get someone to pick your vehicle up later.’

      Gabi started the engine. The key had been in the ignition all the time! Which made sense, since she was sitting in the damned car and had to have had the key to unlock it in the first place. Pay attention, for god’s sake. Breathe in. Breathe out.

      ‘I’m fine. I’ll meet you at the house.’

      She was surprised by how strong her voice sounded. She didn’t feel fine. She felt like she was going to be sick. Pull yourself together, you weak woman, she counselled herself. You’ll get home. This will all be a big mistake. With a click of a switch, the window closed, shutting the irritating, well-meaning and concern of the policeman outside.

      Pulling out of the parking space, she almost crashed into the police car. Almost. Not quite. She was fine. This was okay. It was going to be a mistake. Except she had that horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach. Not butterflies. More like flapping, desperate moths, blind to the direction in which the light lay.

       Breathe in. Breathe out.

      When they had turned up, in the middle of her fundraising presentation, at first she had been annoyed. Knock, knock on the door of the meeting room, right as she was delivering a heart-rending speech about the hope that the charity’s medical research brought to families affected by traumatic brain injury. The donor – a director in a multi-national mining company with a shocking health and safety record – had been rapt with attention; chequebook open, hoping to buy the company a better public image. But just as things were going well and she had enjoyed that rush she used to get back in London, when she had pulled off a particularly good PR campaign, propelling Schoen Engineering Systems to the top of the aerospace heap, they had barged their way in. Flashing ID.

      Yes. She had had a bad feeling. The moment she had seen them in the doorway. Eyes only for her.

      ‘Can you come with us, please, Mrs Deenen?’

      The policewoman’s face had been arranged into an expression of kindliness and sympathy. She wondered if the Dutch Police HR department had arranged training for that kind of thing. Body language was so important.

      Now, her hands shook, though she was gripping the steering wheel as tightly as possible. Skin stretched tight over white bony knuckles.. As she waited at the traffic lights, fragmented thoughts punctured her apparent composure. Josh and Lucy missing. A slight chip on her bronze nail varnish. Trip to the nail bar was in order. But Josh and Lucy were missing. Missing.

      The traffic lights turned to red. Slamming hard on the brakes, the police car almost ran into the back of her. Suddenly, her foot was disobeying her brain. Trembling. Jerking. Kangaroo petrol, she lurched away on green.

      ‘What do they mean, missing?’ she asked the road sign as she pulled into their street.

      There were two police cars outside their hydrangea-fronted house. The lawn needed a trim, she noted. Her Dutch home in this Amsterdam satellite town – quiet but for the Schiphol to Rotterdam line that ran at the back of the long garden – was hardly in the same league as the Victorian house they had had in London. But at least it was detached. She didn’t feel ashamed to have the police officers in and offer them a cold drink. Perhaps Piet would already have made them one. The kids were almost certainly playing in the back garden in this weather.

      The kids.

      The kids weren’t playing in the garden. The police were here. Josh and Lucy were missing.

      Almost ploughing into the back of a small white van that overhung the paved driveway by a small margin, Gabi parked up abruptly, only an inch or so between the bumper and the brick wall. Light-headed, she patted her hair. Phone. Bag. Keys. Going through the routine. Imposing some normality on the abnormal. Staring at everything but seeing nothing. Fingers fumbling with the fob. Locking the car. Turning her ankle as she walked in through the open front door. Unaware of the pain. Past the constable on the step, talking into his hissing walkie-talkie. He reached out to try to stop her but she strutted on into the kitchen.

       Look for Lucy and Josh. They’ll be there. Sitting at the table, drawing. Bet Piet hasn’t washed their hands all morning. If they’re not there, they’re in the garden. Yes, they’ll be outside.

      At her back, the police officers who had come to the office were saying something to her, though she wasn’t listening. She heard her name. ‘Mrs Deenen.’ But the rest was rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb.

      ‘Rhubarb,’ she said under her breath, remembering stage instructions for extras in the school play when she had been a child, though she had always taken the leading role. ‘Rhubarb.’ Josh’s favourite kind of crumble pudding, though Lucy often gagged on the stringy consistency.

      Steeling herself to connect with here and now, Gabi took in her surroundings. So many police officers were encroaching on her space. There was a man in plain clothes, talking to Piet, taking notes at the island in the middle of the kitchen. He had a glass of water by his right hand. Good. Piet had offered them all refreshments.

      Beyond, she saw the empty lawn. The enormity of the situation started to dawn on her.

      Piet