Free The House of Dolls by David Hewson

then folded the paper and placed it on his lap. ‘As soon as we know something I’ll be in touch.’
    ‘You or Vos?’ Prins asked.
    ‘He’s just helping out,’ said Koeman from the chair. ‘Don’t you hear too well?’
    Prins, in his smart politician’s grey suit, bristled.
    ‘I don’t want any crap from you people over what we’re doing. We won the election. We’ve got the right—’
    ‘Like your wife said. This is about your missing daughter,’ Koeman interrupted. ‘Not you playing sheriff in the Wild West.’ He got up. Stretched. Stared at Prins. ‘Katja.’
    ‘I’ll remember you,’ Prins said and walked out.
    Mulder was staring at Liesbeth Prins. Amused.
    ‘What am I supposed to do?’ she asked.
    ‘Go home. Wait. Keep your eyes open,’ Mulder replied. ‘If you see something odd let us know.’
    She didn’t look happy with that.
    ‘Your daughter’s case was all over the papers,’ Mulder added. ‘Anyone could copy it. There’s nothing in what we’ve seen that hasn’t been out there already. It could just be a bad practical joke.’
    ‘Nice to see you’re trying,’ she said.
    The two cops watched her leave.
    ‘I never liked her when she was with Pieter,’ Koeman observed. ‘That bitch was playing him for a fool all along. Can’t believe she’s dragged him back into it again.’
    ‘I told you. Vos is just helping out,’ Mulder insisted. ‘One day only.’
    ‘Yeah,’ Koeman agreed with a smile. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

14
     
    Red kid. Blue kid. Bored in the boat, feet kicking the bag with the guns.
    Empty cardboard cones smeared in mayonnaise and chip fat in the bows.
    The phone was in blue kid’s hand. It rang. He listened, checked the map again.
    Black voice. Jamaican accent. The big man from the coffee shop doing just what he’d promised. Telling them where to go.
    ‘Yeah,’ blue kid said and put the ancient Nokia back into the pocket of his shiny tracksuit.
    The canal reminded him of the broad, lazy river that ran through Paramaribo. The Surinam. It gave the country its name. Slow and grey too. Opaque. A place to hide things. He’d done that. Wondered if red kid had and whether he ought to ask his name. Not that he talked much. Or seemed to want to.
    In a few hours they’d both be on a plane to somewhere new. He hadn’t had time to do a lot in Amsterdam. One hooker, some smokes. Then Jimmy Menzo called.
    His uncle had a boat on the Suriname river. When he was young and the family was still intact they used it to go out of the city for picnics in the country. Good times. All gone. There was no future for his kind back home. They had to go abroad, to Venezuela, the Caribbean, across continents for that.
    A tourist cruiser went past. People standing up to take pictures. Japanese mostly, cameras round their necks. These people weren’t like him. They had money and real jobs. Enough to take them to Amsterdam then get out again. He didn’t resent that. It was how things were. They couldn’t help being born in Tokyo or Los Angeles or London. Any more than he had a choice about growing up four to a room in a Paramaribo slum.
    ‘Are we going?’ red kid asked then yawned as if this was just another boring day.
    It seemed colder. The wind had got up. Rain was spitting from the dull, heavy sky. The trees that lined the canal kept shedding their light-green seeds. When the breeze caught they whirled around the little dinghy in a sudden storm.
    His uncle let him steer the outboard when he got older. Those were good days.
    Blue kid walked to the back, yanked on the cord, got the engine going, worked the little boat into the slow traffic of the Prinsengracht. Another throw of the die and he might have been one of the traders running up and down these waters, delivering things, moving them. Never having to worry about people like Jimmy Menzo. Never having to touch a gun.
    But that wouldn’t happen. In a day he’d be in Cape Town, at the foot of Africa, red kid by his