Free The House of Dolls by David Hewson Page B

seemed so straightforward that Jaap Zeeger, the man whose evidence first sent Jansen to jail then freed him, hadn’t needed to come to court.
    ‘I didn’t do any of this,’ Jansen said as they sat down in an interview room in the basement of the courthouse. To Vos’s eyes he looked more like a genial Santa Claus than ever. ‘You know that.’ He glanced at the woman by Vos’s side. ‘Who’s your friend?’
    ‘A police officer,’ Vos told him before Bakker could speak.
    Jansen laughed. A gruff, friendly sound. Then ran two fat fingers through his full white beard.
    ‘They really do get younger, don’t they? I’m sorry about your girl. Genuinely. If I’d known anything I’d have passed it on. That kind of thing’s unforgivable.’
    Vos thought for a moment then said, ‘I still don’t understand why you heard nothing. Those big ears . . .’
    Jansen tweaked them beneath the white hair, a sad smile on his broad face.
    ‘It wasn’t someone from our side of the street. Not Dutch. Not even those foreigners.’
    ‘Jaap Zeeger . . .’
    ‘It wasn’t him either. Jaap’s a little fool. Someone fitted him up, Vos. You know that as well as I do. What we do is business. And that wasn’t. Sorry.’
    Two days after Anneliese went missing they’d searched Zeeger’s apartment following an anonymous phone call. Found a girl’s skirt, a blouse. The same clothes she’d been wearing when she disappeared. And a doll much like the one sent to Marnixstraat with her hair and blood. Vos dragged the trembling little crook into the station, screamed at him, which was out of character. Got screamed at by the terrified Zeeger in return.
    Something didn’t fit from the start. Jaap Zeeger was a deadbeat street criminal, a runner for Jansen’s dope and prostitution rackets. He didn’t have the intellect or the organization to play such games.
    Then forensic came back with the news that the clothes were new, unworn. There was nothing on the doll to connect it to Anneliese. Someone had sent them to Zeeger hours before they’d got the anonymous tip-off. One more twist in a savage game that seemed designed to taunt and torture.
    ‘Where is he now?’ Vos asked.
    Jansen looked puzzled.
    ‘I don’t know. Lindeman said he might have to come to court. The judge decided he didn’t need him. Talk to Michiel. Maybe he can help. You don’t have an address?’
    ‘If we did we wouldn’t be asking, would we?’ Laura Bakker said.
    ‘Oh dear.’ Jansen laughed. ‘She’s got a country mouth on her, hasn’t she? What do you want Jaap for? He’s just a sad little junkie. That clown Mulder leaned on him hard. I don’t bear grudges. I hope they’re grateful.’
    ‘We’re going home,’ Rosie Jansen said. ‘My father’s put up with enough from you people. I won’t . . .’
    The big man waved at her to be quiet.
    ‘Don’t talk to Vos like that. He doesn’t deserve it. A city needs good policemen. We won’t hear from him again.’ He leaned forward and looked at both of them. ‘I won’t give you reason. You’ve got my word . . .’
    Bakker threw her notebook on the table, tapped the page with her pen. Jansen raised an eyebrow, went quiet. Looked at her. Looked at Vos.
    ‘Zeeger’s been staying in a drug house off Warmoesstraat,’ Bakker said. ‘With Katja Prins. Know anything about that?’
    ‘I’ve spent the last two years in jail. How would I?’
    Rosie Jansen got to her feet, leaned over, took Bakker’s pen and scribbled something on the pad.
    ‘Talk to Lindeman. There’s his number. He fixed the affidavit. He dealt with Jaap. Not us. We’re leaving now. Dad?’
    Jansen rose from his seat, hugged her, smiled, patted her back.
    The release order meant he had to go straight to his house and stay there, reporting into Marnixstraat every evening. Jansen looked happy enough with that idea.
    ‘Have we fixed a car for you, Theo?’ Vos asked.
    ‘You can keep your car,’ Rosie Jansen said. ‘He wants to