Alfie heard a man and a woman, arguing. He recognised Katrien’s voice, but not what she was saying; she was speaking in another language, but he could hear by the tone that it wasn’t friendly.

Alfie stood on one of the ancient worn floorboards and it creaked. The voices abruptly stopped. Alfie turned and ran, straight into two English lads who were about to climb the stairs to the museum. He deftly stepped aside and the lads walked on up, straight into the wrath of Katrien and her friend. Alfie heard the shouting. Alfie’d been lucky. He crossed over the bridge nearby and went inside the Banana Bar opposite and watched through the window. The bar was one of the few left in Amsterdam that the Eastern Bloc mafia hadn’t been able to muscle in and take over. They did a great line in intimidation. They were responsible for the imminent demise of De Wallen with all their brutality in humanity and pimping. He ordered a coffee and sat watching. First to emerge, looking flustered, it amused Alfie to see, was Katrien. Then came her companion. Alfie didn’t recognise him. He was a short, dark-skinned man, well dressed, Asian. Alfie slipped out of the Banana Bar and followed her friend. He was crossing over the bridge to Alfie’s side of the canal and then headed down towards Central Station. Alfie followed.

Katrien walked quickly away in the direction of the New Church and the Jordaan. She looked behind her and caught a glimpse of Alfie’s blond curls, his leather jacket. Now she knew who was behind the hidden camera. She headed home to pack. She was going to have to leave sooner than she planned.

43

Alfie followed the man to a bar just near Central Station and sat drinking a beer as he watched him having what looked like a business meeting with a local. Alfie made sure he got close enough to take some good photos with his phone and then he sent the photos to the station to be put through the computer files. Alfie left them to it. They looked like they weren’t moving and Alfie wanted to get the most out of the day. He had things to do. Firstly, he wanted to head back and check on Magda. He was nervous since the burglary. It had been a personal attack on Magda.

He had got as far as Belle when he saw the two men—smart, expensive coats, business suits. He stared hard. They had separated slightly. They were coming at him from both sides. They glanced around but always their eyes came back to stare at Alfie and they were headed straight for him. They looked familiar. Alfie kept walking forward, his mind whirring, matching faces in his memory. His mind spun him back to the night that Mann had arrived, when he was throwing a joint over the balcony. He looked down to see two men, one helping the other up from the ground. These were the same men. The men who had followed Magda and who very probably were responsible for breaking into the flat.

Alfie kept walking and his eyes instinctively flicked over to Magda’s window to make sure she was safe. He could see her talking to customers in the PIC. She looked up at that second and saw by Alfie’s expression that something was very wrong. Her eyes went to the two men approaching him; they had passed her now and she was staring at their backs. They were reaching inside their coats and Magda watched Alfie’s expression and she saw the flash of a knife. She saw Alfie stop dead and go to turn and run and she saw the blade in the air as the man’s arm drew back and lunged forward at Alfie.

In that instant Magda did what all the window prostitutes would have done in De Wallen. The one thing that would get everyone running onto the streets and to her aid. Magda pressed the panic button.

44

Late in the afternoon, Mann walked into King’s bar. The place was empty except for the barman—a happy chap named Eric—an Indian with a predisposition for Americans and classic rock. The smell of garlic and ginger being fried wafted in from the kitchen at the back and there was a good degree of chilli in the air that burnt the eyes. Mann ordered a large vodka and a bottle of mineral water. He didn’t trust the ice. Eric was all smiles. He looked like he loved his work. He marched up and down behind the bar and tinkered away as he hummed along to Bruce Springsteen singing about being born in the USA.

‘Something to eat, sir?’

He handed Mann a well-thumbed menu—it looked like it doubled as a plate when necessary. There was a massive selection of faded photos of curries of the same colour and looked like washed-out cowpats.

Whilst Mann took his time considering which photo did it for him, the place filled with a bunch of freshly showered volunteer workers all chatting about their day: how much salted fish had arrived, how many more stacks of muslin were needed. Cutting his way through them, a lone tourist came shuffling in, a young lad with a backpack so big it got momentarily wedged in the door frame. Mann watched him sidle up to the bar. Eric homed in on him and negotiations began. It seemed the lad was looking for something that Eric just happened to have.

‘No problem, my friend.’ Eric was trying to look nonchalant whilst keeping his voice low. ‘This I can do for you…for a very small fee. I can arrange for it to happen tonight. No need to wait. I make a phone call to my friend and he will take you to get your visa renewed tonight, no problem.’

The backpacker thanked Eric. Eric was on a roll. He could do this for the lad and that for him. But the backpacker wasn’t able to hear so well over Bryan Adams and Eric had to shout louder than he really wanted to. He started to look like he was trying to hurry the deal along. ‘Listen, let me tell you, visa renewal very dangerous at the moment. Cost normally five, six thousand baht. But, for you…I make deal, get it cheap—three thousand, my friend, very good deal.’

‘Okay—I’ll have that one.’ Mann beckoned Eric over and pointed to a green pile on the middle page whilst he asked, ‘Is Riley around?’ He looked up from the menu.

Eric paused, rolled his eyes skyward, and smiled. ‘Mr Riley? He will be here any minute now.’

Mann picked up his drink and went to sit at a table. When the curry arrived ten minutes later, it was surprisingly good. He was halfway through it, watching Eric still working his magic on the young backpacker, when a group of what Mann thought must be medics came in; they were still discussing the day’s casualties as they made their way through the door. There were three of them: one woman and two men. The two men were olive skinned, dark haired, possibly European or South American, thought Mann. The woman was Caucasian, in her late thirties, Mann guessed. She was the one doing most of the talking. She had long blonde hair that she had tied in a thick rope plait and kept back from her face with a small, red-spotted kerchief, like the kind old bikers wore. She was the most animated of the bunch; her hands skipped in the air as she talked. The men listened and nodded but Mann could see they were on a mission to get to the bar and to switch off for the day.

Eric leaned across to her and nodded Mann’s way. As the two men picked up their drinks and decided where to sit, she left them and approached Mann’s table.

‘You asked for Riley?’

‘I did and, to be honest, you’re better looking than I thought you’d be.’

She smiled. ‘I’m Sue. I work with Riley.’

She reached across and shook Mann’s hand. Her hands were long and thin—piano-playing hands, strong with long fingers. He looked into her eyes as they said hello. She must have been a beautiful child, thought Mann, with big blue eyes and blonde curls. Now she had grown into a very attractive woman with laughter lines and eyes that sparkled with confidence and something devilish. She sat down opposite.