The Wrong Girl Read Online Free Page A

and the crowd would go quiet for the ceremonial speeches.
    ‘There,’ the woman said. ‘There he is . . .’
    She was pointing at a green figure close by the entrance to one of the narrow side lanes, filled with tourist restaurants.
    With a short sigh Bakker turned to look, closely, the way she’d learned through working with Vos. He didn’t just see the world around him. The people in it. How they fitted into the narrow, sometimes chaotic streets of Amsterdam. He thought about them. Tried to imagine what brought these men and women here, and the story behind them.
    When she did that Bakker found she was interested in what she saw. The Black Pete was of medium height, blacked up, a large curly wig, green satin costume, mob cap, baggy trousers. He had a red sack that ought to be full of sweets to hand out to the kids. But he wasn’t doing that. It was as if the sack scarcely existed. He was looking round. Watching for something.
    This one didn’t have a rusty bike but he was wrong somehow.
    Vos and Van der Berg were still engaged with the drunk who looked ready to get punchy. Bakker told the woman and her daughter to stay with the uniform officer, then walked over to say hello.
    So many of these odd characters were around at that moment. There were even a couple abseiling down one of the buildings. Anyone who felt like getting the costume, handing out some sweets and having fun could lose themselves in the disguise.
    ‘There’s a woman who thinks you’re following her. I’m sure it’s just a mistake.’
    No response. Just two very white and angry eyes staring at her from beneath the shiny, curly wig.
    ‘Perhaps if you could show me some ID.’
    A grunt and then his gloved hands went beneath the loose elastic of the green trousers, fiddled around and came up with something she recognized straight away.
    It was the card for Koeman, another plain-clothes agent in Vos’s team.
    She looked him up and down and stifled a giggle. He folded his green arms and tapped his right foot on the pavement.
    ‘Is this work?’ she asked. ‘Or what you do off duty?’
    He was a miserable bastard at the best of times. It seemed a worthwhile question.
    ‘What do you think?’
    ‘I don’t know. That’s why I asked.’
    He closed his eyes for a moment.
    ‘I’m street surveillance.’
    She pointed to the woman who’d complained. Renata Kuyper was jabbing a finger at the uniformed officer again.
    ‘Did you follow her all the way here from Herenmarkt?’
    ‘No,’ he said with a sarcastic whine. ‘Why would I do that?’
    ‘She says a Black Pete did. He was wearing green.’
    Koeman reached into his bag and glumly offered her a spicy kruidnoot.
    The cheesy music had stopped which meant they could hear Renata Kuyper yelling at the top of her voice alongside the rising clamour of the crowd. Bakker glanced up at the theatre balcony. Sinterklaas was there, along with the mayor, marching towards the microphone.
    Something was missing.
    The girl in the pink jacket.
    Bakker strode quickly back. Koeman followed.
    ‘Henk! Henk!’ she was screaming into her phone. ‘For God’s sake where are you? Get down here, will you? Saskia just wandered off . . .’
    She stopped, glared at Koeman.
    ‘He’s a duty police officer,’ Bakker explained.
    The female cop was getting irate.
    ‘Like we said. It’s Sinterklaas. Kids go missing. We’ll find her for you. Jesus. You don’t need to make such a fuss.’
    The woman was still on the phone screaming at what Bakker could only assume was voicemail.
    ‘We’ll find her . . .’ Bakker repeated.
    The racket had attracted Pieter Vos’s attention. He patted the drunk on the back and sent him off towards the exit then wandered over. Vos and Van der Berg seemed to recognize Koeman immediately. Perhaps he did this every year.
    Bakker looked at them, radios in hand, alert, ready.
    ‘We’ve got a missing girl. Pink jacket.’ She turned to the woman. ‘Name?’
    Renata Kuyper gave up on the