The Night Ferry

3

A mobile vibrates gently beneath my pillow.

I hear Ruiz’s voice. “Rise and shine.”

“What time is it?”

“Just gone seven. There’s someone downstairs. Lena Caspar sent him.”

Pulling on my jeans, I splash water on my face and brush my hair back in a band.

Nicolaas Hokke is in his mid-sixties with short springy gray hair and a beard. His six-foot frame helps hide the beginnings of a paunch beneath a scuffed leather jacket.

“I understand you need a guide,” he says, taking my hand in both of his. He smells of tobacco and talcum powder.

“I’m looking for a girl.”

“A girl?”

“An asylum seeker.”

“Hmmm. Let’s talk over breakfast.”

He knows a place. We can walk. The intersections are a flurry of trams, cars and bicycles. Hokke negotiates them with the confidence of a deity crossing a lake.

Already I am falling for Amsterdam. It is prettier and cleaner than London with its cobbled squares, canals and wedding-cake façades. I feel safer here: the anonymous foreigner.

“Often people want tours of the red light district,” Hokke explains. “Writers, sociologists, foreign politicians. I take them twice—once during daylight and again at night. It is like looking at different sides of the same coin, light and dark.”

Hokke has an ambling gait with his hands clasped behind his back. Occasionally, he stops to point out a landmark or explain a sign. “Straat” means street and “steeg” means lane.

“This was your beat?” asks Ruiz.

“Of course.”

“When did you retire?”

“Two years ago. And you?”

“A year.”

They nod to each other as if they share an understanding.

Turning a corner, I get my first glimpse of Amsterdam’s famous “windows.” Initially, they appear to be simple glass doors with wooden frames and brass numbers. The curtains are drawn across some of them. Others are open for business.

Only when I draw closer do I see what this means. A skinny dark woman in a sequined bra and G-string is sitting on a stool with her legs crossed and boots zipped up to her knees. Under the black lights the bruises on her thighs appear as pale blotches.

The blatancy of her pose and her purpose diminishes a small part of me. She watches me aggressively. She doesn’t want me with these men. I will stop them coming to her door.

Negotiating more of the narrow lanes, we pass windows that are so close on either side that it is like being at a tennis match and following the ball back and forth across the net. In contrast, Ruiz looks straight ahead.

A large Dominican woman calls out to Hokke and waves. Dressed in a red tasseled push-up bra that underpins a massive bust, she is perched on a stool with her legs crossed and stomach bulging over her crotch.

Hokke stops and talks to her in Dutch.

“She has four children,” he explains. “One of them is at university. Twenty years a prostitute but she’s still a woman.”

“What do you mean a woman?”

“Some of them turn into whores.”

He waves to several more prostitutes, who blow him kisses or tease him by slapping their wrists. Farther down the street an older woman comes out of a shop and throws her arms around him like a long lost son. She presses a bag of cherries into his hand.

“This is Gusta,” he explains, introducing us. “She still works the windows.”

“Part-time,” she reminds him.

“But you must be—”

“Sixty-five,” she says proudly. “I have five grandchildren.”

Hokke laughs at our surprise. “You’re wondering how many customers would sleep with a grandmother.”

Gusta puts her hands on her hips and rolls them seductively. Hokke looks for a polite way to answer our question.

“Some of the younger, prettier girls have men queuing up outside their windows. They are not concerned if a man comes back to them. There will be plenty more waiting. But a woman like Gusta cannot rely on a sweet smile and a firm body. So she has to offer quality of service and a certain expertise that comes with experience.”

Gusta nods in agreement.

Hokke doesn’t seem to resent or disapprove of the prostitutes. The drug addicts and dealers are a different story. A North African man is leaning on the railing of a bridge. He recognizes Hokke and dances toward him. Hokke doesn’t stop moving. The African has betel-stained teeth and dilated pupils. Hokke’s face is empty, neutral. The African jabbers in Dutch, grinning wildly. Hokke carries on walking.

“An old friend?” I ask.

“I’ve known him thirty years. He’s been a heroin addict for this much time.”

“It’s remarkable he’s still alive.”

“Addicts do not die from the drugs, they die from the lifestyle,” he says adamantly. “If drugs were less expensive he wouldn’t have to steal to afford them.”

On the far side of the bridge, we meet another junkie, younger and even less appealing. He points the glowing end of a cigarette at me and talks to Hokke in a wheedling voice. An argument ensues. I don’t know what they’re saying.

“I asked him if he was clean,” Hokke explains.

“What did he say?”

“He said: ‘I am always clean.’”

“You argued.”

“He wanted to know if you were for sale.”

“Is he a pimp?”

“When it suits him.”

We reach the café and take a table outside under the bare branches of a large tree that is threaded with fairy lights. Hokke drinks his coffee black and orders a slice of sourdough toast with jam. Afterward, he fills a pipe, so small that it seems almost designed for an apprentice smoker.

“My one vice,” he explains.

Ruiz laughs. “So in all those years you were never tempted.”

“Tempted?”

“To sleep with some of the women in the windows. There must have been opportunities.”

“Yes, opportunities. I have been married forty years, Vincent. I hope I can call you Vincent. I have slept with only my wife. She is enough for me. These women are in business. They should not be expected to give away their bodies for free. What sort of business-woman would do that?”

His face almost disappears behind a cloud of pipe smoke.

“This girl you want to find, you think she might be a prostitute?”

“She was trafficked out of Afghanistan.”

“Afghani prostitutes are rare. The Muslim girls are normally Turkish or Tunisian. If she is illegal she won’t be working the windows unless she has false papers.”

“Are they difficult to get?”

“The Nigerians and Somalis swap papers because they all look alike but the windows are normally the easiest to police. The streets and private clubs are more difficult. It is like an iceberg—we see only the tip. Beneath the waves there are hundreds of prostitutes, some underage, working from parking lots, toilets and private houses. Customers find them through word of mouth and mobile telephones.”

I tell him about Samira disappearing from the care center.

“Who brought her to the Netherlands?” he asks.

“Traffickers.”

“How did she pay them?”

“What do you mean?”

“They will want something in return for smuggling her.”

“She and her brother are orphans.”

He empties his pipe, tapping it against the edge of an ashtray.

“Perhaps they haven’t yet paid.” Refilling it again he explains how gangs operate within the asylum centers. They pick up girls and turn them into prostitutes, while the boys are used as drug runners or beggars.

“Sometimes they don’t even bother kidnapping children from the centers. They collect them for the weekend and bring them back. This is safer for the pimps because the girls don’t disappear completely and trigger an investigation. Meanwhile, they are fed, housed and learn a bit of Dutch—paid for by the Dutch government.”

“You think that’s what happened to Samira?”

“I don’t know. If she is young she will be moved between cities or sold to traffickers in other countries. It is like a carousel. Young and new girls are prized as fresh meat. They generate more money. By moving them from place to place, it is harder for the police or their families to find them.”

Hokke gets to his feet and stretches. He beckons us to follow him. We turn left and right down the cobbled lanes, moving deeper into the red light district. More windows are open. Women tap on the glass to get Hokke’s attention. A Moroccan shakes her breasts at him. Another slaps her rump and sways to a song that only she can hear.

“Do you know them all?” I ask.

He laughs. “Once perhaps, yes. I heard all their stories. Now there is a kind of wall between the police and the prostitutes. In the old days most of them were Dutch. Then the Dominicans and Columbians moved in. Then the Surinamese. Now we have Nigerians and girls from Eastern Europe.”

Each of the streets is different, he explains. The Oudekerksteeg is the African quarter. The South Americans are on Boomsteeg; the Asians on Oudekennissteeg and Barndesteeg, while Bloedstraat has the transsexuals. The Eastern European girls are on Molensteeg and along the Achterburgwal.

“It is getting harder to make money. A prostitute needs at least two clients before her rent for the window is paid. Another four clients are needed for the pimp’s share. Six men have used her and she still hasn’t earned anything for herself.

“In the old days prostitutes would save up to buy a window and then become the landlady, renting to other girls. Now companies own the windows and sometimes use them to launder money by claiming the girls earn more than they do.”

Hokke doesn’t want to sound melancholy but can’t help himself. He yearns for the old days.

“The place is cleaner now. Less dangerous. The problems have gone out farther, but they never disappear.”

We are walking alongside a canal, past strip clubs and cinemas. From a distance the sex shops look like souvenir sellers. Only up close do the bright novelty items become dildos and fake vaginas. I am fascinated and disturbed in equal parts; torn between looking away and peering into the window to work out what the various things are for.

Hokke has turned into a lane and knocks on a door. It is opened by a large man with a bulging stomach and sideburns. Behind him is a small room barely big enough for him to turn around. The walls are lined with porn videos and film reels.

“This is Nico, the hardest working projectionist in Amsterdam.”

Nico grins at us, wiping his hands on his shirtfront.

“This place has been here longer than I have,” explains Hokke. “Look! It still shows Super-8 films.”

“Some of the actresses are grandmothers now,” says Nico.

“Like Gusta,” adds Hokke. “She was very beautiful once.”

Nico nods in agreement.

Hokke asks him if he knows of any Afghani girls working the windows or clubs.

“Afghani? No. I remember an Iraqi. You remember her, Hokke? Basinah. You had a beating heart for her.”

“Not me,” laughs the former policeman. “She had problems with her landlord and wanted me to help.”

“Did you arrest him?”

“No.”

“Did you shoot him?”

“No.”

“You weren’t a very successful policeman, were you, Hokke? Always whistling. The drug dealers heard you coming from two streets away.”

Hokke shakes his head. “When I wanted to catch them I didn’t whistle.”

I show Nico the photograph of Samira. He doesn’t recognize her.

“Most of the traffickers deal with their own. Girls from China are smuggled by the Chinese; Russians smuggle Russians.” He opens his hands. “The Afghanis stay at home and grow poppies.”

Nico says something to Hokke in Dutch.

“This girl. Why do you want to find her?”

“I think she knows about a baby.”

“A baby?”

“I have a friend.” I correct myself. “I had a friend who faked her pregnancy. I think she arranged to get a baby from someone in Amsterdam. My friend was murdered. She left behind this photograph.”

Hokke is filling his pipe again. “You think this baby was being smuggled?”

“Yes.”

He stops in mid-movement, the match burning in his fingers. I have surprised him—a man who thought he had seen and heard it all after thirty years in this place.

Ruiz is waiting outside, watching the carnival of need and greed. There are more people now. Most have come to see but not touch the famous red light district. One group of Japanese tourists is shepherded by a woman holding a bright yellow umbrella above her head.

“Samira had a brother,” I explain to Hokke and Nico. “He went missing from the care center at the same time. Where would he go?”

“Boys can also become prostitutes,” says Hokke, in a matter-of-fact way. “They also carry drugs or pick pockets or become beggars. Look at Central Station. You’ll see dozens of them.”

I show them the charcoal drawing of Hassan. “He had a tattoo on the inside of his wrist.”

“What sort of tattoo?”

“A butterfly.”

Hokke and the projectionist exchange glances.

“It is a property tattoo,” says Nico, scratching his armpit. “Somebody owns him.”

Hokke stares into the blackened bowl of his pipe. Clearly, it is not good news.

I wait for him to explain. Choosing his words carefully, he reveals that certain criminal gangs control areas of the city and often claim ownership over asylum seekers and illegals.

“She should stay away from de Souza,” says Nico.

Hokke holds a finger to his lips. Something passes between them.

“Who is de Souza?” I ask.

“Nobody. Forget his name.”

Nico nods. “It is for the best.”

There are more windows open. More customers. The men don’t raise their eyes as they pass one another.

Prostitution has always confused me. When I was growing up, movies like Pretty Woman and American Gigolo glamorized and sanitized the subject. My first glimpse of real prostitutes was with Cate. We were in Leeds for an athletics meeting. Near the railway station, where most of the cheap hotels could be found, we saw women on street corners. Some of them appeared washed out and unclean—nothing like Julia Roberts. Others looked so carnivorous that they were more like angler fish than objects of desire.

Maybe I have a naïve view of sex as being beautiful or magical or otherworldly. It can be. I have never liked dirty jokes or overtly sexual acts. Cate called me a prude. I can live with that.

“What are you thinking, sir?”

“I’m wondering why they do it,” Ruiz replies.

“The women?”

“The men. I don’t mind someone warming my toilet seat for me but there’s some places I don’t want to come second, or third…”

“You think prostitution should be illegal?”

“I’m just making an observation.”

I tell him about an essay I read at university by Camille Paglia, who claimed that prostitutes weren’t the victims of men but their conquerors.

“That must have set the feminists afighting.”

“Rape alarms at ten paces.”

We walk in silence for a while and then sit down. A swathe of sunshine cuts across the square. Someone has put up a soapbox beneath a tree and is preaching or reciting something in Dutch. It could be Hamlet. It could be the telephone directory.

Back at the hotel we start making calls—working through a list of charities, refugee advocates and support groups. Hokke has promised us more names by tomorrow. We spend all afternoon on the phones but nobody has any knowledge of Samira. Perhaps we are going to have to do this the old-fashioned way—knocking on doors.

On Damrak I find a print shop. A technician enlarges the photograph of Samira and uses a color copier to produce a bundle of images. The smell of paper and ink fills my head.

Ruiz will take the photograph to Central Station and show it around. I’ll try the women in the windows, who are more likely to talk to me. Ruiz is completely happy with the arrangement.

Before I leave I call Barnaby Elliot to ask about the funerals. The moment he hears my voice he starts accusing me of having burned down Cate and Felix’s house.

“The police say you were there. They say you reported the fire.”

“I reported a break-in. I didn’t start a fire.”

“What were you doing there? You wanted her computer and her letters. You were going to steal them.”

I don’t respond, which infuriates him even more.

“Detectives have been here asking questions. I told them you were making wild allegations about Cate. Because of you they won’t release the bodies. We can’t arrange the funerals—the church, the readings, the death notices. We can’t say goodbye to our daughter.”

“I’m sorry about that, Barnaby, but it’s not my fault. Cate and Felix were murdered.”

“SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!”

“Listen to me—”

“No! I don’t want to hear any more of your stories. I want you to leave my family alone. Stay away from us.”

As soon as he hangs up my mobile chirrups like a fledgling.

“Hello? Alisha? Hello.”

“I can hear you, Mama.”

“Is everything OK?”

“Yes, fine.”

“Did Hari call you?”

“No.”

“A Chief Superintendent North has been trying to reach you. He said you didn’t turn up for work.”

Hendon! My new job as a recruitment officer. I totally forgot.

“He wants you to call him.”

“OK.”

“Are you sure everything is all right?”

“Yes, Mama.”

She starts telling me about my nieces and nephews—which ones are teething, smiling, walking or talking. Then I hear about the dance recitals, soccer games and school concerts. Grandchildren are at the center of her life. I should feel usurped but the emotion is closer to emptiness.

“Come round for lunch on Sunday. Everyone will be here. Except for Hari. He has a study date.”

That’s a new name for it.

“Bring that nice sergeant.” She means “New Boy” Dave.

“I didn’t bring him last time.”

“He was very nice.”

“He’s not a Sikh, Mama.”

“Oh, don’t worry about your father. He’s all bark and no bite. I thought your friend was very polite.”

“Polite.”

“Yes. You can’t expect to marry a prince. But with a little patience and hard work, you can make one. Look how well I did with your father.”

I can’t help but love her. She kisses the receiver. Not many people still do that. I kiss her back.

As if on cue I get a call from “New Boy” Dave. Maybe they’re working in cahoots.

“Hello, sweet girl.”

“Hello, sweet boy.” I can hear him breathing as distinctly as if he were standing next to me.

“I miss you.”

“A part of you misses me.”

“No. All of me.”

The odd thing is that I miss him too. It’s a new feeling.

“Have you found her?”

“No.”

“I want you to come home. We need to talk.”

“So let’s talk.”

He has something he wants to say. I can almost hear him rehearsing it in his mind. “I’m quitting the force.”

“Good God!”

“There’s a little sailing school on the south coast. It’s up for sale.”

“A sailing school.”

“It’s a good business. It makes money in the summer and in the winter I’ll work on the fishing boats or get a security job.”

“Where will you get the money?”

“I’m going to buy it with Simon.”

“I thought he was working in San Diego?”

“He is, but he and Jacquie are coming home.”

Simon is Dave’s brother. He is a sailmaker or a boat designer—I can never remember which one.

“But I thought you liked being a detective.”

“It’s not a good job if I ever have a family.”

Fair point. “You’ll be closer to your mum and dad.” (They live in Poole.)

“Yeah.”

“Sailing can be fun.” I don’t know what else to say.

“Here’s the thing, Ali. I want you to come with me. We can be business partners.”

“Partners?”

“You know I’m in love with you. I want to get married. I want us to be together.” He’s talking quickly now. “You don’t have to say anything yet. Just think about it. I’ll take you down there. I’ve found a cottage in Milford-on-Sea. It’s beautiful. Don’t say no. Just say maybe. Let me show you.”

I feel something shift inside me and I want to take his large hand in my two small hands and kiss his eyelids. Despite what he says, I know he wants an answer. I can’t give him one. Not today, nor tomorrow. The future is an hour-by-hour panorama.