CHAPTER 4

       North Holland farmland near Nieuw-Vennep, Den Bosch farm, later still

      ‘It’s pretty deserted for a big enterprise,’ Van den Bergen said. ‘I don’t like it.’ His voice was even hoarser than usual, George noted. Though his right hand was hidden inside his coat, poised to draw his service weapon, he had wrapped his left hand around the base of his neck.

      ‘You look knackered, old man,’ George said, wishing the difficult sod had sent Elvis or Marie to check the provenance of the truck.

      The slight stoop in Van den Bergen’s shoulders said everything, but he merely pursed his lips and stalked off towards the red steel door of the Den Bosch reception.

      Casting an eye over the utilitarian grouping of brick buildings with their corrugated-iron roofs, George could see that there was not a single light at any of the windows. Nothing to see beyond them apart from acres and acres of the Dutch flatland. To the left, the polders had been neatly planted with crops or were festooned with row upon row of grey polytunnels that shone like fat silk worms in the dim sunlight. They snaked away into the distance, their uniformity punctuated only by the inky stripes of dykes. To the right, the horizon was broken by a veritable crystal palace of greenhouses. The place gave her the creeps.

      ‘Wait for me!’ Crunching the gravel of the courtyard beneath her new Doc Marten boots, she watched Van den Bergen try the handle.

      ‘It’s locked,’ he said, taking a few steps backwards. Still rubbing his neck. He approached one of the windows and peered inside. ‘Elvis said he couldn’t get the owner on the phone, either.’

      ‘Look, Paul. I think you should go home and leave this to the others. You’ve just been in hospital, for Christ’s sake! I’m worried about you.’

      Waving her away, he took long strides around the side of the reception building. Jogging after him, George wanted to drag him by the sleeve of his raincoat back to his Mercedes. But this was Van den Bergen, and she knew he took stubborn to a whole new level.

      ‘There is someone here!’ he said, gesticulating at a pimped-up Jeep, an old Renault and two Luton vans bearing the company’s insignia, all parked up by the bins.

      ‘Maybe they’re in the fields,’ George said.

      The wind had started to blow across the expanse of green, flattening the leaves that sprouted in neat rows. She clutched her duffel coat closed against the chill, wistfully thinking that a rum-fuelled family bust-up by the pool in Torremolinos would be infinitely preferable to a bleak afternoon in the agricultural dead centre of the Netherlands. She was just about to suggest they call for backup when a man exited one of the giant greenhouses, carrying a tray of seedlings. He caught sight of them and frowned. Started walking towards them. He moved at a brisk pace and wore jeans and a sweatshirt that were covered in mud at the knees and on the belly.

      ‘Can I help you?’ he asked. There was a bright glint when he spoke. Braces?

      George couldn’t place the man’s accent. He wasn’t an Amsterdamer. But she could tell from his confident stance that he was at least the manager, if not the boss. There was something about the confrontational tone of his voice; this wasn’t someone who took orders. He was big, too. A wall of a man with a thick bush of greying hair that looked like an overgrown buzz cut.

      ‘I’m looking for Frederik den Bosch,’ Van den Bergen said, blocking the path.

      ‘Who wants him?’

      ‘I do.’ Van den Bergen withdrew a battered business card but was careful to give the sapling-carrying man-mountain a flash of his service weapon, strapped to the side of his body. He stuck the card between two swaying plants. ‘Chief Inspector Paul van den Bergen. Where might I find Den Bosch?’

      ‘You’re looking at him.’ He grinned widely, displaying a perfect set of gold teeth.

      Following the proprietor into the main office building, George took in her surroundings, trying to get the measure of Den Bosch. The place was cold and dark, despite the whitewashed brick of the wall. It was cluttered with vintage furniture – more charity shop than antique-dealer cool. It felt damp and smelled of moss and mildew. An earthy, utilitarian place. Den Bosch set the tray of saplings down on the draining board of a sink in a kitchenette area at the far end.

      ‘Coffee?’ he shouted. ‘Biscuits?’

      George’s stomach rumbled.

      ‘Milk, no sugar,’ she said.

      ‘Not for me.’ Van den Bergen glowered at her and started to flick through his notepad, perching his glasses on the end of his nose. ‘Let’s get to the point, Mr Den Bosch. One of your trucks was pulled over this morning at the Port of Amsterdam.’ He read out the number plate, watching as Den Bosch’s eyes narrowed. ‘It was found to contain just over fifty trafficked Syrians, all suffering from dysentery and on the brink of suffocation. Several are now critically ill in hospital from oxygen deprivation and dehydration. One – a girl of twelve – died. The driver tried to escape by pretending to throw anthrax in my face. What do you have to say about that?’

      As Van den Bergen sat back in a saggy old armchair that was positioned by the beat-up horseshoe of a reception desk – almost certainly a relic from the 1980s – George walked over to the sink. Den Bosch was stirring the instant coffees too quickly, sloshing dark brown liquid onto the yellow Formica worktop. He plopped in thick evaporated milk from a bottle that looked like it had seen fresher days.

      Turning to face Van den Bergen, Den Bosch shrugged. ‘I reported that truck as stolen the other day. Didn’t