Helen was panting quietly. She was constantly aware that her colleagues could see her and that the security cameras were recording everything. Despite her efforts to act calm and look as normal as possible, it was inevitable that she would come across as nervous. From the corner of her eye, she looked up at the nearest camera and pictured the grainy black-and-white images: the enormous central hall, the planters, the plastic benches—and a small, slightly anxious figure walking through it all, struggling under the weight of two shopping bags.

Don’t think about it.

She had expected this to get easier—that she would get used to it, somehow. If you do something enough, it turns into a routine. Surgical assistants stopped fainting after their second operation, and experienced police officers calmly ate their sandwiches at a bloodstained crime scene. But that rule didn’t seem to apply to her. Her hands felt clammy, and her mouth was dry. Helen prayed that nobody would talk to her. She probably wouldn’t even be able to get her words out.

Hurrying through the corridors, she turned right and used her pass to open the doors. She didn’t waste any time checking whether Marjan was in her office—probably not, on a Saturday. Instead, she went straight to the waste room and stepped inside.

Then froze to the spot.

4

4

It wasn’t such a crazy idea that his mother had inadvertently suggested to him—climbing out of the window. He had briefly considered the option but decided to go downstairs after all. There was no point in running away. He had to go through with this.

“What did you and Brian do on Friday?”

The interview had already started before he could even sit down. Two policemen in their thirties. One had a shiny scalp; the other had closely cropped, black, curly hair that was parted on the side and fixed in place with glistening gel. John de Haas, a friend of Loukili’s.

Ralf looked over his shoulder and pointed outside. “We were just chilling in the shed.”

“Define ‘chilling,’” said the bald one.

“Hanging out. Talking. Watching videos online.”

De Haas leaned forward. “Hmm . . . Drinking, perhaps? A few lines of coke?”

Ralf looked at him angrily. Said nothing.

“Was it just the two of you?”

He nodded.

“And then?”

“He left,” said Ralf.

“On his own?”

“Yeah. I was grounded.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

A little voice whispered to him that this would be the perfect time to introduce Mikey into the conversation. With a few well-chosen phrases, he could set the police on the trail of Brian’s dealer: He owed Mikey some money and was supposed to pay him that afternoon . . . But he held his tongue. If Mikey found out who had ratted on him, there’d be hell to pay.

Snitches get stitches.

“No, he didn’t.”

“What time was that?” asked the other one.

“Around one o’clock, I think.”