We pass some kind of political demonstration outside the Taibah mosque. A small group of neo-Nazis are holding up placards, the general gist of which isn’t what you’d call welcoming. One says FOREIGNERS GO HOME, another is simply a picture of a turban with a lit fuse poking out of the top. Some of them look round at the sound of the siren.

‘What is wrong with these people?’ Vermeer asks.

I don’t really have an answer for that.

We forge on, passing the AMC, the hospital Hank’s in. I try not to think about that. Two minutes later we’re parked across the road from a two-storey structure, all steel, glass and angles jutting into the sky. It contrasts with the other plots which have single-storey houses, all blocky and identical. There’s no name plaque, nothing to indicate what’s inside.

‘What is that?’

‘I don’t know. But Huisman gave them what must have been a huge amount of money for him, so let’s go and ask them.’

‘Wait a minute.’ Vermeer gets Jansen on the phone and puts him on speaker. He’d been tasked with running the address whilst we headed over, and it seems he’s had some luck.

‘It’s a private rehab clinic. Basically a front for a Hollywood religion, the one with that actor? They prey on the needy and sick, bring them in, and induct them into their belief.’

‘Why is Huisman donating to them?’ Vermeer asks.

‘I don’t think he’s donating.’

‘So what?’

‘When I knew him Huisman dealt heroin, but also used it himself. I reckon it’s become a problem in the intervening years. What if the money wasn’t so much a donation as a fee?’

‘You think Huisman kills Kleine then checks into rehab? He goes on a self-improvement kick right after killing someone?’

I look at the building again. Hiding in plain sight is usually better than running. I should know. If I’d run after Station Chief Smit’s disappearance, it would have been like raising a massive red flag. As it is, I stayed and so far no one’s come knocking. Though I can’t share this with Vermeer.

‘Could be. Or he just worked out a secretive rehab clinic would be the perfect place to hide out. Worth paying money for. In either case, I think there’s every chance he’s still in there right now.’

Just as I get out of the car my phone rings. Nellie de Vries. Oh god. I can’t deal with this now. I’m about to leave it when I think about her sitting at home calling me, willing me to pick up.

‘Uhhh … I’m going to need a minute.’

Vermeer looks at me like, Really? Now?

I nod, my pained expression not all fake.

‘Meet me in there when you’re done,’ she says as she walks off across the street.