Snake blinks in the light. The lighter flicks on with a chirp and he brings the writhing flame to the cigarette end dangling from his mouth. He takes a big draw. A long reverberating ship’s horn blares across the water behind him. I look up to see the same cruise ship I’d seen from Nellie’s gliding along the IJ, heading for open water. People on the deck wave towards land even though no one’s returning the greeting.

‘Yeah, I remember the guy,’ he’s saying. Now he’s away from the others he hasn’t exactly become cooperative, but there’s a little less bravado in his manner. ‘He was really aggressive, basically kicked off and got us all thrown out.’

‘And that wouldn’t be anything to do with you dealing drugs?’ Vermeer asks.

‘I’m not dealing anything, just there enjoying the show with a couple of mates.’

‘Every day?’ I ask. ‘Doesn’t it get a bit boring?’

‘I like watching women dance, what can I say?’

‘Did he ever buy from you before?’ Vermeer asks.

‘Like I said, I don’t know what you’re talking about; you can search me if you like.’ This was directed to Vermeer. ‘Don’t forget here.’ He grabs his crotch.

‘If you’re searched it’ll be back at the station by a couple of my male colleagues,’ Vermeer says. ‘They don’t really have a soft touch, and they’re very thorough. So, tell us everything about him.’

‘I’ve seen him around a bit. One night he got rowdy with us and got us all chucked out. Not seen him since, lucky enough for him.’

‘We need to speak to him. Any idea where we can find him?’

‘No idea, hardly knew the guy. And like I said already, pretty sure I’ve not seen him since then.’

He resists all further questioning and eventually we let him go. As we’re walking away he calls out to us. ‘Hey, wanna know why I’m called Snake?’

‘No.’

He sticks his tongue out and waggles it around. And there it is, a split making his tongue slightly forked.

‘Botched tongue-tie operation when I was a kid,’ he says. He sticks it out and waggles it again, before walking away, his fist raised, middle finger pointing right at the sky.

Back at the station we each go our own way, frustrated that yet another lead has just crumpled. But a couple of hours later Beernink comes through for us. He gets me on the phone, telling me he’s pulled the files from his offsite storage and is now sitting in his car in the car park going through them.

‘Anything which might tell us of Akkerman’s whereabouts?’ I ask.

‘We’ve got a correspondence address which was in use just over nine months ago when Akkerman’s inheritance was finally settled. Do you want it?’

‘Phone number, email?’

‘Not so far. I’ll carry on going through, if you need …?’

I get the feeling he wants to go home.

‘Give me the address, and if you get anything else then call me back.’