Soon we’re turning into a street west of the Jordaan. The house we need is one of a row of council houses, many with Turkish flags hanging limp in the windows. Last year the Netherlands government turned away a series of Turkish politicians who’d come to the country to whip up support in their up-coming election, causing the then Turkish prime minister to compare the country as a whole to Nazi Germany. Unsurprisingly there’s been tension here ever since.

‘Not the kind of place I’d expect someone like Akkerman to live,’ Vermeer says as we near the number we’re looking for.

‘Because he’s not Turkish?’

‘Because he’s surely got more money than this, what with his inheritance.’

We find the number. No Turkish flags on the property, which is a good sign.

Vermeer presses the doorbell and steps back.

Footsteps in the hallway, the gravelly slide of a chain, the creak of the door. The woman standing there is my age or older with long brown hair tied up in a loose bun, a harried look about her face. She’s holding a wooden spoon in one hand and a bouquet of supermarket flowers, dead but still in the wrapper, in the other. She also has eyes the same colour as Tanya’s. But I’m not thinking about Tanya. I’m just not. Maybe I should be thinking of Sabine instead.

‘Yes?’ she asks, looking between us.

‘We’re looking for Jan Akkerman,’ Vermeer says, holding out her ID.

‘Who?’

Vermeer pulls out a mugshot I recognize from the Lucie Muller file.

‘Oh, him. He died four months ago. Didn’t you know?’

Oscar

The street lights are flickering on as I walk onto the small triangle of grass. The man I’d spoken to earlier about subletting a flat had chosen this place to meet. I’d tried to suggest somewhere but he’d been adamant: his rules or not at all.

We’d hardly spoken on the drive, the frustration at finding we’d been chasing a dead man keeping us both self-contained. It also threw into stark relief just how much we’ve got riding on this meet yielding results; if this fails, then we’ve got pretty much nothing. Also, I’ve not been able to sneak away and top up today, and I’m starting to feel a little jittery.

Which is bad because now all I have to do is wait. I choose a bench and try to look the part. Vermeer had earlier critiqued my attire, but as I’d stepped out of the car she’d commented that I actually looked the part. I gave her the middle finger, which just made her smile. All told, I’m starting to like her.