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got a million parents looking for their kids,’ the cop called Koeman snapped. ‘Some idiot let off some smoke bombs or something. Give me a name for her.’
    ‘Natalya.’
    He wiped his cheek with the sleeve of his green costume. The make-up started to come off. She could see a pale face emerge from underneath. He seemed tired. Confused. Angry.
    ‘Even better,’ Koeman said, ‘give me some ID.’
    Reluctantly, knowing this was going from bad to worse, she reached into her bag and handed over her passport. He stared at it.
    ‘Tourist?’
    ‘I live here. My daughter’s Natalya Bublik. She’s eight. When are you going to start looking for her?’
    He gave the passport back.
    ‘Got a job?’
    ‘Does that matter?’
    He looked her up and down. She knew that expression.
    ‘She’s eight—’
    ‘So you said,’ he interrupted, then pulled a notepad out of his green trousers and scribbled something on it. ‘I’ll pass on the name.’ He handed her the pad and pen. ‘Stay on the edge of the square. Keep listening to the announcements. There’ll be an assembly point for missing children . . .’
    She lost it then.
    ‘Some bastard hit me. Took my daughter.’ She jabbed the green jacket. ‘He was dressed like this. What are you . . . ?’
    ‘Or maybe she ran,’ the cop said. ‘Got scared.’ A shrug. ‘Lots of scared people today. Thousands of them. We’re dealing with it. Hanna . . .’
    The way he said her name she got the message. This man had priorities. And a suspect Georgian woman who’d lost her daughter wasn’t one of them.
    So she threw a few curses in his direction and went to look for Natalya herself.
    Van der Berg was by the tram stop getting angry. The crowds were dispersing. The medical teams were doing their job, which was a lot less than they’d expected.
    When Vos and Bakker turned up he was arguing with a sharp-faced woman in her mid-thirties with jet-black hair and a smart raincoat. Her immobile face had a tan that must have come from a salon’s lights.
    ‘He went down there,’ the detective insisted, jabbing a finger at Lijnbaansgracht, a narrow side street leading back towards the Melkweg arts centre.
    ‘We know,’ the woman said then held up a smart phone.
    Vos came up, introduced himself and Bakker. It was the Fransen woman from AIVD, the one De Groot had talked about. Somehow she already possessed combined footage from the cameras in the square. They watched as a Black Pete figure in a green costume extended his arm above the crowd and threw the first grenade. A puff of smoke from somewhere. Then two more.
    ‘Your job’s to keep order here,’ Mirjam Fransen told them. ‘Get people out of the square safely. See if you can match up some of these missing kids with their parents.’
    ‘If you need any help . . .’ Vos said.
    The giant phone rang. She took the call on an earpiece. It was short. Seemed to make her happy.
    ‘We don’t,’ the woman told him then marched straight into the crowd behind them, on towards Lijnbaansgracht.
    Running.
    He was never good at that, even before he changed his name.
    Sticky inside the green costume, aware his black make-up was starting to drip with sweat, he’d torn off the hot, uncomfortable wig then careered down the narrow street, back towards the place he’d picked up the hidden gear.
    The money was in his pocket. More than he’d ever known. But he’d no idea how to use it. How to spend his way out of Amsterdam. The man said he’d fix that. The man said he’d be there where the stuff was left. Should have been too. Bouali had done everything he’d asked. Thrown the grenades, though they seemed more like playthings than anything else. Snatched the girl just as they asked. Took her to the place they’d ringed on the map. Dealt with her there, trying not to ask himself what he was doing.
    But all there was in this grubby dark corner was rubbish and the odd rat. The hubbub from Leidseplein and the sporadic sound of a siren