A State Of Sin Amsterdam Occult Series Book Two by Mark Hobson (golden son ebook .TXT) 📕

taking her, Nina screamed and kicked and fought even more, her terror peaking.

Reaching down with his spare arm, he pulled open the hinged door of the tiny cage in the space below the stairs and pushed her inside, forcing her through the small opening.

Nina thought she was about to hyperventilate but she managed to crawl to the far end and cowered there, hiding her face behind her hands as he slammed the door and snapped the padlock shut.

Through the gaps between her fingers, she saw his contorted face scowling at her through the wire-mesh. Then he turned and walked away.

Several minutes went by.

She heard a metallic scraping noise from the room above, and then his footsteps on the stairs again, and when he stepped back into view Nina saw he was wearing the brown boiler suit and the welder’s hood. He was dragging a long and heavy welder’s gas tank across the floor, and she watched in terror as, without speaking, he lit the nozzle.

Shaking and gasping, she pressed herself as far back as she could to avoid the shower of white-hot sparks as he set to work.

Tobias sealed the cage door shut, welding her into her tiny prison.

Chapter 16

The Hit

During the Golden Age Holland dominated the maritime trade. Money flowed into the country, helping to pay for the huge expansion of Amsterdam’s canal network from the inner canal ring within the protective arms of the rivers Singel and Amstel, to the marshy lands to the east and west, pushing out the city beyond the original sea dikes and city gates. As more land was drained and reclaimed from the sea, new districts grew. Plantage and Oost, Marken and the swampy Vondel, the Jewish quarter in The Jordaan and the majestic sweep of the Keizersgracht and Prinsengracht canals.

To deal with the increase in trade new wharves and warehouses were constructed, and the Damrak, a broad and deep inlet from the river IJ, which allowed boats to sail right into the heart of the city and disgorge their contents onto Dam Square itself, was filled in. This meant ships sailed a mile or so further west and emptied their holds just beyond the outer suburbs. Here the cargoes were weighed and taxes were paid before the goods were transported through the new city gates to the markets on the Dam and Nieuwmarkt.

This area of docks and quaysides later became known as the Western Islands, a somewhat fancy name for a series of jetties held upright by thousands of wooden piles driven deep into the soggy ground. For a hundred years or so the area flourished. But with further expansion of Amsterdam, mostly to the east along the banks of the IJ and where newer and even bigger docks sprung up, the Western Islands slowly went into a steady decline. The wharves and warehouses emptied and the once busy streets and canals fell quiet. People moved out and the place was left to rot, forgotten and neglected.

This remained the case until well into the twentieth century, and only during the 1990’s did the area receive a huge cash injection, and with it a new lease of life and a new identity. The old warehouses became fancy bistros or art galleries, the canals were cleaned up and lined with parks and expensive apartments. Young people with lots of money moved in and the Western Islands were transformed. And all within a ten-minute walk of Centraal Station. It was now a much-sought-after neighbourhood.

Mostly.

There is always one exception.

Today Bickersgracht is still a narrow and cobbled lane lined with old and disused gas lampposts, running north to south on the centre of the three islands. The southern stretch of the lane is reasonably pleasant: between the road and the parallel canal, there is a children’s play area, a small urban petting farm with pigs and goats and rabbits, and next door an ice-cream parlour. But as the lane pushes north it becomes seedier. Large trees overshadow the cobbled snicket, and here there are several abandoned allotments, which have been allowed to grow wild with thick brambles and nets covered in dead runner beans, there are vandalized huts, and the ground is covered in drug paraphernalia and used condoms and empty beer bottles. Even during the daytime in the middle of summer, it is dark and creepy, not the kind of place mentioned by the tourist board. In the middle of winter, with leaden skies overhead and a blizzard blowing, it is miserable and cold and damp and ugly.

The NV Damen Boat Yard fronted onto this wild and overgrown stretch of canal bank. Like the allotments themselves, it was an eyesore, full of rusty hulls with holes in their keels, the water covered in scum and oil leaks, the concrete quay piled high with wooden crates, empty gas canisters and huge pieces of iron cut into segments by the ship breakers who worked here. There were rats running around, and an old mangy-looking guard dog that spent most of the time asleep in its kennel. Its owner, and the boss of the boatyard, had a portacabin with a nice heater turned up to full, and he very seldom came out to lend a hand.

Not that there was much to do. His business, a small-fry affair clinging on to the past in an industry mostly gone from modern-day Amsterdam, only employed three other people, and all on a part-time basis. They would come in a few days a week whenever there was enough work, to earn a meagre living doing hard, manual labour, and get paid cash-in-hand at the end of each shift.

One of those who worked here was Tobias Vinke.

With his short and stocky frame, he was well suited to the job. He was strong, could work all day long with barely a break, he hardly spoke a word to the others or tried to make friends, and never complained.

His boss preferred it that way. Even if he secretly thought Tobias was a