The tallest was blacked up head to toe, with tall goat-like horns, and looked near-naked. He was carrying a big stereo on his shoulder, cavorting like the rest of them to a deafening pop song. His teeth were dyed red and he smiled a lot. They all did. Red teeth. Lurid costumes. Cocky attitude. Koeman was racking his brain. He’d seen this bunch before. ‘This is all we need,’ Mulder grumbled. The shortest one, bright in lurid scarlet, chased one of the plain-clothes men, chattering wildly, prodding with his fork, making monkey noises loud enough to reach the cafe. The song became clear. Stevie Wonder. A happy number, at odds with the strange, half-sinister spectacle on the street. It came through loud and unmistakable as the five demons danced to the chorus. ‘Happy birthday . . .’ sang the refrain across the cobbled junction between Zeedijk and Stormsteeg. ‘Happy birthday?’ Koeman whispered. ‘What the fu . . .?’ Mulder was on the secure phone. Koeman looked at his watch.
