No one who worked with the man would ever have characterized his presence as a good omen, and yet in this instance, soon after he joined us we got lucky, a phone call that changed it all.
A man called Burt Dankert who’d been working a few streets away around the time of Muller’s death, part of a crew digging up the road to lay fibre-optic cable, was on a break when he recognized a man walking past in a hurry. The name of the man, Dankert claimed, was Sander Klaasen. They’d worked together on a building site up in Alkmaar the previous summer, Dankert explained. Klaasen had quickly gained a reputation for being an outsider, not fitting in with the crowd, moody and just about cooperative enough to keep his job, but nothing more. So he wasn’t that surprised when he called out to him only to have Klaasen blank him completely. Dankert shrugged his shoulders and went back to work, thinking nothing more of it until a couple of days later he caught sight of a newspaper with stills captured from the footage we’d released. What he saw stopped him dead; the man we were looking for was wearing the exact same hoody and cap Klaasen had been when he’d walked right by him.
Now we had a name. But running him through the system gave us no less than seventeen Sander Klaasens in the Netherlands, and a further two in the Dutch Antilles, none of which, after a gruelling process involving coordinating teams in several different provinces, was the one we were after. It was starting to feel like Klaasen was a ghost, or, at the very least, an assumed name. Which of course only made us even more keen to talk to him.
By getting Dankert, and five of the other people who’d been on the building site in Alkmaar that summer, to sit down with a police artist we came up with an image of his face which was widely circulated. And the next morning we got a result, a keen young officer in Haarlem spotted a man crossing the road who she thought resembled the image she’d been shown in her morning briefing. She got out of her car and approached him. He took one look at her and legged it. The chase lasted ten minutes, and she finally apprehended him, earning herself a nasty black eye and the respect of all. Hours later he was turned over to us for questioning.
He wasn’t fully convincing, giving only rambling stories which didn’t address our specific concerns, though he repeatedly denied killing anyone. Further background checks revealed nothing. That is, there was no record: of him being born, of being in school, being in care. Nothing. Hank and I pushed him hard, but he didn’t give us his real name. His DNA wasn’t on the system. I contacted mental health units up and down the country but no one recognized him. It’s like he’d come out of nowhere.
Even so, with no confession, all we had was circumstantial, and we were nervous about putting the case forward to the prosecutor. There were another seventy-two hours before I’d have to release him, at which point he’d probably disappear.
Pressure mounted from above. An informal chat with the prosecutor confirmed my suspicions; she couldn’t recommend I put the case forward based on what I’d presented. With two hours to go I got a call from an officer up in Bergen who had seen the alert we’d put out on the internal system, saying there’d been a man who looked like our suspect who’d been living in a holiday cabin in the woods. Normally it wouldn’t have warranted more than a note in the file, but if there was a chance she’d be able to fill in some of the background on the man, then we were prepared to take the drive up north. We were set to leave just as Station Chief Smit called us into his office and told us, very specifically, to go back to the building Muller’s body had been found in and show Klaasen’s mugshot around. I countered this had been done, no less than twice already. Three could often be the lucky number, I was advised.
With one hour to go a man looking like a serial heroin user positively ID’d the man in the photo as having left Muller’s flat about the time of her death. The phrase ‘reliable witness’ and the man propping himself up on the door frame in front of me, scratching at his elbow pits and avoiding any kind of eye contact, didn’t seem a natural fit. And yet he was confirming just what we needed. Just in time.
On the ride back to the station I became more and more convinced that the witness was a plant. Had it come from Muller himself? It was all too neat, all too just-in-time for my liking. But I had no proof, and wouldn’t get any either. Of that I was sure. So we had no choice but to submit the case.
The trial was swift, the three judges – in the Netherlands we don’t trust the general population to sit on juries, so we entrust the whole thing to judges – handed down the maximum penalty allowed, and did it in record time to boot.
And now this.
An identical killing.
A copycat killing.
It can’t be, I think, it’s got to be Klaasen. The double buzz of my phone brings me back to the canteen, empty now except for the man with the mop. Jansen’s still not back. I check the message, relieved to see it’s from Joel. Even better he’s in Amsterdam and will be home in about ten minutes. It’ll take me twenty to walk. I check the time; it’s been way longer than the ten I’d promised Jansen. Fuck it. I’ve told him everything I know anyway. He and Inspector Vermeer can wrestle with it, not me.
The moon’s up as I step out of the station and the air has that cool autumn moisture which hints at the winter to come. I head north towards the Jordaan, the sound of traffic humming by me, a plane groaning overhead on its final descent to Schiphol and the muted thump and pump of bass from a club nearby.
And yet, for some reason, all I can really hear is Jansen’s voice saying like someone was trying to hide it over and over again.
White Wolf, Black Wolf
It’s past ten by the time I reach Brouwersgracht, probably one of the most expensive bits of real estate in the country. Despite this, a bunch of drunken tourists cluster at the canal edge, braying and throwing things in the water. The canal I live on is much less famous, and as such doesn’t attract anywhere near the same level of fuckwittery as this one.
Still, Joel’s flat, the entire top floor of a double-fronted seventeenth-century merchant’s house, is pretty damn nice. I press the bell just as the braying behind me turns into shrieking. I turn to see one of their group hit the water with a tulip-shaped splash, tinged orange in the street light. I’m tense suddenly, primed for action, but there’s been enough heroics for one day. The door buzzes open and I head up the stairs, leaving them to it.
He’s at the door as I reach the top of the stairs.
‘Just the man,’ he says, ushering me in. ‘Got something really special for you.’
Which, after the last few hours, is very welcome news.
Joel bought the two flats three years ago, gutted them, and knocked through to create a huge gleaming open-plan space that could hold its own as the centre spread of any property porn magazine.
I flop down on the enormous L-shaped sofa and watch the writhing flame in the globular fireplace. It’s suspended off the floor by its own flue which juts right through the ceiling. Joel’s getting something from the kitchen area when my phone buzzes. It’s a text from a number I don’t recognize.
THANKS FOR EARLIER ☺ DRINK SOMETIME? SABINE.
I put my phone away as Joel walks over, handing me a beer-like bottle.
‘Christ, you’re almost smiling. Sure you’re feeling okay?’
‘What’s this?’ I ask, ignoring him. Truth is, after my time down at the station, an unwelcome taste of my old life, Sabine’s text does make me want to smile.
‘Kombucha, some fermented tea thing. I was seeing this girl for a while and she loved the stuff. I’ve got a fridge full of it. Haven’t got round to chucking it yet.’
Joel and women. I’m not even going to start on that one. I sniff the bottle’s neck; it has a faint vinegary smell which isn’t exactly enticing. I take a sip.
‘You really should have chucked it,’ I tell him.
‘I’m getting notes of camel piss and sweaty socks, what about you?’
‘Rotting vomit and vinegar.’
We spend a few minutes catching up before we di
tch the kombucha altogether.
‘Let me show you something,’ Joel says, moving over to a sealed humidor on the kitchen countertop. The countertop itself is made from cast concrete, and has hundreds of tiny LEDs embedded in the surface in a pattern reminiscent of a galaxy. I get lost in it for a few moments. Joel opens the humidor, an intoxicating aroma infusing the room.
He finds what he’s looking for and hands it over to me. It’s a couple of really frosty-looking buds, more so because instead of the usual green colour the buds are almost pure white. They glitter as I turn them, the trichomes containing all the goodness sparkling in the light.
‘What’s this?’
‘This is what I was telling you about.’
Joel’s a smart guy; he left university with a degree in research pharmacology and worked for a big pharma company for several years before deciding to go back to study for his PhD. Which was a surprise to everyone because he switched disciplines, working on some obscure aspect of plant phenology. His move made a bit more sense when, on completion, he went to work for one of the major cannabis seed banks where he was in charge of the breeding programme for over ten years. His brief was to constantly develop new strains for a hungry worldwide market. With increasing legalization in the States, and decriminalization in some parts of the old continent, more and more people were saying no to dealers and growing their own. And it was Joel’s job to make sure his employer had a steady supply of new and exciting strains. But just over a year ago he decided he’d learnt enough to leave and start his own company.
Now his time is split between Amsterdam, the operation he set up down in Spain where the bulk of the commercial breeding takes place, and twice-annual trips to places all over the world looking for wild strains with which to enliven his already lively gene pool.
‘The one from Ecuador?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, took the cutting two years ago and we’ve crossed it with about ten other varieties. All of them were good, but this particular cross is something really special.’
We sit back down and Joel fires up the Volcano, which has pride of place on a short side table. Joel has a vast collection of smoking apparatus, but in the end prefers, as do I, the Volcano. It’s a classic, designed by two Germans back in the day but which has stood the test of time. It forces hot air, the exact temperature of which the user can set, through whatever herb you have into a bag which collects the vapour. Joel grinds up the nug, and we watch the bag fill with milky-looking air. He hands it over to me once it’s full.
‘Haven’t got a name for it yet. We’re provisionally calling it Skywalker, but I’ll need to come up with something better.’
Like Obama, I inhale. Tastes good. Very good. Spice, berries, diesel and something I can’t quite place.
‘So, you finally out?’ Joel asks as I hand the bag back to him. I notice my shoulders drop, making me aware of just how tense they’d been.
‘Got the papers, just haven’t signed them yet.’
‘Seriously, what you’ve gone through over the last few years.’ Joel shakes his head. ‘You’re kind of due a break, y’know?’
I suddenly notice the flame’s hypnotic dance. I feel drawn into it. There are so many colours, constantly changing, shifting. So-called primitive cultures all over the world shared a remarkably similar belief that everything is alive. Sitting here watching the flame, cruising high on Skywalker, I’m starting to think they may have been onto something.
‘I know. It’s just …’ I finally say, eyes still on the fire.
‘Yeah?’
My phone buzzes. I should leave it, I know I should, but something makes me think it might be Sabine again so I pull it out. It’s not, the message is from Jansen.
SORRY, GOT AMBUSHED BY BEVING AND COULDN’T GET AWAY. NEED TO TALK ASAP.
Luckily there’s still some Skywalker left. I inhale again, trying to put the text message out of my mind.
‘Bad news?’
‘Kinda. Old case of mine seems to have blown up. I feel like I’m being drawn back in.’
Joel takes a big inhale, tips his head back and blows a stream out towards the ceiling.
‘You’re going to do it?’
I shake my head. The flame’s still dancing, but now it’s starting to look like something automatic, lifeless. Mechanical, almost sinister.
‘Fuck. I don’t know.’
‘There’s life outside of the police.’
Bag. Inhale. Exhale.
‘Maybe that’s what I’m afraid of.’
‘How d’you mean?’ he asks.
‘I dunno. I was so into being a cop; it seemed the most important thing I could be doing, you know? Now I’m starting to wonder why I was so caught up in it …’
Joel shifts, stretching his legs out onto a furry cube footstool.
‘Look, it’s a cliché, I know, but it’s never too late to change. And,’ he says, his voice shifting gear, ‘I think you should find yourself a woman. Maybe two. You can’t let the whole thing with Tanya ruin the rest of your life. Go out, have a bit of fun. I mean, you’re fugly as fuck, don’t get me wrong, but I’m sure there’s some cock-starved old crack-whore out there that might still be up for –’
Stoned I may be, but I still manage to kick his leg from where I’m slumped on the sofa.
Joel laughs. He sucks down the last of the vapour, the bag crinkling like static as it’s emptied.
He’s probably right, I think. I should text Sabine back, meet her for a drink.
‘Seriously, though, I’m glad you came round. There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.’
‘It’s all right. I don’t mind if you’re gay. It won’t ruin our relationship. Just as long as you’re happy.’
I’m really out of practice. I need to get out more. No point meeting Sabine if I can’t even hold an adult conversation.
Joel gives me the middle finger. ‘So you know I just got back from Canada? Well, I was there having a meeting with the largest producer of medical cannabis in the world. This company is massive – they’re listed on the Toronto Stock Exchange, and they’ve recently opened grow facilities in Denmark and Portugal and have just been granted a licence from the German government for two in Germany. In three years’ time they’ll have opened more in Italy and Poland as well. And this stuff here is exactly the kind of strain they’re looking to grow. They analysed it and the THC/CBD ratio is spot on, plus the terpene profile is highly favourable for a medicinal strain. Their head of production said it was the best-looking profile they’d ever seen. They’re on the hook, basically.’
‘How would it work?’
‘We’d license the strain to them, so once we’ve signed we wouldn’t need to do a thing. Basically for every plant they grow we’d receive a small fee, but given the scale of their operation we’re talking a renewable gold mine.’
I notice how the word ‘we’ has snuck into all of this.
‘Are you offering me a job?’
‘Well … I’m offering you the opportunity to buy a share in the business. The thing is, to make sure we’re fully protected we have to apply to the EU for Plant Breeder Rights, and that costs money …’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘And, as you were saying, you’ll get a payout when you sign. I thought this could be a good opportunity to invest it.’
At the moment Joel has his production facility down in Spain where he employs five people full-time. They breed new strains and produce seed to sell, mainly to hobby growers all over the world. He’s done well out of it; I’m pretty sure he’s already on his way to being a millionaire. But he’s clearly got a much bigger vision. One I could be part of.
We talk some more before I finally decide to call it a night.
Just as I’m leaving Joel takes a few more buds out, slips them in a bag and hands it over.
‘This’ll help,’ he says. ‘With your decision.’
On the way back I think about the message from Sabine. I gave her my number, not really exp
ecting anything. It takes me most of the walk back to my houseboat to decide that I am going to text her back. My phone’s battery has other ideas, though; it’s fully dead. Having no power in the houseboat means I can’t charge it up now, so I’ll have to text her tomorrow.
As for Joel’s proposal, that’s going to take a little longer to respond to. Despite the coolness of the night, intensified by being on the water, I take out one of the white buds only to find my vape has gone the way of my phone. I don’t know why people are so afraid of technology rising up to take over mankind: Skynet initiating nuclear war to clean the planet of the human virus, marching armies of robots strafing us with lasers as they crunch over the burnt-out husks of our civilization. What’ll really happen is that technology will run out of battery once we’ve delegated everything over to them, leaving us in a kind of helpless chaos. Mankind’s more likely to become extinct poking each other’s eyes out with sticks over the last pack of triple-A batteries, than fighting robot overlords. At least in my view. Though I have to concede it could be the Skywalker talking.
I’m looking for rolling papers when I pass the letter on the table, now highlighted in a round beam from the street light streaming through the porthole. It’s glowing orange and spots of dark blood dapple the surface like mould. I get a pen and stand over it, almost like I’m watching someone else, waiting to see what they’ll do. The pen’s rolling back and forth between my thumb and forefinger, the ridges hard. I think about Klaasen, about what Jansen had said. I think about Joel and Sabine and before I can stop myself I think of Tanya. I think of the black wolf. A snarl, the flash of teeth. Eyes glowing amber.
And then, the night deep and full and momentous all around me, I reach down and sign my name, the scratching nib the only sound I hear.
The Copycat Page 4
