The Copycat

by Jake Woodhouse

  ‘That’s the one,’ Ron says.

  ‘The one what?’

  ‘The window Tanya shot. It’s like a legend down here, cost the owners a lot of money to repair. They weren’t happy; their insurance only covered part of it. In fact, we’ve got it here somewhere. Claudia, can you put it on?’

  Tanya had told me about this, but I didn’t realize there was footage of it. It happened just a few days after we’d met, the separate cases we’d been working on crossing like fate. So much has happened since. All I can think is, I wish it hadn’t.

  She’d come to the club in search of a suspect in a child-kidnapping ring we eventually brought down. The suspect in question decided he didn’t want to talk to her, however, and had assaulted her instead. Tanya was forced to pull her weapon, which would have put an end to it except the suspect had an accomplice who’d tried to take the gun off her. Which is when the shot was fired.

  Claudia points to a screen, which was blank but now flickers on to show the main room, a few people in it. There’s movement in the bottom-left corner, and my heart thumps as I recognize Tanya, her face visible for a split second as she wrestles with the man trying to take the gun off her.

  ‘And … boom!’ Ron and Claudia say in unison like an old couple just as a spark of muzzle flash appears, and the massive wall of clear glass frosts over in an instant. Then the whole thing falls away, the view restored. Tanya’s no longer on the screen, but I remember that she’d managed to fight the guy off and single-handedly arrest both men.

  ‘I love watching that,’ Ron says as the image cuts to black. ‘Awesome woman. You got yourself a good one there. Okay, here it is,’ he says, having spent some time navigating various menus, clicking ever deeper into the belly of the beast. ‘What do you want to know?’

  What I want to know is why it’s all so difficult, why I ended up hurting the only person I’d ever truly loved. Why I’m such a fuck-up. Why the black wolf is inside me and won’t leave.

  But all I say is, ‘Everything you’ve got.’

  ‘Not much, but …’ He hits the enter key and a printer across the room whirrs into life just as my phone goes off. Vermeer.

  ‘I’ve got something I need you to do,’ she says. ‘Marianne Kleine’s sister Cheryl is landing at Schiphol airport just past midday. Jansen’s going to talk to her and I want you with him. He’ll pick you up.’

  ‘I can do that,’ I tell her. ‘Does that mean I’ve been approved?’

  ‘Not quite. There’s something else you’re going to have to do first.’

  ‘Which is …?’

  ‘Frank Beving wants to have a chat with you; he’ll be the one with the final say.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon as you can make it to the station.’

  Ron hands me the paper and as he escorts me back through the building I ask him about civilian life.

  ‘Thinking of getting out are you?’

  ‘Might be.’

  ‘Well, my advice to you is this, make sure you’ve got a proper job lined up before you send your resignation letter in. Otherwise you might end up doing something like this.’

  ‘Can’t be that bad, can it?’

  Ron mimics hanging himself, head lopsided, tongue out of the side of his mouth and a strange gurgling sound which makes Kush perk his ears up. As I feel the draught of air from the security door closing behind me I see my hand slipping the letter into the postbox, a flash of white disappearing into the darkness.

  Appropriately Medicated

  ‘Obviously it’s great to see you again.’

  At the station I was directed to the third floor where I’m now enduring Station Chief Frank Beving’s patented brand of deep sarcasm.

  ‘Likewise, Frank. Likewise.’

  ‘Of course, though, if I can be honest here, I wasn’t that thrilled when Vermeer told me she’d like some help from you.’

  The very definition of an oxymoron is Frank Beving being honest. And that’s easy on the oxy bit, with a heavier emphasis on the remainder of the word. Though I’d never tell him that, of course. I’m also suspicious of people who tell you they are being honest, because in my experience they never are.

  ‘I wasn’t that keen either.’

  Beving runs his tongue across his top teeth and studies me as he relaxes back in his chair. I’ve always thought he looks like Rutger Hauer in Blade Runner, probably helped by the electric-shock hairstyle he’s worn ever since I first met him back at the academy. We didn’t like each other then, and the years haven’t done much to improve the situation. No softening, no rapprochement, just good old-fashioned smouldering antagonism.

  ‘No, I can see that,’ Beving is saying when I tune back in. ‘After everything that happened I wouldn’t blame you for walking away from this for good. But it’s our duty to serve, is it not?’

  His grin has a canine quality to it. Or lupine. Deep shudder up spine.

  ‘It most certainly is.’

  I get the feeling he’s waiting for me to say ‘sir’, so I hold off on that, even though I want to get this over with as quickly as possible.

  He finally gives in, his too-light-blue eyes with their yellow ring round the iris freaking me out a bit.

  ‘So,’ he says, tapping a closed file on his desk like he’s sending out Morse code, ‘I asked for a report from your therapist, and although she’s not one hundred per cent keen for you to be back in action she did mention that you are being appropriately medicated?’

  I think of the rainbow of pills swirling round and round the white porcelain before disappearing forever, maybe to be gobbled up by some daring, or just plain hungry, fish. I hope they’re better for them than they were for me. Otherwise they’ll be floating around in a daze with shit dribbling out their asses. I can picture it now, each squirt propelling them forward into another location. Those fish must be bewildered …

  ‘Did I say something funny?’

  Quick snap back to reality.

  ‘Er, no. I am being appropriately medicated so I think I’ll be fine,’ I tell him, suddenly paranoid he can smell cannabis on me. I use it so much I’ve noticed it sometimes comes out in my sweat, a deep herbal odour which is pretty much unmistakable. I wonder if that means I should cut back a little. Then I think of what happened at the prison.

  ‘You think you’ll be fine,’ Beving is saying, nodding his head gently whilst continuing to stare with his freaky eyes.

  ‘I’ll be fine. Really.’

  He takes a few more moments as if to emphasize the gravity of the whole situation before speaking again.

  ‘There’s one thing I’d like to discuss with you before I consider allowing you back on. Whilst you’re on this case I need you to report directly to me, is that understood?’

  So that’s what all this has been about. I knew it had all felt way too easy.

  ‘Not to Inspector Vermeer?’ I ask in my best puzzled way.

  ‘You will of course be reporting to Inspector Vermeer on a day-to-day basis, yes. But you will also report to me.’

  I’m getting a significant look. Very significant. Even a dullard would get his message; he wants me to spy on her. The question is, why? Is Vermeer plotting to take his job? Or is he just paranoid and wants to be prepared? She’s smart, much smarter than he is, and also ambitious. Beving has every right to be worried.

  ‘Is that understood?’

  It seems like I don’t have a choice.

  Back at the houseboat I go through Hank’s notes again, this time focusing not on Huisman but Akkerman. I find what I’d missed the first time, on page forty-three in the margin. An address is scrawled followed by the name ‘Akkerman’ and a question mark.

  I do a mental check. Nope, don’t remember that address. I cross-reference with my own notes, finding that my memory was correct – my notes have no mention of this address; the only one we had associated with Akkerman was down near Maastricht where Huisman had claimed to be when Lucie Muller was killed. So I’m not sure why Hank scri
bbled it down. Could Akkerman have owned a second property, or maybe it belonged to a relative?

  A few minutes on my phone tell me that, according to the land registry, the property was bought in 1979 by a Marit Berkhout. Berkhout sounds familiar, only I can’t place from where. I quickly go back through my notes and find the section on Akkerman. And there it is, buried in the background profile every major suspect has done: his mother’s maiden name is Berkhout. Now that’s what I call police work. The doorbell goes off, and I open it to two middle-aged women, one Dutch, one African. They’re both holding glossy leaflets in their hands and the love of Jesus Christ in their hearts. Luckily Kush comes running, barking his head off at them.

  ‘Satan,’ I growl. ‘Satan, down boy.’

  Kush, bless him, stops barking and plays along almost as if he understands.

  The two ladies are clearly appalled. They snatch glances at each other and one of them nervously fingers a cross dangling on a chain round her neck.

  Once they’ve left my soul to eternal damnation I give him a bit of cheese from the warm fridge.

  ‘Sir?’

  Above me branches sway back and forth, micro-glimpses of sky in between. My back’s cold from lying on the houseboat’s roof. It’s not the most comfortable thing I could be doing but the discomfort is grounding somehow. Kush’s tied up to the non-functioning chimney stack, and whilst he didn’t appreciate it to begin with he has now settled down.

  ‘Up here.’

  A speedboat roars up the canal, making the houseboat rock just as Jansen gets to his feet on the roof.

  ‘I see what Vermeer means; it is quirky up here,’ he says, taking in the deckchairs and odd assortment of flowerpots, some of which actually contain plants. ‘Ready?’

  After my chat with Beving I’d been told to go back to my houseboat and wait, then Vermeer had called ten minutes ago saying we were on and that Jansen would be round to pick me up soon. I spent the time looking at the report Ron Koopmans had given me. It was just a single sheet of A4, a standard incident report someone knocked up in Word with printed boxes, some of which are filled in by hand. The handwriting itself is on the edge of being illegible, but I could just make out the sequence of events which ended with Jan Akkerman being expelled from the club. There was no photo of him, but the sparse description – male, average height, tattoos on both arms – fits with my memory, though it could equally apply to hundreds, if not thousands, of people in that area of Amsterdam alone. It did say he’d been with two other people, one of whom didn’t have a name, but was just referred to as ‘Snake’. I’d put a call into Ron asking who that was but was told he was out and would get back to me.

  Jansen’s ready to go, so I throw some food in the bath and Kush hops in.

  ‘Where was her sister?’ I ask as Jansen gets us moving south towards Schiphol airport.

  ‘Bali apparently. She’d gone with her fiancé and a few days in they get our call. Best holiday ever.’

  ‘She as high-flying as Marianne?’

  ‘She’s a journalist, freelance. Got the impression she’s struggling, though. Her father told me there was a chance she was going to be joining Marianne’s business at some stage; she’s got a degree in biology, and the business was something to do with microbiome research, so makes sense.’

  I’d read the file. Marianne and Cheryl’s father is pretty high up in a large pharmaceutical company, so the old thing about apples not falling far from the tree seemed to be true in this case.

  We reach Schiphol, park and are soon being ushered into a room by an immigration officer. Moments later the door opens and a woman is brought in. She has that slenderness I often associate with models, one which suits the camera but in real life can appear almost too willowy, too thin, giving her an aura of fragility. Mind you, having just got off a long-haul flight with nothing to do but come to terms with the death of your sister isn’t going to be doing anyone much good. Her dark hair is tied up in a high bun. We’d been told her fiancé had to get a later flight.

  She shakes hands with us both as Jansen does the intros and invites her to sit. The room has been designed to sniff out law-breakers; it’s stark, the lighting’s harsh, and there are no windows.

  ‘Tell you what, how about we give you a lift home?’ I ask once Jansen’s sat down opposite her.

  I’m rewarded with a grateful smile.

  Traffic’s picked up, and we end up crawling on the A4 back into Amsterdam. So far we’ve not spoken much, left her to her own thoughts. I know from experience how the death of someone close to you is an almost psychedelic experience; the whole world looks the same but different, as if you’re viewing it from a millionth of a degree off centre. It’s one of the most disconcerting feelings you can have.

  ‘You never told me how she died,’ Cheryl’s saying to Jansen.

  On the way down I’d asked Jansen if Cheryl had been told about how Marianne had been killed, but he told me they’d kept that from her for now. He and Vermeer had decided the shock of Marianne’s death was enough without adding details into the mix; they could do that when they met face to face. Somehow I don’t think this is quite the moment, though.

  Jansen glances at me in the rear-view mirror. I shake my head.

  Cheryl’s place is the top two floors of a red and white brick house which is actually closer to a mansion. She may be struggling as a journalist, but from the looks of this I guess her father must have picked up the bill. He’s obviously very high up in that company. We help her up the stairs with her suitcases and soon we’re sitting in the living room with views over the green expanse of Vondelpark. It’s a large space which looks to have been decorated by an interior designer; rich fabrics, vintage furniture and an array of abstract ornaments remind me of a boutique hotel Tanya and I stayed in just off Steinplatz in Berlin.

  It’d been a rare Friday when both of us had finished cases and hadn’t yet been assigned another. Tanya had the weekend off anyway, and I called in a favour and got someone to cover for me. We were lucky enough to get last-minute tickets for the seven-hour train journey and a late booking at a hotel we’d not normally be able to afford. We’d spent the nights pulsing to music in a club housed in an old brutalist power station and the days walking through the Tiergarten, trees ablaze with colour, exhausted but exhilarated too. We slept the entire journey home.

  Jansen has the file with him and he hands it over to her. We sit in silence as she looks through it. A bird flickers past the window, casting a quick shadow across the room. She starts crying, tears dripping on to the photo clasped in her hand. Jansen shifts in his seat. I’ve found over the years that watching other people’s grief can affect you in one of two ways; the first is empathetic, but I’ve also experienced the opposite, where grief can cause a sort of disgust. I don’t know if it’s a sort of defence mechanism, or something else. But I do know that if that hits you then you’re not going to be able to talk to them effectively. Something about Jansen’s face tells me he’s experiencing the latter. I catch his eye, motion for him to leave. He’s startled for a moment, perhaps that he can be read so easily, then nods, gets up and leaves. Cheryl doesn’t seem to notice his departure.

  ‘I’ve only just joined the investigation,’ I tell her when I judge the moment’s right, ‘and I’d really like to get a feel for what Marianne was like.’

  Cheryl wipes her eyes with a tissue then blows her nose. There’s a ring on her finger: rose gold with a large oval diamond which catches the light. I’ve no doubt it’s real. She takes in a deep shuddering breath then lets it out again.

  ‘Marianne was … she was very single-minded. Even as a kid.’

  ‘You grew up in Den Haag?’

  ‘Until I was thirteen, then we moved to Haarlem because of Daddy’s work. I remember Marianne kicking up a fuss about not wanting to move.’ A little sad smile at the memory. ‘She had her friends and didn’t want to go.’

  ‘She was shy?’

  ‘Shy? No. It wasn’t that; it was more l
ike she just didn’t see the need. But she didn’t sulk like a normal kid did; she just threw herself into convincing Daddy that we didn’t need to move. So she prepared a whole argument which she presented to him one weekend on bits of paper, all reasons why we shouldn’t move. She was driven, I guess, is what I’m trying to say, didn’t like to be told what to do.’

  A quality which I know all too well can be a double-edged sword.

  ‘But when Mummy died a few years later she changed, became more … Well, she became different. A little harder maybe. But I suppose we all did.’

  Jansen had filled me in on the mother’s death. Ovarian cancer, nothing relevant to the case. And yet sometimes these things are very relevant, just not in an obvious way.

  ‘Tell me about her business.’

  Her eyes flick towards mine for the first time, then away almost as quickly. So quick I wonder if I didn’t just imagine it.

  ‘I was due to be joining it in six months’ time, but I can’t really discuss it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because like everyone else I had to sign a non-disclosure agreement.’

  ‘Even being a family member?’

  ‘Doesn’t make any difference. Once she took the investors’ money there was no question of me not signing. Not even she could force something like that through.’

  ‘Why all the secrecy?’

  ‘The company is focused on some research which could lead to a very significant breakthrough. And that breakthrough could make a lot of money. So no one who is involved with the company can say anything.’

  ‘Any competitors, people who didn’t want your sister’s company to succeed?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘What about her boyfriend?’