by Val McDermid
He’d driven back to the boat on a high such as he’d never known, not even after he’d killed the old man.
It wasn’t what he’d learned from Heinrich Holtz after the funeral that had lifted the curtain of darkness inside him or helped him to forgive his grandfather. Sometimes he wondered if he possessed the ability to forgive; so many responses that other people took for granted had been squeezed out of him. If they’d ever been there in the first place.
But what he had understood was who he could use to make a new library of memories that would bring him joy and light. For a long time, he had brooded, wondering how he could make his torturers pay. What had finally illuminated the road to his release was the terrible humiliation he’d suffered at the hands of that bitch of a Hungarian whore. It wasn’t the first time he’d been taunted, but it was the first time someone had sounded just like his grandfather. A dizzying blackness had engulfed him, blocking out everything except an insatiable rage. In an instant, he’d had his hands round her throat, so tight her face had turned purple, her tongue poking out like a gargoyle. But in that moment when he had literally held her life in his hands, he’d suddenly realized it wasn’t her he wanted to kill.
He’d fallen away from her, gasping and sweating, but simultaneously clear-headed, his feet set on a new path. He’d staggered into the night, an altered man. Now, he had a mission.
His pleasure in the remembrance of things past was broken by the arrival of Manfred with a steaming mug of coffee. He didn’t begrudge the interruption, however. It was time something brought him back to earth. He’d been steering all morning on automatic pilot, which wasn’t good enough for the stretch of river that lay ahead. The congested waters of Rotterdam were a deathtrap for the inattentive skipper. As the Nieuwe Maas swept through its wide bends towards the various side channels leading to wharves and moorings, tugs and barges and launches were constantly on the move. They could shoot out insouciantly from blind corners at outrageous speed. Avoiding collisions required all his attention to the radar screen as well as to the waters around him. Up in the bows, Gunther scanned the waterway, a second pair of eyes for what lay ahead, where the skipper’s view was often obscured.
For now, he had to concentrate on getting them to safe harbour. The boat was all that mattered, for without the boat he was nothing; his mission would be scuppered. Besides, he was proud of his skills as a Rhine skipper. He had no intention of becoming the butt of dockside laughter.
Later, there would be plenty of time to indulge himself, to let the darkness fold back and bask in the light. While they were unloading, he could return to his memories. And perhaps plan how he would add to his store.
Brigadier Marijke van Hasselt wrinkled her nose. Not minding the dead was one thing; enduring the assorted stenches and sights of a postmortem was something that required rather more fortitude. The early stages had been fine. Nothing bothered her about the weighing and measuring, the freeing of head and hands from their plastic coverings, the scraping from under each individual fingernail, all meticulously recorded on audio and video tape by Wim de Vries, the pathologist. But she knew what lay ahead, and it wasn’t a prospect for the delicate of stomach.
At least de Vries wasn’t one of those who relished the humiliation of the police officers who had to attend postmortems. He never brandished organs like a gleeful offal butcher. Rather, he was calm and efficient, as respectful of the dead as the disassembling of their physical secrets allowed him to be. And he spoke plainly when he found something the attending officer needed to know. All of which was a relief to Marijke.
Delicately, he continued his external examination. ‘Some traces of froth in the nostrils,’ he said. ‘Consistent with drowning. But none in the mouth, which surprises me,’ he added as he shone a light into de Groot’s mouth. ‘Wait, though …’ He peered more closely, reaching for a magnifying glass. ‘There’s some bruising at the back of the throat here, and contusions on the insides of the lips and cheeks.’
‘What does that mean?’ Marijke asked.
‘It’s too early to be precise, but it looks as if something was forced into his mouth. We’ll know more later.’ Efficiently, he took a series of swabs from the body’s several orifices then began to pay attention to the external injuries.
‘The excision of the pubic hair is quite neat,’ he said. ‘Only a few signs of tentative cuts on the navel here.’ He pointed with a latex-covered fingertip. ‘You see? I’ve never seen this before. Pubic scalping, I suppose you’d have to call it. Your perpetrator has been careful not to damage the genitals themselves.’
‘Was he still alive when it happened?’
De Vries shrugged. ‘The scalping was done very close to death itself. He was either just dead or dying when it happened.’ He continued to examine the body, pausing at the left side of the head. ‘Nasty bump here.’ His fingers probed the lump. ‘Slight abrasion of the skin. Blunt force trauma. He took a blow to the head some time before he died.’ He nodded to the technician. ‘Let’s roll him.’
Marijke stared down at the pattern of lividity on de Groot’s back. The hollow of his neck, the small of his back, the thighs above the crook of his knees were stained purple as a bruise with the blood that had drained there, drawn downwards by the inexorable force of gravity. Where he had been pressed against the surface of the desk, the flesh remained a ghastly white; the shoulders, the buttocks, the calves. It reminded Marijke of a strange abstract painting. De Vries pressed a thumb against the shoulder of the corpse. When he withdrew it, there was no change. ‘So,’ he said, ‘hypostasis is in the second stage. He has been lying dead in this position for at least ten to twelve hours. And he hasn’t been moved after death.’
Now came the part Marijke hated. The body was replaced on its back and the dissection began. She slid her eyes sideways. To the casual observer, it would look as if she was paying close attention to what de Vries was doing, but in reality, she was staring at the tray of instruments as if her life depended on committing them to memory in some perverse version of Kim’s Game. The dissecting knife, for incisions and removal of organs, with its metal two-piece handle and four-inch disposable blades. The brain knife with its fine twelve-inch blade for making thin sections of the delicate tissue. The scissors and scalpels and forceps for things she didn’t want to think about. The oscillating-bladed Stryker saw for cutting bone without destroying the surrounding tissues. The T-shaped chisel called the skull key, for extra leverage when prying apart the bones of the cranium.
So it was she missed the moment when de Vries cracked open the chest and the pale distended lungs ballooned out of the cavity. ‘I thought so,’ he said, satisfaction creeping through his professional demeanour and demanding her attention like a leg-winding cat.
‘What’s that?’ She dragged her reluctant eyes from the surgical tools.
‘Look at the state of the lungs.’ He poked a finger into the grey tissue that bulged through the space between the ribs. It left a clear indentation. ‘He’s been drowned.’
‘Drowned?’
De Vries nodded. ‘No doubt about it.’
‘But you said he died in the position where he was found.’
‘That’s right.’
Marijke frowned. ‘But there was no water there. He was tied to his office desk. It’s not like it was a bathroom or a kitchen. How could he be drowned?’
‘Very unpleasantly,’ de Vries said, his tone neutral, his eyes fixed on the work of his hands. ‘Judging by the state of the mouth and the windpipe, I think some sort of funnel or tube was forced into his airway and water was poured down it. You said he was tied down, and I can see the marks of the ligatures for myself. He couldn’t have put up much of a struggle.’
Marijke shuddered. ‘Jesus. That’s cold.’
De Vries shrugged. ‘That’s your province, not mine. I just read what the body has to say. Thankfully, I don’t have to deal with the mind behind it.’
But I do, the detective thought. And this is a very nas
ty one. ‘So the cause of death would be drowning?’ she asked.
‘You know I can’t say that for sure at this stage. But it certainly looks that way.’ De Vries turned back to the cadaver, slipping his hands into the abdominal cavity and lifting out the mass of the internal organs.
Drowning, she thought. Not something you’d come up with in the heat of the moment. Whoever did this, he planned it very carefully. He came equipped for what he had to do. If this was a crime of passion, it was a very strange passion indeed.
Carol closed the heavy door of her flat and leaned against it, kicking off her shoes. She crossed one leg over the other and bent to massage the liberated toes. She’d spent the whole day tramping around the back streets of Stoke Newington, Dalston and Hackney, looking at the world around her with the eyes of a criminal. It wasn’t so different from the cop’s take on the world. They were both looking for possible escape routes, possible targets of crime, possible gaps in security. But before, she’d been the hunter. Now she had to calculate what the quarry might need.
She’d memorized back alleys, vacant lots, hiding places. She’d checked out pubs with rear exits, kebab shops whose back door might be accessible to someone with quick enough wits and sharp enough elbows, gypsy cab firms whose drivers parked round the corner from the main drag, ready for a swift getaway. She’d learned which houses offered easy access to back gardens that could double as escape routes. She’d spent three days among the traffic fumes, stale cooking smells and cheap perfume of the streets, dressing to blend with the heterogeneous mixture of those hoping they were upwardly mobile and those living with the knowledge they were going nowhere but down. She’d eavesdropped on accents from five continents, checked out who attracted attention as they passed by, who was ignored.
It wasn’t anywhere near enough, but it would have to do. Tomorrow she would spend polishing her performance, then it would be time for the real thing.
9
It was like picking a scab. The agony was exquisite, but the activity was irresistible. Tadeusz sat at the polished slab of burl oak that served as the desk in his home office, sorting through his photographs of Katerina. There were the public shots; the pair of them arriving at a film premiere, her radiant looks causing the snappers to take her for some minor starlet; a charity dinner, Katerina feeding him a piece of lobster with her fingers; Katerina at the formal opening of the day-care centre she’d helped raise funds for. There was a series of studio portraits that he’d persuaded her was the only birthday present he wanted from her. That the camera had loved her was clear from their sensuous quality.
Then there were the dozens of snaps he’d taken of her, some casual, others painstakingly set up. Katerina in Paris, posed with her head at an angle so the Eiffel Tower was reflected in her mirrored shades; Katerina in Prague, Wenceslas Square the dramatic backdrop; Katerina in the market place in Florence, rubbing the gleaming bronze nose of the wild boar statue for luck; and Katerina in a bikini sprawled on a sun lounger, one leg cocked at the knee, reading a trashy airport novel. He couldn’t even remember if that last one had been taken on Capri or Grand Cayman. For some reason, it had ended up out of sequence among the Prague photographs. So much for every picture telling a story.
He’d always meant to put the photographs into albums, but there had never been time while she’d still been alive, while he’d been adding to the archive constantly. Now, he had all the time in the world to arrange the images of Katerina in whatever sequence he desired. Tadeusz sighed and reached for one of the leather-bound albums he’d chosen himself earlier that week from a photographic supplies wholesaler. He flipped open another wallet of snapshots and began to trawl through, discarding the images of landscapes and interesting architectural details, winnowing out the best shots of Katerina and arranging the first three on the page. Painstakingly, he mounted them, then wrote next to them in his neat hand, ‘Katerina, Amsterdam. Our first weekend together.’ He’d have to check the exact date in his diary, a realization that angered him. It seemed wrong that every detail wasn’t carved in memory, a small token of disrespect that Katerina didn’t deserve.
The buzz of the video entryphone interrupted him and he closed the album, getting to his feet and crossing the hall to the small screen sunk discreetly into the wall by the apartment door. Darko Krasic stood outside, half-turned towards the avenue, his eyes shifting back and forth in a constant surveillance. Even here in the respectable streets of Charlottenburg, his lieutenant didn’t take his safety for granted. Krasic always quoted his father, a fisherman. ‘One hand for the boat, one hand for yourself.’ Tadeusz didn’t mind what some might have seen as paranoia; as far as he was concerned, it was directed towards keeping him safe as much as Krasic, and therefore a bonus rather than a cause for concern.
He buzzed Krasic in at the ground floor, putting the apartment door on the latch and heading through to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. He’d barely taken the beans from the freezer when Krasic strode in, head down and shoulders wide, a man looking for somewhere to put his belligerence. He knew better than to direct it at his boss, however. ‘We’ve got trouble,’ he said in a surprisingly calm voice.
Tadeusz nodded. ‘I heard the radio news earlier. Another two dead junkies in some shitty nightclub in Oranienstrasse.’
‘That makes seven, counting the one who died in intensive care.’ Krasic unbuttoned his overcoat and took a cigar case from his inside pocket.
‘I know.’ He dumped the beans in the grinder and killed all prospect of conversation for a few seconds. ‘I can count, Darko.’
‘So can the media. They’re kicking up a real stink, Tadzio. This isn’t going to go away. The cops are under a lot of pressure.’
‘That’s what we’re paying them for, isn’t it? To take the pressure and leave our people alone?’ He tipped the ground coffee into a cafetiere and poured the hot water over it.
‘Some things they can’t ignore. Seven dead, for example.’
Tadeusz frowned. ‘What are you saying, Darko?’
‘It’s gone past the point where our normal protection can take care of things. They’re going to arrest Kamal tonight. We’ve had our card marked, that’s as far as our man can stick his neck out right now.’ He lit his cigar and puffed luxuriously.
‘Fuck. Can we control what happens?’
Krasic shrugged. ‘It depends. If he’s looking at seven murder charges, Kamal might think it’s worth taking the risk of giving me up. Or even you. If they offer him immunity, he might decide his best chance is to take us off the streets. Give himself a breathing space and trust to the witness protection programme.’
Tadeusz pressed the plunger down slowly, his mind flipping through the options. ‘We’re not going to let it go that far,’ he said. ‘Time for the pawn sacrifice, Darko.’
Darko allowed himself a thin smile. Tadzio hadn’t lost it. ‘You want me to make sure he never gets as far as the police station?’
‘I want you to do whatever it takes. But make it look good, Darko. Give the press something to take their minds off all those dead wasters.’ He poured two cups of coffee, pushing one towards the Serb.
‘I’ve already got one or two ideas on that score.’ He raised his cup in a toast. ‘Leave it with me. You won’t be disappointed.’
‘No,’ Tadeusz said firmly. ‘I won’t be. Now, losing Kamal leaves us with a gap. Who’s going to fill it, Darko? Who’s got what it takes to walk in a dead man’s shoes?’
It had been a long day, but Brigadier Marijke van Hasselt was too wired for sleep. She’d delivered the results of the postmortem – death by drowning, as de Vries had tentatively predicted early on in the autopsy – at a briefing with her boss, Maartens, and her opposite number, Tom Brucke. Though none of them had said it in so many words, they really didn’t have a single lead.
They’d masked the insecurity this inevitably produced with the familiar police routines that they all knew in their bones. Briskly, Maartens had outlined the ground rules for
the investigation, assigning tasks to one team or the other, acting as if this was a directed inquiry that already had its terms of reference clearly mapped out. But they all knew they were groping in the dark for Pieter de Groot’s killer.
Most murders were easy. They fell into one of three broad categories: domestic disputes jacked up one step too far; drunken brawls that escalated beyond the initial intent; or the incidentals of other criminal activity, usually connected to drugs or violent robbery. The Leiden killing didn’t fit any of these categories. Nobody in the victim’s immediate circle had an obvious motive, nor was this the kind of murder that arose from the engorged or embittered passions of domestic relationships. Besides, the ex-wife and the current girlfriend both had alibis, the one at home with her children, the other visiting her sister in Maastricht.
Maartens had remarked that they needed to take a look at his professional life. He couldn’t imagine that anyone at the university would have turned to murder to solve some scholastic dispute, but with so few threads to grasp, they had to be sure they weren’t missing the obvious. He’d heard that passions could run high in the rarefied atmosphere of academic research, and there were some very strange people around in higher education, especially in areas like psychology.
Marijke had said nothing, unwilling to provoke further her boss’s prejudice against university graduates like herself. Although Maartens was every bit as clued in about modern policing as any of his colleagues, he still clung to some of the old-school attitudes of his youth, and she didn’t want what was an already complicated investigation made any more awkward. She’d acknowledged his assignment of the university connection to her team with a quick nod. It would almost certainly be a complete waste of time, and it would have to wait until after the weekend, but she’d make sure the job was done thoroughly.
