Hood looked to the south, fearing to discern in the distance the lineaments of a chapel miraculously restored, rising from a hollow in the moor.
They put blood in the soil, he thought. They put blood in the soil, and something that should be dead has now come back to life.
CHAPTER LXXIX
Louis and Angel slept late, and were woken by Anouk. She arrived carrying a tray containing a pot of coffee, which she placed on a low table by the window before opening the drapes.
“He wants to see you,” she said.
“When?” said Louis.
“As soon as you’ve dressed.”
“Here?”
“No, Paulus will come for you.”
“Is there a problem?”
“There may be. Eva Meertens is missing.”
* * *
PAULUS PICKED THEM UP within the hour and drove them to Café Hoppe on Spui, where De Jaager was sitting at the back of the old cask-lined bar, an empty cup in front of him. As soon as they were seated, a bartender pulled across a heavy drape to give them some privacy, and brought three fresh cups of coffee, along with a platter of cheese, ham, bread, and boiled eggs, before making himself scarce.
“Eat,” said De Jaager.
Louis picked at the food. Angel did not; the nausea was strong that morning, and he ached deep inside.
“Anouk told us that Eva is missing,” said Louis.
De Jaager took a sip of coffee.
“She’s not missing any longer,” he replied. “She’s dead. They pulled her body from a canal not half an hour ago.”
Angel stopped eating. Louis did not, but finished his piece of bread and ham before speaking again.
“Any signs of injury?”
“To the head.”
“Accidental?”
“Possible, but unlikely.”
“When was she last seen?”
“Shortly before your friend entered Cornelie Gruner’s apartments. She and Liesl, her co-shadow, separated at that point. Liesl’s mother is ill, and she had to return home to take care of her. She should have stayed with Eva, but—”
De Jaager shrugged.
“Does Liesl know?” said Angel.
“Not yet. I’ve only just found out myself. I’ll ask Anouk to tell her, and stay with her for a while. The girl will blame herself for what has happened.”
“And who do you blame?” said Louis.
“Not you, if that’s what you’re wondering, even though I’m not ruling out a connection to your presence here. And I don’t believe this is Gruner’s handiwork. He’s not a killer.”
“Do you think someone might be protecting Gruner?”
“From what?”
“Unwanted attention.”
“You’re the threat. The logical step would be to kill you.”
“Actually,” Angel suggested, “if someone was afraid of Gruner revealing what he knows, then the logical step would be to kill Gruner.”
Louis and De Jaager stared at him.
“Just saying,” Angel added.
De Jaager took out a cell phone. “It had crossed my mind to speak with Gruner. This shadowing shit must come to an end now.”
“What if he doesn’t want to talk to us?” said Louis.
“Then I’ll start burning his precious books in front of him, one by one, until he changes his mind. If he doesn’t, I’ll progress to burning parts of him. One of my people is dead. This is not how things are done here, not when it comes to mine.”
De Jaager selected a name from his contacts list.
“Paulus,” he said, “breng me mijnheer Gruner.”
* * *
THE WEBSITE RESPONSIBLE FOR publishing the picture of Romana Moon was run by a man named Harry Stoller. He had been a peripheral figure in far-right circles for decades, mostly because he was an appalling human being, even by the standards of racists and fascists, and therefore struggled to find anyone willing to be publicly associated with him. The rise of social media had transformed Stoller’s existence, enabling him to disseminate hate speech without requiring him to show his face—which was a good thing all around, because the only thing more rotten than the condition of Stoller’s soul was the state of the rest of him.
Stoller claimed to have almost half a million subscribers to his YouTube channel, and many multiples of that number in viewers of his Facebook videos and tweets. He hated everyone who wasn’t white, and most people who weren’t white and British, but he also hated lots of white people, too, a surprising number of them fellow travelers on the far-right bandwagon who were either too cautious for him or too extreme; too intellectual or too stupid; too liberal or too reactionary; or who, basically, just weren’t Harry Stoller. He operated out of a council flat in Bradford, which he shared with his sister, Lottie, although some of his opponents liked to suggest that his “sister” was just Harry dressed in drag. Objective analysis, though, had concluded that there really was a sister, and she and Harry might even be sleeping together, if only because no one else would sleep with either of them.
Hynes received a crash course in Harry Stoller from Nabih Uddin on the drive southwest from Newcastle to Bradford. Priestman had prevailed upon West Yorkshire Police to allow her people to handle Stoller; no one needed the complicating factor of another force in an already difficult investigation, but undercover officers from West Yorkshire were keeping a discreet eye on Stoller’s flat until Hynes and Uddin arrived.
Assigning Uddin to the task of confronting Stoller probably represented a deliberate act of provocation on Priestman’s part, and was unlikely to make Stoller any more likely to cooperate willingly, but Hynes didn’t really care. He fully expected Stoller to be difficult. In fact, he was hoping for it.
“We have plenty of racists of our own here in Northumbria,” said Hynes. “I don’t see why someone had to send those pictures all the way to Yorkshire.”
“Stoller has an audience,” said Uddin. “Whoever took the photos wants to play to the biggest crowd possible.”
“But bloody Harry Stoller, of all people. That even a murderer should stoop so low.” Hynes shook his head in sorrow. “Why doesn’t the local council just throw him out on his ear?”
“Because he’s well resourced, and the council isn’t,” said Uddin, who was driving. They’d been forced to make a quick detour to the on-call magistrate in order to secure a warrant to search Stoller’s premises, and now Uddin was intent on making up for lost time. He had a heavier foot than Hynes. At the rate he was going, Hynes guessed Uddin would get them to Bradford in less than two hours.
“Whenever the council tries to make a move against him,” Uddin continued, “Stoller unleashes his lawyers, but not before letting his followers know that the authorities are trying to shut him down. Cue thousands of nuisance e-mails, phone calls, even attempted denial-of-service attacks. It’s easier just to leave him be.”
“Lawyers cost money,” said Hynes. “Stoller’s an unemployed racist living in a council flat with one of the Ugly Sisters. How come he’s on Perry Mason’s books?”
“Stoller has money. He’s clever enough to keep it hidden, but he has it.”
“How?”
“Subscriptions, advertising. He makes money from YouTube: you look at one of his films about how the Holocaust never happened, someone tries to sell you a bar of soap, and Stoller gets a cut.”
“Yeah, but come on,” said Hynes. “How many people in Britain really care what someone like Harry Stoller thinks?”
“Enough. After the United States, Britain is the biggest source of traffic to far-right websites. But only about twenty percent of Stoller’s audience is British anyway. The rest come from all over. It’s like that old Coca-Cola advert, the one about teaching the world to sing, except with more racists in the chorus line.”
Hynes felt profoundly depressed. It wasn’t that he didn’t have prejudices: he did, loads of them, largely against idiots. Stupidity, he knew, did not recognize boundaries of color or creed. But he had
come to believe that, like driving a car, people should have to pass a test before being allowed access to the Internet. Most would fail, because Hynes intended to set the test himself.
“Nabih, how do you know all this?”
“I’m a Muslim born to Pakistani parents,” said Uddin. “Men like Stoller hate me on principle, so it makes sense to keep myself informed.”
Hynes watched an elderly woman in a Toyota move rapidly into the slow lane to avoid them. He offered her a wave of apology, and she gave him the finger in return, which was no kind of example to be setting for the youth of today.
“You know,” said Hynes, “according to Priestman, you were ordered to come on this run.”
Uddin looked surprised.
“Really? Because I offered.”
He smiled. Hynes smiled back.
“I’m shocked to hear that,” said Hynes. “Shocked.”
* * *
PRIESTMAN HAD A HEADACHE, the kind no pills could cure.
The Northumbria Police’s media center was already inundated with calls about the Stoller photo from newspapers, television, and other outlets not generally renowned for their outright fascism. For now, the official line was that the provenance of the photo was still being established, and a statement would follow shortly. It would buy them some time, but only a few hours, by which point Hynes and Uddin should have managed to doorstep Stoller, assuming he hadn’t gone to ground. It was crucial to establish how he might have come by the picture, and work back up the chain in the hope it might give them a lead on Romana’s killer, but Priestman knew the chances of a direct link were slim. If Stoller had received the image electronically, the best she could hope for would be an IP address, which would give them the originating location, and perhaps even a computer name. It seemed unlikely, though, that the sender would not have covered his tracks.
The only piece of good luck to have come their way was that, so far, only Romana Moon’s name had been mentioned in connection with a misbaha. Helen Wylie, the victim found at Canterbury, had not been referenced. But if Hynes was right—and further analysis of the image confirmed that he probably was—then Romana had been photographed by her killer shortly before or after her death, which meant a high probability that a similar picture existed of Helen Wylie. If so, it could only be a matter of time before it, too, was published.
Priestman had just finished speaking with one of the press officers when Gackowska called to inform her that Karl Holmby had not returned home the previous night, and still had not been in touch with his mother. His brother’s phone, meanwhile, was going straight to voice mail.
“Have you tried Ryan Clifton?” Priestman asked.
“He says he doesn’t know where Karl is.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Yes, oddly. He thinks Karl might be angry with him for shooting his mouth off about Romana Moon. He feels bad about that. I don’t think Ryan Clifton has so many friends that he can afford to lose one.”
“Did he have any idea where Karl might have gone?”
“He doesn’t think Karl has a girlfriend, so that’s one avenue ruled out. He gave us a couple of other names. We’re checking them now.”
“What about Mrs. Holmby?”
“She continues to show no great love for the police. I have to say that I quite like her, even if she isn’t being particularly helpful. She’s brought up two kids to make something of themselves, despite the early influence of her ex-husband, and she worked hard to do it. I think she’s worried about Karl, but not enough to help us find him.”
“And her ex, our old friend Clement Holmby?”
“We’ve put out feelers for him, just in case. He’s no longer with the slapper from Sutton Coldfield, because she’s been locked up for arson. Claire Holmby told us that she doesn’t know where he is. She said she hoped he was dead, but she didn’t think God was that good.”
“What next?”
“Garner and I are on our way to Gary Holmby’s residence.”
Rory Garner was another of Hynes’s protégés. His expenses already had a touch of the fanciful about them, which was Hynes all over.
“Well, call me as soon as you have anything,” said Priestman.
“Will do. Any word from Nabih and Hynes?”
Priestman checked her watch.
“No, but they should be in Bradford by now.”
“I wish I was with them,” said Gackowska, “just to see Harry Stoller’s face when Nabih knocks on his door.”
* * *
CATCHING SIGHT OF HARRY Stoller’s face was proving difficult for Hynes and Uddin.
“I’ve told you already: he’s not here,” said a female voice from the other side of the door. The door was reinforced with steel, and the windows to either side of it were covered by wire mesh. Hynes might have ascribed this to Stoller’s chosen vocation—a piece of faded graffiti on the wall read NAZI SCUM OUT—but most of the other flats in the complex were similarly protected.
“I don’t care,” said Hynes. “I have a warrant to search these premises. And by the way, I know your brother’s in there.”
“How do you know he’s in here?”
“Because he never fucking goes out.”
Hynes looked to Uddin for confirmation of this fact. Uddin nodded. “He never does fucking go out,” he said. “Everyone says.”
“What if I don’t open up?” said the woman.
“I’ll have you arrested.”
“Can’t arrest me if I don’t open up.”
There was a kind of logic to this, but only insofar as it applied to a door that was still on its hinges, and Hynes let her know as much. He discerned some mumbling, and then an exchange of words between the woman and what sounded like a man, before chains began to rattle, bolts were pulled back, and keys turned in locks. It was like hearing the Tower of London opening for business. Eventually, the door was thrown wide, revealing a hallway that was surprisingly clean and uncluttered, and smelled of cheap air freshener; and a woman of indeterminate age, her hair an explosion of gray tangles, her face an accumulation of swellings and protuberances assembled into a rough approximation of human features, finished off by two perfect blue eyes that appeared to have been stolen from the corpse of a model for high-end spectacles. Most of her body was hidden by a long yellow housecoat that had given many years of stout service, and now just wanted to be put out of its misery.
This, then, was Lottie Stoller.
“Show me the warrant thing,” she said.
Hynes showed her the warrant thing. She read it without the aid of spectacles, high-end or otherwise.
“Well?” called a voice from deep inside the flat.
“Looks real,” she shouted back.
“Better let them in, I suppose.”
Lottie Stoller peered at Nabih Uddin.
“One of them’s a—” She gave some consideration to the correct term to use, and spent a few seconds distinguishing between the word in her head and the word that should, for the sake of avoiding arrest, emerge from her mouth, before finally settling for “an Asian.”
The male voice swore in response, but said nothing more.
Lottie led Hynes and Uddin to what had once been the larger of two bedrooms, but had since been transformed into what was clearly the nerve center of Harry Stoller’s little factory of hate. Two walls were fitted with floor-to-ceiling shelves containing books, pamphlets, box files, binders, and an array of beautifully painted model tanks and soldiers, all of them World War II German. (It never failed to puzzle Hynes that the most virulent of Little Englander racists seemed to retain an unhealthy fascination with the very regime a whole generation of their forebears had risked their lives to defeat.) A desk at the window bore two huge computer screens, one of which displayed a series of windows showing news feeds and videos, the sound turned down to a low babble of conflicting voices, while the second screen contained a series of conversations Stoller was having with media outlets, fellow bloggers, and assorted lunatics
. The picture of what was, in all likelihood, Romana Moon’s bloodied mouth had pride of place in the top right-hand corner, taking up a full quarter of the screen.
Sitting at the desk was a man of medium height, dressed incongruously in a shiny blue suit cut in a style that had gone out of fashion back when people still paid for clothing in weekly installments, and a red, white, and blue tie wide enough to cover most of the stains on the white shirt beneath. His long gray hair was slicked back, and he was clean-shaven, with the unfortunate result that more of his face was exposed to view. Harry Stoller looked like a depilated bat: small dark eyes, a piggish nose, and a mouth that, even in repose, bared sharp yellow teeth. Hynes and Uddin identified themselves and displayed their warrant cards, but Stoller barely glanced at them, so absorbed was he by his online activities.
“He’s dressed nice because he thinks he’s going to be on television,” said his sister. Her voice dripped with so much contempt, it was a wonder the carpet wasn’t awash. “The BBC are going to call, give him his own show on Saturday nights, after the dancing, just because someone sent him a picture of a dead girl.”
“Why don’t you go and do something useful?” said Stoller. “You two want a cup of tea?”
Hynes accepted the offer, but Uddin didn’t. He wouldn’t have put it past Lottie Stoller to spit in his cup.
“Looks like you’re being kept busy,” said Hynes.
“Never been busier,” said Stoller. “A young white girl killed by Muslims, who marked their handiwork by sticking prayer beads in her mouth: What do you think’s going to happen now? The fuse has been lit. By this time tomorrow, there’ll be mosques burning, and about fucking time.”
Neither of the two detectives was interested in getting into a debate with Stoller—they were here only to find out how he’d come to be in possession of the photograph—but Hynes couldn’t help but fear that he was probably right, and they would soon be looking at fires, broken glass, beatings, and worse.
A Book of Bones Page 40
