‘Gone clean?’
‘Not really, I think one of my colleagues saw him with some people … hang on.’
Jaap hears a conversation going on at the other end, but can’t make out the words.
‘You still there?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’m passing my colleague over, he knows more.’
Jaap listens to what the new voice – a woman with the smokiest, most alluring voice he’s ever heard – has to say.
‘So who’s he been seen with?’
‘Guy called Van der Pol, big player. Covers pretty much the whole country. Drugs, sex-slaves, extortion, he does it all, he’s like the Amazon of the criminal world.’
Ten minutes later Jaap walks into the room where his team’s assembled. He brings them up to speed on Kooy.
‘This is the guy supplying people with scopolamine; the chances are high that if we find him we can get to this man.’ He points to the CCTV images of the man with the scar, pulled from the hospital yesterday. ‘All right, that’s me. Anyone else got something?’
Jaap looks around the room. Tired faces stare back at him. He suddenly realizes that some of them probably didn’t go home last night, given the lack of shaving on a couple of the male team members.
The child-support dodger puts his hand up.
‘I’ve been going through Pieter Groot’s stuff, found a couple of things. First is that although his wife did leave him and go to India she’s actually dead, died in a coach crash. Which leads to this.’ He gets up and hands round some screen-grabbed sheets.
‘These are private messages between Pieter Groot and an unknown person, username “HelpingHand”. The messages were pulled from his account on a forum for bereaved parents. There was an email in Groot’s inbox giving a weekly digest of the most popular posts, that’s how I came across it. HelpingHand claims his partner died several years ago, and that he’s spent much time since helping other people come to terms with the same tragedy. As you can see, there’s quite a lot of back and forth between them, and eventually they agree to meet up. I spent some time in Vice, and the way HelpingHand gradually earns Groot’s trust is pretty much the exact same way paedophiles groom their victims. So HelpingHand knows what he’s doing, knows how to manipulate someone’s feelings, right up until he suggests they meet.’
Jaap scans to the end. The date of Groot’s message arranging to meet is three days prior to Kaaren’s death. Then there’s only one more message from HelpingHand, the day before Kaaren’s death.
The previous messages had been friendly, personal. This one is different. It simply gives the next day’s date, a time and a location. The Hoge Veluwe National Park.
The very place Kaaren wound up dead.
59
Thomas Haase’s office is, unsurprisingly, neutral.
It occupies the top floor of an east-facing townhouse on Prinsengracht, and consists of two designer armchairs, wooden floorboards, and a few harmless pieces of abstract art. A low bookshelf runs along one wall, the spines seemingly ordered by height and colour.
Haase had opened the door and invited Jaap to pick a seat.
Jaap’s now choosing which one; for some reason he gets the impression that everything he does in Haase’s presence is being monitored, catalogued and assessed.
The man himself is wearing ironed jeans, a blue shirt and a narrow tie with a sombre pattern.
Across the room a fly head-butts the window.
‘It’s not a test,’ Haase says. ‘I mean, it is when it’s a client, but not now.’
Jaap chooses the seat on the left, immediately regretting the decision for some reason he can’t quite fathom, but having to stick with it as Haase has taken the seat opposite. He crosses his legs and stares at Jaap.
‘So if I was a client what would my choice have just told you?’
Haase smiles. ‘Can’t give away my secrets,’ he says.
‘Because there aren’t really any?’
‘You’re the one here asking for help …’
Jaap wonders why this guy riles him so much.
The fly gives up and decides to explore the room.
‘That fly’s been driving me crazy,’ Haase says. Jaap’s not sure if that’s meant to be a joke or not.
‘So,’ Jaap says, leaning back in his chair. ‘What do you think?’
Haase takes his glasses off and holds them up to the window, inspecting them like an antiques’ expert giving you the run-around. Jaap finds himself counting – they are octagonal, in fact – and Haase pulls a small blue cloth out of his shirt pocket and goes about polishing one of the lenses, his fingers moving in small circles. Without the lenses to hide behind Jaap sees that Haase is very slightly cross-eyed.
‘There are a few interesting things,’ Haase says, moving onto the next lens. ‘But the main thing is the fact that the “killer” appears to be forcing others to do the killing for him. There could be several explanations. He could be repeating a pattern, something he saw in early life. Say as a child he witnessed a murder, or even what he mistook for a murder. The classic would be the father hitting the mother, or even witnessing them having sex could be constructed as violent to a young mind.’
‘So you’re saying he could be trying to recreate it?’
‘Could be, yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because an experience like that can act as a block, stop his development on a certain level. Part of his mind knows that he has to get over it for proper growth, but missed its chance. So he recreates it, hoping to get through it, but each time it creates more trauma, and so he needs to keep repeating it. Or another explanation is—’
‘Power.’
‘Exactly, he enjoys the power he has over the people he forces to do the killing. In which case the murder is incidental, what he’s really after is the rush of watching someone buckle under his will.’
‘So the victims would be inconsequential?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘So why were the victims all women in their early twenties?’
Haase finishes polishing, holds the lenses up again and, satisfied, puts them on.
Jaap notices the fly has landed on one of Haase’s shoes. It rubs its front legs together like a miser gloating over a pile of money.
‘There could be many reasons. Quite possibly, if what I said earlier is right, that was the rough age of his mother, or whoever it was he saw being assaulted – it’s part of the recreation.’
Quick as lightning Haase slaps his shoe with a hand. They both pause for a second. The buzzing starts again.
‘Thing is, despite the age of the women,’ Jaap says, ‘they all look quite different.’
‘Might not be looks necessarily, might be anything else which sets off a memory in the killer, voice, scent, there could be many things which only make sense to him.’
Something’s slipping through his mind, a hint of an idea. He tries for it, but it eludes him.
‘What are you thinking?’ Haase asks.
Jaap shakes his head.
‘OK, question for you. Was anything taken from the dead women?’
‘Apart from their lives, no.’
‘Nothing? Even something small?’
Jaap knows the old theory, endlessly trotted out by books, TV and films, that serial killers often take something of their victim’s.
‘He doesn’t seem to be the trophy-taking type.’
Haase nods, as if this is all very interesting, an intellectual conundrum, something to solve for a bit of fun. The fly’s got caught in an invisible loop in the air just above Jaap, going round and round. It makes him think of something someone’s said, but when he tries for it the thought slides away.
‘The suffocation,’ Jaap asks after a few moments. ‘They were all suffocated, so whoever it was must have specified that. Why?’
‘Again, could go back to something in his past. The suffocating victims might be a reflection of how he feels inside, he’s slowly suffocating from not b
eing able to work through whatever set him off on this path in the first place.’
The fly buzzes in a loose circle between them, landing on the floor. Both men stare at it.
Haase reaches behind him, slowly, and takes a book off the shelf.
He inches it forward in his hand.
He throws the book down.
They’re both holding their breath. A bike bell tinkles on the canal path outside.
Just as Jaap’s about to breathe out they hear a buzzing above them.
60
Tanya stands in front of the mirror and lifts up her T-shirt.
Just below her right breast, both of them distinctly starting to swell, a small square of bandage clings to her flesh. At its centre a tiny blotch of blood.
She finds the edge of the tape holding it in place and pulls it back, revealing the wound.
Which is not really as dramatic as it could be. She’d had images of some massive line of stitches, the edges of the flesh bunched up and mismatched.
But of course they’d done it keyhole, and she’s amazed just how small it is. The bruising around it is far more impressive than the tiny mark itself.
Her finger gently probes the flesh and finds it tender, but not too bad.
She can still hear the crack of her ribs as the man landed on her. That seems to be affecting her more than the fact he’d then gone and blown out his brains.
Her hand moves down to her stomach.
Yesterday at the hospital she’d talked to the surgeon, told him about the referral she’d had and he’d contacted the specialist for her. Turned out to be a woman about Tanya’s age who’d listened, then whisked her away for another ultrasound.
Afterwards she’d talked Tanya through it. She’d explained that, yes, it did look as if there was a hole there, but she said that it was early days yet. There’s a strong chance it’ll sort itself out as it grows, she told her. She’d also said that they were in time, they didn’t have to make a decision about it yet. Tanya’d asked, in time for what?
Legally a foetus could be terminated up until twenty-four weeks, she’d told Tanya. She’d gone on to say the best thing they could do was to keep an eye on it, and she’d booked Tanya in for another scan the following week. She’d also told Tanya not to worry.
A boat motors past, the wake rocking the houseboat, their toothbrushes rattling in the glass by the sink.
She lowers her T-shirt.
I’m going to have to tell him, she thinks.
Her eyes catch her image in the mirror, hold her to account for a few seconds before she breaks away and leaves the bathroom.
She busies herself in the kitchen, clearing up breakfast, trying not to think. Once done she finds she’s tired and lowers herself onto the sofa. It’s her favourite spot in the houseboat, opposite the large window, and she loves to sit there and watch the water.
She finds a file Jaap must’ve left and starts flicking through it. It looks like notes on the case, a few pages of random thoughts, scribblings and crossed-out lines. At the back there are several photos and she flicks through them, finding one of Stefan Wilders. She stares at it for a moment, then moves to the next.
Her body’s tense almost before she sees it, like it knew what was coming.
Her eyes scan the image over and over. It’s a zoomed-in CCTV shot, the man’s face fuzzed with motion and twisted at an old angle.
Jaap had talked about the killer having a scar by his eye, but it hadn’t rung any bells.
In this case, though, the old thing about a picture being better than a thousand words applies. Because although she’d not recognized the description, she’s seen this man before.
She gets her phone, snaps a copy, and then searches her contacts.
Harry Borst is still on there. She should probably have deleted him after the stuff he pulled once the case had gone south, but she hadn’t. She taps out a message and attaches the image.
Her finger hesitates a second before hitting send. She wills it on and watches the progress bar until it’s full. ‘Delivered’ appears beneath.
She’s just putting the phone down when it starts buzzing in her hand.
‘Tanya,’ Harry says, sounding out of breath. ‘We need to talk.’
61
How did the killer know Groot was at the hospital?
Jaap’s walking, hoping the movement will get things flowing, when his phone rings. It’s Tanya, and she’s going off at a hundred mph.
‘Slow down,’ Jaap says.
‘—so I sent him the photo and he called me back right away. And I was right, I had seen him before.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Totally, and Harry is as well. It’s the same guy, Jaap, no question.’
‘Send me his number.’
Up ahead a man’s kneeling in front of a metal gate fronting one of the townhouses. Beside him the tools of his trade, stuff Jaap doesn’t even know the proper names of. The man’s all business, his movements practised and precise. He slides his heavy visor down, adjusts the blue flame, then gets to work, festive sparks exploding when it touches the metal. Jaap doesn’t look away quick enough.
By the time Jaap gets to the station the text’s come through. And he can still see the outline of the flame, like it’s got burned onto his eyes. He leaves a message and hangs up.
His fingers drum.
He’s watching the phone, never a good sign.
It stubbornly refuses to ring. He tries to will it, imagine it ringing and him picking it up. Hopeless. He’d once heard a radio programme about how successful people used visualizations in their lives. So far it’s not doing much good.
He spots Arno across the room talking to one of the team, the man who wasn’t that into child support. He decides to call a meeting in the incident room in fifteen minutes, hoping that by doing so his phone will start ringing.
Smit walks past. ‘Update?’
Jaap doesn’t answer, still trying to make the phone ring. As he sits there a kernel of an idea starts to form.
Smit clicks fingers in Jaap’s face.
‘Earth to Rykel? Are you receiving?’
Jaap’s staring at his phone, his constant companion, which goes everywhere he goes. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘Your office.’
Smit raises an eyebrow, then nods.
‘I’ll be there in five,’ Jaap says. He gets up and rushes downstairs to where the incoming are processed. The duty sergeant heeds his order and returns with a small cardboard box, taped shut. Jaap rips it open, finding Pieter Groot’s wallet and house keys.
But he’s not interested in these.
What he’s interested in is the phone.
He picks it up, the screen black. But when he punches the home button it comes on and asks for a passcode. The battery icon’s red. But the reception bars are full.
He drops it back in the box, heads upstairs.
‘Which gives us a massive problem,’ Smit says a few minutes later, once Jaap has got to his office and explained his theory.
Trees dapple shade through the window.
‘Yeah, I’ll get Roemers on to it, see if the killer’s been tracing his phone somehow. My guess is that it was being traced and the killer knew he was here.’
‘OK, I get that. But that doesn’t explain how he knew he was taken to the hospital. Are you saying he waited outside, saw him being taken and followed him there? Kind of unbelievable.’
It doesn’t work, Jaap knows it. But what else has he got?
‘Yeah, I know, seems too … time-consuming on his part. Unless he knew Groot was going to try and kill himself, but …’
‘What’s the alternative?’ Smit asks. ‘That he’s somehow got access to our internal information? I just don’t see it. And seriously, if the police network has been hacked, well, we’re fucked.’
For a moment Jaap sees Smit is genuinely concerned. And rightly so. If a criminal has managed to get access to their systems then they might as well give up now and let the country run itse
lf into the ground.
But he still enjoys Smit looking worried. It’s not something he sees very often. The dislike between them is a two-way street – always has been, always will be – although really, in the end, they’re on the same team.
‘I think it’s worth getting Roemers to look into it,’ Jaap says.
Smit breathes out long and slow. ‘I’ll get him on it,’ he says once he’s got all the oxygen out of his lungs. ‘Anything else?’
Jaap fills him in on HelpingHand before moving on to what he’s just learnt. ‘It’s looking like he’s been associated with a large criminal gang, which should make getting his name easier. And once I’ve got a name—’
‘Which gang?’ Smit asks.
‘Van der Pol’s.’
Smit sits back in his chair. ‘Really?’
‘Like I said, just waiting for confirmation. Tanya recognized his face from when she was down in Rotterdam, working with Inspector Borst. I’m due to speak to him any minute now, chances are he’s going to be able to give me a name, possibly more.’
‘OK, this is big,’ Smit says.
‘Yeah, I think it could be what we’ve been waiting for.’
Smit stands up, steps over to the window overlooking the street below.
‘Good work,’ he says. Clearly it’s painful. ‘But before you go, there’s something else. It’ll not have escaped your attention that the press are starting to crawl over this like the shit-eating beetles they are.’
‘Really?’ Jaap says.
‘Really,’ Smit replies, eyeing Jaap. ‘One in particular, Michiel Berk, has been kicking up a fuss, saying you’re not returning his calls—’
‘I don’t work for that particular shit-eating beetle.’
‘I know, but reality check here? We have to deal with them. Now, I had a call from Annie Meijer at RTL4. There’s a slot this evening.’
‘Is there,’ Jaap says, noncommittal. Because he knows what this means.
‘There is. And I’d like you to do it. You’ll need to call her back to confirm – here’s her number in case you don’t have it.’
‘I have it.’
‘Just think, if you’ve managed to find the killer by then you’ll be a hero, on live TV.’
Before the Dawn Page 22
