The Girl Who Had No Fear

by Marnie Riches

  Pushing the clubbers aside, she walked up to the dealer. He smiled down at her. A greedy, rotten-toothed smile of a seasoned junkie, earning to fund his own addiction, no doubt. Either that, or he had really shocking dental hygiene, George mused. She suppressed a full-blown grimace. Ensured there was space between them in this packed temple to hedonism.

  ‘What you got?’ she shouted above the music, careful not to come too close to his ears. They were greasy-looking with hardly any lobes, punctured by an oversized stud. She shuddered. ‘You got any good coke or E?’

  ‘Coke? No, love.’ His eyes darted everywhere. Checking for the long arm of the law, no doubt. ‘Crystal meth, miaow miaow, G. Might be able to get you some E by the end of the night.’

  ‘I’ll leave it thanks,’ George said, backing away. Annoyed with herself, she realised she had started to lose touch. The inevitability of being closer to thirty than twenty. Too much clean living.

  As George hastened out of Melkweg to wake the sleeping Van den Bergen and tell him her theory about the canal deaths, she failed to notice that she was followed home.

  CHAPTER 10

  Amsterdam, Melkweg nightclub, then, Leidsegracht, 30 April

  It had been a long walk from the gay sauna in Nieuwezijds Armsteed to Melkweg, but Greg Patterson had agreed to hook back up with his friends for a drink and a dance before the night was out. A shame not to, since this was supposed to be Sophie’s twenty-first celebration.

  ‘I’ll not be long,’ he’d promised her, squeezing her hands as they all stood in the busy, cobbled square – a crossroads between the respectable Amsterdam and the red-light district. His mind had been elsewhere, contemplating the sauna and the sensual overload that awaited him in the steam of the cubicles. ‘I said I’d nip to this place to get something for my mum.’

  James and Poppy had exchanged a fleeting but meaningful glance with one another. Making morality judgements about him, no doubt.

  ‘What? At nine o’clock at night?’ James had asked. Nudging Poppy. Jesus. The wanker was so obvious and rude.

  ‘You guys go!’ Greg had said, ignoring the rank prejudice that had flown just beneath Sophie’s radar. Typical hetties. ‘I’ll meet you later.’ He waved dismissively. Smiling benignly. He had pulled the sleeves of his best jacket down against the chill in the evening air. D&G. It had cost him all of his Christmas money off his mum and dad. ‘Melkweg, right? I’ll be there by midnight. I’ll text so we can find each other. Okay? I promise!’ He had kissed Sophie’s hands, the feathers from her bright red boa tickling his nose. Perhaps he could persuade her to lend him that for Club Church, once the others had all toddled off back to the hotel. Greg had an itinerary and he had intended to stick to it. He had pecked his friend chastely on each cheek. ‘Have fun, birthday girl!’

  Her chubby face had been flushed pink with effervescence. Centre of attention, for once, instead of being just the dumpy girl on their languages course, whom the straight guys all ignored in favour of Giselle. Giselle was the worst person Sophie could have chosen to be BFFs with. Giselle, who was dainty like a gazelle but had all the personality of a medium-sized snail. Giselle had been hanging back, texting some beau or other, obviously. Chewing gum and smoking at the same time. Looking too cool for school, as though it had been killing her to be in Amsterdam for something as ordinary and unglamorous as fat Sophie’s birthday.

  ‘Aw, it will be rubbish without you, Greg. Come on.’ Sophie had clasped at his sleeve, looking at him with undisguised adoration. ‘Don’t just bugger off on me.’

  It wasn’t the first time that this had happened. A nice girl like Sophie, falling for him. Believing that he was available and fair game because he was friendly and listened and understood. Not like the straight lads, who couldn’t give a stuff. She did know he was gay. But perhaps she believed she could turn him. He had often seen the optimism shining in her eyes. He should have drawn his boundaries more clearly, but didn’t want to disappoint her. And he was hardly going to ram his sexual proclivities down her throat like the cock of some guy from Grindr on a wet Saturday night in Leeds.

  ‘See you later, Soph. Enjoy!’

  And that had been that. Feeling anticipatory, he had taken himself off to a gay bar and partaken of some traditional Dutch courage – four glasses of strong Belgian beer, though the clientele had been a little too old for him. Finally, he had meandered down to the sauna, hoping that his slightly disappointing pecs and one-pack would pass muster with the guys there who spent more hours on their bodies per week than he spent in an entire term. The drugs had helped. He had allowed one of the men to booty bump him with some crystal meth. The high had been intense. He had never felt so horny.

  As the high had begun to wane, he had snorted the couple of lines of mephedrone that had been offered to him by some guy called Hank or Henk or some bloody thing beginning with an H. This was the kind of trip he had hoped for. And those were the elements of his Amsterdam adventure that he wouldn’t be relaying to Sophie once they were back in halls.

  Utterly fucked dry, he had traversed town, ready to drink some more and dance with the sad hetties. Just after midnight, as he entered Melkweg, his confidence was beginning to slide into the shadow of a comedown again. He needed more gear. Needed to get higher. Observing the crowd of writhing men and women, he felt out of his depth and estranged. These were not his people. But then …

  ‘Greg!’ Sophie shouted, waving avidly. Flapping her feather boa. Her polyester shift dress looking crumpled with dark rings around the armpits.

  He couldn’t hear her, but he could see her mouth moving. The others were with her, swaying their bodies uselessly to some R&B track. Giselle was being frotted by some local, built like a brick shithouse, by the looks. Pushing him away but enjoying every minute of the attention, no doubt.

  Reluctantly, Greg started to make for their group. But then, he spotted a wraith of a man moving in amongst the clubbers. Older, dressed far better than the kids in designer casual clothes, he had the tell-tale shifty eyes and swift hands that Greg sought. People were approaching this cuckoo in the nest, but looking the other way. Stopping. Standing. Engaging in some awkward exchange. Leaving with their hand in their pocket. A dealer.

  Bypassing Sophie, he made for the wraith. He could feel the dealer weighing and getting the measure of him as though he were nothing more than a lump of raw product waiting to be graded and cut for more profitability. ‘What have you got?’ he asked. ‘Tina? Gina? Miaow miaow?’

  The wraith answered him in English, spoken with a rolling Amsterdam accent. Clearly used to dealing with tourists from across the North Sea.

  Ten minutes later, Greg had downed the glass of water containing his drug of choice. Expecting to feel ready to party, as he moved back into the stifling heat of the crowded dancefloor, he started to feel like he was being watched. A wave of nausea almost knocked him to the ground.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Sophie bellowed, putting her arm around him.

  He shrank from her touch. Didn’t want to be that close. Nodded. His mouth prickled. Was he about to faint?

  ‘I’m going outside,’ he said.

  No idea whether she had heard him or not, Greg felt panic draw him towards the exit, as though, like a bad marionette, some puppet-master controlled his movements and impulses with a yank of a string. Too many people. All watching him. Had to get away. Go where it was quiet.

  Greg Patterson resolved to walk slowly down towards Club Church, hoping by the time he had got some fresh air, he would be good to go again. Six minutes, Google had told him. At this time of night, the towpath by the Leidsegracht had been clear of other pedestrians. Only the silent hulking shapes of parked cars stood between him and the gently lapping canal.

  ‘I’m going to be sick,’ he said to the streetlight, leaning against it for support. Wishing, now, that he had asked Sophie to come outside with him. Dry-heaving, he said a silent prayer that this gruesome feeling would pass; that he’d return home to see Mum and Dad and his
room in halls and his gaming console and his books and Nana and the dog. Shit. What have I done? Memories of the sauna inserted themselves into his view of the cobbles and the notion that he might vomit on his new shoes. The laughter among strangers. The booty bump. The absurdly hot sex. So much fun that he now regretted having. Idiot.

  There was a sound of footsteps. Good. Thank God for that. Greg was hopeful that the night-time stroller might come to his aid, should he need it.

  When the still, black water rushed up to meet him, Greg was taken by surprise, not just by the freezing chill but that he had fallen in at all. Flailing his arms, trying to kick his way back up to the surface, he cried out. A muffled plea that only he heard, as the bubbles containing the last of his breath rose uselessly to the surface. His foot was snagged. His lungs were full. And then all was dark.

  CHAPTER 11

  Amsterdam, Sloterdijkermeer allotments, later

  Sitting in a deck chair on the small decking area by his shed, Van den Bergen relished the warmth of the mid-morning sun on his face. It felt like somebody had inserted a key into the bullet hole in his hip and had tried to wind him up. But aside from the incessant, nagging ache that he had tried and failed to calm with strong ibuprofen gel, he reasoned that he was faring a damn sight better than young Greg Patterson.

  Radiohead’s Thom Yorke emoted out of the battery-operated CD player that George had bought him for Christmas. Wailing that the witch should be burned. The melancholy in his voice seemed fitting.

  ‘How many’s that now?’ he muttered, opening a foil-wrapped pile of ham sandwiches and biting into the top one hungrily. Not bothering to sweep the crumbs off his gardening dungarees. It felt like an act of rebellion. If George saw he was eating without having washed his hands first, he would never hear the end of it. Compost beneath his fingernails from repotting his petunias into larger containers. But not all of his fingers smelled of compost and leafy growth. He sniffed his middle finger and remembered their reunion on the sofa the previous evening. Smiled. Frowned. Remembered he was supposed to be thinking about more serious matters.

  ‘Five,’ he said to the allium globemasters that had just blossomed into giant purple balls on the end on their thick, green stems. ‘Five damned floaters.’

  He belched. Ham played havoc with his stomach acid. Why did he never learn? His throat had been sore of late. Maybe he had oesophageal cancer. Swallowing, he realised it was more uncomfortable than yesterday. Or perhaps he just needed a cup of coffee from his flask to wash down the sandwich.

  Checking his phone for an email from Marianne de Koninck, he thought about Greg Patterson’s body on the canal side at 5 a.m. that morning. Leaving George, warm in his bed, to stand in the drizzle beneath the umbrella, yet again. Next to Elvis, who had refused to share the umbrella, yet again. Marianne’s number two, Daan Strietman, had found a lump of frothed mucus and vomit in the boy’s throat. Later, during the preliminary examination at the morgue, he had confirmed recent rough intercourse and blistering inside the boy’s rectum – apparently a common side effect of taking liquid crystal meth anally via a syringe.

  Grimacing at the florid pink flesh that hung out of his sandwich, Van den Bergen folded his lunch back up, levered himself out of the chair with a grunt and flung the packet onto the deck chair.

  His phone rang. Looking around the allotment, he couldn’t make out where the noise was coming from. Peering inside the shed, it wasn’t on the potting table. Debbie Harry hung limply on the wall, looking clueless. She was no bloody use. It wasn’t in the trug of compost, with his trowel. Ringing. Ringing.

  Agitated, he finally realised the phone had fallen into his oversized wellington boot.

  ‘Yes,’ he barked down the phone, wondering if his blood pressure was dangerously high. Made a mental note to switch vibrate on.

  ‘It’s Marianne,’ the chief pathologist said. ‘I’ve got the toxicology report back from Floris Engels. He’d taken a cocktail of drugs prior to death.’

  ‘Oh.’ Van den Bergen sat back down heavily onto his deck chair, inadvertently flattening his ham sandwiches. ‘An OD?’

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘He had a lot of the drug G in his system – Gamma Hydroxybutyrate. But that wasn’t what bothers me. He’s also been poisoned by bad methamphetamine, commonly known as crystal meth or Tina. Acute lead poisoning, to be precise, apparently common where lead acetate has been used as a substrate in production in a bad batch.’

  Van den Bergen rubbed the lengthening stubble on his chin and gazed up at the treetops contemplatively. ‘What about the others? The kids?’

  There was a shuffling of paper at the other end of the phone. ‘I dug out the original toxicology reports from our younger floaters. There was nothing had been flagged apart from drug misuse. But then, they’d been in the water so long and were so badly decomposed, I guess it was hardly surprising the results were inconclusive. Especially given the weight of evidence that it was death by drowning, hence the open verdict. But then, when Floris Engels showed signs of having taken contaminated meth, I had the toxicology on the kids redone. And this time round, we found that they had suffered the same fate. Renal damage was present, consistent with severe lead poisoning. I’m sorry. I don’t know how Strietman missed it. Sometimes, you just have to be looking in the right place.’

  ‘Any other similarities starting to emerge?’ he asked. Perching his glasses on the end of the nose. Unable to read the instructions on a packet of seeds, thanks to a muddy smudge on his left lens.

  ‘Floris Engels and Greg Patterson had both had rough anal intercourse prior to death, given the abrasion. But there’s nothing to say it was forced. If they’d been taking drugs …’

  ‘It’s likely they’d been partying. Right.’ Fleetingly, Van den Bergen tried to imagine what young gay guys might get up to in a liberal city that was full of possibilities. He grimaced as his haemorrhoids twitched involuntarily. Wondered if he was due a prostate check. ‘And Ed Bakker?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you about Ed Bakker, because of the tissue damage from being in the water so long, but witnesses say he’d been to a gay club, hadn’t he?’ There was a pause on the line. She was chewing something over. Something unpalatable, clearly. ‘Maybe Maarten Minks is not a million miles away with his serial killer theory, Paul. What if someone is spiking gay men on purpose and then shoving them into the canals?’

  ‘Bullshit!’ Van den Bergen shouted, well aware that her theory was anything but bullshit.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ The ice in her tone of voice almost froze the line. ‘You’re the detective.’ She hung up.

  Mind whirring at how best he could step up the investigation without sparking media hysteria, he dialled George’s number. She picked up on the fourth ring, sounding sleepy.

  ‘Morning, hot stuff. What’s wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘I need you to get a job.’

  ‘A job?! What do you mean, get a job? I’ve got a job. I’m a criminologist, remember?’ Agitation had supplanted the sleepy affection in her voice.

  ‘You need to get a job in a nightclub. A barmaid or something. I need to find out about meth supply in the city. Urgently.’ He pinched the piece of skin at the bridge of his nose, imagining her outraged expression.

  ‘I told you this was about drugs! Didn’t I say last night?’ She sounded momentarily triumphant. Good. ‘Hang on.’ The triumph was abruptly replaced by suspicion. ‘You want me to do what?! I don’t want to work as a fucking barmaid in a club.’ He could hear her sparking her e-cigarette into life.

  ‘Don’t smoke in the flat! George!’

  ‘Yeah. Whatever.’

  He imagined the fumes from the e-cigarette, lingering in his curtains. Finding their way into his lungs, causing changes in his healthy cells. An image of his father, wired up to the chemo for long afternoon sessions, hope ebbing away with every drip of poison that entered his bloodstream. Struggling to gasp his last on oxygen at the end.

  Van den Bergen’s own breathing quickened.
‘I thought you liked clubbing! It’s your chance to be like a young person.’

  There was a disapproving sucking sound that almost deafened him. How could he talk her round? Marie would never be able to pull a surveillance gig like that off. ‘Look, if it’s any consolation, I’m going to make Elvis go undercover too.’

  ‘As what? A shit Elvis impersonator?’

  ‘A gay clubber.’

  She started to laugh but it wasn’t the sound of amusement. It was sarcastic and loaded with disappointment. ‘Do you really think Elvis – the straightest man in the world – is going to abandon his terminally ill mother to twerk in chaps until some murderous homophobe tries to bump him off with an overdose and a watery end? You’ve lost the fucking plot, old man.’

  For the second time that morning, a woman hung up on Van den Bergen, leaving him alone with a half-chewed ham sandwich and a sense that something was deeply amiss in his beloved city of Amsterdam.

  CHAPTER 12

  Amsterdam, Reguliersd‌warsstraat, 1 May

  ‘Come on, Dirk. You can totally do this,’ George told Elvis. She grabbed him by the arm and marched him towards the entrance to the Amsterdam Rainbow Cellars. Music thumped its way up and out onto the bustling Reguliersd‌warsstraat, which thronged with clusters of men, making their way from bar to bar. A rainbow flag was suspended from the façade of the tall townhouse in which the cellars were situated, just in case the tourists hadn’t worked out what sort of place this was.

  Elvis swallowed hard, tugging at the uncomfortably tight white T-shirt that George had persuaded him to wear. Contemplating his burgeoning paunch, he then cast a judgemental eye over the ripped gay guys who were sitting outside a café, draped nonchalantly over their chairs like men who knew they could carry off tight clothing.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ he said. ‘This is the worst idea the boss has ever had.’