The Girl Who Had No Fear

by Marnie Riches

  ‘Funny you should say that.’ Bringing up Facebook and logging into an account that had the anonymous blue and white silhouette of a generic man’s head, Marie clicked through to the ‘about’ page for Floris Engels’ account. ‘His privacy settings were on max and he’d left no legacy information, in the event of death. That’s why it’s been such a pain in the backside. You ever tried to contact Facebook’s admins?’

  George shook her head.

  ‘It’s a nightmare,’ Marie continued. ‘We finally got permission to access his profile at the end of play, yesterday. And look!’ She pointed to the section that revealed Floris Engels was, ‘in a relationship with Robert Menck’. With one click, Menck’s name led to a photo of a dark-haired man with jutting teeth that emerged from a generous smile. Smartly dressed in bright colours, he stood in his profile photo with his arm draped around a man – judging by the height of the shoulder – whose head was just out of shot. ‘Van den Bergen’s gone with Elvis to Menck’s place of work. He lectures in architecture at Amsterdam University of the Arts.’

  Eager to see what lay beyond the basic information page, George’s mouse finger twitched. But she eyed Marie’s sticky-looking mouse and thought better of it. ‘Have you checked to see if any of the other floaters are linked to Engels?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Marie said. ‘Van den Bergen asked me to prioritise our friend, Nikolay. There’s only one of me, you know.’ Her tone was suddenly edged with frost; her body language prickly as her shoulders narrowed and her back straightened. With a jab at the mouse, she brought up a list of the teacher’s friends. ‘He’d adjusted his settings so that people couldn’t even view his friends list. If he was that private a person, it makes you wonder why he was on social media at all.’

  ‘Was he on Grindr?’ George asked.

  ‘Yes. The app was on his phone. He was a frequent user.’ Marie unlocked her desk drawer and pulled a package out. A slim Android phone inside an evidence bag. She set it gingerly onto the desktop. ‘Some of the photos in his gallery are disgusting.’ She lowered her voice. Glanced towards the door, as though the thought police lurked there, waiting to arrest not-quite-lapsed Catholics for lewd conversation. ‘He had penises.’

  ‘He had penises? How many? He must have been popular with his Grindr conquests.’

  George grinned. Marie did not.

  ‘Put Ed Bakker’s name into the friends search,’ George said.

  Marie obliged. Sure enough, Bakker’s photo emerged like a bobbing crouton from the social soup of Engels’ 783 friends.

  Emitting a low whistle, George tried to match the smiling face of a healthy young man with the decomposed corpse that had been pulled from the water. ‘He looks in better shape on there than he does on his postmortem photos, poor bastard.’

  ‘And he knew Engels.’ Marie raised an eyebrow. Typed in the names of the other victims. ‘No link to Engels,’ she pronounced.

  ‘Try Bakker’s profile,’ George said. ‘His profile is completely public.’

  When the photos of both the remaining floaters popped up in Bakker’s friends list, George clapped her hands like a seal. Beaming at Marie. She reached out to pat her on the back, withdrawing only at the last minute when she remembered how much Marie’s hair smelled. ‘One degree of separation!’ she said. ‘There’s a link.’

  ‘Is there?’ Marie asked. ‘It’s a small city.’

  ‘Where did Engels work before Bouwdewijn de Groot Lyceum?’

  Marie clicked open a spreadsheet containing row after row of information about the enigmatic maths teacher. ‘Couperus International Lyceum in Utrecht,’ she said. ‘Another posh private school.’

  As her synapses flared with inspiration, George considered the similar ages of the victims. ‘I’ve got a theory,’ she said. ‘I think Engels taught all of these kids. I bet if you check the yearbook for the Couperus place, you’ll find they all went there and studied under him.’

  Shaking her head, Marie treated George to a disparaging smile. ‘Oh, I think that’s a stretch,’ she said.

  George took out her phone. Googled the number for the Utrecht school. Dialled, arranging Marie’s elastic bands and paperclip tangle into two perfectly neat piles. An automated service picked up on the tenth ring, asking George to select from five different options. Grinding her teeth, George persisted until a woman answered. She sounded flustered, bordering on arrogant, speaking in an accent that would have been too posh even for Dutch royalty.

  ‘My name is George McKenzie. I’m calling from the HQ of the Dutch police in Amsterdam. I need a list of your alumni from the past five years.’ George’s head throbbed in time with her overwrought heart. Anticipating a breakthrough. Feeling certain her hunch was correct.

  ‘Oh, we don’t give out information like that over the phone, miss,’ the flustered woman said. Haughty indignation evident in her clipped consonants and impatient air. ‘You’ll have to request it from the head teacher.’

  George ended the call. ‘Shit!’ Feeling choked by disappointment that this case was going nowhere fast. That her efforts in seeking her parents led her down a cul-de-sac of frustration and unanswered questions on a daily basis. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ She flung her phone into her bag.

  ‘What’s eating you?’ Marie asked, making a second attempt at offering her some chocolate.

  This time, George accepted. Grimacing, as she used the sleeves of her hoody over her fingers to handle the packet and snap off her own row. Ignoring the fact that Marie had just mouthed ‘arsehole’ noiselessly at her. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Still no news?’ Marie reached out for the photo of the baby on her desk. Ran her index finger affectionately over the frame.

  George shook her head. ‘Nothing. Not a word about my mother. Not a trace of my father. All I have to go on is the emails. And you’re sure you can’t trace where they came from?’

  ‘No. I’ve tried matching the email address to a bona fide account with ownership details attached to it. But BritishEngineering.com is not a genuine address. It’s not a real company. It’s like some weird kind of spambot or phishing thing. I just can’t trace who sent it. I know it’s being pinged from some server in America, but that’s as far as I’ve got. Sorry. I’ve tried.’

  Retrieving her phone from her bag, George reread the text of the last missive that she had received on the train to King’s Cross, allegedly sent from her father.

  You always did have my eyes, Ella. I’ll be watching you wherever you go.

  Michael (Dad) xxx

  ‘I hate that whoever’s sent it knows enough about my past life to call me “Ella”. Gives me the creeps,’ she said in English, shuddering as she filed the email away once more in a folder marked ‘Eyeball’, containing the original lunch invitation and an e-trail of George’s investigative efforts, so far. ‘Are you sure there’s no trace of him online?’

  Marie shook her head.

  ‘Try Europol and Interpol again.’

  ‘It’s a waste of time. There’s nothing there. I’ve spent hours on them over the last few days, hunting for red notices about Nikolay, our mysterious meth baron scuzzball. There’s plenty of drugs forums chat about unregulated meth labs all over the Czech Republic, but there’s not a shred of hard evidence online that our Nikolay exists. Certainly not on Interpol or Europol.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, George! Give it up!’

  Slamming her fist down onto the desk so that Marie’s keyboard rattled, George shouted, ‘No! Not while there’s breath in my body. You of all people, Marie …’ Her finger shook as she pointed, channelling the accusatory intent. ‘You know what it’s like to lose your family.’ A meaningful glance cast in the direction of the framed photo of the baby who would never grow any older than he had been in that heart-breaking memento, taken weeks before his death.

  Sighing, looking contrite, Marie turned away from George. The stiffness in her demeanour had gone now. She brought up the homepages of the Europol and Int
erpol websites. ‘I’ll see if a there’s a yellow notice been issued. But it would be an unlikely feat of serendipity and that’s putting it mildly.’

  She plugged George’s father’s name into the search engines. Michael Carlos Izquierdo Moreno.

  ‘What a mouthful.’

  ‘Do you mind? That’s my father you’re talking about. It’s not a mouthful if you’re Spanish.’

  Scrolling through links to old missing persons’ notifications, Marie shook her head. ‘Nothing. Sorry.’

  ‘How far back did you search?’ George asked, scrutinising the results that appeared on screen.

  ‘Early 2015,’ Marie said, scrolling, scrolling. Shrugging.

  ‘Go further back,’ George said.

  Marie glanced over her shoulder. Scowling. ‘There’s page after page of results!’

  ‘Please.’

  Twenty fourteen yielded nothing. When Marie brought up 2013, George did not try to stifle her excited yelp.

  CHAPTER 15

  Mexico, Chiapas mountains, then, the border with Guatemala, 29 May

  Riding the hairpin road high into the mountains made him feel a little queasy. The air was thinner at this altitude, but the heat was still unrelenting, beating down on the four-wheel-drive as though it were determined to get inside and scorch the life out of him. Bouncing up from the unyielding ground, it rose in shimmering waves.

  ‘Is the air-con on?’ he asked the driver.

  ‘Yes, jefe. It’s on max.’ The driver looked at him through the rear-view mirror. His fear was apparent. Good.

  ‘Get it checked when we get back in town. It’s like a fucking oven in here.’

  ‘Yes, jefe. Sorry.’

  Stretching to the horizon, the mountainous landscape seemed to move – a stormy, undulating sea of green. He swallowed his nausea, not wanting Miguel to see any signs of weakness. It was this damned heat. And the altitude and incessant headache-inducing sunshine, where he was used to flat, grey, drab. Maybe he should eat.

  As they grew closer to the Guatemalan border checkpoint, buildings started to appear by the roadside. Half-finished concrete boxes with no windows and rusting iron spires, rising from the roof. Corrugated iron shacks with Perspex roofs. Men who sat on the porch, idling the afternoon away while their wives tried to sell handicrafts to tourists from the cracked kerb. He spied a snack-shack.

  ‘Pull over and get me an empanada or a tostada or something,’ he said.

  ‘We’re supposed to meet the shipment in ten minutes, jefe,’ Miguel said, checking the Rolex wrapped around his thick arm.

  He let the silence settle in for ten, twenty, thirty seconds. Miguel snapped his fingers. ‘Pull over. El cocodrilo needs something to eat.’

  The driver pressed a number on his mobile phone, mounted on the dash. Speed dial for the driver behind him in their little convoy. A woman’s voice answered in the abrupt Salvadoran Spanish of the transportistas. Orders barked back at her by the driver. In unison, the four-wheel-drive and ex-military truckful behind them pulled over, kicking up clouds of yellow-brown dust in their wake.

  In the wing mirror, he watched a young woman emerge from the truck, her rifle slung across her front; dressed in black fatigues, sunglasses and a tight T like the others. Recognised her as the only transportista who hadn’t beheaded one of the runaway whores. The spare. Her tattooed face seemed familiar but he couldn’t place her. She strutted over to the snack bar and ordered from the proprietor – an old man with a face like a walnut. Pointed to the four-wheel-drive and then to the food. The old man stared nervously at the blacked-out windows of the Mercedes. Immediately busied himself by slapping a tortilla on his griddle. Topping it, while shooting the rear of the car with petrified glances.

  The woman strode over to the car, snack in hand. The glare of the midday sun gleamed in the lenses of her sunglasses. She stood expectantly by his door. Unsmiling and looking down the road, holding the snack out. At a push of a button, the window slid down into the doorframe.

  ‘Here,’ she said.

  He eyed her ample bosom, her small waist and the roundness of her hips. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Jacinta.’ Still looking into the distance.

  ‘Named after a flower,’ he said, taking the snack. ‘Suits you. You’re far too hot to be an ugly old transportista. And young. Where are you from, chica?’ He smiled at her breasts, feeling desire stir beneath the sweaty crumpled linen of his trousers. Maybe he could get Miguel and the driver to wait while this girl blew him off in the back of the car. She had pillowy lips that were full of erotic promise, though she wore no cosmetic adornment beyond the ugly tattoos. He was the boss, after all. El jefe.

  ‘Enjoy your snack.’ Her face remained stern and unsmiling; her attention fixed on the empty road ahead, though it was difficult to tell with those shades.

  ‘How about you come into the air-conditioned cool and enjoy my snack?’ He grabbed his crotch. ‘I’m el cocodrilo. But I promise not to bite.’ Grinning at her, he realised his nausea had suddenly abated. He handed the tostada to Miguel, preparing for the girl to jump enthusiastically into the car.

  Instead, she simply glanced towards his crotch, snorted disparagingly and walked back to the truck.

  ‘Ha! Lesbian bitches, those transportistas,’ he said to Miguel, snatching the tostada to his mouth, in a bid to camouflage the heat that had erupted in his cheeks.

  ‘You want me to put a bullet in the dyke, jefe?’ Miguel asked, smiling noncommittally, as though he was unsure as to whether he was in on a joke or had just witnessed the public ridicule of the man at the top of the slag heap and Mexico’s most wanted list.

  He shook his head. ‘No. Leave it. Have you seen their leader, Maritza with her fat ass and that scar and the crazy tattoos on her forehead? She’s the widow of one of the heads of the maras. He was iced two years ago by some rival the same day he got out of jail. She tracked down his killer and cut off his balls with a machete. Stuffed them down his throat. Those gun-smuggling whores are loco en el coco, but they do a damned good job for me and the boys over the border.’ He slammed his palm onto the driver’s seat, making him jump. ‘Take us to the meet!’

  Irritated and intrigued by the girl in equal measure, as the car bounced on towards the checkpoint, he barely tasted his tostada. There was something about the set of her jaw and the outline of her lips. A vague memory nagged at the back of his mind. He pushed it away. She was just some Salvadoran slut, after all – an offcut of the maras, no doubt, from a San Salvador slum or some shithole of a village where the police didn’t dare go.

  Several hundred metres from the border, he could see the green sign that declared in white letters:

  Bienvenidos a la Republica de Guatemala

  In smaller letters beneath, ‘pais de la eternal primavera’ told him it was the country of eternal spring. He chuckled at the thought. The only thing that sprang out of Guatemala was his cargo in the back of an unmarked refrigeration truck, supposedly bound for the supermarkets of Mexico City.

  Portakabins stood in rows either side of the checkpoint, where the morons working border patrol sat and played cards. Occasionally, they filled out forms or hassled locals who were crossing the border to look for work or to sell their produce at a neighbouring market. But this was a sleepy, porous entry point into Mexico.

  ‘Have the necessary palms been greased?’ he asked Miguel.

  Nodding vociferously, Miguel peered through a pair of binoculars at the crossing. ‘Si, jefe. There shouldn’t be any problems getting through for our men.’

  ‘Good. Let’s hope they’re on time. I have a flight to catch.’

  In small clusters of three and four, he watched the locals coming and going on foot across the border. Children among them. Poorly dressed in cheap jeans and brightly coloured T-shirts, shuffling along the road towards the brightly coloured Mexican roadside stalls. Though the mountains rose majestically behind them like the gateway to paradise, he knew some would almost certainly
be fleeing their home on the long and dangerous journey to the US. Weren’t they all? Except this lot were too stupid to find the easier route by raft across the Suchiate River. He had seen them there, carrying their worldly possessions on their heads as they waded through the water, fleeing whatever nightmare lay in their past for a future that they hoped would be better but which, he knew, would be far, far worse. Fools didn’t deserve anything more.

  ‘The trucks are coming, jefe!’ Miguel pointed to two heavy goods vehicles that edged towards them and the checkpoint in stop/start traffic that was speed-delimited only by two armed men and two red cones.

  ‘Have them pull into the rendezvous point straight away. Make sure Maritza’s girls are ready.’

  Without hindrance, the anonymous-looking juggernauts were waved through by the police. Following them for just over a mile, they turned in convoy onto a dirt track that led to a dead end in amongst the forest, the trucks parking side by side. He wiped his hands and sweaty brow on a handkerchief and stepped out of the four-wheel-drive. Already, the transportistas had surrounded the two trucks, weapons raised in readiness for whatever might emerge from the giant containers.

  ‘Open them,’ he told Miguel.

  Miguel stepped forwards and spoke to the drivers, who tugged deferentially on their baseball caps and unlocked the doors to the cargo.

  As he advanced towards the first, he scrutinised the girl in the sunglasses. Jacinta. Flint-faced Jacinta who had all the delicate subtlety of a spiny desert cactus. But what tits and what a perfect round ass. She could wait.

  ‘Get the women out. I want to inspect them,’ he told Miguel.

  ‘Si, jefe.’

  Accompanied by a transportista, he retreated to the back of the first truck where the ‘refrigerated’ compartment was situated. Heavy duty locks were unfastened and the thick, bullet-proof door swung open slowly. From the murk emerged twenty Caucasian women. Dishevelled, wearing soiled casual clothes with lank hair and the pallor of those who had not seen daylight in a long while, they staggered into the sunshine. Barefoot. Holding their hands over their eyes, as though the bright light was more than they could withstand.