The Girl Who Had No Fear

by Marnie Riches

  ‘Show me the roster,’ he ordered the truck driver. ‘Get the other one open.’

  Looking at a list of names on the clipboard, he glanced up at the women. ‘Anastasia?’

  One woman with dyed black hair and fair roots nodded.

  ‘Da,’ she said.

  ‘Elena?’

  A blonde stepped forward. Timid in her movements, she clutched a baby pink cardigan around her shoulders. Her complexion was grey. Blue veins were visible in her jawline. He grabbed her bird-like face in his hand. Examined her bone structure.

  ‘You have good cheekbones,’ he said in Russian. Evaluated her figure. Long legs. Big tits, though they were clearly implants. Narrow in the shoulders. Typical Eastern European beauty. They all were.

  A glimmer of a smile warmed the blonde girl’s face. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Have we arrived in the USA?’

  He shook his head. Kissed her hand gently. Stroked her breast and ignored the horrified look on her face. She tried to pull away. He clutched at her waist and pulled her to him, enjoying the feel of her jutting hipbones against his crotch. ‘No, darling,’ he said. Pushing her away abruptly so that she staggered back into the dust and scrub. ‘You’re going to do a little work for me first, to pay off some of your transportation debts.’

  Anastasia, the girl with the cheap dye-job, advanced towards him. ‘We were told in the Dominican Republic that we would go straight to the US to dance in your clubs. We’ve paid what you asked already. I take it that you are Nikolay, aren’t you?’ She pointed at him with a thin finger. ‘You look like him. You talk Russian. So you must be him.’

  ‘I go by many names, sugar,’ he said, smiling and grabbing her roughly by the wrist until she yelped and backed away. ‘Here in Mexico, you can call me el cocodrilo.’

  ‘I don’t want to work in Mexico! We’ve all paid to go to the US!’ Her lips were trembling but there was a flicker of aggression in her eyes.

  He turned to Maritza and snapped his fingers. The transportista loaded a cartridge into her rifle and pointed it at the Russian woman’s head. The other gun smugglers followed suit. All weapons raised and ready to plug the dissenting women with a shower of ammo. ‘Take them to Club Paraiso in Palenque,’ he told the truck drivers.

  As the Russian women were herded back into their refrigerated prisons, he climbed aboard the containers and inspected the huge steel barrels that were stacked behind innocuous walls built from boxes of tortilla chips. Hazard symbols were painted onto the barrels. Skulls and crossbones, leering at him like the calling cards of chemical pirates.

  ‘Get the precursor chemicals on the plane to Yucatan,’ he told Miguel. ‘I’ll follow them there in the morning. Make sure the transportistas come too. I’ve got another job for them. I want to inspect what’s going on in the jungle before I fly to Europe.’

  ‘Yes, jefe.’ Miguel bowed low.

  ‘Oh, and get me a couple of women for tonight. Get me one with really big tits and one with a nice round ass. I need to party.’

  ‘Do you want one of the new Russians, boss?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. They look like shit. They need a makeover when they get to the club. But I tell you what. Get the black-haired one with the big mouth. Anastasia.’

  ‘Yes, jefe. You want to fuck her?’

  ‘No. Feed her to the crocodiles and make the others watch.’

  CHAPTER 16

  Amsterdam, Academy of Architecture, Waterlooplein, then, police headquarters, 18 May

  The Academy of Architecture was a grand old building with a double-fronted neo-classical façade. Cast away on its own little island of nostalgic beauty, it was surrounded by Waterlooplein’s ugly, utilitarian sea of dual carriageways, cycle lanes and tram tracks.

  With a heavy heart and a pocket of trapped wind that dug uncomfortably beneath his ribs, Van den Bergen spied their destination from across the road. Left his car parked outside the National Opera and Ballet building. Put up his golfing umbrella against the torrential rain that had begun to fall. It cascaded in rivulets from the canopy onto his shoes.

  ‘Come on,’ he said to Elvis, who broke into a half-jog to keep up with his long strides. ‘I don’t doubt for a minute that we’re wasting our damned time. Getting a lead that isn’t a dead end would be too much like good fortune, and that happens to other people. I hate everything about this case.’

  ‘You hate it?!’ Elvis said, buttoning his leather jacket uselessly against the downpour. ‘I haven’t been to bed before 3 a.m. in the past fortnight. The only good thing to come out of this is that I now know I can get laid every night of the week, if big hairy guys suddenly become my thing.’

  Van den Bergen glanced down at his sidekick. Contemplated bollocking him for insubordination. Realised that acting undercover as a decoy for a possible serial killer of gay men was definitely taking one for the team. ‘George tells me you look very fetching in your tight T-shirt. I see you’ve ditched the quiff and sideburns. Maybe I’ll stop calling you Elvis.’

  Elvis blushed. ‘Really?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Look, at least we’ll get a phone number for this dick or some sort of contact details.’

  They marched up to the ecclesiastical splendour of Sant Egidio church, with the shabby stalls that squatted in its shadow, selling tat to students and tourists. Crossed over. Van den Bergen took the stone steps that led to the Academy’s portico two at a time, overtaking the students who ambled to and from lectures. He wondered briefly if George was enjoying being among people her own age behind the bars in those nightclubs. Imagined her absconding with some handsome young waster with a tattoo and a nose-ring.

  ‘He won’t be here,’ he said to Elvis, holding the door open for two young girls with stupid-coloured hair peeking beneath the hoods of their anoraks. ‘This is a wild-goose chase.’

  ‘Try to be optimistic, boss.’

  ‘This isn’t a job for brainless optimists, Elvis.’

  They approached the reception desk. A stout woman with short hair greeted them.

  Van den Bergen flashed her his ID. ‘I’m looking for Robert Menck in connection with a murder investigation,’ he said. ‘I understand he works here.’

  The woman opened her mouth to speak, but behind him a clatter made Van den Bergen turn around. There by the entrance stood a group of bespectacled, earnest-looking middle-aged men. In the centre of the group stood an ashen-faced dark-haired man with jutting teeth. At his feet lay scattered a layer of papers and several lever arch files. Robert Menck pushed aside his companions and shot through the front door of the Academy of Architecture like a man trying to escape his guilty conscience.

  ‘Stop! Police!’ Van den Bergen shouted, haring after him.

  Almost losing his footing on the rain-slippery stairs, he hastened onto Waterlooplein. Searching desperately for his quarry. Had he already absconded around the corner into Jonas Daniël Meijerplein? Was he across the road, perhaps boarding a tram? His heart pounded inside his chest, pumping adrenalin deliciously through his body, making him feel ten years younger and stronger.

  But then, as Van den Bergen stood panting in the torrential rain, he spotted Menck – running like a man who had the hounds at his feet along the middle of the road. Menck turned. Locked eyes with the Chief Inspector. Darted in front of a Volvo four-wheel-drive that was speeding recklessly through the downpour. Momentarily out of sight.

  ‘Oh no you don’t, you slippery son of a bitch!’ Van den Bergen said.

  Hastening after the architect, sprinting parallel to him on the opposite side of the road, he felt the thrill of gaining on his target. Knew that if he could only get across, he could intercept the bastard. At that moment, despite the fat drops of rain that bit into his skin and blinded him, he felt no pain; no anxiety; nothing but the thrill of the chase. This was police work.

  But Robert Menck seemed to realise his five foot ten put him at a disadvantage next to a policeman who topped six foot five. He turned into the little marketplace by t
he church. Vanished.

  ‘Bastard!’ Van den Bergen shouted.

  The sensible forty-eight-year-old knew he should slow down. Cross the road carefully. Or just radio for backup. But the reckless young man that still dwelled inside Van den Bergen propelled him on. He could catch this chubby arsehole. He was fit. He was determined. Sadly, his vision had not been quite as fit or determined as the rest of him for quite some time. He barely registered the oncoming tram.

  ‘Boss!’ Elvis’ voice rang out just behind him.

  ‘How did Engels know these kids?’ Van den Bergen asked.

  On the table in the interview room, he had laid out the harrowing photos of the young people who had been found floating in the canals before Floris Engels. Watching Menck squirm, as he absorbed the dreadful sight of those who had been submerged for too long.

  ‘Put them away, for God’s sake,’ he said, holding a manicured hand over his red-rimmed eyes. ‘Isn’t it bad enough I’ve lost my partner? Why do you have to subject me to this … fucking torture?’ His voice cracked. The tears rolled onto his cheeks and down the lips that were pulled tight over those jutting teeth. Robert Menck was a broken man.

  ‘Why should I spare you the truth?’ Van den Bergen asked, rubbing the lumpy scar beneath his shirt and remembering how everything had ached as he had chased this arsehole for half a mile across one of the busiest interchanges in the city, over lanes of traffic, kamikaze cyclists and unstoppable trams. ‘You ran,’ Van den Bergen said. ‘I nearly fell under a tram because of you, you dick. You killed Floris Engels, didn’t you? You killed him, and then you ran.’

  ‘No! No! How could you say such a thing?’ Menck shook his head violently and looked up at the bright lights with desperation etched into his face.

  ‘But you admitted it was you at the flat, when me and my detective were having a look round. We were trying to work out what sort of a man your partner was, because with both parents dead and no siblings, not even Engels’ own family could tell us anything of any substance about him. But you knew. And you were there. And you deliberately removed any post or documentation in the flat that would link Engels to you.’

  ‘I was scared!’

  Van den Bergen leaned forwards and scrutinised him through the smudged lenses of his glasses. Treating this calculating, selfish prick to a stern, judgemental scowl that he knew put the fear of God into most interviewees. ‘You’d have packed up your clothes and shipped those out too, if you’d had the time, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘You’ve got it all wrong!’ Menck yelled. He turned to Elvis, sitting next to Van den Bergen. Pleading in his eyes. ‘Tell him! He’s got the wrong end of the stick!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Dr Menck,’ Elvis said, pressing his lips together in a sympathetic smile. ‘Until you explain why you ran, I’m afraid we can’t do anything but assume you’re involved in your late partner’s death. You can see how it looks to us, can’t you? Floris drowns after taking a bad batch of crystal meth. He’d had rough sex just prior to death, according to the postmortem. These other victims have died in similar circumstances and they’re linked on social media. All of them.’

  ‘Was he having affairs with them?’ Van den Bergen asked. ‘Did you spike the lot of them wittingly and push them into the canals as some sort of jilted lover’s revenge?’

  ‘You’re insane!’ Menck shouted, standing abruptly, like a tormented man trying to escape an incessant itch.

  ‘Sit down, for Christ’s sake!’ Van den Bergen rose from his seat, towering above Menck. Thumped the table for good measure, knowing that the venerable Maarten Minks was watching this textbook display of good cop, bad cop through the one-way mirror. Better put on a good show. He had not yet had cause to threaten Van den Bergen with early retirement, minus pension, as had been Kamphuis’ and Hasselblad’s favourite trick, but didn’t everyone who rose higher than Chief Inspector level always resort to that in the end? Their default setting is bastard, he mused. Said, ‘bastard’ aloud by accident.

  ‘There’s no need to be verbally abusive!’ Menck said, throwing himself back down onto the chair. Sullen, now. He glared at Van den Bergen.

  ‘You misheard me,’ Van den Bergen said, glancing at the mirror. Growled almost imperceptibly, mainly annoyed at himself. He had to remember that Maarten Minks wasn’t Kamphuis. Here was a Commissioner in thrall to his Chief Inspector. A chance to start over with the shiny new boss who was more like an enthusiastic sniffer dog than the arse-kissing, slippery turds Van den Bergen had grown used to. Don’t screw it up, unless you fancy spending the next fifteen years working in corporate security and having to wear a goddamned tie. ‘Now, tell us what happened the night that Floris Engels died. What’s his connection to these dead kids? And why did you run?’

  Robert Menck took out a packet of cigarettes. Put a cigarette in his mouth.

  ‘Got a light?’ he asked Van den Bergen.

  Van den Bergen pulled the cigarette from him and snapped it in two. ‘My boss likes the theory that there’s a homophobic serial killer on the loose. Speak. Or you’re going to jail for the multiple murder of five people.’

  Staring wistfully at the broken cigarette on the table, glancing over first at Elvis and then at the recording equipment, Menck sighed. ‘Floris is … was my partner.’ He stopped talking abruptly. The Adam’s apple in his neck pinged up and down like the ball in a bagatelle; the sclera of his eyes suddenly glassy with tears. Dimpling in his chin ushered in a bout of stuttering. ‘We were together for five years. I met him through a mutual friend when he moved from Utrecht. He was a teacher and single. I was a lecturer and had just come out of a long-term relationship. We fell in love quickly and I moved into his flat after about a year when my own rental agreement came to an end.’

  ‘So? Tell me about the night he died. The kids. The connection.’ Van den Bergen established eye contact with Menck for all of fifteen seconds. Menck dropped his gaze to his cup of cold coffee.

  ‘We had an open relationship,’ he said. Looking back up at Elvis, until Elvis blushed. ‘Lots of gay guys do. You’re together as a couple but fuck other men. It’s fine. It’s commonplace. It’s a blast. Mostly.’

  ‘Was Floris into that?’ Elvis asked.

  Menck shook his head. ‘If I’m honest, not really.’ Wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. He smiled but it seemed full of anguish and regret. ‘He would have preferred to be monogamous. But I was already a regular sauna and party-goer.’

  ‘Parties?’ Van den Bergen asked, thumbing his goatee.

  ‘Sex parties,’ he said. Dropping the volume of his voice so that it was almost a whisper. ‘Gay saunas. It’s pure hedonism. And why not?’ Suddenly, he seemed confrontational and proud, sticking his chin out defiantly. ‘We didn’t have children. We were consenting adults. Who says you have to stay faithful to the same person? At least we weren’t running around behind each other’s backs like heterosexual couples, having affairs.’

  Van den Bergen cleared his throat awkwardly and folded his arms. ‘Tell me more about Floris and these dead kids.’

  Steepling his fingers together, Menck cocked his head thoughtfully to one side. ‘The night Floris died, we’d been to a chem-sex party at some guy’s apartment.’

  ‘Address,’ Van den Bergen said, poised to note it down in his pad.

  ‘Can’t remember. Honestly, I was wasted. That’s the trouble. We both were. The guy whose apartment it was … we’d met him briefly at the club and he just invited us. I guess you take these things on faith. It’s part of the turn-on that you never really know what you’re going to get. It’s exciting.’

  ‘What had you taken?’

  ‘Miaow miaow, G, Viagra. Floris had had crystal meth but I hadn’t. I’m not keen on the stuff. It makes me aggressive.’

  ‘Had you been drinking?’

  ‘No. You generally don’t drink on those drugs. Alcohol ruins the high. People just drink water to stay hydrated. Anyway, Floris got high. He was being fucked by some guy and seemed to b
e enjoying himself. I was with someone else in the same room. Next thing I know, Floris said he felt ill and was going out for a walk. That was the last I saw of him. But the guy he was with said he was going to go outside with him and make sure he was OK.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go too?’ Elvis asked.

  ‘I was busy.’ Menck blushed.

  ‘Busy in what way?’

  ‘I was getting blown off.’ He clasped his hands together. ‘Hindsight’s a wonderful thing.’

  Frowning, Van den Bergen felt as though he was standing on the edge of a precipice, looking down into a level of hell he simply recognised nothing of. ‘All the canal drowning victims showed signs of severe lead poisoning from a bad batch of crystal meth,’ he said. ‘How do I know you hadn’t administered that to your lover? My colleagues discovered that he had taught two of the dead young men before in Utrecht. Had he had affairs with his pupils?’

  ‘No! No way! Do you think that all gay men are paedophiles or abuse their positions of power?!’ Hurt and indignation seemed to dry Menck’s tears. ‘Floris stayed in touch with his students because they admired him and he liked them. They became friends. And occasionally, Floris did a little dealing to supplement his income in the summer holidays.’

  Slapping his pencil onto the desk, Van den Bergen scrutinised Menck’s face for signs of artifice. ‘He sold the dead kids meth from the same batch that killed him?’

  Menck shook his head and shrugged. ‘Maybe. I guess so. But he’d taken so much from different places. Meth in the club. G and mephedrone at the party.’

  ‘So, could he have got it from this guy he was screwing? The one who took him outside for some air. Come on. There’s something you’re not telling me, Menck. Why did you run?’

  Silence hung in the air like a brooding storm.

  ‘Speak, for Christ’s sake!’ Van den Bergen yelled, slamming his hand down onto the table top so that the photographs skittered to the edges.