The Girl Who Had No Fear

by Marnie Riches

  ‘But there’s nothing to say it’s not a serial killer, singling out gay men, is there?’ Minks tapped defiantly on the polished surface of his new oak desk. ‘Five out of six of our victims were gay men. They all died in the same manner. That can’t be a coincidence, can it?’

  Rocking back on his chair and hooking his hands behind his neck, Van den Bergen tried to sigh but instead emitted only a low growl. He had promised George he would stop doing that with this new boss, if only to preserve everyone else’s sanity. ‘Look! With all due respect, Maarten, I think you’re forcing two and two together and making five. This isn’t about a serial killer. It’s about a drugs trafficker. A nasty one. The Czechs have expert analysts. They picked up immediately that the gear killing our kids is Mexican.’

  Minks raised his hands in the air, his normally pale skin colouring up yet again. Van den Bergen had never seen him this agitated before. Perhaps because he could see the sexy newspaper headlines of NEW COMMISSIONER COCKBLOCKS GAY-SLAYER evaporating as the investigation progressed.

  ‘They all died in or by the bloody canals, for God’s sake! Someone had dragged Floris Engels by his underarms.’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ George shouted. ‘Even the kindest-hearted soul wouldn’t necessarily fancy being implicated in the death of a friend or fuck-buddy. Who wants to get a criminal record and ruin their life just because somebody else overdid it?’

  ‘Well, I would!’ Minks said.

  ‘So would I,’ Van den Bergen said. ‘But that’s why we’re police officers and not criminals.’

  Sucking her teeth and treating Van den Bergen to an icy stare, George paused just long enough to let him know that she didn’t appreciate the implicit criticism of her past. Not that he meant it. But she wouldn’t see it that way, of course.

  ‘Meth turns these men into cold and clinical fuck-bots,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard about it from interviewees in prison.’

  She fluffed out her hair dramatically. Dr McKenzie in the house, taking absolutely zero shit from Minks, who knew far less about the subject than she did. That’s my girl, Van den Bergen thought.

  ‘Plenty of guys inside for sexual assault and petty theft when they’ve been high on meth, in particular,’ she continued. ‘Floris’ partner tried to save him and then clearly thought better of it once he realised he wasn’t going to find him easily in that canal. He was high. He made the decision to flee the scene when he was off his cake on a cocktail of party drugs. Simple. There’s no damned serial killer. There’s just a shitty cultural phenomenon which has sprung up and some morally bankrupt scuzzball in the Americas who’s smuggling poison into Europe.’ She rapped on the table with her index finger. ‘That’s your killer! We need to go to Mexico and find this “Nikolay”. You want a multiple murderer? He’s your man!’

  ‘No!’ Van den Bergen said, surprising himself with the ferocity of his outburst. Fixed his attention on Minks. ‘Pass it on to André and his new narco-team.’ He looked at George askance, noticing that she had the glimmer of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. ‘I can’t go haring off to bloody Mexico. I’ve got a granddaughter and responsibilities in Amsterdam. There are leads I need to pursue here, anyway. Unanticipated developments.’

  Minks folded his arms, never taking his eyes from George, who had started to make a perfectly round ball out of elastic bands.

  ‘Can you stop that, please?’ he asked, pointing to the ball.

  ‘No.’

  Attention moving back to Van den Bergen. ‘Hang on. What unanticipated developments?’

  Saying the name over and over in his head, he acknowledged the pain flooding through his hip from the old bullet wound. ‘The Rotterdam Silencer,’ he said out loud. ‘Stijn Pietersen.’

  Minks’ impassive face was devoid of understanding. Too bloody young to remember, Van den Bergen mused. This kid was still in rookie college when I was working my arse off to bring Stijn Bastard Pietersen down.

  Reaching over, George placed an understanding hand on his forearm. Stroking his skin gently with her thumb. He patted her hand. Knew that she, above anyone else, understood the anguish that had caused him to buckle at the knees when Marianne de Koninck had called him as soon as their flight had come to a standstill at Schiphol. Far more of a nemesis than Kamphuis had ever been, the mention of Stijn Pietersen’s name had almost triggered a full-on panic attack as they were disembarking the aircraft. He could feel the prickling at his extremities even now, as he recalled the crowded aisle, full of stag-party-goers and business folk returning home from Prague, hoisting their rucksacks and briefcases to their chests defensively. All wanting to be first off. And the brusque Dutchman with the Breda accent telling him to move his fucking arse. But all he had been able to do was shallow-breathe through gritted teeth.

  Stijn Pietersen was out. Worse still, Stijn Pietersen was at large. Again. How the hell had that happened without him knowing? He was losing his touch.

  ‘If Elvis’ informant is right, and the Rotterdam Silencer is getting his feet back under the table in the Netherlands, we’ve got a lot more to worry about than bad meth.’

  Minks rose from his desk. A trim man in quiet, quality suiting. One of the new poster-boys of the Dutch police now that the old guard had gone. Better than Kamphuis, no doubt. But still gunning for the big brass ring, rather than doing the police work and keeping the streets safe. Van den Bergen could smell the future politician in Minks. It was a sour, curdling scent of ambition, at odds with the whiff of expensive aftershave and the cracked leather of his vintage old boys’ desk chair.

  Staring out of the window at the car park below, Minks said, ‘If the results of the meth found on Jeroen Meulenbelt come back saying it’s Mexican, let me know. I’ll make my decision on our next step then. In the meantime, prepare a press release, telling the gay community that there’s a killer out there. We cannot afford to sacrifice their safety on your hunch and some blast from the past, Van den Bergen.’

  He turned on his heel, locking eyes with George. Transferring his scrutiny to Van den Bergen, as if daring him to disagree. The worm had suddenly turned.

  With every fibre in his being, Van den Bergen fought the urge to stand and give this arrogant upstart a mouthful. He could feel the acid spraying into his gullet. ‘We’ll see about that,’ he said.

  Minks approached the desk. Smiled at George. Glowered at the Chief Inspector. ‘I’ve just told you to prepare a press release, Van den Bergen. That’s a direct order. Do I make myself understood?’

  CHAPTER 23

  Amsterdam, Van den Bergen’s apartment, 22 May

  With Van den Bergen over at Tamara’s, shoehorning in a visit to little Eva before her bath and bedtime routine kicked in, George sat in her lover’s apartment, staring at the screen on her laptop. Feeling more alone than she had ever felt in her life.

  ‘Where the fuck are you?’ she asked, reading the words from the latest email over and over, as if some meaning behind them would somehow present itself.

  From: Michael Carlos Izquierdo Moreno (Michael.Moreno@BritishEngineering.com)

  Sent: 12 April

  To: George_McKenzie@hotmail.com

  Subject: Checking in

  Dear George,

  Just sending you another little note to say I’m watching over you, like a good dad. You take too many risks, you know. A job like yours could get you into a lot of deep water.

  Send my love to your mother.

  Oh wait. You can’t!

  Love Dad x

  ‘Taunting arsehole,’ she shouted, slamming the lid of the laptop shut.

  Marching to the kitchen, she opened the cupboard above the kettle, where she knew Van den Bergen hid the junk for those days when he couldn’t abide his stupid alkaline diet any longer. She pulled out the Thai sweet chilli-flavoured Kettle Chips she had brought from England, stuffed a handful into her mouth and thought about her situation.

  Both her parents were missing. Somebody kept sending her menacing notes, prete
nding to be her dad. She was certain they weren’t from him and there had only been four in total in the space of a year. Each time, the message had been the same: I’m watching you.

  ‘What bastard is watching me?’ she shouted, peering out of the kitchen window onto the small clump of trees below. Scanning the empty street and the parked cars that sat in a neat row, looking innocent enough. ‘Are you out there, you fucker?’ Imagining whoever had written the emails could hear her. Wanting to show she wasn’t afraid. ‘Why me? Why is it always me?!’ she asked the photo of Letitia that she had pinned to Van den Bergen’s cork noticeboard. It was a snap of her mother at one of Aunty Sharon’s birthday parties some years ago, uncharacte‌ristically grinning at whoever had been behind the camera, with her arm around her sister, the birthday girl, as though they were friends. Resplendent in a low-cut silver lamé top that George had no memory of. ‘Wilderness years,’ she said aloud. The time when she had eschewed all contact with Letitia the Dragon, choosing to pursue a brand-new life on her own. She shook her head at the image, knowing instinctively that her mother had just said something cutting to Aunty Sharon prior to the photo opportunity, given the younger sister’s downturned mouth and the hurt in her eyes.

  Feeling frustration and fear overwhelm her, George stuffed yet more Kettle Chips into her mouth. Grinding them down, since punishing the crisps was the only power she had left.

  ‘Where are you, you horrible cow?’

  A year since her mother had slept on Van den Bergen’s sofa, bemoaning her ‘pulmonaries’ and refusing to go into temporary accommodation with Aunty Sharon, Tinesha and Patrice. A year since George had woken to find her gone. No note. No phone. Her coat still hanging on the peg in the hall.

  And now, Dad. As if he hadn’t already been torn from her life too soon by the Dragon, who couldn’t abide giving an inch but who had always excelled in taking a mile.

  ‘How could you leave me?’ George’s voice was now a whisper. She padded through to the living room, opening her laptop to the tab that was now permanently loaded. An employee listing for the engineering company that had contracted her father to work in Honduras. Not the bogus British Engineering domain that the emails purported to be from, but a company called Earhart Barton. The photo was perhaps no more than a couple of years old and the image showed he had barely aged, though that thick, black Spanish hair had receded right back, necessitating a short crop. But the eyes were still the same. Large, intelligent, kind brown eyes topped by brows like fat slugs. Long lashes that gave his otherwise serious expression an almost childlike appearance. All those years, she had been unable to recollect his features in any detail – the product of Letitia having thrown every last photo of him onto a bonfire in the shitty back yard of George’s childhood home. Setting fire to them with lighter fuel and a discarded cigarette butt inside George’s Barbie bedroom bin. George had cried as much for the loss of the bin as she had for the photos but, at six, she had not understood the emotional consequences of losing all mementos of the man she had adored. Papa. She could still recall his smell of tobacco and spicy aftershave. Could still remember the way his hair sprouted around his neck when he hadn’t been to the barber’s in a while, encroached upon by curling black back hairs that she had liked to tug as a toddler, whenever he put her on his shoulders. Furry Papa.

  ‘Jesus! Why are you doing this to yourself, you fucking masochist?’ she shouted, heading away from the image on the laptop and over to the patio doors. ‘Letitia brainwashed you into never giving a shit if he lived or died, and now you’re bothered that he’s gone?’

  As she sparked her e-cigarette into life on the balcony, tears came suddenly and in torrents like a spring downpour. For the first time in years, perhaps since she had been rejected in a hospital side-room by her first love, Ad, George felt sorry for herself.

  Taking out her phone, she sat on Van den Bergen’s rattan patio chair and put her slipper-clad feet up on a large planter containing a passion-flower climber. Dialled her aunt’s number. Sharon answered on the fourth ring, the sound of Radio 4 in the background.

  ‘All right, love?’ Aunty Sharon said. Her voice was super-charged with faux cheeriness. Clearly still hating not having the kids at home often. ‘What a lovely surprise. I was just doing my cleaning and thinking of you. There’s this new limescale remover in Tesco—’

  ‘Oh fuck the limescale remover,’ George said, feeling sadness and impotence engulf her. ‘I can’t … I can’t …’ She let everything out on a deafening wail. Spotted one of the neighbours walking too slowly along the pavement below, gawping up at her – a snotty, weeping black girl on the grumpy old detective’s balcony. Perhaps the interfering geriatric fart would spread gossip that Van den Bergen had been hitting her. George stood. ‘You seen enough, you nosey old bastard?’ she yelled in English down at the old man. ‘Not you,’ she clarified for Aunty Sharon’s benefit.

  ‘What the hell has got into you?’ her aunt asked. ‘What’s the matter, darling? Tell your Aunty Shaz.’

  Through hiccups, sobs and then sniffles, George explained how the latest piece of information unearthed by Marie – that her father had disappeared in the most dangerous country in the world – had filled her with dread.

  ‘I’m sure this has got something to do with me,’ she said. ‘Again! Like I haven’t already had enough of this “past coming back to bite me on the arse” nonsense.’

  ‘Oh, George, love. You’ve got yourself a stalker, is all,’ Sharon said. ‘You don’t half attract them, babe. You’re like some kind of pervert magnet. That’s my theory, anyway.’

  Toeing the passion-flower plant, George wiped her face with the sleeve of her hoody and nodded. ‘I guess. Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe nothing! You’re in that line of business. You spend all your days interviewing murderers and sex pests in prison. You think some of them don’t get out eventually and come looking for the pretty girl with the big tits and stinking attitude, who asked too many questions?’ On the other end of the phone, Aunty Sharon started to laugh heartily. ‘You want your old cleaning job back at Skin Licks? You’ll only get groped by the punters in there!’

  Inhaling deeply on her e-cigarette, George forced a hollow chuckle. ‘No ta. But it’s obviously not just some perv with a hard-on for English girls, is it? It’s only just over twelve months since I had a human eyeball sent to me. I know it turned out to be some bloke with a shady past and some bad connections, and not Letitia at all, but there’s a murderous nutcase out there, Aunty Shaz. Somebody who knows my email address and keeps reminding me that I’m on their radar. They’re using Dad’s name to contact me. However infrequently, it’s still freaky as shit. And fact is, my dad’s reported missing on Interpol. Fucking Interpol! I didn’t make it up. Both parents. Gone.’ Once more, George found herself overwhelmed by sorrow. ‘I can’t take it anymore! The not knowing.’ She failed to mention the ageing biker she had seen in her peripheral vision on more than one occasion.

  ‘Aw, take a deep breath, love,’ her aunt said. ‘I wish I was there to give you a big hug. But listen, if you think it would help with closure and that, we could hold a funeral for your mum. Bury an empty coffin, like. When I lost little D and Derek, I felt different after the send-off.’

  ‘We don’t know she’s dead!’

  ‘Come on, George. How long’s it been now?’

  Shaking her head, George started to regret having called her aunt. Usually her unconditional ally, today Sharon wasn’t getting her at all. ‘I don’t want a fake funeral. It’s not right. And if it does turn out that she’s just buggered off with some toy boy, I’d look a bit of a twat, burying an empty coffin and putting up a headstone for her.’

  ‘Oh, she’d fucking love that!’ Sharon guffawed down the phone. ‘Then she would be centre of attention. Knowing that cheeky cow, my sister, she’d turn up incognito and sit on the back pew of the church just to see who showed up! She’d lap every tear up!’

  There was a pause. George knew she ought to ask
Aunty Sharon how she was doing and whether there was any news from London, but the reason behind the phone call forced its way out of her mouth before she had time to self-censor.

  ‘I’m working on this drugs thing over here. I’ve got the chance to go to Mexico. At the Dutch police’s expense. What do you think?’ She dug her thumbnail into the weave of her jeans, trying to expunge dirt that simply wasn’t there.

  ‘What do I think what? Mexico? I’ve heard Cancun’s nice. Why? Are you thinking of squeezing a freebie holiday out of them? Nipping off for the three S’s with old lanky bollocks?’

  ‘No. I want to find Dad.’ There. She had said it.

  ‘Are you fucking mental?!’ Aunty Sharon shouted at such volume that George had to hold the phone away from her ear. ‘For Christ’s sake, girl. Listen to my wisdom, yeah? If your dad was so keen on hearing from you, he’d have been in touch donkey’s years ago, whether that cow my sister had told him to do one or not.’