Girl in the Dark

by Marion Pauw

  Mo glanced at his watch. “We have to get back, Ray. It’s almost the end of my shift.”

  I looked around the empty space one last time.

  Not too bad, I decided.

  CHAPTER 48

  IRIS

  Lawrence asked me to go for a brisk walk with him around Vondel Park. “I’m feeling too restless today to sit in a chair. Besides, all my pants are getting too tight, and I don’t believe in dieting.”

  On our way to the park I could tell by his face that he was upset. Once we were inside, he began, “What were you thinking going after Asscher like that? This guy has been the Van Benschop family’s accountant forever—don’t you see this makes us look very bad?”

  “But how was I to know he was Van Benschop’s accountant?”

  “Research!” he snapped. “Isn’t that what you were told to do?”

  “I am sorry,” I said. “I only just found out myself. But just so you know, he has a very strong motive.”

  “I don’t want to hear about it. All I want to say is that you are not allowed to come near him or the Van Benschop family ever again! Now, about the things you are supposed to go after . . .” Huffing and puffing, he started telling me what conclusions he’d drawn from reading the report. I had trouble keeping up with him. “The number of eyewitnesses is very low, as you yourself already established, and Boelens was clearly coerced into making his statement. Tunnel vision,” he said, with a grand sweep of the arm. “That should be the mantra of every twenty-first-century criminal defender.”

  I nodded in agreement, just barely managing to avoid a big puddle.

  “There is, however, a great deal of solid evidence pointing to Boelens’s involvement in the Angeli double murder. To begin with, he was definitely present at the scene of the crime. That’s forensically established, not a shadow of a doubt; we’re talking about a trail of blood leading from their house to his.” Suddenly Rence stopped short. He stood bent over forward, hands on his thighs, gasping for breath.

  “Maybe we should slow down a bit. It’s important when exercising to preserve your stamina,” I said.

  “No way.” Rence hauled himself up again. His face was red and his hair was so windblown that his bald spot was unveiled. “Tomorrow I’m bringing my running shoes. Let’s do this every day from now on.”

  “Super.”

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Of course not.”

  Rence stepped up the pace again. The park was nearly deserted, even though the sun was out for the first time in ages.

  “Anyway. Let’s talk about the murder weapon. The Ikea knife. The forensic report isn’t completely positive that the weapon used to kill the victims was Boelens’s knife. The Netherlands Forensic Institute puts the likelihood at seventy-two percent. That’s up there, but it’s not a hundred percent. I should add that they found no trace of the victims’ DNA on that knife. It’s possible that Boelens did a thorough job scrubbing it clean. I myself always advise my clients to use Brillo.” Rence paused to give me a chance to laugh at his joke.

  “Now, everyone knows Ikea’s stuff is complete junk. Why is the Höteknöte desk lamp so cheap? Because after spending an hour in line to purchase it, it’ll last exactly a day and a half, two hours, three minutes, and fourteen seconds before crapping out. I’d wager that if that knife was used to stab someone fourteen times—granted that we humans are sixty percent water, but then there are also the extremely hard bones and tough sinews as well, so . . .” Rence was so out of breath that it was growing harder and harder to understand him.

  “Let’s walk a little slower,” I suggested.

  “Not going to happen. So anyway, I’d imagine the knife wouldn’t come away from that kind of use without a scratch. Maybe the tip would be bent or the blade would have come loose. Maybe we should have it tested to determine the effect of that sort of violence on an Ikea knife. Although . . .” He looked at me with a frown. “Let’s assume we can prove the knife can’t have been the murder weapon. Then we’re still left with the problem of Boelens being at the crime scene.”

  “There was some other residue on that knife. Some complicated chemical name, I haven’t had the time to find out what it was,” I said.

  “Oh, that. I did ask someone I know in Forensic Services. It’s vulcanized rubber.”

  “What?” I stopped dead in my tracks.

  “Come on,” said Rence, not slowing down even a mite. “Keep going.”

  I had to run a few steps to catch up with him. “As in car tires?” I asked.

  “Car tires, rubber sheeting, wiring . . .”

  Again I stood still. “You don’t say.”

  This time Rence was kind enough to wait for me. His face was extremely red.

  “Did you know that Boelens had slashed Rosita’s boyfriend’s tires not long before the murder? If the rubber on the knife came from that, it can’t have been the murder weapon.”

  “Because . . . ?”

  “Because if he had washed the knife carefully enough to erase all traces of the girls’ DNA, why would there still be some rubber residue? Surely that, too, would have been cleaned off?”

  “Interesting,” said Rence. “But we don’t know, naturally, how stubborn the rubber deposit is. Maybe it’s impossible to get rid of no matter how hard you scrub. Besides, it won’t count as new evidence.”

  “Why not?”

  Annoyed, Rence shook his head and set off again, though fortunately at a more normal pace. “Iris . . . don’t you get it? It’s already in the court record. Except that the defense lawyer never bothered looking into it. That was dumb. And a great shame for Boelens. But no good to us. No, what I’m more interested in is Boelens’s presence at the crime scene. What was the guy doing there?”

  “I haven’t yet figured that out either. He’s a man of few words.”

  “Maybe I should pay him a visit.”

  “I’m not sure there’s any point. He’s exceptionally cagey. He won’t even tell his psychiatrist what happened. He just keeps repeating he’s innocent.”

  Rence studied my face closely. “Or is there another reason you don’t want me to meet Mr. Boelens?”

  I felt myself go red. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  I tried to think if it was wise to confess that Ray was my brother. Chances were, Rence already knew. But how could he? To be on the safe side I said airily, “Oh, I’ve got plenty of reasons. You know me.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not as if I won’t help you with your brother’s appeal anyway,” he said nonchalantly.

  I gasped, though I should have guessed. “How did you know?”

  Rence put a fatherly hand on my shoulder. “Come, let’s get back to the office.” After a few steps he took his hand away. “I knew as soon as I heard the last name.”

  “Boelens?”

  “Right.”

  “You knew immediately?”

  “Of course.” He seemed very pleased with himself.

  I tried to find the connection but didn’t get very far. “But we don’t even have the same surname. Do you know my mother, then?”

  “I can’t answer that question. Client confidentiality.”

  “Oh, come on. How do you know my mother’s maiden name?”

  “Don’t forget I’ve been a lawyer for a long time, and so has Martha. Between us, we’ve come to know quite a few people.”

  “So you know my mother.”

  “I don’t know her personally. I know people who know her, and so . . .”

  I remembered the strange conversation I’d had with Martha a while back. What had she said? That she’d had little choice but to hire me? Had my mother had something to do with it? “Tell me. You can’t leave me hanging on like this.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have kept quiet about the fact that your new client was your half-brother. How did you put it again? ‘It’ll be prestigious for the firm’ or something? All this time I was hoping you’d tell me yourself.”
<
br />   What could I say to that?

  We walked back to the office in silence. Before going in, Rence said, “But you’re forgiven, kid.” He sighed. “Forgiven again,” as if my employment history at Bartels & Peters had been one endless stream of lies and deception.

  “What now?” I said when we arrived at the place in the hall where I’d have to climb the stairs and he had to turn left to his office.

  “Just push ahead, kid. I’ll run your rubber theory by Forensic Services. And you’ll have to try to get Boelens to open up to you about the day of the crime. What was he doing at the crime scene? Why did he leave his work early when he didn’t usually get out of there before three P.M.? That’s what we have to know.”

  “It’s very hard to get any information out of him,” I said. “Half the time it’s as if he doesn’t even follow what I’m saying.”

  “That’s yet another obstacle we have to overcome. I do think I’d like to meet him myself before investing any more time and energy into this probe. Not because I think I’ll be able to get through to him better than you, but because it’s always good to have a second opinion. Especially since I think you may be getting too emotionally involved. There’s a reason we have a rule never to take on a family member as a client.”

  “I’ll arrange it so that you can come with me next time,” I said.

  “And stay away from Asscher. And the Van Benschop family.” Rence parted from me with a lordly nod.

  CHAPTER 49

  RAY

  We were sitting at breakfast. Normally, I hated having to sit through communal meals, but since I knew I’d be getting my fish back soon, anything was bearable.

  “So I hear they hooking you up with the other Rainmen.” Over the past several days Rembrandt kept coming and sitting down next to me. Usually I didn’t respond when he talked to me, but this time I nodded.

  “The big question is, where’s our homie André”—he jerked his head at the social worker with the glasses—“going to keep his stash now? But hey, he’ll find another sucker, know what I mean?”

  André was looking in our direction. His eyes were narrowed behind the round frames.

  Rembrandt went on in a whisper, “He can tell we talking about him. Just look at them sneaky-pig eyes. Trying to read our lips, man.”

  “No gossiping at the table,” said André. “We’re not running a boarding school for girls here.”

  “No shit! I’m so sick of all the hairy dudes in here. What about you, Rainman?” He elbowed me in the ribs. I froze and stared fixedly at my peanut butter sandwich on factory bread. “Speaking of bitches, when’s our horny little social worker back on duty? With you leaving and all, I might be getting some of the action. Why don’t you put in a word for me, Rainman?”

  “You know that kind of talk will get you in trouble. I’m giving you your first warning,” said André.

  “What for? I done nothing wrong!” The black cowboy put his hands up in the air, as if to emphasize his innocence.

  “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”

  “Chill, bro. I’m cool.” Rembrandt waited for the social worker to turn and talk to Hank, sitting next to him, then leaned in close. “If I was you, I’d pay him back for what he done. Messed you up good, didn’t he? Or maybe you like getting put in the hole. That it, Rainman? Give you a boner, does it, those paper pants rubbing your prick?” Rembrandt took a bite of his sandwich and chewed with his mouth open. I twisted my head the other way. “Soon you’ll be put in another unit and then it’ll be too late.”

  I hoped breakfast would be over soon. But I saw the social worker with the glasses taking another piece of bread from the basket. We had another five minutes at least.

  “Know what you do?” Rembrandt’s cheesy breath blew in my face. I leaned as far away from him as I could and tried to make myself think of my fish.

  “Get in his grill, bro. Say that you know he did it. Then watch, and see what he does.”

  Venus. Saturn. Hannibal. King Kong. Peanut. Raisin.

  “Rembrandt. Warning number two. No whispering at the breakfast table. The next warning means you’ll be confined to your suite.”

  “Oh yeah?” Rembrandt stood up. Everyone stopped chewing. Except for Richard, who was cutting out shapes in his bread as usual. Today it was a butter-and-jelly Christmas tree.

  Rembrandt suddenly pulled his pants down and whipped out his penis. “Know what you can do? You can suck my dick.” He started waving the brown thing back and forth. “Suck my big black dick,” he said again.

  “Now you’re asking for trouble,” said the other social worker, the new one. I hadn’t seen him around much.

  “I know you want it. Look at the size of it. Nothing like that little thing you carry around in your panties.” Rembrandt was swinging his penis around less than a foot from where I sat. The other guys started cheering, as if this was a good thing.

  I dived under the table.

  “I’m giving you one last chance to pull those pants up, and then I’ll have to call in security and we all know how that ends.”

  “Fuck you, motherfucker,” I heard Rembrandt say one more time. From my hiding place under the table I saw him hoisting his pants back up.

  “Fine,” said André. “But you’re grounded for at least a week. Breakfast is over.”

  I stayed where I was. I only came out when everyone had left the table.

  Since I had kitchen duty, I had to clear the dishes and take them to the little kitchen, and then I had to load the dishwasher and put the food away in the fridge or pantry cupboard. Suddenly I wasn’t alone in the little kitchen: the social worker with the glasses had come in. I worried that maybe he’d overheard what Rembrandt had said about confronting the guy, before he’d started whipping out his penis. I hastily put the leftovers back in the bread bin, concentrating on my task.

  “What the hell was that, at breakfast?”

  Here it was again—trouble. I tried to think about my fish again, and hoped he’d go away.

  “Are we playing deaf? As long as you understand that not a word Rembrandt says is true.”

  I opened the refrigerator and put the cheese and butter on the shelf.

  “Well, anyway, that’s not what I came in here for. What I wanted to tell you was that you’re having a visitor today.”

  I hadn’t been expecting Iris Kastelein, but it was good news. Now I could tell her I was getting my fish back. She’d be pleased. I knew she would.

  “Your mother. It’s her first visit, isn’t it?”

  I froze. The jam jar I was holding slipped out of my hands. It crashed onto the floor tiles. The red jam spattered everywhere.

  “Does that alarm you? Why?”

  I said nothing, but stared at the red mess, thinking about the last time my mother had visited me, in the prison. “It’s over,” she’d said. “I can’t come and see you anymore. I just can’t take it any longer.” She hadn’t cried or hugged me that time.

  “Did you hear what I said?” André tapped me on the arm.

  There was a long silence. I couldn’t think of what I was supposed to do or say.

  He cleared his throat. “I see. Fine. I’ll come get you around eleven, then. You’ll do a good job cleaning up this mess, won’t you?”

  CHAPTER 50

  IRIS

  My mother had a bridge game every Wednesday night from seven thirty to ten thirty at the senior center a couple of blocks from her house. The bridge club had a jolly-sounding name, “Gray Matters.” The name referred not only to the color of the players’ hair but also to the fact that bridge is supposed to keep your brain cells youthful. My mother still colored her hair. She always said she’d stay blond until the day she died. I’d even had to promise I’d touch up her roots before she was laid out for the final viewing.

  At her house a light was on in the hall, and one little lamp in the living room. If you want to show there’s nobody home, do by all means leave on a single lamp, like a lighthouse beacon
guiding ships into port. I’d tried to point this out to her, but according to my mother, thieves wouldn’t dare break in if they saw a light, even if it was just one brave little lamp in a corner of the room.

  Binnie was babysitting Aaron, and I wasn’t completely reassured that it would go well. The last time she’d watched him I’d found chewing gum in his hair the next morning. But Binnie had sworn she wouldn’t give him any gum and my mother was the only other person I trusted to watch Aaron and I obviously couldn’t ask her to watch him so I could break into her house.

  I stuck the key in the lock and glanced over my shoulder. A man walking his dog strolled past, but didn’t seem to be paying attention to me. I turned the key and stepped inside.

  I was nervous. Even though it was unlikely my mother would come home early from her bridge game, it was possible. She would be unpleasantly surprised to find me here, to say the least.

  Since my mother was refusing to tell me anything about Ray or his dad, I had decided to take it upon myself to do a little investigating. The last time I had gone hunting for clues in her study, Ray had been the focus of my search. This time I wanted to see if I could ferret out anything that might lead me to Ray’s father.

  I tiptoed through the living room—not that anyone could hear me—and shone my flashlight on my mother’s little desk.

  The aquarium looked spooky in the dark. It gave a greenish-blue cast to the room, as in an underwater cave. The fish were calmly swimming around, blissfully unaware.

  I opened the drawers and examined their contents. My mother’s bank statements; warranties; gas, water, and electric bills. A box of rubber bands and paper clips. A street map of Amstelveen, bus tickets, and a two-year-old postcard from Spain sent by one of my father’s former colleagues. I leafed through her address book. It contained so many names of people I didn’t know that it didn’t make me any the wiser.

  A gold fountain pen lying on the desk caught my eye. I had seen my mother write with it often, but suddenly I noticed its resemblance to the pen I’d seen Peter van Benschop use. I spun it around until my flashlight revealed the inscription: Van Benschop Shipping Co.