by J. M. Hewitt
10
ROLAND
5th January 2000
I watched Mark Braith at that party. He had a confidence about him, but it was different to that of my three Irish friends. They wanted everyone to have as good a time as they were having, they wanted to see everybody happy and dancing and fucking and drinking. Mark Braith, there was something different about him and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. So I settled myself into a corner and observed him.
I was very good at going unnoticed; it hadn’t been hard to learn either, being neither sexy nor funny, nobody really paid much attention to me unless they needed a job doing.
Mark Braith was a local, I could tell that from his accent and the way that everyone in the room seemed to know him. Again, here was a difference in how he was treated. The women didn’t drape themselves over Mark the way they did with the three brothers. They were respectful, as were the men. Instead of enveloping him in a bear hug, they shook his hand, practically bowed at him. I wondered what made this man so special.
And then I got a chance to find out.
He approached me, Mark Braith. I hadn’t been as invisible as I would have liked. He pulled up a chair, swung it around so the back was at his front, and he straddled it, coolly observing me with blue ice chip eyes.
“Hello,” I stuttered, and stuck my hand out like the other men had.
He laughed, but it wasn’t a deep, rumbling belly-laugh like my friends. His chuckle was brittle and humourless.
He ignored my outstretched hand I withdrew it, knowing I was blushing.
“Okay, boy,” he said, in his deep gravelly voice. “Take this to the pier, there’ll be someone waiting for you there. You give them this, you bring back to me what they give you.”
He slipped his hand in his back pocket and pulled out a thick wad of notes. Still keeping his eyes on me, he licked his finger and counted off €450 before handing them to me.
I took them, rolled the wad up and clutched it in my sweaty hand. I had so many questions; who was I meeting? How would I know who they were? What was I buying? But I didn’t dare ask him anything.
He stared at me until I slid off my stool and shuffled to the door. I glanced back and he had turned away from me. Running his large hand over his bald head he got up and wandered over to the beer keg.
I slipped out of the door and ran as fast as I could across to the pier.
It wasn’t busy, of course it wasn’t. It was January; any tourists who had come for the New Year had gone home, and the locals were not stupid enough to be out in this freezing weather. All except one.
He was young; younger than me. He stood hunched over, hood up, sleeves wrapped around his hands and he was blowing on his fingers, trying to warm them no doubt.
I sidled up to him, still gripping the money tightly.
“Mark Braith sent me,” I whispered to him.
Black eyes peered out from a white face. He looked me up and down and there was no disguising his surprise.
“Really?” he asked.
I knew what he was seeing, what he was thinking. Why on earth would a man like Mark Braith send a skinny, dorky boy to do his business? A boy whose clothes were slightly too large, out of fashion. A boy who didn’t have a proper haircut, a boy who wore store own brand trainers instead of Nikes, a boy who was so out of style, out of touch, out of his depth.
I was embarrassed, but I nodded and held out my hand, showed him the money.
He looked around us, he actually turned in a full circle. Whether it was to make sure nobody was about to jump him or to see if Mark Braith was concealing himself somewhere, testing him, I don’t know.
Eventually he faced me again and held out his hand.
“I want the stuff first,” I said, bravely. More bravely than I felt.
He didn’t argue, he dug deep in his pocket and passed over a small plastic bag to me. I rubbed my fingers over it but I couldn’t identify what the black bag held. I passed him the money and backed up fast.
I’d reached the promenade when I heard a shout behind me. Reluctantly I stopped and braced myself for an attack I was sure was coming.
The young man jogged up to me and stopped, leaning over to catch his breath.
“You gave me too much money,” he wheezed and thrust €50 into my hand.
And then he retreated into the black night.
When I got back to apartment 1058 I found Mark Braith back on his chair. I passed him the little bag and the €50. “He said you gave him too much money.”
Mark Braith pocketed the bag and the money. He didn’t strike me as the kind of man who would make an error with payment and it would be a long time later that I would realise it was a test. Both on me and the drug peddler.
We passed the test.
11
ERIK FONS
HOOFDBUREAU
3.7.15 Morning
Inspectuer Erik Fons sets his coffee down and runs his hand through his shock of red hair, surveying his desk with dismay. When he left late last night it was clear, but now, even though the sun isn’t fully up, piles of reports and paperwork litter his workstation. How could so much have happened in the few hours that he returned home to sleep? And it really was only a few hours, as Naomi, his girlfriend, is working away at the moment and when she’s not home Erik feels like there’s really little point in being there either.
The red folder immediately catches his eye and he snatches it up, wondering if it is a mistake. Red folders equate to serious crimes, and Scheveningen does not suffer from serious crimes.
“Lou, what is this?” He flaps the folder at his co-worker who covered the night shift last night and right now is putting her coat on, ready to head home.
“It’s the murder, the girl they found early this morning,” Lou replies and pauses, seeming to process his surprise. “I thought that’s why you were in early.”
He shakes his head, mutters a goodbye to her and sits down. Erik is always in early, him and Lou pass most mornings, does that not register with her?
Gulping his coffee he opens the folder, knowing that he’ll need to get up to speed if there really has been a murder.
“Fons, good, you’re here.” Erik looks up at the loud voice that booms across the office and is startled to see the police commissioner, Dennis Daalman, striding towards him.
“Sir, I’m just familiarising myself with the incident,” Erik stands up quickly, knocking the desk with his thigh and shooting a hand out to steady his coffee.
“I’ll fill you in on the way,” Dennis replies as he picks up his car keys. “Come.”
Erik tucks the folder under one arm, slips his notebook in his pocket and grabbing his coffee he hurries after Dennis, who has not waited for him. As Erik makes his way downstairs to the underground garage he wonders why he is suddenly in the middle of this alleged murder. It’s only his second since joining the Hoofdbureau Politie straight out of college five years ago. This is usually a sleepy town and as not much happens, he has been contemplating a transfer to Amsterdam or Rotterdam. He’s thirty, some years older than other graduates, and he supposes the years he spent in the Royal Army may go in his favour, but still. This sounds like a big task, and for someone used to street patrol and low scale crimes, it’s quite a leap. But, he reminds himself, he shouldn’t sell himself short. Naomi is always berating him for doing that, and he doesn’t have the heart to tell her it’s because she is such an iconic figure in their community that she can be a little bit hard to live up to. He went into the force skipping the police trainee and starting at police patrol officer. He made his way quickly through the ranks of constable and sergeant, earning all his stripes and hitting the crown by working hard, harder than any of his other peers. He took overtime when it was offered, put himself forward for shifts that nobody else was enthusiastic about and wasn’t averse to getting down and dirty when it was called for. Being without a family to take care of helped, he supposed. And despite his work being his life he was liked by his collea
gues. He always refrained from gossip, was polite and courteous, and eagerly joined the other guys down the pub or, more often, in the gym or on the running track when he wasn’t working.
On the short drive over to Chinatown Dennis fills him in on what they know so far.
“Gabi Rossi, twenty-two, Brazilian national, moved here recently. Known prostitute, worked a window as well as the streets, not previously known to the police. She was found in the early hours in an alleyway near the Spoor, cause of death looks like strangulation and there are very definite injuries to her upper arm.” Dennis rattles off the details as Erik frantically scribbles in his notebook.
“Has the body been removed yet?”
“Yes, the girl is at the mortuary near Schiphol, we’ll go there next. I want you to see the scene first.”
“Will anyone else be joining us there?” Erik asks.
Dennis shoots a look at him. “ENFSI will be there. You’ll be there.”
ENFSI – the European Network of Forensic Science Institutes, Erik knows of them since they are based in The Hague, but has only had a need to collaborate with them on one other occasion. He suppresses a shudder and is not sure whether it stems from excitement or nerves.
“And am I to lead this, sir?” Erik looks over at Dennis as the car slows to a stop and the first sighting of the red and white police tape comes into view.
“I’ll be there, you proceed.” It’s not really an answer, not to Erik, but suddenly he wants very much to prove himself worthy in this case.
Drawing himself up to his full height in the vague hope that he will appear as superior as his commissioner, Erik climbs out of the car and makes his way down the alley.
There are around half a dozen guys from ENFSI, suited up from top to tail, white plastic slippers on their feet and masks covering their faces. Erik nods a greeting and it’s with some relief that he recognises his old college pal, Cobus Pas. Cobus steps back and shakes hands sombrely with Erik.
“I’m glad to see you,” Erik grins and gestures over to the other ENFSI technicians. “Fill me in.”
Cobus snaps a fresh pair of gloves on and hands another pair to Erik. “Not much to see now, there’s some blood, here … see?” He gestures to a mark smeared on the concrete wall behind them. “That’s quite an amount so that was before death occurred. We’ve done a sweep of the ground all the way along this alley, picked some items up but to be honest, with the amount of human traffic that comes and goes...” Cobus tails off with a shrug.
“You’ll be doing the post mortem on the girl?” asks Erik, hopefully.
Cobus nods his affirmation. “Yes, I’ll be heading over there in a little while. Will I see you there?”
Erik glances over at Dennis who is deep in conversation with another one of the forensic technicians. With his friend Cobus on board, Erik is more confident of proving himself in this case. “I’ll be there. See you soon, Pas.”
“So, what are you thinking?” Dennis asks once they have discarded their gloves and shoe coverings.
“CCTV is our best option, there’s over a hundred locally, mainly concentrating on the red light districts, the train station, but not this alleyway, I’m pretty sure of that. Although, the girl, Gabi, she walked here or was driven here from somewhere, so if we can get her movements at some point that might be a help.”
“This needs to be a localised incident,” Dennis says demurely but pointedly, as he pulls away from the murder scene and eases into the flow of traffic.
Erik nods. Nobody wants a serial killer on their patch, least of all them. This is the fourteenth prostitute murder since the trade became legal in 1990. It’s not a huge amount, although Erik thinks one is too many, but he is also of a practical nature. Of the fourteen that have died, there are double that amount whom have actually been reported as missing, though these files are closed quickly, the force concluding they have simply moved away.
There are also people – do-gooders in Erik’s opinion – who wish to see Amsterdam and her neighbouring areas sanitised and not seen the world over for what it actually is. They are the people that Erik and his team need to appease, and, the thought strikes him suddenly, the ones that need to be looked at also. He scribbles a note in his book, scrawls ‘CCTV’ next to it and looks up at Dennis.
“I’ll need to speak to Gabi’s friends, and flatmates, if she had any.”
Dennis nods, a small smile which Erik takes as approval on his face, and Erik leans back, relaxing a little for the first time since Dennis approached him in the office this morning.
This is his first big case, he mustn’t miss anything and he vows to himself that he’ll get this one wrapped up before it turns into anything else.
He will prove himself worthy of his previous stripes and his current crown, and, if he does very well, perhaps he can add another insignia to his sleeve at the same time.
12
ALEX
GREAT TITCHFIELD STREET, LONDON
4.7.15 Mid-morning
The morning after his one-man drinking session finds Alex back at Elian’s flat. This time he is sober and clear-headed. He’s a man with a plan, and part of that new found scheme is heading up the road towards him now.
“Bruv, banging garms.” The man who Alex is paying to help him gain access to Elian’s flat is upon him, all tight jeans high gelled dyed-black hair, smiling as he plucks at Alex’s T-shirt.
“Good to see you, Noah,” greets Alex, not even pretending to understand the phrase that his young friend addressed him with.
“What do you want me for then, blud?” Noah shifts around the pavement, eyes everywhere.
“I need to get in that flat, third floor, the one with all the windows closed,” replies Alex. “We need to wait until someone comes out of the main door then we’re in the building, and you need to get us inside the flat and you need to be quick.”
Noah smoothes his hair back, his hand hardly touching the follicles as he gazes at the building opposite. “You going t’ merk some breh in there?”
Alex opens his mouth and closes it again. “I don’t even know what that means, Noah.”
Noah makes some weird movement with his fist, touching it lightly to Alex’s face and lets off a peel of laughter. “You’re so old, dude! I mean, have you got some beef with someone in there?”
“No, I just need you to get me inside. That’s all you need to know and that’s all I’m paying you for. And if you can speak English while we’re working together I’d really appreciate it.”
“Yeah, whatever, I’ll have my P now.” Noah breathes out dramatically as Alex side-eyes him again. “Pounds, I’ll have my money.”
“Once we’re inside and you’ve done the job.”
Noah sucks on his teeth, emits a hiss and elbows Alex in his ribs. “I can get in without waiting for someone to come out.”
Alex studies the young man. He believes Noah’s claim. He first met the young man when he was helping out a case for the MET and after spending time with Noah they forged an unlikely friendship. Noah had done some small time for his part in a robbery, and Alex had seen his potential and once he was out he had put him on the agency books, hoping that with paid employment and something akin to mentorship on Alex’s part, Noah might just manage to escape seeing the inside of a prison cell. So far, it had worked out.
“Can you do it without making a scene?”
“Safe man, you know it,” Noah says as he looks left and right. “Come on.”
Inwardly groaning Alex has no option but to follow Noah across the road to Elian’s building. Standing in front of the blue double door Alex does his best to conceal what Noah is doing.
“If you hear anyone inside, leave it and–” Alex breaks off as he hears the door creak open and he turns around. “You’re in?”
“Piff, you know it.” Noah grins, showing sharp, white teeth as he slips inside.
Alex follows, neither of them making any noise to announce their presence as they climb the three flights of sta
irs to the third floor and arrive at Elian’s door.
“Quiet on this one,” Alex whispers as they survey the locks that adorn the front door of the flat.
Noah, suddenly serious, nods and crouches down on the mat outside in the hallway. Alex watches as his young friend withdraws a selection of what appear to be skeleton keys from his back pocket and goes to work on the five separate keyholes.
With each locks that slips almost noiselessly open Alex lets out his breath a little. Within minutes Noah is on the fifth and final lock and Alex has relaxed completely when, without warning, the door next to the one they are working on flies open and Elian’s elderly neighbour looks out at them. Noah stands up, hiding his tools behind his back and glancing from the woman to Alex, all his East London bluff and bluster gone.
“It’s all right, I’m a detective,” Alex says as smoothly as he can manage and shows her his S.I.A licence, hoping that she firstly mistakes him for a police accredited detective and doesn’t have any knowledge of the world of investigators.
“I know who you are.” She peers at him, her wrinkled old face betraying her stern tone of voice. “You’re her beau, I know what goes on here, and I know that Elian left home weeks ago.”
“Your girl lives here?” Noah’s disbelieving tone causes the old woman to shoot a look at him and she leans back, surveying him as though noticing him for the first time.
Alex moves in front of Noah, redirecting her attention to him. “I’m worried about Elian, I need to find her and that’s why I’m here. You know I’m not breaking in, you remember me, right, you saw me here before?”
She narrows her eyes, looking him up and down and Alex can see that she’s trying to decide whether to trust him or not. He moves in for the kill.
“Mrs …?”
“Ms, to you,” she snaps and then appears to soften before his eyes. “Jeanie. Jeanie Fowler.”
