by J. M. Hewitt
At the pier he looks around for the men that Lev told him to look out for. There is nobody of that description yet, but Lev had told him he may have to wait a while.
Roland sits down, wondering if he has enough money to buy himself an ice-cream while he waits. He wishes he had asked Lev, he doesn’t want to use any of his money in case there is not enough left for Lev’s shopping list. He is salivating, sweating in the heat when a shadow falls over him. Roland looks up, shading his eyes to see who is standing over him.
“Oh,” he says, smiling winningly. “Hello!”
Lev checks the clock time and time again. He had known that his suppliers might not be at the pier yet, it is still daylight, but now he’s getting itchy. What if Roland has done a runner with his money? What if the dealers have pegged Roland for what he really is – a dim-witted, unable to stand up for himself individual? What if they’ve taken his money and left him with no goods? It could easily happen, hell, if Lev were the dealer and was approached by someone like Roland, he’d have the money and the drugs and wouldn’t be seen for dust. No, scratch that, he wouldn’t even run, because what is Roland going to do? He’s no threat, not at all.
Sweating now, Lev inches out of his apartment door and hangs around the balcony, scanning the street below for any sighting of Roland. There’s no sign of him, and swearing softly, Lev closes his front door and moves along the walkway, risking a glance at Joy’s apartment. The door is still closed and the curtains are drawn, just the way Lev left them last night. He pauses at her door, wondering if anyone will visit her and discover her inside. Since Lev has been living here she doesn’t seem to have had many visitors. In fact, she seemed lonely, eager for company.
He runs down the stairs, loops around the back street that brings him onto the promenade. It’s a different world; out here, nobody is aware of the body of Joy upstairs which is no doubt already starting to fester in the humidity. Lev pauses and looks back towards home. Should he cut and run, now, while he is alone and has nobody on his tail? Or should he find some way of disposing Joy’s body for good, so he can continue his existence here in Scheveningen?
And then he sees him, Roland. He’s sitting on the beach wall, legs dangling, head handing low, almost onto his chest. Lev looks at the stranger that has his arm familiarly around Roland’s shoulder. He looks to be comforting him and Lev bites down on his bottom lip. Who is the man, Roland’s father, perhaps, or an uncle? And why is he comforting Roland? What has the stupid son of a bitch told him?
It’s time to go, he knows it, he had known it since they found the dead body of Cilla, but Lev had liked it here, like the ambiance and the party-boy lifestyle. He thought he could stay, he could become the new Monaghan, he had the apartment and he had the drugs; the friends would surely follow.
But he’s been spotted, it’s too late. The pair of them stand up and look in Lev’s direction. Roland waves happily, the other man, the one with Roland, he stares curiously at Lev.
Lev darts a look behind him, wondering if he could run. But his passport is in the apartment, he wouldn’t get very far. Best to act natural, find out what the kid has said to this man. Whoever he is, this stranger, Lev can charm him.
Lev can charm anyone.
48
ROLAND
March 14th 2000
I wasn't sure if I woke, or simply came to. The room was in darkness but I knew I was back in Mark Braith’s apartment, simply by the touch of the sofa arm underneath my hand. I struggled to my feet, wondering about the ache in my legs and my stomach. I shuffled to the window and dragged the heavy curtains apart, blinking rapidly at the unexpected sunlight. For some reason, I thought it would be night time.
I stared out, looking at the space on the pavement where Smith had been yesterday. Was it really just the day before? Or had it been earlier this very day? And what had happened? I searched my memory but all I could remember was the sudden appearance of The Colonel. After that, everything was blank. It wasn't even a blur, there was nothing in my recall at all.
As though just thinking about him had conjured him up, I heard the grainy, deep voice of The Colonel. He spoke my name. Not just my forename, but my surname too.
I jumped, my heart skipped up to my throat and my belly cramped as I swivelled around. He sat in the straight backed chair in the corner, his left hand wrapped around an empty glass, his right hand casually on the table.
“I didn't know anyone else was here,” I said, stupidly.
“I wanted to make sure you were all right, you had me worried last night,” he replied, his tone mild, his eyes never leaving my face.
I reddened, wondering what he meant. What had I done last night that had him worried about me? Almost in the same instant, despite my mortification about my unknown actions, I felt a rush of pride. The Colonel had been worried about me!
“What about … Smith?” I lowered my voice to a whisper as I mentioned his name.
The Colonel flapped his hand in a dismissive gesture.
There was a silence that I didn't know how to fill, so I edged back to the sofa.
“You're very loyal, aren't you, Roland Van Brom?” He said after a beat.
I looked off into the distance. It became apparent that he expected a reply, so eventually I nodded.
“And your friend, Mark, is he loyal?”
This wasn't a difficult question and I nodded, eagerly this time.
“And your young paddy friends, are they loyal?”
For a moment I was confused, then it clicked together; he meant my Irish friends. I scowled at the mention of them, and The Colonel picked up on this.
“Mark has been kind to me,” I said.
“And the Monaghan’s?”
I paused, wondering how to explain. “They were good friends, my best mates. But… they were a bit mean.” I finished lamely and I went back in time to the day at the Halel factory. It still burned me, that day.
“And Mark is looking after you now.” It wasn't a question, simply a statement, so I kept quiet.
From somewhere in the house I heard a moan. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck and a chill ran through me. I knew it was Smith.
“What's going to happen to him?” My voice was thick with sudden, inexplicable tears.
The Colonel flapped his hand, dismissive again. “Roland,” he said, and leaned towards me. “If you ever feel worried, about anything that happens, will you come to me?”
That rush of pride again, that I was important enough to warrant The Colonel’s attention. I nodded, smiling now, the tears that had clogged my throat a moment earlier forgotten.
“In fact, perhaps it would be nice to keep in contact with you, even if you're not worried,” he smiled. “You know where you can find me, don't you?”
I paused, unsure if I was supposed to know his real persona. “At the office?” I named the street and exhaled in relief as he nodded.
I thought I was smart, back then. I thought the three Irishmen were the bad guys, and Mark, though slightly crazy, and The Colonel were the ones looking out for me.
How wrong I was.
Hindsight is a wickedly cruel thing.
Smith lived for another week after the whole street debacle. At some point, after The Colonel had gone and it was just the three of us in the apartment, Mark tampered with Smith’s brain again.
I had gone to bed, my relief at being alone in my small box room palpable. I lay fully clothed on the bed, exhausted, my eyes closing into welcoming darkness when I heard the whine of Mark’s drill. I sat up, a hand clapped to my mouth. Not again, no more, no more, please. As the buzz of the drill continued, I sank underneath the duvet and covered my ears.
49
ELIAN
SANTOS ARGENTINIAN
10.7.15 Evening
Elian peruses the menu and realises that she is hungrier than she can recall being, at least since she came here. She knows there have been a lot of meals skipped since she returned from Chernobyl, but with the weight of
her at-risk health off her mind, she’s suddenly ravenous.
“Everything looks so good,” she murmurs.
Brigitta, seated opposite her, smiles. “You seem happy.”
It’s all the encouragement that Elian needs. She snaps the menu closed and leans across the table. Lowering her voice, she says, “The tests, they were all okay. I’m in the clear!”
Brigitta reaches over and clasps Elian’s hands. “I’m so happy for you, you must be so relieved.”
Elian nods. “I feel like I’m just waking up, I feel … new, like I’ve been born.” She stops and looks down at the table, embarrassed as she’s not usually deep or emotional.
“Nobody can blame you for feeling like that, you should feel that way,” Brigitta summons a passing waiter. “Now we shall celebrate with margaritas I think.”
As Brigitta places their drinks order Elian sits back and contemplates. It’s not simply the clean bill of health that has made her feel so revitalised. For as long as she’s been able to think for herself she’s been worried. Concerned that she had been placed in England under false documents, always wondering who her real family were, scared that someone was going to find out all about her past and call her on it. And then, the happiness vanishes as though a cloud has covered the sun that is her heart. Her problems are not all gone; there’s still Lev and his misdemeanours, and there’s still no getting round the fact that Niko is very likely her biological father. No matter how healthy she is, there is a very real chance that she is still born from a murderer and a rapist; she’s still the seed of the very man that so violently attacked her.
“Hey, chicky,” Brigitta says, clicking her fingers in Elian’s face. “Wake up, drinks are here!”
Elian summons a smile and sips at her margarita as she reopens the menu. There’s nothing she can do about Niko, if he is her flesh and bone and blood. But she can still stand and watch as they lead Lev out of his apartments in handcuffs. That’s all she has now, the only power that remains.
“Brigitta, did you hear about another attack on a girl last night?” she asks.
Brigitta nods sagely. “It was Naomi Wilson, she’s a nurse around here, she looks after us, a bit like Doctor Bastiaan but she’s more mobile. She’s also the girlfriend of the Inspectuer of our very own police force.” She snorts and says, scathingly. “Maybe now they’ll try a bit harder to find that motherfucker.”
“But why kill her? She’s a nurse, all the other girls have been … you know.” Elian tails off, unsure of the correct term to use when describing Brigitta and her friends.
Brigitta seems not to have noticed Elian’s discomfort as she leans even closer, her eyes wide and shining. “Oh but she wasn’t killed, she’s in the hospital but she’s alive and breathing. When – or if – she wakes up, maybe she’ll be able to tell the police who the bastard is.”
Elian frowns, thinking back to the previous evening. There was no way that whoever was wrapped up in that sheet was alive. Maybe they had been knocked unconscious, came to and manage to escape for help.
“Where was she found?”
“The Episcopalian Church,” replies Brigitta, gesturing with a jabbing hand towards the streets behind Elian with her stirrer. “It’s a couple of miles down that way.”
But it makes no sense. Elian knows what she saw. Or does she? Self doubt creeps in as she replays the previous evening in her head. Did she see it? Is she remembering correctly or is her mind and memory playing up again?
“What happened? Was it the same guy, or just a morbid coincidence?” Elian wonders aloud.
“It’s got the Scheveningen Street Strangler all over it,” says Brigitta and laughs at the expression on Elian’s face. “Oh, you didn’t know? The media have got a name for him now, the Street Strangler.” She sniffs unappreciatively. “It could have been worse, better than Hooker Hacker or Call Girl Killer.”
“Jesus Christ,” Elian pulls her hands through her wiry hair.
“All right, come on girl, let’s order already!” Brigitta throws the menu at Elian, opens her own and studies it intently.
Elian looks down at the menu that has landed on her lap, and realises that her appetite has dissipated once again.
50
ERIK FONS & ALEX HARVEY
BRONOVO HOSPITAL and 1056 GEVERS DEYNOOTWEG
10.7.15 Late night
The tension in the small hospital room is palpable and Alex can’t think of a single thing to say. Erik’s words spin around his head, ‘we haven’t had sex in months’. It’s on the tip of Alex’s tongue to ask Erik what he means, but it’s obvious what he means, and it’s excruciating.
So Naomi has cheated on Erik, a one night stand or a full-out affair, who knows? Who cares? Except Erik definitely cares, Alex can see how torn he is by the look on his face. Half of him is wracked with agony, wanting no doubt to lay into Naomi and ask her how she can do this to him. But he can’t let rip at her, she’s comatose, unable to respond or to shout back or tell her side of the story.
And he doesn’t even know Erik well enough to comfort him properly. Not that it’s in Alex’s nature to comfort. If Erik were one of his true friends, his life-long buddy, Alex would tell him to forget her, move on. But then a thought strikes him; that’s what he would have said pre-Elian. He’s not sure if he would give the same advice now. And then another thought comes, that Elian could very well be in Naomi’s position with another man’s child. He shudders, puts a lid on that, unable and unwilling to even go there right now. And it wasn’t the same circumstances either, Elian hadn’t cheated, she had been attacked …
“Maybe Naomi wasn’t a willing partner, to whoever did this to her,” he says, suddenly, thinking out loud.
“What?” Erik snaps.
Alex reddens, wishes he hadn’t said anything. “I just meant, perhaps … maybe she was attacked, rather than had an affair.”
Erik practically spits at him. “What, attacked twice in the last month? Bit of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”
It had been a stupid thing to say, Alex acknowledges to himself. He’d only said it because Elian was on his mind.
He is saved from saying anything else thanks to the arrival of one of Erik’s colleagues. They whisper together in Dutch, and Alex strains to listen, realising belatedly that he wouldn’t understand even if he could hear. They break off, Erik looks at Alex and pulls his jacket from the back of his chair and struggles into it.
“They’ve found another body,” he says and marches out of the room.
Alex stands by the door, unsure of Erik’s mood, not knowing if he should follow or if his work here is now done. He looks towards Naomi, watches the steady rise and fall of her chest. He thinks of Elian.
“Hey, policeman,” Erik puts his head around the door and barks at Alex. “Are you coming, then?”
Alex snatches up the files that are still spread out on Naomi’s bed, and with one last glance her way, he hurries after Erik.
Erik is relieved to have an excuse to leave Naomi’s room and bedside, even if it is at the expense of another victim. He couldn’t stay there any longer, looking at her face, angelic in her induced slumber. But she’s hurt, seriously injured, and he can’t cast away the years they’ve spent together. But he can’t stand to look at her either.
There’s a newsstand in the reception and he catches the headline of De Scheveningsche Courant. Scheveningen Street Strangler still slaughtering, it says. Erik flicks a fist out, catching the paper and tumbling it to the floor. It doesn’t matter; every newspaper says something similar and everyone knows that Naomi was the latest victim. But she’s alive, that’s got to count for something and the killer must know this. Normally he would expect the attacks to reduce, for the attacker to lie low for a while. But now he’s struck again and the bodies are really stacking up now.
“Where is it?” he grunts to his sergeant.
“Gevers Deynootweg, apartment 1056,” Sergeant Gant replies as he hurries to keep up with his inspectuer’s long s
trides.
Erik stops abruptly and the sergeant runs into the back of him. Erik shakes him off angrily and sees Alex jogging down the corridor towards them.
“Apartment 1056, that’s next to the one we smashed in last week, right?”
Gant nods eagerly and Erik looks over his shoulder and speaks in English to Alex.
“It looks like we might be going to see your mysterious Russian, after all.”
Alex feels his mouth go dry at Erik’s words. He’s not sure what has been said to make Erik suspect that they’ll find Lev, and he hopes to God that the body they’re about to view doesn’t turn out to be Elian. He can’t come this far and lose her, not like this. If he’s going to lose her it’s because she decides she doesn’t want him, not because she’s dead. He grabs Erik’s arm.
“What does she look like, this latest victim?”
Erik shrugs his hand off and glares. “I don’t know, we’re not there yet, are we?”
Fuck, fuck, FUCK! Alex pulls at the collar of his shirt, suddenly finding it hard to get breath into his lungs. As they reach Erik’s car Alex realises that he still has the keys in his pocket, and he runs around to the driver’s seat, calling out for Erik to hurry. The sergeant, Gant or Gaunt, is even further behind. Once Erik is in the passenger seat Alex pulls away, unable to wait for any trailing police officers. He looks in the rear view mirror, sees the sergeant standing in the road, one hand up in a questioning motion, the other scratching at his head.
Erik directs Alex down the streets, back past the Carlton Beach, the promenade and beach front passing by in a flash. Alex hits the brakes sharply as he sees the collection of police cars parked haphazardly out the front of an apartment building, lights flashing and officers walking around the perimeter of the building.
