The Girl Who Broke the Rules

by Marnie Riches

  George looked at a scalpel on the floor. The blade had come away from the handle. ‘Cheap instruments?’ she said. Noticed the crumpled paper sheeting that barely covered the split, plastic covering on the couch. ‘Hardly surprising.’

  She walked to the fridge and, using the sleeve of her hooded top, opened the door. It was dirty inside. Mouldering sweet buns next to two bags of blood. Type ‘O’. Vaccination serum on the shelving in the door next to cheese and butter that were past their use-by date by two years.

  ‘He’s an animal,’ she said, holding her nose at the rancid smell. Something occurred to her. ‘Hey, didn’t it say in the report you sent me that the mattress in Valeriusstraat was covered with type “O”, and that you couldn’t work out—’

  ‘Whose blood it was,’ van den Bergen finished. ‘Yes. That’s right.’

  He crouched next to her and peered inside the fridge. Glasses on, to examine the label on one of the bags of blood. She could smell sport deodorant on him but noticed his collar was frayed at the corners. His skin was dry. Hair needed cutting, though she wanted to touch it. To know if it was soft like Ad’s or coarse, like thick, straight hair often was. Resisted the temptation.

  ‘It’s a mystery,’ he said. ‘Enough blood to have caused death but no body, and what we presume are murder weapons, contaminated with traces of cow flesh.’

  The thrill of discovery really sparked inside George, now. Warming her from her toes to her scalp. She fluffed her hair in triumph. ‘I think you’ve been played,’ she said.

  Van den Bergen put the bag of blood carefully back onto the shelving. ‘What do you mean?’

  George placed a latex-gloved hand on his shoulder and levered herself back onto her feet. ‘What’s the bet the blood on that mattress came from bags like this? Type O. If that blacklisted arsehole, Ahlers, is your murderer, he can get hold of fresh blood like you and I can buy milk from the supermarket.’

  Van den Bergen closed the fridge door and stood, so he towered above George. Her neck ached to look up at him.

  ‘Right. Go on!’

  ‘So, the Valeriusstraat thing has been doctored to look like a crime scene, but isn’t. Neither of the dead women were killed with a hammer and chisel, were they? Or showed signs of having been whipped with a cat-o-nine tails.’

  ‘No. They were cut open and some of their organs had been removed.’

  ‘So, Ahlers is feeding the police misinformation to hide the true circumstances around the murders. I’d say that putting the Linda Lepiks horror porn where you can find it is a ploy to make the killings look sexually motivated.’

  The chief inspector frowned. ‘You think they’re not sexual in nature?’

  George shrugged. ‘Who knows? If Ahlers is your man, maybe he’ll talk in time, but I’d say this runs a bit deeper than some twisted fucker just wanting to hurt women and then get off on it.’

  ‘What do you think of Satanism?’

  ‘Dunno.’ She snapped off her gloves and jammed her hands into the pockets of her hooded top. Smiled. ‘Not my first choice of a Saturday night out.’

  ‘I’ve got a detective on my team bleating on about Satanism.’ The creases in his brow deepened. His dark eyebrows arched above steely eyes, beyond which she glimpsed a storm. ‘If you take away a hatred of women and fetishism, I can’t find a bloody sensible motive in all this.’

  George put her arm around him, fleetingly. ‘You’re a pro. You’ll get it out of Ahlers.’

  Van den Bergen blushed. ‘The pathologist, Daan Strietman, mentioned voodoo.’

  The doorbell tinkled more merrily than befitted such a depressing place. Several people walked in, wearing white protective jumpsuits and carrying cases of equipment. At the head of the group was a man, the sight of whom turned van den Bergen’s half-smile into a sneer.

  ‘Speak of the devil…’

  CHAPTER 40

  Amsterdam, the Cracked Pot Coffee Shop, red light district, later

  It had been a long forty-eight hours. Staring out at the rooftops through the window of the attic room that had once been her home, George thought about her return to Amsterdam: a picture perfect city to the untrained eye. But scratch the surface and the quirky, steep-roofed architecture, the flower-filled houseboats, the haphazard beauty of it all soon gave way to something altogether more sinister. A decadent old dame, fed by the rotten arteries of the canal network – rank with diesel slick, abandoned, decaying Christmas trees and the odd up-ended supermarket trolley. Even London’s Soho only felt like a shabby cousin next to this multi-faceted city. There was no place like it. How she had longed to be back, and not just for a visit.

  Finally, after smoking e-cigarettes all day, she allowed herself to light up a proper one. Felt only a shred of remorse at having broken her promise to Ad. Checked her phone. Her text inbox was bursting with:

  Where are you? Love you, Ad xxx

  Have I done something wrong? Love you, Ad xxx

  Can we talk about when I was in London? Love you so so much, Ad xxx

  Are you going off me? Love forever, Ad xxx

  Aunty Sharon says you’re in Amsterdam. Call me!

  Always multiple kisses, apart from the one where her absconsion had been rumbled. His texts had stopped after that.

  ‘Oh, Ad. You sweet, nagging bastard,’ George said, breathing her smoke out into the early evening sky, as if her dreams and aspirations were buoyed all the way to God’s ears on those noxious blue curls.

  Switching to email, she spied one of five missives from Sally Wright. The last one, in actual fact, before Sally had finally gone quiet.

  From: Sally.Wright@cam.ac.uk14.05

  To: George_McKenzie@hotmail.com

  Subject: Unauthorised study leave.

  Georgina,

  Why are you not answering my emails? Why did I have to find out by dint of your absenting yourself from our planned supervision and from a curt email, sent by that Dutch detective who almost got you killed, that you have gone AWOL? I expressly forbade you to go to Amsterdam for more than a long weekend to spend time with your boyfriend. Phone me immediately or face the consequences!

  Sally

  Dr Sally Wright, Senior Tutor

  St John’s College, Cambridge Tel…01223 775 6574

  Dept. of Criminology Tel…01223 773 8023

  ‘Fuck off, you frosty old bag,’ George told the email.

  With a swipe, the disappointed email had vanished and was replaced by her disappointing wallpaper – the photo of her and Ad on the Stansted Express. She felt hounded and surrounded.

  ‘Fuck ’em. Right, van den Bergen. I’m coming to get you, you miserable git.’

  With her suitcase repacked, she called a cab from the Cracked Pot below.

  ‘Leaving so soon?’ Jan asked, offering her a toke on his giant joint.

  George sighed. Looked longingly at the carrot-shaped gift of Moroccan hash and shook her head. ‘Last time I stayed here, a nutter tried to rape me and blow me to smithereens,’ she said. Chuckled without mirth. ‘This time, I almost get cut into bits by the new serial killer on the block. Messages from the universe, Jan.’

  ‘Messages from the universe.’ Jan seemed to roll her words around his tongue, savouring their flavour. He nodded slowly, absorbing the profundity. ‘I taught you well!’ Hooking his stiff, long grey hair behind his ears and pushing his round Trotsky glasses up his nose, he seemed to be considering his next move. Evidently made a decision when he locked George in a bone-crunching embrace which she had not asked for.

  Initially, the contact rendered her rigid. Forgetting to breathe. Then she remembered Jan was a friend of old and relaxed into what was, after all, just a hug. Had she not eaten from this man’s table? Lived under his roof for a year.

  ‘You’re a grotty sod, Jan, but you’re the best,’ she said. ‘Thanks. I know you meant well. Letting me have the room, and all.’

  Jan wheezed with stoned laughter. ‘You get that obsessive compulsive shit sorted out, Georgina. You never u
sed to turn into an ice-pop when I hugged you.’ He added in heavily accented Americanised English. ‘It’s most uncool, man.’

  She arrived at van den Bergen’s just a little after seven.

  He opened the door, wearing a flowery apron over a pair of baggy jeans and a black turtleneck sweater that made him look even thinner than ever. She smiled and pressed a good barolo into his hands. She had worked the best part of an evening at the club to be able to afford that. Leaned forwards to kiss him on the cheek. Realised his startled expression was not one of a man who was about to serve a relaxing meal.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s possible there’s been another,’ he said.

  ‘In Amsterdam? Could it be the Valeriusstraat—’

  Shook his head vociferously. Checked the landing, as if anyone could have been lurking or eavesdropping in that small space. Pulled her inside and shut the door. ‘Rotterdam.’

  CHAPTER 41

  Over the North Sea, 23 January

  Buffeted by a brisk wind; tugged forwards across the North Sea by the droning blur of the propellers, the private six-seater was now some distance from Manston airport in Kent. Homeward bound.

  The trip had been a resounding success in many ways. First, a convention with contemporaries in the UK’s National Health Service to discuss best practice. Admittedly, meetings like that with those stuffy British bastards had been as dull as the billowing rain clouds that caressed the plane’s nose.

  The convention had been billed as a cultural and clinical exchange between Europe’s finest medical practitioners, blah blah blah. Advanced techniques, some tedious woman had waxed lyrical about. Everyday surgical procedures under the influence of ground-breaking research done by Cambridge’s finest at Addenbrooke’s, a science nerd had boasted, barely pausing for breath. Excuse me while I just sleep with my eyes open. Reflecting on the opportunity Rotterdam had yielded had provided a useful distraction during the most tedious presentations.

  The real reason for attending – apart from an excellent alibi, of course – had been the post-convention conversation, during a deep-fried, carbohydrate-heavy buffet lunch, with the consultant from London. How easily this consultant had coughed up golden nuggets of wisdom, thinking he was merely chatting over golden nuggets of chicken. Yes, my favoured technique is such and such. The primary concerns when maintaining the patient’s levels are this, this and this. Spill your guts, Dr Whatever-it-is-your-name-badge-says-you’re-called. Like the girls in Amsterdam. Like the little scrubber in Soho. And the others.

  The turbo-prop aircraft was lurching from side to side on an unhappy, turbulent bed of cumulonimbus. No need to worry, just yet. Eat some peanuts.

  ‘Would you like a glass of champagne?’ the air hostess asked. Smart in a navy blue and green livery. Formal, yet attentive. Too attractive to be the sort of workaday flying waitress who ploughed up and down the aisles of commercial airliners, serving dried-out meals to hordes of complaining British holiday makers all day long. This was a beauty. And today, they were alone in the cabin of a private aircraft. Just the two of them.

  ‘No, I’ll leave it for now, thanks. I’m fine with my peanuts and the coffee.’

  Under normal circumstances, with her comely, trim figure and encouraging smile, the air hostess might have offered a temptation, but those parties could be very draining.

  The farmhouse in Kent had been a pleasant way to spend an evening. Funny how the architecture in that part of Britain was so similar to the gabled Dutch houses over the water. Op het platteland – in the country. Not exactly flat, but still a bucolic scene with pastures green and the lopsided cones of the oast house nearby. All it had lacked was a windmill.

  ‘Come in,’ the party hostess had said. Madame Whiplash with a crepey orange neck and tonged hair that befitted a younger woman. ‘Indulge yourself. The Duke is meeting business partners on the sofa.’

  Inside, the farmhouse had been furnished in the artless non-style of the nouveau riche. A grand staircase in Perspex and wood. Tripping the blue LED light-fantastic up to the galleried landing of the first floor. Supermodern. Supertacky. Marble this and mirrored that. Chandeliers hanging from every ceiling, whether it was vaulted and appropriate or beamed and far too low. Like dangling earrings on a burnt-out strip-club whore.

  ‘You can get changed in here,’ the hostess had said, smiling with difficulty through an over-enthusiastically executed face uplift; opening a secret door amid smoked glass mirrored panels to reveal an office of sorts. Filled with piles of discarded clothing.

  With newcomers left to find their way to the fun, the way was signposted by condoms in bowls, incongruously placed next to wholesome family photos on this sideboard and flower arrangements on that cabinet. Ushered into the living room by naked girls bearing trays of champagne. More in the living room, where people were already busy indulging themselves. This party was like the others during which The Duke conducted business. Same sex. Opposite sex. Strange formations made from multiple participants, like an erotic game of Twister with added sound effects. Some were body-beautiful types, in amazing shape. Others were ageing, overweight, scarred – looking almost as if they were wearing grotesque body suits that resembled humans or perhaps were a failed human cloning experiment that had produced only ugly counterfeits. Wealth had obviously been their ticket into this party. Most people wore masks.

  But The Duke had been seated and fully clothed. Wearing a sharp suit. Holding court on a fuchsia velvet sofa, that diamond in his tooth, glinting. Lines of coke on the table for him to ingest at regular intervals, he was unaware that his left nostril was caked in powder. Sniffing, glassy-eyed. His accent was the finest cut crystal. But his arrogance like overwhelming, cheap cologne. This was a man who had climbed to the top of a slag heap for kicks. Treading on the putrefying corpses of those he had vanquished. Almost certainly to defy family. Public school dropout, though there was a sharp entrepreneurial mind behind those coked-up eyes.

  ‘I’m pleased with the way you’ve been delivering,’ he’d said. Talking just that bit too fast.

  ‘I want more money.’

  ‘Isn’t it enough I ship you here on my private jet? Don’t I look after you? Show you a good time? Don’t you like my parties?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Is the coke not good enough?’

  The coke had been good, actually. ‘It’s fine. But I still want more money. You think you can get cheaper elsewhere, we can go our separate ways, if you like. This is difficult and technically demanding work.’

  Renegotiating and agreeing terms had been easier than expected. The Duke had handed over a list.

  ‘These are my needs and these are the timescales,’ he said, sniffing, sniffing and never managing to stop the dew drop of snot from dropping onto the crotch of his trousers. Wiping his nose. Shaking his head like a dog that shakes rain from its drenched coat. ‘There’s a freight liner due to dock in Dover about three am. Coming straight from the Congo. What you need’s on board that ship but you can pick it up from Ramsgate. Easier to transfer the cargo and have it dock in Ramsgate on a fishing trawler. You can do what you need to do nearby. I’ve made provision for your requirements, as agreed.’

  The party had been less of a buzz than anticipated in the end, because of the need to keep a clear head and steady hand. The list was the list. Business was business. Seeing some loser in a custard-yellow shirt getting the living daylights beaten out of him on the driveway of that farmhouse served only as a reminder that, once an agreement had been entered into with The Duke, it had to be adhered to. He was not a man to be trifled with.

  At least the Ramsgate mission had been easy enough. In fact, it was fair to say that the procedures had been refined even further. So, the drab medical convention had truly served its purpose.

  Now, as the private aircraft wobbled down perilously on the insistent south-westerly wind towards Rotterdam The Hague airport, there was a certain comfort in knowing that another job had been satis
factorily completed, the money had been transferred successfully, a glorious professional reputation remained intact and a good night’s sleep with a clear conscience beckoned. Because of Ramsgate, some good would be done in a rotten, festering world. The victims racked up but the maths stacked up. And the police didn’t have the slightest inkling of what the hell was going on.

  The air hostess was about to fasten her seatbelt in preparation for landing. She made eye contact.

  ‘Do you need help?’

  ‘Actually, if it’s not too late, I will have that glass of champagne.’

  CHAPTER 42

  Amsterdam, police headquarters, later

  ‘How has this happened?’ Hasselblad asked.

  He was pacing, as usual, like a fat cockerel strutting in a farmyard. Hands behind his back. Eyes bulging, boggling, ogling George in the corner surreptitiously. Except it was not his space he was territorially marking out.

  Van den Bergen sat behind his desk, feeling like a visitor in his own office. He put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, blocking off the view of the framed photo of Tamara and the simple white potted orchid that sat by his computer. ‘What do you mean, “How has this happened?” Have I got personal jurisdiction over the entire country?’

  Hasselblad stopped pacing. Leaned over the desk, so that his paunch rested on the table top. A tic flickering in his left lower eyelid. ‘You’ve got a known pervert and all-round scumbag under lock and key. You solved the murders of the year in record time! Those are headlines the chief of police would have been happy to read. But now?’ He stood, raising himself to his full height of five feet and eight inches. Pointed with a chubby finger at van den Bergen, as though he were aiming a gun at his head. ‘How am I supposed to enjoy my dinner, when there’s some hack on the phone from de Telegraaf, telling me they’ve just found another body? In Rotterdam! Freshly butchered, “like a side of beef”, he said. ‘In an opened cargo container.’