‘I know. I got the call last night.’ Van den Bergen pinched the bridge of his nose and remembered how the news had ruined his own potentially wonderful evening. A bottle of red, airing. A table for two, perfectly laid. A blueprint for romance laid out along with the Thai take-out menu.
But these were not Hasselblad’s concerns. ‘And is the victim a prostitute or a porno starlet?’ He thumped the desk. ‘I should be so fucking lucky! Because that would at least make us look like we knew one end of a motive from another.’
Van den Bergen felt like somebody had plugged his head with the soiled wadding from the Valeriusstraat mattress. Wished he was anywhere but in this office, being bawled out by his superior in front of George, of all people.
Only half-listening to Hasselblad, now, he took a blister pack of tablets out of his desk drawer and pushed a codeine capsule into the palm of his hand.
‘Are you even paying attention to me, van den Bergen?’ Hasselblad’s face was bright red, as though he had run a marathon.
Van den Bergen swallowed the codeine with a gulp of cold coffee. Anxiety abating a little. ‘You know, Jaap, I think you might suffer from high blood pressure? You want to get that checked out.’ Looked over at George. ‘The pathologist in Rotterdam puts money on it that the victim’s Filipino – the contents of his stomach were largely undigested ingredients specific to some Filipino dish or other. What do you make of that?’ he asked her.
Hasselblad jerked his thumb towards George. ‘Who’s she?’
‘This is Georgina McKenzie,’ van den Bergen said. ‘She’s my new administrative assistant but is also a very talented criminology student from Cambridge University. Studying for her doctorate.’
George did not rise to greet the commissioner. She merely stretched out in her chair and crossed her legs at the ankle. One raised eyebrow.
Hasselblad fingered the dimple in his chin. He looked somewhat nonplussed by her body language. Studied her face. ‘Aren’t you the girl who was caught up in the case of the Bushuis bomber? The Firestarter kid?’ He turned to van den Bergen. ‘Why the hell is she working in my headquarters?’
Finally, George spoke. ‘Are you not listening to what your own chief inspector is telling you? Like the man said, I am very talented.’ She spoke at volume and rather slowly, as if he were a simpleton.
Hasselblad blinked, one two three, like a chugging computer straining to understand the information that had just been input into it. ‘Make me a coffee,’ he said.
‘No. I make his coffee…’ she pointed to van den Bergen ‘…and my coffee. You want coffee, get your own assistant to make it.’
Van den Bergen felt a flicker of pride warm him from within. He stood, hip clicking, and approached George’s chair. Put his hand on her shoulder, claiming her as his charge. His responsibility, though he knew she might not appreciate what she sometimes dubbed his ‘alpha male bullshit’.
‘Tell the commissioner your theory, George,’ he said.
George leaned back in her chair. Chewed intermittently on the end of her dormant e-cigarette. ‘Well, I’ve seen the photos from the crime scene that were emailed over.’
‘Who are you speaking to there?’ Hasselblad asked van den Bergen.
‘Wouter Dreyer from the Rotterdam Port Authority police,’ van den Bergen said.
George continued. ‘You’ve got a body, split open. Organs removed. The modus operandi of the murderer is exactly the same. So, unless Ruud Ahlers did the Amsterdam women and this Rotterdam murder is the work of an accomplice with an identical surgical skillset, you’ve got the wrong man under lock and key.’
‘Is that all you’ve got, Miss Criminologist?’ Hasselblad asked.
George stared at the palms of her hands. Pink and criss-crossed with a network of fine brown lines. ‘All three are immigrants,’ she continued. ‘An illegal, underage Somali, a porn-star Latvian and a Filipino, though we don’t know anything much about him, yet. Could be a race hate crime or an extreme political statement by anti-trafficking activists.’
Shaking his head like a stubborn toddler who refuses to eat the meal he has been given, Hasselblad emitted a snort of derision. He poked himself defiantly in the chest. ‘I’m top brass here, little criminology student. I’m the one with decades of detective work under my belt. You mark my words, Ahlers is our Amsterdam man. We’ve got evidence says he is. And I think he has got an accomplice. They’re a serial killing team of lunatics, keeping those organs as trophies.’ He marched back over to van den Bergen’s desk and pulled a fat bud off the orchid. ‘Get every nut-job who has a criminal record in for questioning.’
‘Define nut-job.’
‘The mentally ill, of course. There must be a register of the freaks somewhere.’
‘Freaks?’ van den Bergen said, scowling. Thinking about the anti-depressants in his overstuffed medicine cabinet at home. Insensitive, ignorant bastard.
‘Find it!’ Hasselblad said, unaware of the animosity encroaching on him in that room. ‘Pull them in! And get over to Rotterdam and have a look round.’ He tapped the desk insistently, unaware that his chief inspector was wishing norovirus on him for having manhandled his precious orchid. ‘Bring me a psychopath, Paul. Bring me one and fast, or you’re out. For good.’
CHAPTER 43
Amsterdam, van den Bergen’s car, en route to Rotterdam, later
‘About last night,’ George ventured, as van den Bergen manoeuvred his car slickly out of the car park.
The tyres squeaked noisily as he pulled away. The force of acceleration pressed George back into the leather seat.
‘What about it?’ he asked.
He honked his horn angrily at a van driver who had carved him up. Jabbed at the car’s satnav buttons, which served only to cause a computerised voice to bark a string of disjointed instructions at him. ‘Piss off, satnav. Jesus! There’s bloody roadworks everywhere at the moment. Why is nothing ever straightforward? Pass me the thing.’ He clicked his fingers in the direction of his glovebox and George withdrew a well-thumbed, spiral-bound road map.
‘This thing?’
He growled. Snatched it from her. Balanced it on his steering wheel and started to turn the pages. One eye on the road. One eye on the map. ‘We need to get out to the E19.’
She covered her eyes. ‘Please don’t do that. You’ll crash the fucking car.’
‘I never crash the car.’
Exasperating. That’s what van den Bergen was, she reflected, spying his perfectly straight nose and prominent forehead. An angular-looking man with clean, sharp edges to his personality on the surface. Unyielding. Seemingly self-assured and completely lacking nuance. But she knew better.
‘You dodged a bullet last night,’ she said. ‘We were going to talk, but this Rotterdam thing happened. Then you drag me into work at the crack of dawn, and I know you’ve been up all night. It’s a strange bed. I woke up for a pee at three am and could see your light was on. You still haven’t told me what’s going on with you.’ Momentarily, she put her hand on his outstretched right arm that gripped the steering wheel. He looked down at it. ‘Paul, watch the road, for Christ’s sakes!’
His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down inside a sinewy neck. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said, staring through the windscreen as the historical centre gave way to ugly industrial outskirts. The canals got wider here. Grey buildings, grey, bare trees, grey skies reflected grey on the water.
He sighed deeply.
‘You’re lying,’ she said. ‘Don’t send me cryptic texts and then expect me not to ask when I get over here, you attention-seeking tosspot.’
A smile just about breached the severe expression that was gateway to all that lurked inside this complex man. It dissipated too quickly.
‘The anniversary of my dad’s death is coming up,’ he finally said, turning onto the motorway. The countryside rapidly flattened out to green polders, the canals looking like mercury crawling through the landscape in a grid-like formation. ‘I didn’t get on with him. He
used to call me a pansy when I was at art school. When I knocked Andrea up, I was just a reckless failure. I could never win with the old man. But it still hurt like hell when he got sick.’
‘Cancer, right?’
He nodded. Puffed air out of his mouth noisily. ‘I’ve not been sleeping well.’
‘You’re depressed?’
Glanced at her. His normally steely eyes looked heavy and dull. His upper eyelids, lax and more low-hanging than usual. Medicated. Dolorous. ‘What do you think? And Tamara’s getting married to that utter loser, Numb-nuts.’ He shook his head. Exhaled too long and too hard.
But though George wanted to sympathise, a memory presented itself as an unbidden distraction. She held her hand over her mouth to obscure the giggle that was brewing. ‘Didn’t you tell me you planted a GPS tracker on him, when they first started living together? You were determined to prove he was up to no good, but then he found it in his guitar case or something, and she totally lost it with you.’
Van den Bergen pursed his lips. There was that suggestion of a smile again.
‘Oh, stop being so grim-faced, Paul!’
‘Are you going to tell me to cheer up?’ he said. Was that hurt strangling his voice; making his usual deep, rich rumble seem strained and thin? ‘You, of all people?’
‘No!’ This wasn’t going the way she had intended. She wanted to comfort, not castigate. ‘I just think…’ She sought the correct words from the green fields and the giant, slow-turning wind turbines that studded the view. ‘…Sometimes you won’t allow yourself even the slightest shred of happiness. You begrudge yourself a smile, for God’s sake. And who gives a shit if Tamara marries Numb-nuts, as long as she’s happy?’
Van den Bergen flung the road map into her lap. Mouth arced downwards in a sneer. ‘You’ll have children one day. Then you’ll understand.’
Was he being patronising? It felt like it. She quelled the temptation to come back with a smart-arsed remark. Turned on the stereo. The angry buzz of distorted guitars blasted from the speakers.
‘Jesus. Aren’t you supposed to, like, get better taste in music when you have a mid-life crisis, man? What is this shit?’
He poked a long, slender finger at the on/off switch and the car’s cabin was silent once more. ‘Why are we arguing?’ he asked.
‘Are we arguing?’ she said.
‘I’ve been waiting for you to come over. And now you’re here. Can we save the psychoanalytic therapy session for a nice meal and a bottle of wine? That was what I was planning for last night. Right now, I feel like dredging up my innermost anguish like a hole in the bloody head.’
George held her hands up. Sensed she had trespassed on uncomfortable territory. Slapped his thigh. ‘You know you’re my favourite copper, don’t you, you big old lanky sod?’
‘Did you really just slap my thigh?’ he said. The smile broke through like reluctant sun shining on a storm-ravaged coastline. It seemed to plant a hopeful flag in the stern promontory of his face. ‘That’s sexual harassment in the workplace, young lady.’
She gasped in faux horror. Placed a melodramatic hand on her chest. ‘Moi?’
He briefly turned to her. Those heavy eyes seemed to have cleared. When he winked, she felt certain the van den Bergen she knew and loved was still present beneath this dry husk. All he needed to do was shed his sorrow like a reptile jettisons dead skin, and she felt optimistic that her friend could return from the shadows. Couldn’t he?
‘Hey!’ he said, almost smiling as he stared at the road ahead. ‘There’s this paediatrician I want to introduce you to. Sabine. She’s offering Marie some advice on signs of child abuse. Paedophilia. That sort of thing. And she’s…well, you’ll like her. A friend of Marianne’s.’
She? George didn’t like the sound of ‘she’. Perhaps her friend had already returned from the shadows with somebody else’s assistance.
‘But never mind that. Tell me about Karelse,’ he said, unexpectedly changing tack.
Then, it was George’s turn to feel the sluggish, draining weight of expectation bearing down on her.
CHAPTER 44
Amsterdam, Ad’s apartment, later
The walk down to the postbox in the communal entrance hall felt like an arduous trek. Ad was still wearing his slippers. T-shirt and boxers beneath the navy velour dressing gown that George had bought him their first Christmas together. The novelty of it being from the English store, Marks & Spencer, had long worn off. It felt heavy on him and had discoloured in parts, hanging in the sunshine on the bathroom door for over three years, now.
The front door to the apartment block was open. Two bags of shopping on the coir mat. Syrup waffles. Eggs. Washing powder. Frozen spinach. Out in front, that nosey, well-meaning old twit, Mrs de Klerk, was locking up her bike. Ad groaned. Turned to go back upstairs.
‘Adrianus!’ Mrs de Klerk said.
He was forced to look round. There she was, waving, as though she were flagging down a bus. Taking laboured long strides with those short, varicose veined legs of hers, mercifully hidden today by green waterproof walking trousers. Summer was a nightmare when she insisted on wearing shorts. He felt certain the first words out of her mouth would be, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask about…’ Same every time.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask about that noise,’ she said, toying with the silver cross that hung around her neck. ‘A terrible racket, it was, coming from your apartment.’
Cornered now, there was no opportunity for escape. Ad withdrew the key from his dressing gown pocket and opened the box that was labelled ‘Karelse/Meerdinck’. Took out a sheaf of post, mainly bills and junk. A pink envelope with Astrid’s sloping hand on the front. A white envelope from England with a Crowthorne date stamp on it. Written by hand in block capitals that were so neat, they looked almost as though they had been word-processed. Sent two days ago, by the looks. Addressed to George.
‘The noise, Adrianus! It was ungodly. I mean, you know I have heart problems.’
She sounded flustered and out of breath. Perhaps it was all those waffles and eggs. He silently rebuked himself for being so intolerant.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs de Kl—’
‘I think you had a party, didn’t you? And you know you’re to get the written consent of all the other occupants in this block if you have a party.’
Ad tried to focus on his disgruntled neighbour but his glance was inexorably drawn to the white envelope by the strangely neat handwriting and by George’s name. Why had someone written to her at his address?
‘Party?’ he asked, vaguely aware that he was being taken to task for a transgression he hadn’t committed.
‘People, coming and going. Doors slamming. Thumping music until four am! You’re lucky I’m a Christian, else I would have called the police.’
Finally, he focussed on her. ‘I’ve been away. It must have been Jasper. He’s moved back in full time.’
Mrs de Klerk picked up her shopping bags and plunged them into Ad’s hands, so that he almost dropped his post. Forced to wedge the mail in his mouth. He carried the bags up to her front door.
‘Are you ill, dear?’ she asked, sticking her key in the lock. ‘Only you’re normally quite clean-looking for a student. I like that about you. I said to the ladies at church, I like this young man who lives next door. He’s very respectable, even though he’s dating an English nigger.’
Ad plonked her bags heavily on the floor – heavily enough that he was fairly certain at least one or two of her eggs must have broken. Took the dribble-drenched mail out of his mouth and thoughtfully stroked the two days’ worth of stubble that had sprouted on his face and neck. ‘I’m fine, thank you. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use the N-word when you’re talking about my girlfriend. It’s racist.’
Mrs de Klerk looked startled. ‘Cheeky boy!’ Whipped her shopping bags inside and slammed the door, leaving him alone on the landing.
The strange letter had a certain magnetism to it. With the rest of the mail
stuffed under his arm, his fingers hovered over the sealed flap. Should he open it? It wasn’t addressed to him. But if it had been sent to his flat, that meant he could open it, right? And George, should she ever answer his calls ever again, would want him to open it and read it out to her, wouldn’t she? Much quicker than forwarding.
‘Screw you, George!’ he muttered under his breath as he ripped a line down the fold of the envelope. Pulled out the letter. Shivered when he read the name of the sender at the bottom of a page of inhumanly neat, handwritten prose.
Charging back inside his flat, he bolted the door and put the mortise lock on. Felt cold sweat prickle forth from pores that seemed to know things were amiss before his brain had time to think such a thing. Where was his phone? Where was the damned thing? There! On the kitchen table next to Jasper’s cycle helmet and the empty cans of lager from last night. Found George’s number and pressed dial. Her face on the wallpaper. A photo from the Stansted Express. Smiling, though he knew the smile hadn’t reached her eyes. Ringing. Ringing, now.
‘For Christ’s sake, George. Please pick up!’
CHAPTER 45
Rotterdam Port, later
Clanging, clashing. Whirring of heavy machinery moving from this grid reference to that stack. The throaty, guttural sound of horns from vessels approaching their birth. Wind, gusting between the towers of multicoloured blocks, like a whistle from the pursed lips of steel giants. Dockside is a very noisy place. Unsurprisingly, since the hundred or so square kilometres that constitute the Port of Rotterdam house everything from the unassuming, picturesque historic harbour, Delfshaven, to the vast tracts of land and water dedicated to processing cargo shipments from all over the world. Shipped in from afar. Sorted into stacks on Dutch soil. Transported by train to the hinterlands of the Netherlands and Germany. George was surprised to see how few people were actually on the ground. A stevedore here, a stevedore there, but mainly, it was a place where those steel containers in an array of different weather-beaten colours were swung around in an almost graceful dance by robotic cranes, driven by automated vehicles, choreographed by computer programs that were manipulated from a distance inside the port’s administration buildings.
The Girl Who Broke the Rules Page 17
