The Girl Who Broke the Rules

by Marnie Riches

  ‘Happen? What do you mean?’ She giggled nervously. ‘Nothing happened.’ Withdrew her hand and stood too quickly. Rush of blood to the head. Bowl, flung into the sink with a clatter.

  Tell him, you coward! her conscience yelled. Just finish this. It’s over. It’s run its course. You’re not happy. He’s not happy. You love him but not in the right way. Let him go. You’re not a twenty-year-old undergrad, impressed by his accent any more. He’s suffocating you. You want to be with Paul.

  Glaring through the window at the car park below, George wished she could blame someone else for this mess she had got herself into; blame something else – hell, if she could blame the neighbours’ cars, she would.

  She was going to do it. Fess up. Come clean. Thought about the lies Letitia told. The lies her father had told. Lies were cankerous. If you can tell it how it is in your working life, you can sodding well do it in your personal life too. You deserve that much.

  But the tendency towards petty dishonesty ran thickly through George’s veins, it would seem. Bonded the basic decency that formed the very core of her being with corrupt genetic material from her deceitful parents. Polluted her, so that in the matter of her sexual transgression in Ramsgate, she could not tell the truth. At best, she could continue to keep quiet, letting the blissful memory of van den Bergen making her body sing, fester instead of blossom.

  ‘I’m going to work.’

  She kissed Ad half-heartedly on the forehead, pulled on her coat and left.

  Wobbling along the canals precariously on a bicycle van den Bergen had lent to her, built and adjusted to suit a man who had legs that reached up to her chest, George heard her phone ringing inside her coat pocket. She ignored it. Then it pinged three times in succession. The call was almost certainly from Ad. One ping would be voicemail. But what were the texts or emails about?

  As she pedalled her way towards the police station, she checked her watch. Already sweaty despite the freezing drizzle and mist. Too early for work, because she had made the fast getaway from Ad. The timorous sun had only been up an hour and showed no signs of clawing its way through the dense, low-hanging cloud. It even smelled foggy.

  On Nassaukade, she juddered to a halt. Barely able to operate the back-step brakes on the bicycle. Threw herself sideways, praying she would land upright on her left foot. Her crotch was sore where the saddle and its owner had been digging in. She smiled mischievously at the thought. Then felt immediately guilty. Flung the bike against the wall. Sat down on the stone steps to one of the beautiful old apartment blocks and lit a cigarette.

  Gazing at the bobbing row-boats that were tethered to the canal wall on the opposite side was a soothing enterprise. The water was wide here, though not wide enough to remind her of the Thames back home, and the area too built up to be the picturesque Cam, with its Cambridge colleges and the backs, transcending any shitty East Anglian weather with their sheer medieval beauty. Still, this Amsterdam had not lost its charm for her.

  ‘Now, who’s trying to get hold of me this early in the morning, then?’ she said, dragging on her clandestine cigarette.

  She took out her phone and read a text from Sally Wright. Full of righteous indignation as had recently been the case? No. The words rang with alarm.

  Have done some digging into how Silas Holm came to send you a letter. He has had a visit from someone purporting to be a doctor…

  But the phone was ringing shrilly, now. Distracting her as she read. Who on earth used the word ‘purporting’ in a bloody text, anyway? Before the screen was dominated by the incoming caller, she registered the additional words:

  Be on your guard.

  and:

  Highly irregular breach of security.

  Shit. Needed to answer the call. It was Aunty Sharon. Family first.

  ‘All right, Aunty Shaz,’ she said. ‘What’s eating you?’

  ‘So, the music comes on,’ the Dutch Broadcast Foundation – NOS TV – producer said. A young man with a receding hairline and too-tight jeans. Bouncing with energy; possibly pharmaceutically powered. ‘I give the countdown and the fingers, like I explained.’ He mimed three, two, one with his hand, chopping the air. Pointed to the presenter. A smartly dressed woman in her thirties, wearing the heaviest makeup van den Bergen had ever seen. ‘She reads the autocue and introduces you.’

  The female presenter smiled benignly. Patted her hair. ‘I’m going to ask you the questions you went through with the production assistant. Okay?’ Pressed her earpiece and looked away, as though she were listening to an internal voice from the other dimension.

  ‘Okay.’ Van den Bergen could feel the sweat rolling freely down his back. He wondered if damp patches would be visible to the viewing public. Perhaps he was going to be sick. He felt dizzy as hell. Maybe it was his labyrinthitis playing up. Where was Jan de Hoop? Who was this young woman in her sharp suit? Did it even matter? Where were his codeine tabs? He fingered the blister pack in his trouser pocket. Wished George were there. Why had he been so quick to send her calls to voicemail?

  ‘Chief Inspector?’ the producer asked.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Van den Bergen sipped from his glass of water, light-headed. All eyes in the gaudy NOS studio boring into him. The camera men. The interviewer. The producer. Assistants. A sinister-looking group of other TV execs, nodding knowingly at one another and whispering who knew what. The first press conference had been stressful enough. But at least it had been on familiar turf at the police station. With these cameras on him, however, he would have to address the nation. And there was talk of this being streamed through the BBC too. He hadn’t even had his third cup of coffee.

  The programme’s bleeping, ephemeral theme music began. To his right sat Hasselblad. Shining like the fairy on top of the Christmas tree in his ceremonial uniform. Frog-eyes bulging with delight under the harsh limelight.

  ‘Don’t fuck it up, van den Bergen. The Queen’s watching you,’ he said. Helpful fat bastard.

  Well, if he failed to get his words out on air, he was sure Hasselblad would waste no time in stepping in.

  Three, two, one. Go.

  ‘Is it true that the Netherlands police has arrested not one, but two prime suspects, with a further man in detention, suspected of being a part of an international trafficking ring?’

  Stammering his way through the first few seconds, van den Bergen found the words came more easily if he thought about the victims. Especially the unidentified little girl. He confirmed the arrests of Daan Strietman and Iwan Buczkowski.

  ‘So, you’re confident you’ve found your killers?’ the news presenter asked.

  When he couldn’t bring himself to answer, imagined Marianne de Koninck and the forensics community screaming abuse at the TV, Hasselblad interrupted.

  ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘As far as I’m concerned, it’s another triumph for the Netherlands police. Our streets are safe again, thanks to my team’s hard work. Case closed.’

  As soon as they were off air, van den Bergen bolted for the toilets and threw up. He sat on the toilet cubicle floor, spitting into the bowl, the neck of his shirt open and his tie hanging loose. At that moment, all he wanted to do was call George and hear her reassuring voice. Weak, weak man. He dialled her number and found she was engaged. Took an unexpected, incoming call from Tamara.

  ‘Darling. What’s wrong?’ he asked, leaning against the sink, now. Splashing water on his mouth with his free hand.

  ‘Hi Dad! Me and Willem just watched you on the TV. You were great!’

  The fact that she actually squealed with approval made him feel just a little better. Without pause, she rattled on about Numb-nuts’ most recent gig, which had been packed with fifteen students and six friends. Eulogised about a new coffee machine they had bought. Their arrangements for something or other, which he didn’t catch, as he was blowing his nose loudly. Commented that he sounded breathless and should see a doctor.

  ‘That’s where I’m going next,’ he said, check
ing his watch.

  ‘Now, don’t forget the sixteenth, will you?’ Her voice was lovely. Squeaky and feminine. She didn’t sound much different to how she had sounded as a little girl. She had inherited her mother’s dainty vocal chords, except Andrea had eventually sounded like a squawking vulture as she circled her ex-husband’s carrion, picking off what was left to share with that incredible turd, Groenewalt.

  ‘What’s happening on the sixteenth?’

  ‘Seriously?’ The loveliness had disappeared from Tamara’s voice.

  ‘Oh, the wedding. Right. Right.’

  As van den Bergen walked out to the car, he said sixteenth, sixteenth, sixteenth over and over in his head. Wedding. Don’t forget the bloody wedding. Get a new shirt. In fact, get a new suit. Unlocked his car. Wanted to take George as his date, but wondered if that was appropriate, seeing as she was not far off Tamara’s age. One in the eye for Andrea, though. Except he was going to set George straight and put their relationship back on a strictly professional footing, because he was a man of honour. Not a cradle-snatching pervert. Who else to ask? Maybe Sabine Schalks…

  In a neglected corner of his consciousness, as he folded himself into the Mercedes, he was dimly aware that somebody was watching him.

  ‘Let me see him!’ Marianne de Koninck said, thumping Elvis’ desk hard.

  She could see she had startled him. He blanched and moved his chair several inches away from her.

  ‘It’s not a drop-in centre, Marianne,’ he said, fixing his gaze on the pea-green coat she had hastily thrown over her scrubs. ‘You can’t just show up and demand a visit, I’m afraid. He’s being transferred out on remand later today, pending trial. Anyway, shouldn’t you be at work?’

  Irritated, she wanted to ask this impertinent arse of a man-boy – too reminiscent of Jasper, given his youth – who the fuck he thought he was? What did he know of a boss’ loyalty to their team? What did he know of the important service they provided for the dead, who could no longer speak for themselves? ‘You’ve never even been inside my mortuary, Elvis. You were too much of a wimp to get your Hep B jab, so don’t you come over all concerned about my work.’ She felt a degree of satisfaction when his eye started to twitch. ‘And it’s Dr. de Koninck to you. That’s my employee you’ve got in your cell. I want to talk to him. I want to check he’s okay.’

  She stifled a yawn. Feeling raw after a sleepless night, weighing up what she knew about Daan Strietman against the accusations levelled at him. Battling instincts: defend or repel. By the morning, she had decided she was not the kind of disloyal person to distance herself from the accused and hope her shine did not rub off as a result of him losing his. Here she was. Seeking the truth. Giving Strietman the chance to explain himself to her. If van den Bergen’s gatekeeper would let her get that far.

  ‘Please, Dirk,’ she said, purposefully softening. ‘We’re all on the same team. Van den Bergen would let me, if he was here. But you’re in charge right now. You call the shots.’

  He sat a little more upright in his chair. The suggestion of a smile on his lips. Picked up the phone. ‘I’ll have them bring him to one of the interview rooms.’

  Men were so predictable.

  She hardly recognised Strietman when she saw him. His usual effervescence was gone. Grey-faced and dark under his eyes. Looking shabby in clothes he had been wearing clearly too long. He smiled at her, though it was a clear veneer of optimism, given the claustrophobic room they were in, with a uniform standing in the corner and furniture bolted to the floor.

  ‘You came! How are the stiffs? Are they missing me?’

  ‘Jesus, Daan! You look a mess. I can’t believe this. What the hell is going on? Why won’t you give them an alibi? What’s the connection between you and the Pole?’

  Strietman examined his fingernails – usually spotless, now a line of black grime under them.

  ‘I can’t. It’s personal.’

  ‘What’s so terrible you’re willing to sacrifice your freedom to keep quiet? There’s a rumour going round they’ve found child pornography at your apartment.’

  Strietman swallowed hard. Tears welled in his eyes and spilled onto his cheeks.

  CHAPTER 72

  Amsterdam, police headquarters, later

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Sabine Schalks said, examining Strietman’s lurid photographs of naked children with Marie. ‘These are definitely the sorts of images paedophiles share with one another over the internet.’ She crossed her long legs and hooked her hair behind her ear. ‘But these have a certain arty quality to them you don’t normally see, and there are no adults in the frame. Undeniably evidence of abuse, though. See the bruising on the children’s arms and thighs?’

  Marie nodded. ‘I thought I’d run it by you for a second opinion. They’re not as hardcore as some of the images I normally come across. Not as alarming as the adult necro-porn he’s got on his hard drive.’ Pointed to Sabine’s earrings. ‘I love your pearls.’

  Sabine smiled. Touched her ears. Blushed. ‘Thank you. I wish I had your lovely red hair.’ She laughed. It was a girlish laugh like the happy trill of a song bird.

  In the corner of the team meeting room, slouching in her chair, George made a retching noise.

  The paediatrician spun around quickly. ‘I’m sorry?’ Her smile was warm and guileless. ‘What was that?’

  Hoisting herself out of her seat and marching over to Marie’s pinboard, George appraised the photos of the victims. Cards bearing facts written in black felt tip pen. A timeline, created with drawing pins and string. Looked at the sightless face of the dead little girl, since identified, thanks to the joys of Europol, as missing twelve-year-old Ewa Silbert from just outside Hamburg. This was so much bigger than a Satanist builder and a pathologist, executing a murderous spree that had been planned during the fitting of the pathologist’s new Poggenpohl kitchen.

  She turned to the two women to offer some kind of input on the use of child pornography by convicted paedophiles, but Marie and Sabine were talking about sculpture.

  ‘Oh, I love Henry Moore’s treatment of the human form!’ Sabine said.

  ‘He was always my favourite at school,’ Marie said. ‘We went on this art trip to England, once, and there’s these three figures in…where was it?’ Marie was grinning. Engaged. Full of it. Since when was Marie a fan of sculpture? And her hair wasn’t red that day. It was brown with grease from not having been washed for at least a fortnight. ‘Battersea Park! They were ace.’

  ‘Have you seen his Madonna and child in St Paul’s cathedral?’ Sabine asked.

  ‘I have! It was amazing.’

  George had heard enough. ‘Sabine, why are you here, if we’ve got the killers incarcerated?’ she asked.

  Then, without having to hear some disingenuous answer, she realised. In fact, she’d known it all along. Sabine Schalks was there for Paul van den Bergen.

  ‘Chief Inspector van den Bergen’s not here. You can’t see him,’ the uniformed policewoman on the front desk said. Hatchet-faced and unyielding.

  Ad ground his teeth together. Balled his fists. Hot and cold at the same time. Vaguely aware that he must look a lunatic wearing only a T-shirt and jeans, when it was minus one outside. Goosebumps on his arms. Fire in his belly.

  ‘Well, I want to see Georgina McKenzie and I know she’s here! It’s urgent.’

  ‘Sir, I suggest you calm down and take a seat. I’ll phone up.’

  Throwing himself onto a chair, sandwiched between a woman who stank of stale cigarettes and whisky and a sharp-suited man clutching a fat briefcase, Ad considered what he had found. Went over the chain of events in his mind’s eye.

  When George had left early for work, he had enjoyed a blinding moment of epiphany. Their relationship was in trouble. And if he was to win back George’s affections properly, he knew he must make more of an effort. Resolved to get the place neat and clean by George’s standards before lectures. Tidying up the mess that Jasper had left in the living room. Exasperated on her beha
lf. Beer cans on every surface. A full ashtray. Empty crisp packets on coffee table. Cup rings and crumbs. Men’s magazines left lying around – well thumbed, clinging onto germs from their readers, which he knew made George uncomfortable. No wonder she was fed up, staying here with two ball-scratching morons. He had been remiss as a thoughtful boyfriend.

  Once he had deemed the living room and kitchen satisfactory, he had turned to their bedroom. A quick half hour should do it and he still wouldn’t be late for his lecture. He would make the bed and unpack her suitcase from her trip to Ramsgate. Put a wash on. Poor George hadn’t even had the time to do that much.

  One by one, he had removed the stale garments from the case. Spent underwear. A damp towel – stolen from the hotel, by the looks. He tutted and chuckled. A black top that smelled of curry. That was when he saw the small, square object, shining in the bottom of the case. Torn foil of some sort. He picked it up, curious. All at once, he knew exactly what had come to pass in that hotel in Ramsgate.

  Seething, now, he checked his watch. Where was she? He wanted to ask the woman on the desk again but felt intimidated by her uniform that somehow made her seem larger. Was still debating whether he would get into trouble for nagging, when he noticed the tall, stately figure entering the building, bearing ID; loping quickly across the reception area with some swagger.

  ‘You bastard!’ Ad shouted. Up and out of his chair now. Not caring if they arrested him. ‘You fucked my girlfriend, you dishonourable old shithouse.’ Threw a punch that landed on van den Bergen’s jaw.

  Though he expected the chief inspector to pulverise him, van den Bergen merely pinioned Ad’s arms to his sides and shouted, ‘What are you talking about, Karelse?’ Red in the face. From shame or the punch?

  ‘Stop bluffing! I found the empty condom packet!’