by Mark Hobson
Over to the left was the large park, empty now and filled with shadows. On the right, the ornate stone building housing the Hollandsche Manege, the historic riding school and stables.
Following the road around the large red-bricked church, the driver slowed down even further, his eyes roving left and right, looking for the correct building, and when he saw the huge gates he turned the wheel and drew to a halt before the entranceway. Pulling down the peak of the baseball hat that he wore, hiding his face from prying eyes or cameras, he sat in his seat and studied the large house before him.
Having thoroughly prepared and rehearsed for tonight, the building was already very familiar. Plans of the inside and outside were ingrained in his memory: the grey stone exterior, large windows on the lower floor and smaller square windows above - the flat roof with twin gables. The new carport on the left, the gravel drive, the gates with their intercom system. The layout of the rooms, with the large and modern kitchen, the dining room and living room with their connecting arched doorway, the wood staircase twisting up to the bedrooms and bathrooms on the upper floor. The smaller dormer rooms right at the top, in one of which the daughter slept. The alarm and security cameras which hopefully he would not need to worry about. All very plush and modern, perfect for a young and beautiful family. A millionaire’s home.
Despite all the money spent on keeping the place secure from intruders, getting inside would be simple. Rich people tended by nature to be quite naïve and not very streetwise. Therefore his plan was simple. Drive up in his van, dressed in the smart uniform and hat of a well-known delivery company, here to deliver some packages to the homeowner. On the passenger seat beside him were several cardboard boxes, each one addressed to Dr Christiaan Bakker. He even had a barcode scanner, purchased off the internet several months ago. He had a fake ID badge clipped to his breast pocket. Attached to his waist belt was a small black object that looked like a mobile phone but was in fact a fully charged Taser, and on the inside of his jacket were three hypodermic syringes, each filled with a light yellow liquid. 2mg of Midazolam, a strong sedative that also had an amnesiac effect and was very fast-acting. One for the father, one for the mother, and one for the daughter. Using these would be easy, all he had to do was just reach into his jacket, pull one out and jab it down hard into a large muscle mass anywhere on the body, the back or upper arm for instance. The drug did sometimes have a few side effects and could cause violent reactions or even respiratory arrest if delivered in too high a dose, but he was willing to take the risks. He had practiced by injecting the sedative into random strangers on the metro late at night to watch the effect, to time the speed that people reacted and to test his technique, and that had been good fun, watching these involuntary guinea pigs stagger and twitch, their legs buckling and collapsing, sending them crashing to the floor in a heap. But that was just for practice, a giggle yes, but only a dress rehearsal. Tonight was the real thing.
Lowering his window, he reached out and pressed the intercom button on one of the gateposts, seeing the small camera on the high wall. Keeping his face tilted downwards, he waited for a reply, and when the female voice came through he replied in a gruff tone.
“Parcel delivery for a Doctor Christiaan Bakker. To be signed for.”
A slight pause, and then, “please come in.”
“Thank you.”
There was a loud click and with a gentle buzz the large double gates swung inwards, and he drove carefully though.
Turning about on the gravel driveway he slowly backed up to the carport and switched off the engine. Before grabbing the cardboard boxes and jumping out, the driver twisted and glanced over his shoulder into the back of the van. He’d mostly cleared everything out over the weekend, before converting it for tonight’s purpose. On the bed of the van was an oblong-shaped metal storage box, about five or six feet long, welded to the floor. The lid was open and the inside of the box was lined with blankets and a sleeping bag. Attached to the side was a small magnetic LED lamp, all switched on and ready. Next to it was a large plastic container. Satisfied that all was in order he climbed out.
Approaching the large side door underneath the carport, he rang the doorbell and waited, parcels clutched in his arms, a ready smile on his face. He heard the clip-clop of footsteps, high-heels on the tiled floor, and then the door opened and an elegant lady with brown hair was standing before him.
He recognized her as the mother, Elise, thirty-something. She didn’t recognize him, even without the baseball hat on she wouldn’t know him from any other delivery guy, because she’d never met him before.
She was waiting with an irritated look on her face.
“Hello,” he said merrily.
“It’s a little late for deliveries isn’t it?” she inquired in her cultured voice. “We are just about to have dinner.”
“I’m sorry about that ma’am.”
“Very well. Where do I sign?”
“I’m afraid Doctor Bakker has to sign for them himself. They are medical files, so they require his ID number as well.”
Mrs Bakker sighed loudly, shook her head in exasperation. “Well in that case you’d better bring them in, they look heavy.”
She moved to one side and he squeezed past, and then she turned and led him down the short hallway. Indicating a small occasional table at the foot of the ornate staircase, she instructed him to place the parcels there. “I’ll get my husband, just one moment.” She turned to go.
“Actually, there’s no need,” he replied as he popped them down. Quickly reaching for his belt, the driver zapped her with the Taser on the back of the neck, and her whole body stiffened before going straight over like a felled tree, catching her temple on the balustrade.
He watched as she lay sprawled across the bottom step, completely still, and for a moment he thought that she’d knocked herself out cold. But then she stirred slightly, and a loud gurgling moan escaped her lips, followed by a peculiar wheezing. Christ, he thought in a sudden panic, the whole house will hear her.
Quickly slipping his hand inside his jacket he grabbed hold of one of the syringes and popped the cap off with his thumb. Leaning forward, he tugged at the neckline of her evening dress and yanked it down, and then jabbed the needle hard into the soft flesh at the back of her neck, pushing in the plunger to inject her with the full 2mg of sedative.
Breathing heavily, the driver stood back and watched as the drug immediately started to take effect, first causing an involuntary squirming, and then the brief and violent kicking of the legs as her body tried to fight the strong anaesthetic coursing through her system, with one of her legs catching the table and sending a vase of flowers crashing to the floor. Then a slowing down of her movements and a quiet mumbling, before she was fully unconscious.
The racket caused by the shattering vase could not have failed to alert everybody within earshot, and sure enough a male voice, coming from the living room next door, called out earnestly, “Honey, is everything alright?”
The driver turned just as the sliding wooden door was pulled aside, to reveal a short but squat man with a grey beard standing there and taking in the scene, no doubt wondering who this stranger in the baseball hat was. Then the gentleman glanced across to see his wife lying on the floor, before his eyes flicked back to the driver, mouth hanging open in alarm.
“Who are you?” he managed to splutter ridiculously, before the driver flung himself forward with another syringe clasped in his hand. Swinging his arm down he stabbed the needle straight through the man’s white shirt and into his chest, bringing a cry of alarm.
The driver watched as his victim stumbled backwards into the living room with the syringe still sticking out of his chest. He crashed into a wooden cabinet but remained upright, and then slithered along a wall, heading towards the arched entrance to the dining room. Yelling loudly in terror, he turned and stumbled away on his short legs, and the driver followed, expecting the sedative to start working. Yet to his alarm nothing seemed to be
happening, the man was not losing his strength, and a few seconds later he slipped through the far doorway.
Snarling in anger, the driver chased after him, pulling out the third syringe.
Rushing through the door, he found himself in the dining room. The other man was incredibly still on his feet, and now moving quickly across the floor and making for the telephone on the wall, sending chairs crashing.
There must have been something wrong with the second dose of Midazolam, a faulty batch perhaps, either that or the doctor had an iron constitution. Whichever was the case, he had to stop him before he reached the telephone, and so once again he charged after the portly little man.
He barely made it in time. Bakker was just reaching out for the cordless phone when the driver grabbed a hold of his shoulder and yanked him back, and the two of them fell to the floor with a thud. The full weight of Bakker pressed down into him, knocking the wind from his lungs, but somehow he was able to slip his own arm around the other man’s body and stabbed down into his fat stomach, jabbing the needle into him over and over and squeezing every last drop of sedative out of the syringe.
With a violent twitch and a spasm, the drug at last hit him. The driver could hear him gasping loudly, his body arching and turning this way and that, crushing down onto him even further, before eventually he felt him sag. All of the strength seemed to go out of the man, and finally all movement ceased.
The driver pushed the body away and squirmed out from beneath it, and scrambled to his feet, struggling to get his breath back. Standing there, he looked down at the unconscious man.
It had taken 4mgs to subdue him - way too high a dose, and which would more than likely trigger a heart attack. Not that it mattered too much, not ultimately. But what it did mean was that he’d used up all three syringes, and there was still the daughter to deal with.
Everything was still alright, he told himself. His carefully worked out plan had gone out of the window, but he still had the Taser. All he had to do was find the girl.
She must still be in the house, he concluded. Probably upstairs in her room, hiding or hopefully blissfully unaware of the commotion downstairs. Well then - time to get down to business and finish this.
Sure enough, he found her cowering in her bedroom, curled up into a foetal position and wedged into the far corner, with her eyes squeezed shut in terror. She had a tight hold onto an iPhone, and no doubt she had dialled 112 to plead for help. No matter. It was inevitable that someone would eventually call the emergency services, all this meant was that he had to move that little bit faster.
Quickly he hit the girl with a short burst from the Taser, worried that too big a jolt might seriously harm the twelve year old. Then, whilst she was convulsing on the carpeted floor, he blindfolded her with a black scarf he pulled from his pocket and then hurriedly tied her hands and feet with the cords from a pair of dressing gowns, before shoving one of her own socks into her mouth to gag her and stifle the screaming. Then, hefting her onto his shoulder in a fireman’s lift, he carried her down the two flights of stairs, stepped over the unconscious body of the lady, and went straight out of the open front door.
Unlocking the back of his van, the driver carefully laid the young girl into the metal storage box and banged the lid closed and snapped the padlock shut. He paused momentarily, to slow his heart rate and steady his nerves, and then grabbed the plastic container, which was heavy as it was filled with petrol, and after locking up the van doors, he returned to the entrance hall of the big house.
Working quickly, the driver splashed the liquid all around the floor and over the walls and curtains, doing the same inside the living room. Dumping the container, he remembered to scoop up the cardboard boxes and barcode scanner, and then backed outside. Taking out a cigarette lighter he flicked it with his thumb, watched the small flame for a couple of seconds, and then tossed it inside.
With a blast of hot air and orange flame, the flammable liquid caught light. The driver turned away, climbed back into the driver’s side of the van, and dumped the boxes back onto the passenger seat. Backing out through the gates onto Vondelstraat, he smiled over his shoulder.
“Let’s go home,” he told the girl.
Pulling the baseball hat even further down over his face, he slowly drove away into the foggy night.
Chapter 3
Aftermath
As was usually the case, the nightmare crept up on him. In it, he was strolling along a wide and empty beach. The sky overhead was a vast expanse of dark, broiling clouds, and a strong offshore breeze buffeted against his thin frame. The sea, a leaden and grey threatening presence, was whipped up into white-topped waves. It seemed to breathe, swelling up and down, and he was convinced it would swallow him whole.
Veering away, he headed towards the sand dunes, and it was as he approached them that he first saw her. Far off in the distance, nothing more than a small silhouette standing atop one of the sandy hillocks. But he knew it was her. It was always her.
In the dream he hesitated, but somehow he still drew near, as though something was dragging him forward, and when he glanced down he saw with mild curiosity that his feet floated above the sand.
Looking back up, he was just in time to see the person atop the sand dune shimmer and then disappear, and he looked about in a sudden panic. Moving into the dunes, he caught sight of her again, walking just ahead and disappearing around the next bend, and whenever he was close to catching up, she would fade away once more, only to reappear tantalizingly close but always out of reach.
Until finally he found himself on another open stretch of beach, but in this one the sand was black and the sky was red, like the most stunning sunset he had ever seen, and she was standing here as though waiting for him.
He knew exactly who she was even though she was wearing that same goat-skull over her head, the white bone and large horns exactly as he remembered them, every detail the same including the pentangle painted with blood on the skull’s forehead and the long flowing gown emblazoned with those weird symbols that she was wearing.
Her long blonde hair was whipped up behind her by the strong, gusty wind. Lifting her arms out she welcomed him forward to embrace her, and against his will, he was gliding closer, when suddenly she burst into flames. Her gown was afire and so too her arms and legs, and flames shot out from the top of her head making the goat’s eye sockets glow ruby red. The fireball flared out and he closed his eyes against its searing heat.
A gentle tapping on the car window woke Inspector Pieter Van Dijk.
The call about the fire on Vondelstraat had come through to his mobile just before 8pm, as he was setting off back home from Police HQ on Elandsgracht. Normally it would have been transferred over to one of the detectives just starting the night shift, but apparently someone had called in sick with gallstone problems, and as it was only a five-minute drive away they forwarded it to him. Strange, he would think later, how fortuitous events could come out of such small twists of fate.
When he arrived the building had been well and truly alight. The whole of the ground floor was ablaze, and flames were shooting out of the upper windows and part of the roof where it had caved in. The street was by then clogged with fire trucks and bystanders, and the surface of the road was a jumble of thick and twisting hosepipes, and so to keep out of the way Pieter had parked his car on the corner of Anna Van Den from where he had a good view of events. There was a nursing home right on the side street, and the elderly residents had their faces pressed up against the windows, enjoying the show no doubt.
He had stayed in his car watching as the firefighters tackled the huge blaze, slowly but surely bringing it under control, but at some stage he must have nodded off for when he snatched a look at his watch he saw it was now coming up to eleven o’clock.
Outside a female firefighter was knocking on the glass again, her small and mean mouth saying something. He wound the window down and asked her to repeat herself.
“I said it’s ok for y
ou to come and take a look now.”
Pieter glanced past her and saw that the fire had been extinguished. The building looked to be a blackened shell, and water was still being hosed onto it to cool and dampen the smouldering ruin, but for now, the drama seemed to be over. He climbed out of his car.
The firefighter shoved a yellow hard-hat into his hands, told him to put it on, and once he’d done so, instructed him to follow her down the street.
The smoke from the fire seemed to have made the fog even denser and the strong acrid smell scratched at the back of his throat as they threaded their way through the emergency vehicles towards the ruins of the large house. As they approached Pieter saw that the whole of the ground floor was a burnt-out empty shell, and most of the side wall had collapsed, spilling bricks and timber onto the driveway. This, along with other sections, had been taped off as still too dangerous to approach, but the front entrance beneath the carport was accessible. A young policewoman was standing beside the door, fiddling with her mobile, but when she saw Pieter approach she quickly put it away and became more alert.
The firefighter stepped through the wrought-iron gates and then turned back towards him.
“Don’t go poking around too much, especially in the places marked by tape. Not unless you want the whole place to come crashing down on your head.”
“Understood.”
She slipped away, and he stepped towards the front door.
The uniformed officer came forward to meet him. She too had a hard hat on, and her dark hair hung down in loose strands, giving her a slightly dishevelled appearance. Aware of how she must look, she grinned sheepishly. “Inspector Van Dijk?”
Pieter nodded. He thought he recognized her as one of the new intakes down at HQ.
“Kaatje Groot isn’t it?” Her eyebrows went up, pleasantly surprised. “I’ve seen you around, working with Floris in the files section,” he explained.
