The Girl Who Got Revenge

by Marnie Riches

  ‘Marie has the CCTV footage from Den Bosch’s premises and has yet to find anything.’ He rubbed his stomach and belched quietly, trying to picture the inside of his ulcerated gullet.

  ‘You seem distracted, Paul. Is there anything you’d like to share with me? Are you…’ He leaned forward. ‘Well?’ Minks cocked his head in the semi-concerned fashion of a careerist who often practised being human in front of a mirror.

  ‘What kind of a question is that?’ Van den Bergen asked, straightening in his seat until, thanks to his long torso, he could see the top of Minks’s head. Thinning hair, since he’d whipped Kamphuis’s old job from under Van den Bergen’s nose.

  ‘A suspected heart attack and collapse at the scene of an arrest?’ Minks examined his perfectly clean fingernails. Clearly, the man was not a gardener. He failed to make eye contact with Van den Bergen. ‘Seems your little adventure in Mexico has knocked the stuffing out of you.’

  ‘I brought down the Rotterdam Silencer, and not for the first time!’ Van den Bergen could feel irritation itching its way up his neck. He regarded his superior officer with some cynicism. The smug arsehole was showing signs of turning into his predecessor. ‘I think you might find it physically testing to have anthrax thrown in your face.’

  Minks’s eyes narrowed. He touched the stiff Eton collar on his shirt. ‘It wasn’t anthrax.’

  ‘I didn’t know that at the time, did I?’

  The silence between them made the air feel too thick to breathe. Finally, Van den Bergen relented and spoke.

  ‘I’ve put Dr McKenzie on the payroll. She’s an expert in trafficking of all sorts.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Paul! I’m trying to keep departmental costs down. Not let them spiral out of control, and all because you want to play the generous sugar daddy with your girlfriend. Why the hell can’t you co-opt some junior detective from another station? McKenzie’s expensive.’

  Van den Bergen closed his eyes momentarily and swallowed down the scorching poker of bile that lanced its way up his oesophagus. ‘Dr McKenzie is a specialist consultant. Even if I didn’t have a relationship with her outside of the workplace, I’d still hire her. Pay peanuts, get monkeys.’

  ‘I’ve studied your expenditure. It’s gone through the roof in the last few years.’ There it was. Spreadsheet King had been getting his rocks off after hours with a five-knuckle shuffle over some ancient Excel files.

  ‘The world’s a bad place, Maarten, and every year it gets worse. Ten years ago, we didn’t have half the violent trafficking-related crime that we have now in the city. Or at least we weren’t aware of it. You want me to keep solving cases? Then I need the right people. Georgina has come in on our most complex and dangerous cases – multiple murders and organised criminal networks that have had international reach. Can you think of a single one that my team didn’t solve?’ He folded his arms triumphantly. ‘She’s got a criminologist’s insight – something that we lack. Dirk and Marie are the best officers I’ve ever had working for me, but there’s a limit to what—’

  Minks balled his fist, clearly ready to thump the table. His wrinkle-free face seemed even tauter than usual. ‘My priority is to crack down on crime committed by immigrants, Paul. Many influential Amsterdamers are not happy with the city being over-run by ISIS bastards, masquerading as refugees from these far-flung, bombed-out shitholes. The great and the good of Amsterdam are taxpayers, Chief Inspector! They’re our bloody bosses!’

  Listening to the alt-right bilge that Minks was spouting from between those too-tight lips of his, Van den Bergen was suddenly tempted to take the bottle of Gaviscon from his raincoat pocket and neutralise the commissioner’s acidic mouth with it. But he knew this edict had come from on high. It was in the papers daily: panic, prejudice and paranoia.

  ‘I’m not getting into a political point-scoring contest, Maarten,’ he said, standing abruptly. ‘That’s why I’m not sitting on your side of the desk. I’m a policeman. I put the bad guys behind bars. Let me find the bastard who landed a bunch of vulnerable people in hospital and killed a twelve-year-old. If I say I need Dr McKenzie’s help, just pay the invoices, will you? There’s a good lad.’

  Minks scowled at him. Van den Bergen could practically hear the potential responses that were being tried for size in his mind. But he merely gripped the desk, his fingernails turning bright pink; white at the tips.

  ‘You got a mandate to keep illegal immigrants out of the city? Let me find the trafficker that’s bringing them here.’ And whoever’s bumping off those poor old sods with the tattooed necks, he thought, already walking through the door.

  Flinging himself into his desk chair, Van den Bergen growled when the lever mechanism that allowed him to adjust the height of the seat gave way, dropping him to only inches above the floor.

  ‘Damn thing!’

  On the other side of the cubicle, he could hear Elvis sniggering.

  ‘Have you been pissing about with my chair?’

  ‘No, boss. Do you want me to show you how you adjust it…again?’

  ‘Get your jacket on, smart-arse.’

  Elvis appeared, red-faced, from behind the partition, which was covered with photos of the Den Bosch truck, its beleaguered occupants, the driver and their prime suspect – Frederik den Bosch himself.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean—’

  Van den Bergen merely pulled on his raincoat. ‘De Pijp.’

  ‘Den Bosch’s home turf? Nothing came of the door to doors,’ Elvis said, buttoning his leather jacket. ‘Me and Marie knocked every single neighbour up within a quarter of a mile radius. Most weren’t even keen to open the door to us, let alone say anything about the man down the street.’

  Tossing the key to his Mercedes into Elvis’s hands, Van den Bergen took a final slurp of his now-cold coffee. ‘Wait for me in the car. Anyone who seemed overly reluctant to talk about their charming tattooed neighbour…they’re the ones who will have the most interesting tales to tell. You mark my words.’

  Striding with apparent purpose down the corridor, though everything was still tender from the gastroscopy, he entered the fug of Marie’s dedicated IT suite. She was sitting with her back to him, sucking on the ends of her fingers, an empty packet of paprika-flavoured Bugles on the desk by her keyboard.

  ‘I’m going to tell George to stop bringing you those from England,’ he said. ‘She’s enabling you and it’s wrong. Too much salt in the diet can lead—’

  ‘I’m a big girl, boss.’ Marie gave him a watery smile, watching as the gust of wind that Van den Bergen had brought in with him wafted the crisp packet into the air. It drifted to the floor like a misshapen parachute, landing softly amid the flotsam and jetsam of Marie’s previous snack attacks. She regarded it impassively, scratching at the new spot that had appeared on her cheekbone – the same size and milky hue as the cultured pearls in her ears. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Did you find anything at all from Den Bosch’s CCTV footage?’

  ‘No. I’ve gone through backups from the last three weeks and there’s nothing that could disprove what he’s said. The heavy goods vehicle in question shows up several times per week, gets loaded up, heads off with the produce. Then, after the theft is reported, you don’t see it again.’

  ‘And the driver?’

  ‘Definitely not the same man the port police arrested. The usual driver is a young guy in his early thirties, blond and overweight.’

  Van den Bergen scratched at his stubble. ‘The bastard with the anthrax was in his fifties and dark-haired. If Den Bosch is somehow in the frame, maybe he’s not mixing his legitimate staff with his dodgy hired help.’ He closed the door to her room quietly. Approached her desk. ‘Listen, there’s something else I want you to look into.’

  Marie hooked her red hair behind her ear and smiled knowingly. ‘Oh, here we go. Are you trying to get something below Minks’s radar?’

  Grimacing, Van den Bergen reached into his trouser pocket and took out a USB stick.
‘Check out the photos on here.’ He cleared his throat, desperately trying to shake off the sensation that something was blocking his airway. ‘Two old guys, dead, with identical tattoos on their necks.’

  Plugging the USB stick into her PC, Marie uploaded the files. Morgue photos of Arnold van Blanken and Brechtus Bruin filled the monitor screen. With a flurry of mouse clicks in rapid succession, she zoomed in to reveal the crowned lions, flanked by the S and 5. ‘Never seen that design before.’

  ‘Neither have I,’ Van den Bergen said. ‘That’s why I want you to look into it. We’ve got two guys – both ninety-five and both registered to the same doctors’ surgery – who have died within days of one another.’

  ‘Coincidence? Serendipity?’ she asked. Opening her desk drawer, she pulled out a bar of chocolate. ‘At ninety-five, I bet they were feeling bloody smug that they’d made it to such old bones or else just waiting for God.’ She peered thoughtfully at the photo of the smiling baby boy by her keyboard. ‘Not everyone’s lucky enough to make it to such old bones.’

  Had a glassy film suddenly appeared on her eyes? Van den Bergen couldn’t be sure. He lifted his hand, ready to pat her supportively on the shoulder, but realised that perhaps she didn’t want to dredge up the subject of cot death and loss over a bar of Verkade creamy milk.

  ‘Both had been prescribed wrong doses of medication by their doctor, leading to death from heart failure. Same GP. Do me a favour, will you? Can you also do a little digging into Dr Saif Abadi’s patient list and see who’s died recently – elderly people and those suffering cardiac arrest or sudden death. In fact, pull the register of deaths and make a list of everyone who’s keeled over in similar circumstances. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s decided to start bumping off the old and vulnerable.’

  ‘If that’s what’s happened,’ Marie added.

  ‘Yes. If. Oh, and don’t breathe a word about this to anyone until I know more. Okay? Minks is giving me heat about the refugee case.’

  ‘Has anyone even reported suspected foul play with these old men?’

  He shook his head. ‘George is going to help me make discreet enquiries. I have a hunch…and I can’t let it go.’

  Snapping her chocolate in two, Marie treated him to a yellow-toothed smile. ‘Leave it with me, boss.’

  CHAPTER 9

  Amsterdam, the home of Kaars Verhagen, 10 October

  ‘You know…’ The old bastard wheezed fitfully, collapsing back into his wheelchair by the kitchen window. The timorous morning sun shone on his face, making the papery crumple of skin look almost translucent.

  He imagined he could see through the network of blue veins to the bones beneath. Not long now till the blood would slow to a standstill, thickening and turning black.

  ‘The problem with life is you’ve got to die sometime.’ There was a volley of barking coughs. He sat in silence while the filthy old liar coughed up gobs of blood-streaked phlegm into a handkerchief. ‘Even at my age, you’re never ready for death.’ More wheezing, as if the speech had sucked all the air out of those decayed lungs, leaving nothing but the vacuum of thwarted instinct behind.

  ‘That’s why it’s important you take your medication, Kaars. Come on.’ He moved over towards the wheelchair and took the prongs from the oxygen tubing out of the old man’s nose. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll hook you back up in a second. Take the pills.’ The hiss and grind of the oxygen machine droned on in the background: the monotonous soundtrack to the quiet drama that was about to unfold. He dropped the tablets into that shaking, liver-spotted hand – the hairs on the back of it the only indication that this ancient man had ever enjoyed a prime.

  Kaars Verhagen struggled to swallow down the medicine with the tepid water. Perhaps he’d choke to death! That wouldn’t do.

  ‘Come on now, Kaars,’ he said, banging the old man on the back. ‘Don’t choke. That defeats the object!’ He grabbed the glass of water impatiently from Kaars’s trembling hand and forced the pathetic old fart to sip again. ‘That’s right!’ he said, keeping his voice concerned and calm. ‘Just swallow.’

  Finally, with the pills safely in his stomach, Kaars turned to him. Rail-thin now, even his appreciative smile looked like an effort. ‘I know I’m a goner,’ he said. ‘But I appreciate the treatment on the side. They’d written me off at the hospital. Too frail for experimental trials or extra chemo, they said.’ His words were swallowed by another big choking bout of coughing. His milky eyes looked fit to burst from his skull. ‘When you get to my grand age, they think you’ve had more than your three score and ten. Way more. They won’t fight for you. But you’ve fought for me.’ Tears came, then. He held his scrawny arms out, expecting a hug. It was only fair to reciprocate.

  ‘There, there. It’s the least I could do. A man like you could have another ten years of life. More! You’ve always had the constitution of a horse. You all did. Amazing, when you think how many never even made it to adulthood.’

  Patting his back and breaking free of the hug, Kaars waved him away. His colour had started to wane. The sheen of sweat indicated that the final super-high dose of anthracycline was taking effect. Surprised that the duplicitous bastard had struggled on thus far, he said a silent prayer that sheer exhaustion or kidney failure wouldn’t take him first. It had to be his heart. Had to. It was the only way.

  The old man started to cough violently again, dry-heaving when the cough finally subsided. ‘I must get Cornelia round. This damn building work needs finishing before I die,’ he said. ‘I’m worried she’ll be left with a mess.’ Their eyes locked. The old man’s were pleading. ‘If she needs some moral support, or help with the builders, you’ll pitch in, won’t you? Promise me you won’t leave her to tackle all that alone. I need to know there’s a man around I can trust. You’ve become that man.’

  ‘I’m just at the end of a phone.’

  It was a non-committal response, and that was all the old fart would get from him. Why should he let the fucker die with a mind free from care?

  Kaars Verhagen grimaced. He was pointing at some half-built stud wall, the skeleton timbers describing a new doorway wide enough to accommodate his wheelchair. Though he opened his mouth to speak, the words did not come. Now, he was gasping for air. Clutching at his arm and frowning, as though something had occurred to him that was just beyond his comprehension.

  ‘I feel…’

  Falling from his wheelchair to the floor, Kaars curled up into a ball. With that bald head – hair only just growing back after months of chemotherapy and radiation treatment – he looked like a foetal bird inside an egg. Gasping. Moaning.

  Good. Causing pain was a definite bonus. But he was certain it was happening. This was it.

  ‘Are you okay, Kaars?’ he asked, amused by the hollow intent of his words.

  The old man stretched out a thin arm towards him, clearly begging for help. The mucus in the back of his throat rattled. His breath was shallow, almost imperceptible. His eyes clouded over.

  Pushing the old man’s pyjama collar aside, revealing the lion tattoo as he did so, he checked that his work here had been successful. Sure enough, no blood flowed beneath his fingertips as he felt for a pulse. Kaars Verhagen was gone.

  Wiping the place down for prints was easy, though he had to be extra vigilant that he left no footprints in the dust. The unfinished building work coated everything in a persistent layer of grime. A quick scatter of the debris that had been left behind in a dustpan would soon sort that. Leaving was a consideration, though. This was a busy area. Not like the others. Would he be seen?

  No. He was the grey man.

  Pulling his average and unremarkable raincoat closed against the wind and drizzle, he unfurled his average and unremarkable black umbrella and walked away at an unremarkable speed into the dank morning.

  CHAPTER 10

  Amsterdam, Den Bosch’s house in De Pijp, later

  ‘No answer,’ Van den Bergen said, peering through the letterbox. ‘He’s not at his business p
remises. Not at home. Shit. Where the hell is he?’ For good measure, he thumped on the front door a fourth time. The paintwork was surprisingly shoddy for a man with company finances as robust as Den Bosch’s.

  Elvis placed a placatory hand on his arm. ‘We can come back, boss.’ His nose was red and his eyes were watering against the stiff wind. ‘In fact, without a warrant, we’ve got no option.’

  Van den Bergen batted him away. ‘Are you patronising your superior officer?’

  Smiling. Elvis was bloody smiling. He was all Zen since he’d discovered the joys of love and a second chance at living.

  ‘No. But there’s no point sweating it. He could be anywhere. We know next to nothing about him. He puts hardly anything on Facebook and he’s not on any of the other social media sites. There’s no way of proving he’s got anything to do with the trafficked Syrians.’ He dug his hands deeper inside his leather jacket and scanned the street. ‘We’re grasping at straws.’

  ‘We’re being thorough. In a case without leads, we have nowhere else to go.’

  Two flamboyantly dressed students ambled by, chatting too animatedly about someone called Kenny who’d drunk so much that he’d puked in some girl’s mouth. Van den Bergen thought about his baby granddaughter and shuddered at the thought that, one day, some chump might vomit into her mouth in some student fleapit of a bar in De Pijp. Across the way, two women clad in burkas scurried into a run-down house, glancing over their shoulders. One was carrying a large tartan shopper – the kind Van den Bergen had seen people fill with washing. The other clutched at bulging bags. Neither were old.

  ‘Excuse me, ladies!’ he shouted to them, trying to keep the friendliness in his voice and the weariness out of it.

  But they had already slammed the door.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Like that, eh?’