His hand was tight on the throttle.
It stayed there.
The boat rocked as it sped over the expanding ripples from Saskia’s plunge into the water. As he passed her he thought he heard her voice, only he couldn’t work out what she was saying.
96
Tuesday, 11 May
21.44
Tyres shrieked into the darkness.
Kees was out of the car before it had fully stopped, rushing down towards the water. He’d not been able to see the hair colour, but it was Tanya, he was sure of it. He threw himself in, the cold hitting him, paralyzing his lungs.
He had tried to fix where the body had entered the water, but the waves from the two boats meant he wasn’t sure. He struck out, pumping his arms, kicking his legs, clothes dragging him down. He called out but got no response. He trod water, circling. Nothing. He dived again and again, feeling with his hands, empty water rushing through his fingers.
Just as he thought he couldn’t go under again his hand felt something – flesh. He dived, reached out, grasped an arm. He kicked to the surface, trying to get her head above water.
97
Tuesday, 11 May
21.47
Jaap heard a noise he didn’t like.
The motor had been sounding different for the last thirty seconds, but he’d not really paid any attention, all his focus on the boat ahead.
The motor misfired, losing power.
He released the throttle then jammed it on again. The motor caught and he felt the pull of acceleration. Up ahead Nikolic’s boat was powering away.
Seconds later his own spluttered again as if low on fuel. He willed it to keep going.
Not now, he thought. Please not now.
He did the same again, quickly releasing the throttle and re-engaging it.
But this time it didn’t work; it just cut out.
His boat was losing speed fast.
The distance between his boat and Nikolic’s was growing. In less than a minute Nikolic would be out of range.
Jaap spun the wheel towards the shore, hoping the residual speed would get him to dry land, and putting him side on to the back of Nikolic’s boat. He raised his gun, the moonlight bright, but Nikolic a fast-receding shape in the night.
He couldn’t see Floortje at all.
He sighted on Nikolic just as the boat in front veered away to the left before swinging back to the right.
A few more seconds was all he had left.
You’re going to have to do better than that, thought Jaap as he sighted Nikolic again.
His finger touched the trigger, but didn’t pull it in.
If he fired he risked hitting Floortje.
But if he didn’t fire Nikolic would get away.
He could feel his finger against the metal, feel the trigger’s resistance.
Now he was down to the last second – any longer and Nikolic would be out of range.
His finger pulled back. The shot rang out and Jaap felt the recoil.
For a few moments everything became still, frozen into place.
He was sure he’d missed.
Then the motor on Nikolic’s boat flashed like a firework. Jaap could see fragments exploding out from it, flying towards Nikolic.
Nikolic went down, one arm thrown up in the air, a scream of pain breaking through the sound of the motor. His gun flew into the air before disappearing into the water. As he fell he knocked the rudder and the boat veered towards the right-hand bank.
As Jaap dived into the water, gun still in his hand, he could see flames starting to lick the outboard on Nikolic’s boat.
98
Tuesday, 11 May
21.52
Kees heard the shot and the scream behind him, but he ignored them. He had her head cradled under his arm like he’d got her in a headlock, and was using his other arm to scoop at the water, trying to pull them to shore.
She was heavy, unconscious, and he knew he had to get her breathing again quickly.
He reached the water’s edge and dragged her out, his clothes sucking at his flesh. On the grass he rolled her on to her side, her hair stuck to her face.
He’d done basic CPR – it was part of every cop’s training – but he couldn’t remember what to do. As he tilted her forward water spewed from her mouth, and he was hoping for a cough, hoping that clearing the water out would somehow start something going deep inside.
He’d seen that happen in films.
But it wasn’t working here.
He rolled her on to her back, her body movements floppy, loose, and he noticed something. He reached out, his hand shaking badly, and brushed the hair away from her face.
It wasn’t Tanya.
His mind spun.
But he didn’t have time to think, to try and work out what was going on. Whoever she was she probably only had seconds to live, and he had to do something. Right now.
He took a deep breath, pinched her nose and bent forward.
The impulse to recoil hit him hard as his lips touched hers; they were so cold, and didn’t feel alive. But he pressed harder to form a seal and blew hard into her mouth.
Then he put his hands one on top of the other on her chest, palms down, and started to push in rhythmic pulses.
He pushed again and again until he heard a crack.
It was then he knew she wasn’t coming back.
99
Tuesday, 11 May
21.56
Nikolic was hurt, shrapnel from the motor buried deep in his leg. He was limping across an impossibly flat lawn right by the water’s edge, heading for a large house, windows blaring light out on to the meticulously trimmed grass.
Floortje was slung under one of his arms like a sack.
Something seemed wrong about that, but Jaap didn’t know what.
He swam past Nikolic’s boat, his arms aching, slicing into the water, the choppy surface coloured orange from the blaze consuming the outboard motor.
He could feel the heat on his face as he passed it, contrasting with the cold water.
Seconds later he was scrambling out of the water and taking off after the Serb.
He could get him now, he knew it.
Five paces out Nikolic sensed he was close. He stopped and turned. Jaap saw a small knife, flames flashing on the blade’s surface.
Jaap kept the gun by his side.
‘Put her down,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper.
Nikolic stared at him, then moved the knife up towards Floortje, holding his gaze.
Jaap raised the gun, sighted Nikolic’s head.
‘Don’t do it,’ he said.
Nikolic stood there, breathing heavily, then began to lower the knife.
Jaap watched as Nikolic’s hand opened, the knife falling to the grass, the blade slicing into the earth.
Nikolic took Floortje in both his hands.
It was only then Jaap realized what was wrong – she wasn’t making a sound.
‘Give her to me,’ he said, taking a step closer.
Nikolic threw her at him, two-handed like she was a basketball.
Jaap caught her, grabbed her into his chest, wrapped his arms around her.
His eyes were off Nikolic for less than a second, but it was enough for the Serb to make his move. He swung his wounded leg round, knocking Jaap’s from under him, screaming with the pain of the impact. As Jaap went down he knew he had to drop the gun or risk hitting Floortje with the barrel. His hand released the weapon.
Then he was on the ground; he’d narrowly missed falling on the knife. Floortje was in his arms, Nikolic standing over him, pointing the gun he’d scooped up right at him.
Jaap stared at it, the dark centre from where the bullet would fly out, the side of the barrel milky white from the moonlight.
In his arms Floortje wasn’t moving.
Behind him the outboard motor exploded, the light flaring on Nikolic’s face, allowing Jaap to finally get a good look at him, see the rage and frustration
and the fear.
Nikolic didn’t even flinch, kept the gun trained right at him.
Jaap watched as the Serb’s trigger finger curled back, squeezed his eyes tight, waiting for the blast, waiting for it all to be over.
He heard a click.
He knew that sound. It was the sound of an empty chamber.
Jaap swung an arm out, grabbed the knife by its handle and threw it straight at Nikolic.
100
Tuesday, 11 May
22.05
When Tanya came round she was on her back. She rolled her head sideways, felt her ear ease into cold mud, plugging it shut. She opened her eyes, looked at the moon leering out of the sky at her.
She’d been shot. In her right hand.
She felt for the entry point in the back of her hand. As she sat up she turned her hand over. The exit wound was right in the centre, ruptured flesh like a flower blooming in her palm.
When she tried to move her fingers she gasped. They hardly moved, and the pain was electric.
She looked around, suddenly aware that whoever had shot her might still be there.
He was, slumped against the car, but his arms were flopped down by his side. She got up slowly and made her way over to him.
The man was breathing heavily. She recognized him from the file photo. Krilic. He looked up as she approached, Tanya could see he’d been hit in the stomach, blood pooling in the wrinkles of his jacket. His face was gaunt, the bone structure visible. For a second she saw him as the skeleton he was soon to become if he didn’t get medical attention quickly.
She picked the gun he’d used to shoot her out of the mud with her left hand. It felt alien, wrong, but her right was useless, throbbing with pain. Then she cuffed him to the car door handle with a plastic tie – tricky with one hand, but he barely looked at her. She walked back to her own car, sliding into the driver’s seat. Her breathing was heavy now, the pain in her hand increasing.
She reached out for the radio.
The ambulance would be seven minutes, the dispatcher told her.
Her head fell back against the headrest. She inspected her hand again. It was still bleeding. Badly.
She fumbled in the glove compartment, pulling out the first-aid kit. She had to unzip it with one hand, the case wedged between her legs. She wrapped a bandage around her hand, pulling it tight. By the time she’d finished the fabric was already soaked with blood.
There was a box of painkillers. She fumbled with it.
Then dropped it back.
Right now she needed the pain.
She reached out with her left and twisted the key, the angle awkward, and once the engine had fired up started to drive.
She’d waited years to do this, constantly putting it off, constantly afraid.
Now was the moment.
Now was when she made things right.
Now.
She pulled up outside the house just over half an hour later, her right hand in her lap, useless.
But she wasn’t thinking about that.
Her thoughts were full of her past. It was like she was seeing her life played out on the inside of the windscreen.
She was a teenager again, standing by the window in her bedroom, watching her foster mother leave the house to go to her weekly knitting circle. The feeling of dread was heavy in her stomach, because she knew what was going to happen next. She’d hear Staal downstairs; he’d go to the wooden cabinet they kept in the living room. Then she’d hear the scrape of the key being taken off the top and being inserted into the lock.
The click.
The creak of the door opening.
The sound of a bottle being pulled off a shelf, liquid glugging into a glass.
At that stage she knew she had less than ten minutes left; he only ever had one drink before coming upstairs. But the time didn’t matter, she’d nowhere to run. She bunched herself under the duvet, closed her eyes tight, as if that might work, as if, for once, it might stop him, or make him decide that tonight he’d just drink, stay downstairs, away from her.
But it was always the same. The sequence of noises would reverse, the bottle being put back, the door locked and the key replaced on top. He’d take the glass to the kitchen, a hiss of water from the tap as he washed it out. Then the footsteps on the stairs would start. There were eleven in total, and Tanya knew the sound of each one. She would tighten her eyes even harder with each step, curl tighter into a ball, not breathing, willing herself away.
Then the door would open slowly, and he stepped into the room. She could smell him, smell the alcohol on his breath, smell his sweat.
And hear the rasp of his breathing.
Which was getting faster and tighter as he got closer.
Tanya shook herself, refusing to relive it again.
She got out of the car, legs unsteady, her hands freezing but her brow covered with sweat, and walked across the road.
The doorbell sounded, and she stood there.
Further down the street a dog was barking, each bark a shot in the darkness. A breeze cooled one side of her face.
A light flicked on inside, footsteps approached the door.
It opened just a crack, an eye appearing, scoping her out. She could tell by the quick dilation it recognized her.
She had her toe in the gap before he could close it. She shoved it open as he stepped back into the hall.
Tanya walked in, closed the door behind her, and looked into her foster father’s face.
101
Tuesday, 11 May
22.43
Jaap laid Floortje on the stretcher, and the paramedic got to work, telling him to step back.
He tried to explain what had happened but the paramedic wasn’t listening; he was bent over, focusing on Floorjte, checking for a pulse, shining a torch into her eyes, his gloved hands a flurry of movement.
Another paramedic stepped over, guided Jaap back a few steps and asked what had happened. Jaap started to tell him but saw the first paramedic straighten up.
He had only to see the small shake of his head, the deflation of his shoulders, to know what was coming.
He stepped away, as if by avoiding hearing it he could make it not happen.
And then he saw Nikolic, who’d collapsed on the grass, the knife blade buried in his throat. He was still alive – just – restrained on a stretcher while a third paramedic tended to him.
Every atom in Jaap’s body exploded.
He lunged, knocked the paramedic away and grabbed the knife handle, jerking it sideways. Blood spurted as two uniforms pulled him off, a strange rasping sound coming from Nikolic’s throat.
They pinned him to the ground, Jaap thrashing like a wild animal, twisting and writhing, pure reflex.
No thought.
No existence.
Just rage.
Later, he didn’t know how much later, but certainly after they’d taken Floortje’s body away, Jaap found himself sitting in the back of a patrol car, blue lights strobing the darkness.
He had a paper cup of coffee in his hand. It was full, and cold. He’d no idea how it had got there. His hands were cuffed.
He looked out the open door and saw someone walking towards him. It was Kees. The thought of Saskia burst into his head. But the look on Kees’ face told him everything.
A uniform intercepted him, and they spoke briefly.
Once he’d finished Kees walked over, helped Jaap out of the car and undid his cuffs.
Jaap found himself walking, each footstep an age, down to the water where the boat was still on fire.
As he stood a few metres away, just enough so it was warm, he fished the I Ching from his back pocket.
The pages were soaking wet, the paper swelling and fanning out. He thought about Kyoto, thought about Yuzuki Roshi, thought about how he’d tried to escape but hadn’t.
Because the thing he was trying to escape from was himself.
And that just wasn’t possible.
A siren started up. Peo
ple were moving behind him, around him.
He held the book in his hand for a moment, feeling the wet paper, its weight, what it represented.
Then he tossed it into the flames.
102
Tuesday, 11 May
23.16
Kees watched as Jaap stood by the water, his frame a silhouette in front of the blaze.
He’d just listened to what the two uniforms had told him, and he turned back to them.
‘So, when you come to write your reports what are you going to put?’
One of them, the shorter of the two finally spoke.
‘We’ll have to report that Inspector Rykel assaulted the victim when he was restrained and that—’
‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,’ said Kees stepping right up to him. ‘That man was responsible for the death of his child, and her mother. He was also a mass murderer. Your report is going to state that Nikolic’s death was a result of self-defence on Inspector Rykel’s part. You got that?’
Both uniforms looked at the ground.
‘You got that?’ said Kees again.
Slowly both uniforms nodded their heads.
‘Yeah,’ said the shorter one. ‘Got it.’
Kees stared at them for a few moments more, then turned away.
He had another problem, Tanya was missing.
Kees left Jaap with the paramedics; they’d given him a sedative but it didn’t seem to have done much. He’d never seen such anger and rage and despair on another human’s face. He didn’t ever want to see it again.
Through talking to the ambulance crew Kees learned of the boathouse and rushed there, driving fast, all the while thinking of Tanya. He found Krilic, still cuffed to a car door handle, being tended by more paramedics, the blue lights flickering intermittently through the trees on his approach, but neither of the paramedics had seen Tanya.
He tried calling her phone but it was off.
Kees walked into the trees, away from the shoreline – he’d seen enough water recently – and tried to think where she had gone. Sitting against a tree trunk he closed his eyes and tried to think it through, about what she’d told him.
Into the Night: Inspector Rykel Book 2 (Amsterdam Quartet) Page 30
