‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him for a few days.’
‘Let me give you a hand.’ Ronald stepped towards the mannequin, but Natalie pushed him away. She dropped the bare pale arm, still slightly bent, on the floor. ‘I don’t need a security guard’s clumsy fingers all over a five-thousand-euro dress, thank you very much.’
‘Are you okay?’ Ronald asked, seemingly unperturbed by the rebuff.
She turned back to the mannequin and yanked the doll’s head from its shoulders. ‘Oh Ronald,’ she said, ‘I think he’s going to leave me.’ She dropped the head on the floor. Its dark nylon hair spilled across the carpet like a puddle and the blue eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling. ‘What am I going to do?’
He hugged her and she sobbed on his shoulder. It was sincere, unlike her tears for Piotr Mazur the first time I’d met her. ‘He won’t leave you,’ he said. ‘How could he? It will be okay.’ His voice was soft.
I frowned. ‘Piotr Mazur believed Sylvie. He thought there was a child.’
She stepped out of the hug, managed to stop crying and dried her eyes on a tissue.
‘Yes, I know. He kept asking questions about that night. Why Sylvie had OD’d.’ She tucked her hair behind her ears and looked at Ronald. ‘But it was so obvious what had happened. Sylvie needed money for drugs, and when she got it, she ended up using too much.’ She tipped her head sideways and gave me a look from under her eyelashes that probably would have made Ronald’s heart beat faster but didn’t do much for me. ‘Piotr just wouldn’t believe it.’ The look wouldn’t have done much for him either.
‘Why did you say that Katja killed an innocent man?’
Her eyes moved sharply to Ronald. ‘Because Katja wanted to kill whoever had sold Sylvie those drugs and it wasn’t Piotr.’
‘Do you know who it was?’
‘Not Piotr, because he had never seen Sylvie before she came to our flat that night. I know that for sure.’
‘Was Koen her boyfriend?’
Ronald threw me an angry glance.
‘No,’ Natalie said. ‘He was always mine. He just cheated on me with her.’
Behind me, the escalators whispered of secrets as they continued their pointless journey.
* * *
Ingrid was ready with Katja and her lawyer by the time I got to the police station. The rainbow flag still flew proudly from the flagpost on the roof. I swiped my card and went to the interview room.
Katja was calm, like last time, but she seemed drawn into herself. Her hair was limp around her square face and her eyes were deeply sunken, as if the effort to stay alive was sucking them into her brain. She was looking down. We might be running out of time to get to the truth. Her lawyer hadn’t changed at all. I thought he was wearing the same suit, and maybe even the same tie.
I pressed the record button on the equipment, but after stating our names and the time, I let the silence grow. Normally people talked if it lasted too long. It was a human impulse to fill silence with words, to tell stories or to share impressions. Katja didn’t say anything.
In the end, I was the first to speak. ‘The wrong man is dead.’ I said it softly but still pushed the words across the table towards Katja. I’d been waiting to say this ever since I’d heard Natalie talking at Piotr’s funeral, but only now did I have enough information to go directly against Bauer’s wishes.
Katja lifted her gaze from my chin and looked me in the eye.
‘Natalie Schuurman said that an innocent man was killed,’ Ingrid said. We had agreed beforehand to focus on finding out the motive for Piotr’s murder. Later we could move on to finding out who actually killed him. As I’d said to Tim, sometimes protecting the vulnerable was more important than convicting the guilty.
‘Whatever you meant to do, whatever you were trying to achieve, you failed,’ I said, ‘because the wrong person was stabbed.’
Katja frowned, the first outward sign that she was actually listening to what was being said.
‘So you’d better tell us what the point of killing Piotr was. Were you trying to protect someone? Whatever was going on, if you do not tell us, that person will still be in danger.’
‘No.’ It was a hoarse whisper. ‘He wasn’t the wrong man.’ The words were slow and drawn out, as if Katja had lost the ability to speak fluently. ‘She’s lying.’
‘This was about Sylvie and her child.’
‘There is no child. I told you: I wanted revenge on Sylvie’s dealer.’
‘Petra Maasland told you that her dealer was also her boyfriend?’
‘Yes, that’s how I figured it out. Because Piotr had been her boyfriend.’
‘Why did you think that?’
‘He came to her funeral. He kept following me. He kept asking me all these questions about her. Where had she been? What had she been doing in the last two years? So I started to suspect that he’d been her boyfriend. Then I saw him give that German the drugs and I was sure. He killed Sylvie; he gave her the drugs that made her OD.’
‘Katja, he wasn’t Sylvie’s boyfriend,’ I said.
Katja shook her head. ‘You’re wrong.’
‘Piotr was in a long-term relationship with a man,’ I said.
‘That doesn’t mean anything.’
‘He didn’t know Sylvie until she came to Koen and Natalie’s flat.’
‘He gave that German the drugs,’ Katja said. ‘That’s when I decided …’ She stopped.
‘Decided what?’
She lifted her head and looked me in the eye. ‘I decided to kill him.’
I shook my head. That wasn’t what she had been going to say. ‘What happened that evening? Tell me about the German.’
‘He kept pestering us. He kept asking for drugs. He was hassling everybody. And then Piotr took this little bag out of his pocket, gave it to the guy and told him to get lost.’
‘Gave it to him?’ Ingrid said. ‘Did he take money for it?’
I inhaled sharply at the question. It only occurred to me now: Ronald had told me from the beginning that Piotr hadn’t been a dealer. Khalil had talked about him doing lines with his neighbours. That footage of Piotr and Natalie in the changing rooms hadn’t been about Piotr selling drugs to Natalie. What had she texted him? I’ll give u what u want. Not money for drugs, but drugs themselves. He hadn’t been selling; he’d been using.
Katja’s face was pale. ‘No, the guy didn’t give him any money,’ she said reluctantly.
‘He had no other drugs on him when we found him. Did you steal anything?’
‘No, I didn’t touch him afterwards. I just left.’
‘So he was carrying a single hit and gave it to the German,’ Ingrid said. ‘What if it was for his own consumption?’
Katja buried her face in her hands just as the door to the interview room opened.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Bauer said. He grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the room. He pushed me into the corridor and slammed the door behind me. ‘Are you crazy?’
‘There’s been a development—’
‘I listened to you from the observation area. You’ve got nothing! You’re ruining my case for nothing! Don’t you understand what you’re doing? If I see you anywhere near Katja Bruyneel again, I’ll report you. I’ll have you fired. Get out of here.’ His face looked as if it was ready to explode. ‘Get out of here right now!’
‘Don’t blame Ingrid,’ I said. ‘This is my doing.’
‘As if I don’t know that!’
Maybe I would have argued for longer if it had just been my career, but for Ingrid’s sake I capitulated. I knew that the outcome would be bad for her if I stayed.
Plus I knew Bauer was right – I had nothing. Everything pointed towards Katja having killed Piotr because she’d mistakenly thought he had been Sylvie’s dealer. Piotr’s concern for Sylvie’s non-existent child had given everybody the wrong impression.
So why did I still feel it was all a lie?
I went to my office, grabbed the files o
n Piotr’s case, stuffed them in my bag and went home.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I was woken up by Ronald bursting into my bedroom. The cat jumped from my bed with an annoyed meow. I was just about to ask what the hell he thought he was doing when I noticed he had his mobile in his hand. It was on speakerphone.
‘Doesn’t feel right.’ A woman’s voice.
‘Who is it?’ I said.
Ronald didn’t respond and the voice on the phone continued. ‘He gave it. It’s not right.’ The words were slurred.
I recognised the voice and was fully awake instantly.
‘Stay upright,’ Ronald said into the phone. ‘Don’t lie down.’
A soft laugh. ‘I listened to you. I called you.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Home.’
I got out of bed. Ronald was chivalrous enough to turn his back. I threw some clothes on. The same ones I’d been wearing all day because they were on the floor by the side of the bed.
‘Is Koen with you?’ Ronald said.
‘No. He left again.’
‘Give me the address.’
‘I know where it is,’ I said.
‘I’m on my way,’ Ronald said. ‘I’ll get an ambulance.’
‘Fine. It’s fine,’ the slurred voice on the phone responded.
‘Sit upright. Your back against something.’
I heard her shuffle. Good, she was with it enough to listen to Ronald. If she had her back against something and passed out, she would hopefully stay upright. Then she would at least not choke to death on her own vomit.
‘Natalie,’ he said, ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes. Whatever you do, don’t lie down.’
I grabbed my mobile and dialled 112. ‘Ambulance. It’s an emergency. A drug overdose.’
‘Do you know what drug?’ the operator said.
‘Heroin possibly. Or cocaine. We’re on our way there now. She’s still conscious. But hurry.’
The operator said something but I had already grabbed my car keys and was running down the stairs.
Ronald followed me.
‘How’s she doing?’ I said.
‘She’s cut the call.’
I drove back to where we had been only a few hours before. Even though it was the night after the Gay Pride parade, once we were away from the canal, traffic was remarkably light. I pushed the gas pedal down and my green car responded pleasingly quickly. The streets were empty enough that I didn’t stop for red lights. I didn’t need a siren on top of the car to drive as if there was one. It didn’t matter: there were no cars that needed to pull over. A flash followed me as I hit the third red light. I would have a few minutes with Natalie before the ambulance arrived. Ask her some questions. Who had given her the drugs? Natalie had told Ronald that Katja had stabbed the wrong man. Did she know who the right man was? Was this about drugs after all?
Another car came towards the junction from the right. That car had right of way. He headed towards me, fully expecting me to stop. Instead I sped up and shot across in front of him; there was no time to lose. I heard the screeching sound of the other car’s tyres.
How much time would I have before the ambulance arrived? Would she talk to me? Probably not, but she would talk to Ronald. I started to believe that Natalie had known exactly what had been going on. It had now put her in danger.
I turned the corner and was surprised to see blue swirling lights already there. How had the paramedics beaten us to the address? Two men in white were wheeling a stretcher into the back of the ambulance. Was this someone else? It wasn’t possible that they could have got here more quickly than we had. I stopped the car and jumped out. It wasn’t parked properly but that didn’t matter. Ronald ran up to the ambulance. The paramedic, a man with a shaven head and a handlebar moustache, stopped him with one hand.
‘I got a call,’ Ronald said. ‘A woman overdosed.’
‘We’ve got her.’
‘Natalie Schuurman?’
‘That’s her. She’ll be fine.’ He put the hand on Ronald’s arm. ‘We got there in time. Don’t worry.’ He climbed into the ambulance.
Ronald grabbed the handle to keep the door open. ‘We’ll follow you.’
The ambulance sped off. I would have thought that the hospital was further away from here than my flat. That had been a nifty bit of driving by the ambulance crew.
Was there a rule in the architect’s handbook that said that hospitals always had to be white? This place couldn’t be anything other than a cathedral dedicated to healing. The nurse at the reception area stared at me bleary-eyed. ‘You can’t see her yet,’ she said. ‘She’s being treated.’
‘I’m a police officer. We need to talk to her urgently.’
‘You can see her as soon as the doctors are finished with her. Just wait here.’
We sat down in the waiting area on orange chairs that were linked together. They were uncomfortable, and after ten minutes, the edge started to dig into my upper legs. A steady stream of injured people kept the nurse in the reception busy. I might be imagining it, but it seemed that she had to speak more English than Dutch. A few people wore pink, but then I was wearing my fuchsia-pink top as well. I had just picked it up off the floor when Ronald had woken me, without giving it any thought.
We sat without talking. A woman came out with a leg in plaster. A man walked slowly with a bandage around his head. It was a normal Saturday night.
Finally, the nurse called my name. ‘You can see her now. She’s in A17. It’s a left here, then right, then follow the red line on the floor. That will get you there.’
‘Thank you.’ Ronald smiled at her, but the woman’s eyes had already gone back to her screen.
Natalie looked younger without the thick make-up. She had a drip attached to her arm.
‘Natalie.’ Ronald touched her other arm. ‘What happened?’
She opened her eyes. ‘Hi, Ronald. Did I spoil your Saturday night?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m glad you’re safe.’
‘I was stupid, wasn’t I? You warned me.’
‘You will talk to the police, won’t you?’
She bent her head forward until her hair covered her face. ‘Not now. I want to sleep.’ She raised her head again and looked me in the eye. ‘This isn’t a matter for the police. I was stupid but I won’t be any more. I don’t think I really wanted to kill myself.’
‘You nearly died. If we hadn’t called the ambulance …’ He stopped at her small smile.
‘Oh Ronald,’ she said. ‘You must have known I’d called the emergency services before I called you.’
Chapter Thirty
In the morning sunshine, I took out the files I’d taken home yesterday. Ronald was still asleep; we’d got home from the hospital in the very early hours of the morning. I was wide awake. I took all the photos of the scene of Piotr’s stabbing out of the files and spread them out in front of me. Had I been too close to it all along? Had I inserted my memory of that night into every picture that I looked at? I normally started with the photos. I liked looking at the photos. Why hadn’t I done that this time?
Maybe I’d thought I had no need of crime-scene photos because I’d actually been at the scene. I’d seen the aftermath in person. From up close I’d witnessed the exact moment that Piotr Mazur died.
Or maybe it had been because Piotr’s death had been so mixed up with my personal thoughts about that night.
Or, if I wanted to be kind to myself, maybe it was because I had moved to Bauer’s team and all he cared about was protecting his previous case.
Either way, it didn’t matter. I examined them now. I no longer saw a dead drug dealer, but a dead innocent man who had been killed by mistake. I picked up the first photo. Look at this objectively, I told myself. Forget about pushing the T-shirt against his stomach and look at this photo as if you had never seen him before. What would his body position normally tell me? That someone had turned him on his back. That someone had done CPR. He wasn’t l
ying how he had fallen. Nothing else.
This was hard. Even though I was really trying, I kept putting myself into the photos. Me and Gerard Campert both. I could picture the doctor, his chest bared because I was using his T-shirt to try to staunch Piotr’s blood. I could see his large facial features in profile, his face turned away from me.
This was no good.
From the photos in front of me I took all the ones that showed Piotr’s body and pushed them into a pile. I turned them over. It was still so hot. I could feel the sweat running down from my armpits, and a film was forming on my upper lip. I got up and splashed cold water on my face. I sat back and closed my eyes to clear my mind.
When I looked at the photos still in front of me, one of them jumped out at me. It showed the drawn outline of where the body had been. But it also showed the cars parked along the street.
I’d been an idiot.
I picked up the picture. I looked again at the position of Piotr’s body. I looked at the gap in the row of cars just ahead of where his body had been.
A gap the size of a car.
Katja had driven to the murder scene. When she and Piotr had turned into the side street, he had walked her to her car. She hadn’t been on foot. No wonder we hadn’t been able to find any footage of her leaving.
I could feel the excitement racing through my veins. I saw the series of photos of the parking payment machine with my bloody handprint on it. I remembered leaning on it after feeling dizzy that night. Either Katja had got a fine, or she’d paid for parking at that machine. Either way I would be able to get the car registration plate. Maybe it was useless but maybe it would give me something. It was worth a go.
It didn’t take me many phone calls before I got some answers. Not a single parking fine had been issued in that area that evening. The list of the tickets issued by the machine wasn’t long. Most cars belonged to local residents. Only seven cars had paid for parking. I got the number plates.
I looked up the cars. I looked up the owners.
I swore when I saw whose car had been parked in that area. Next to where Piotr died. I looked back at the time the ticket had been issued. Nine thirty-three. Katja had already been in the bar with Piotr when Petra Maasland had parked her car and paid.
Death on the Canal Page 22
