by Kim Knight
A knock on the door jolted her.
“Yeah,” she called out over her shoulder. Preparing her favourite cup for consumption, she added sweetener.
The door opened, smacking the wall.
Gibson poked his head around the frame. “All the paperwork’s done on the arrests last night—even for Ali.”
“Great. No need to interview him further?” Janssen watched the numbers climb on the kettle, and they moved too slow for her taste at the moment.
“Nope. The guy was about to supply me with coke and dud pills.” He entered, crossed the room, and slumped down onto Janssen’s sofa. “Got everything we need on his ass. Plus, there’s the surveillance.” A satisfied smile split his lips.
Janssen smiled at a job well done, then turned to face her partner. He sat with one knee crossed over the other. Her eyes roamed over his crisp white shirt, smart black trousers, and the shine on his beige shoes.
He’s like a damn chameleon, she laughed to herself.
Over the years, she’d gotten used to the way Logan Gibson could blend in well in any environment. She recalled how different he looked last night, compared to now, in order to go undercover and make an arrest.
“What?” Gibson asked. “Why’d you look at me like that for?”
“Nothing, nothing at all,” Janssen said with a laugh. “You did good, partner.”
“Thanks. You too, especially with the work you did on the background surveillance.”
“Hmm, we’ve got to push for deportation. He’s too much of risk to remain here.”
Janssen leaned on the counter and waited for the kettle to boil. She folded her arms over her chest and glanced out the window.
The deaths of the girls were heavy on her mind. She was already convinced it had to be a man.
It always is in these cases. Her mind roamed back and forth over the last six months, scrubbing bits of information.
The horrific attacks on the women sat heavy on her heart. She didn’t like the idea of women at risk in the city she had pledged to serve and protect. For the most part, men disgusted her. Well, she could work with them and be friends, of course, but she had never found them attractive in anyway. The thought of a man’s hands on her body, or the idea that a man would have the cheek to take advantage of a woman, set a fire alight within her.
“You, okay?” Gibson asked. “You look like you’ve got the world on your shoulders.” He paused a moment. “It’s the girls, huh?”
Janssen’s gaze flashed back to meet Gibson’s across the room.
A blank look spread over her expression. She shrugged, then ran a hand through her short-cropped, blonde hair, then bit her lip.
“Uh-huh, yeah.” She shook her head to try and clear the flooding thoughts. “Yeah sorry I was just…”
The kettle clicked to signal it had boiled. She turned around, back to him, then poured water into her cup. The liquid turned to a blood-red colour, and the aroma of raspberry and pomegranate, rose with the steam.
A montage flash of mutilated female bodies assaulted her inner eye.
She set the kettle down and clasped her lids shut tight, pushing away the images of the mutilated bodies the forensic team had shown her.
“It’s okay to feel something,” Gibson said to her back. “We all have cases like that. You know, the ones that stick with us, especially when they’re unsolved, or we have little to go on.”
Janssen remained mute but nodded in agreement.
He’s right, she tossed his words around, mulling over the reality. After five years together, he has proven he knows me, time after time, just as well as I know him.
“Yeah, I hear ya, Logan.” Janssen sighed. “You wanna drink or something?”
“Nah, I’m good, thanks. You can keep your witch’s brew.” He chuckled.
Janssen’s shoulders bounced up and down, and she chuckled with her back turned. It was the first time she had laughed genuinely in a while.
“Hey, watch your mouth. I’ll turn you into a frog.”
Once her tea was brewed, Janssen turned to her desk with her steaming mug. She placed it down, then closed the blinds, and switched on the desk lamp.
The evening was starting to draw in.
“So, what do we know so far about the situation with the girls?” Gibson asked.
Janssen kicked off her loafers and threw her feet up on her desk with her tea in hand. “Well, not that much. The first case of a missing girl fitting the MO was about a year ago. Following that one, there were a few other, then they stopped for a time.”
“Right.” Gibson agreed and leaned forward. “We need to see if there’s any link between the previous cases and the most recent ones. Our suspect could have taken a hiatus.” He used his fingers for quotation marks.
“Hmm, the locations are pretty random though. The cases from last year were north of the city. The most recent ones, the bodies have been scattered around the centre and especially on the Bos.” Janssen sipped her tea.
“Didn’t a witness say that one of the girls was last seen speaking to a dark-haired man?” Gibson added.
“Yep, from what I recall, that was one of the most recent ones too.”
Gibson nodded and got to his feet. “All right, let me look into the earlier files and see what comes up. Maybe even check in with the family members too.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Janssen agreed. “With Suzy Chan, who was found last night, one of the team went over to her listed next of kin already.”
Gibson fixed Janssen with a stern look. “Really, who was it?”
“Turns out, she was in Amsterdam on her own, staying with a female friend. According to the briefing that officer Denz gave this morning, the friend said her parents are back in Hong Kong. They think she was over here studying, not working the poles—if you know what I mean.”
“Shit, do we have a contact for the parents?”
“Denz is on it. A warrant has been issued to search her room. Hopefully, there will be something there to give details of her parent’s whereabouts.”
Gibson rubbed his chin, as if in deep thought. “And if there’s not?”
“Well, if there’s not . . .” Janssen sighed. “All we can do is put out an appeal with the media in Hong Kong.”
Gibson nodded in agreement. “Cool. Leave that with me. I’ll follow up with Denz. And pull the files on the girls from last year.”
“Okay, I’ll look into what happened with Suzy, most recently.”
Gibson made his way to the door. “Hey, don’t work too late. Later, partner,” he called over his shoulder as he left.
Janssen continued to work on the case. After a while, she glanced over at the clock. It was coming up on nine in the evening.
Damn. Time sure does fly when following leads. She rolled her eyes and flipped her feet off the desk. Too bad none of them have panned out.
Placing her mug down, she logged into her computer, ready to pour over more details that had just come in from forensics on Suzy Chan’s murder.
6
Peeping Tom
Mr. Fitz
Mr. Fitz made his way up the stairs to Madeline’s flat. He took the stairs slowly, placing one foot at a time on each step. Once he arrived outside her door, he glanced around, placed his ear to the door, then knocked.
“Madeline, it’s me, Mr. Fitz.” He glanced at his watch. It was 8:45 p.m., or so he noted. His fisted hand hovered next to the door, then he knocked again.
There was no answer. He had expected her to be home by now.
Maybe she’s working?
Once again, he knocked, then stood for a moment, listening. Nothing, not a sound. So, he placed his key into the lock and turned it. With a single click, the door opened.
“Madeline,” he called again and pushed the door fully open.
Silence greeted him. Stepping over the threshold with a smile, he gently closed the door behind him.
A flick of the switch on the wall, and the narrow hallway lit up. Slowly,
he ascended down the narrow path. The bedroom was to his left.
He kicked open the door and found no one there.
The smell of sweet coconut floated out, drawing him into her personal space.
It was neat and tidy inside the room. Her bed was made, and not a thing was out of place from what he noticed. As he stepped into the room, he drew in a deep breath and took in more of Madeline’s sweet scent.
Looking on her dresser, he searched for the source, trying to locate what the smell was.
Perfume? Lotion? What is it? Mr. Fitz wondered.
A small tube of coco butter lotion was left opened. He picked up the product and sniffed it.
“Ahh, nice,” he said to himself, then placed it back down on her vanity table.
He glanced around some more, admiring her shoes, bags, and coats. He thought about the young lady who had just moved into the property he managed. She’d been with him now for three months. He had liked Madeline from the moment he had met her.
Her milk chocolate skin, curly hair, and bright brown eyes appealed to him. She also had curves that any man would love to hold. He knew he was too old for her, and probably not handsome enough either.
She’ll never go for me. He was well aware of this as a man in his late forties, with not much going for him looks wise. Not even give me a second look, he pondered the thought.
It broke his heart that she’d probably pass him up. Sighing he moved out of her personal space and headed back to the bedroom door. As his hand touched to knob, he noticed she had hung one of her bras on it from the inside.
On autopilot, he plucked the garment from the handle and looked at the label.
I wonder what size she is. A cheeky smile spread across his thin lips.
He noted her bra size with a chuckle, sniffed the garment, slipped it inside a pocket, then quickly left the bedroom.
Strolling down the narrow hallway to the bathroom, he set out to inspect the work the contractor he had called this morning had done.
Hmm. New pipes. The tile flooring, still slightly damaged from the work and the leak, glistened, and the wet carpet had a musty smell.
Tutting at the damage, he shook his head. He pulled out a notepad and his phone, then took some pictures of the damage.
Gotta replace the floor now. A frown touched his lips.
He flicked on the tap, and the shower water flowed out in abundance with good pressure. Next, he flushed the toilet to double check that worked too.
Satisfied everything seemed to be in working order, he left the bathroom and made his way to the front door.
Oh, the note!
He pulled out his notepad and scribbled a quick message to let Madeline know he had stopped by to inspect the work carried out, but she wasn’t home yet. He doubled back to the living room then laid it on the table.
Hmm. Maybe not. She’ll know I entered.
Quickly, he snatched it up, and as he did, he peeked into her kitchen area. Scanning the shelves, he noticed her brand of tea and coffee. He picked up the tea and inspected it. Next, he did the same with the coffee.
His eyes moved over every inch of the kitchen as he imagined the young beauty cooking. When his daydream came to an end, his mind came back to reality.
I’m in a tenant’s apartment unannounced.
He had broken the law, but not with any malice behind his actions. Quickly, he made his way back to the door, stepped out, then locked it just as he had found it. Bending over, he flinched with back pain, and slid the note underneath the base of the door.
As he drew himself up to full height, he dug into his pocket and fingered Madeline’s bra.
The lace intertwined around his thick fingers, and he relished the feeling. He contemplated whether he should put it back, and as he was about to unlock the door, he heard the main door unlock below him sound off. He fumbled with his key and made his way down the stairs innocently, just in case it was Madeline.
“Hi, Mr. Fitz,” Andre, the tenant who lived below Madeline, called out.
His heart skipped a beat. Relief rushed through his veins that it wasn’t Madeline who almost caught him snooping.
“‘Ello,” he responded. “Is everything okay with your flat?” he asked. “Your neighbour above had a leak.”
Mr. Fitz watched a puzzled expression spread across Andre’s face. “I never noticed anything. But I left pretty early this morning though,” Andre called over his shoulder while unlocking his door. He turned back to Mr. Fitz and said, “If there’s any damage, I’ll let you know.”
“Okay, sure.” Mr. Fitz squeezed past Andre and made his way to the exterior door.
Once outside, he looked up and down the road. There was no sign of Madeline, so he got into this car and started the engine.
He made his way back to his own home, way on the other side of Amsterdam Centraal.
Mr. Fitz liked the city, and its vibrant atmosphere. For the most part, he also enjoyed his job as a facilities and property manager. It kept him busy, and he met a lot of new people who rented properties around Amsterdam.
As he stopped at a traffic light, his phone buzzed. He reached into his pocket and pulled over into a safe space, in case it was Madeline. A message from Olga flashed on the screen.
—Hey, we still on for dinner tonight?
—Let me know.
“Oh, shit,” he said out loud. He had forgotten he planned to have dinner with Olga this evening.
The two had been friends for a while. They had connected via an online dating site. She was closer to his age, lonely, and worked as a PA for a doctor in the centre of the city.
Olga had moved to Amsterdam from Sweden many years ago, when she thought she had found the love of her life. The woman had married young, bared no children, but the marriage broke down shortly after they had exchanged vows. She never returned to Sweden, she preferred the diversity of Amsterdam to her native home, which was mainly white, straight, and middle-classed in the city she had come from.
He texted back a response.
—Yes, of course.
—Sorry, I’m running a little late.
—I made the reservation under my name.
—Will meet you at the restaurant.
His phone beeped with an instant reply.
—Great, no problem.
—See you then.
Mr. Fitz pocketed his phone and placed the car into gear. He sped off toward his home to get ready for his date. A streak of happiness filled him. Tonight, he’d have some female company. But he remained disappointed he never got to see the lovely beauty he had his eye on.
Maybe one day, she’ll have dinner with me, he thought to himself, then glanced at his reflection in his rear-view mirror.
He ran a hand through his brown hair and made a note to get a haircut in the morning. His right eye started to blink rapidly, so he flicked his gaze away from the mirror.
No matter how hard he tried, he could never get it to stop. The facial tic had caused him much teasing as a child. And he hated it.
7
The Bachelor
Chris Visser
Chris pulled up outside his flat later than usual. After leaving Madeline that morning, he received a number of emergency call outs. The chilly weather had been playing havoc on the heating and water systems around the city.
He cut the engine of his van, climbed out, then rubbed his hands together for warmth.
I hope she has a decent shower tonight, and the carpet has dried out, he thought to himself.
Opening up the boot, he unloaded his tools. After suffering a break-in a few months ago, be vowed never to leave his expensive equipment outside overnight.
Usually, Amsterdam was a safe city. But some opportunist took advantage of his native-trusting act to innocently leave the tools on display.
He slammed the door shut. The audible click from his key fob confirmed the door had locked behind him. Slowly, he made his way up the steps toward the Victorian house conversion where he had rented
the middle flat for the past three years.
Once inside, he placed the tools down, headed to the kitchen, flicked on the central heating and kettle, then shrugged out of his heavy work coat.
His eyes cast over his surroundings, and he smiled. It still felt like heaven to arrive back home to his own space.
Once upon a time, he had lived with flatmates. But it got a little overcrowded for him and left him longing for his own space and privacy.
He headed out the kitchen to the open planned living room and dining space, kicked off his boots, grabbed the remote, then switched on the television.
The news flicked on, and the report caught his attention.
“Shit.”
He chewed the inside of his lip with a frown as the camera man panned out across the view of Amsterdamse Bos. The Politie were everywhere, and the park entrance was sealed off.
His phone pinged in his pocket. He pulled it out and noticed the online dating notification pop up. In the background, the kettle’s switch flicked and the boiling ceased. He went back to fix himself a coffee, leaving his phone on the edge of the sofa.
With his coffee in hand, he reclined in his chair and fully opened the dating notification to read the message.
—Hey, handsome. How are you?
—I’d love to get to know you better.
—What part of Amsterdam are you from?
Chris pulled up the profile of the sender. His eyebrows shot up to the ceiling.
“Nice,” he said.
The woman was different from Madeline’s coffee-coloured skin, dark hair, and large brown eyes. And very different from the majority of woman he had dated before.
Amber’s profile described her as ‘Asian-American.’
Chris moved his eyes over her pretty oriental features and rubbed his chin with satisfaction.
Very nice, he mused as he flicked through her pictures. Nice indeed.
He clicked out of the email notification and concentrated on the screen.
The evening news reporter gave a full account of all the woman who had either gone missing or had turned up dead around the city over the last six months. One by one, the faces of all the woman appeared. He switched the television to the football game.
