The Girl Who Broke the Rules (19 page)

Smoothing down the front of his sweater, he was relieved that the musculature beneath it was at least still paunch-free, if a little on the bony side at the moment. She had come all the way to Amsterdam at his request, hadn’t she?
Feel the fear and do it anyway, van den Bergen.

‘Let’s talk about that tonight,’ he said. ‘Come round to mine. I’ll order in take-out. We’ll open a nice bottle of wine. You can sleep in the spare room. It’s clean. How does that sound?’

She smiled, and it was as though the sun shone through the café window, warming everything; lighting up the dark places within him. ‘Yeah. Okay. Too many bad memories in that old room, anyway.’ She pushed her bowl of soup away, half drunk. ‘I’ve been feeling a bit rough since that loon tried to feed me God-knows-what.’

Raised an eyebrow and fixed him with those big brown eyes. Hadn’t Marie spoken about some article or other she had read online, that said if you stare into somebody’s eyes for long enough, they fall in love with you? He determined to hold her gaze for as long as possible but only managed twenty or so seconds. Damn.

‘You’re normally a good judge of character,’ he said. ‘What went wrong?’

‘Ahlers seemed all right, I guess,’ she said. ‘If he hadn’t, and if Katja hadn’t have vouched for him, I’d certainly never have gone to his place.’ She rubbed her face. Rolled her eyes. ‘Christ knows. You rang and expected me to come running. But I’ve been feeling so trapped, lately. So controlled. I was being spontaneous, I guess. Rebellious.’

She started to position the condiments in a perfectly straight line that bisected the table, leading from her to him. Connect the dots. Connect that mesmerising woman and this ageing, crumbling man.

‘Was there anything off about him once you got to his place?’

Nodding thoughtfully. ‘Definitely. I think he was about to try something on when you burst through the door like Al Capone. He’s a creepy bastard. No doubt.’ She leaned across the table. Stroked the pink of his knuckles. It was all he could do to stifle a sigh. Then, she withdrew her hand, seemingly thinking better of it. ‘What I want to know, is where the hell is that Noor’s baby? I mean, if he delivered her child, was it dead? Alive? Is there a toddler at home somewhere and a babysitter wondering where the fuck the mother’s got to?’

‘Will you do some digging on Noor, then?’ he asked, checking his watch. Time to go back.

She grinned mischievously. ‘I thought I was supposed to be your clerical assistant. Filing shit in a short skirt, like secretaries do. Keeping you in hot drinks. That’s the way this rolls, isn’t it?’

Was she flirting? He was sure she was flirting. But maybe she was just being playful.

‘You are my new administrator,’ he said. ‘I bent over backwards to get Hasselblad to agree to it.’

Polishing the tines of her unused fork on a serviette, she was still smiling. Head inclined downwards. Chewing on her lip. But eyes on him. ‘He didn’t bend you over forwards?’ Another raised eyebrow.

He withdrew his wallet from his inside pocket. Pulled out enough money to cover the clandestine lunch. ‘I want your input on this case, George. You’ll have an insight into Ahlers that the rest of us won’t.’

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she said, putting the fork down carefully. ‘I want to interview him. I’ve still got my PhD to research and write, you know. But you’ve got your own team of experienced detectives and qualified criminologists.’

‘They’re not like you.’

‘You taking advantage of me, Chief Inspector?’ She winked.

He grabbed his serviette, pretending to wipe crumbs away from his mouth. Hiding the blush and the smile.

As they walked back to the station, George linked arms with him. Patted him through his overcoat. He had to curb the pace at which he walked to keep in step with her.

‘It’s lovely to see you, you know, you big, soft sod,’ she said, peering up at him. Her expression was one of thoughtful contemplation.

The huge, 1940s brick box on Elandsgracht that was the police headquarters loomed before them. He spied Elvis and Kees walking ahead, under the cantilevered portico. There was something about their hesitant gait and closeness that made his bullshit-ometer spring to life. What were they discussing? Reluctantly, he pulled his arm free from George. ‘You can’t talk like that in front of the others,’ he said. ‘I need them to see me as the boss, not a friend. Is that okay?’

George squeezed his hand surreptitiously. Saluted. Marched ahead without him. Greeted Elvis in English with a merry, ‘All right, the King? You ditched Marie and got yourself a feller to love you tender instead?’ She laughed at her own joke and disappeared through the glazed doors.

‘Hey, you two!’ van den Bergen said, catching up with the detectives. Placing territorial hands on their shoulders. Feeling them shrink beneath his grip. ‘You’ve still not told me why you weren’t at the raid on Ahlers’ apartment and where the bloody hell you’ve been all morning. You’d better have a fucking good excuse.’

Kees smiled at him. It was a smug smile. The kind he had seen on that obsequious fat turd, Kamphuis’, face.

‘Oh, we do, boss. As excuses go, you can’t get much better.’

Van den Bergen observed Elvis – fingering his sideburns with a slightly quivering index finger; failing to look him in the eye – to see if Kees’ enthusiasm was matched by his. Clearly, it wasn’t.

CHAPTER 38

Amsterdam, police headquarters, later

Kees removed his anorak with deliberate care. Hung the coat on the back of the chair and took a seat opposite van den Bergen. There was something about the chief inspector’s hooded eyes and sharp-featured face that he didn’t like. He always seemed to be looking down his nose at life. An austere old bastard, who judged everything around him, constantly. Those unusual, grey irises put him in mind of the North Sea on a foul winter’s day. Desolate and devoid of warmth. A man could get sucked into van den Bergen’s vortex and drown in his cynicism and disappointment. Kamphuis had said he was a whining hypochondriac, whose skinny frame bore all the hallmarks of a skinny, mean-spirited disposition. What was it Elvis used to call van den Bergen before he turned into a fully qualified, arse-kissing disciple? Evil Yoda. He sniggered.

‘What’s so funny?’ van den Bergen asked.

Kees shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

Elvis was perched in the corner of the office on a second chair, looking like somebody had rammed a pool cue up his backside. Had he deliberately distanced himself, or had the chair already been that far from the desk?

Van den Bergen started to sketch some shit or other in his pad. ‘This had better be fucking impressive.’

Sensing the need for a little drama, Kees paused. Tutted. Took a deep breath. ‘Oh, it is. You know my…’ He looked round at Elvis, remembering that the centre stage was not solely his to take. Safety in numbers, after all. ‘…That’s to say,
our
hunch about Buczkowski being suspicious?’

The chief inspector’s mouth curved downwards into a grimace. ‘Yes. And?’

‘Well, he’s definitely involved.’ He withdrew his phone from his trouser pocket and brought up the gallery. Showed van den Bergen the photographs. ‘See? Books on Satanic ritual. Books about the blood libel of the Jews. You know what that is?’

‘A load of shocking anti-Semitic crap,’ van den Bergen said. ‘What the hell does that have to do with two murdered women?’

It was difficult for Kees to conceal his irritation at the wilful nay-saying of the old bastard. Here he was, handing him a second suspect on a plate, and this was the reception he was getting. ‘Look!’ He pointed to some of the titles on the bookshelves that he had snapped from up close. ‘Loads of true crimes books about voodoo killings.’

Turning round to seek Elvis’ complicit corroboration, he found nothing beyond his colleague sitting in silence, hunched in his chair. Resigned. Elbows on knees; head in hands.

‘That’s how come the mattress was in the Valeriusstraat house,’ he went on. ‘Buczkowski put it there. Stands to reason. His finger prints were on the tools, for God’s sake! He’s into all this mutilation stuff because he’s a devil-worshipping son of a bitch. Ahlers’ accomplice.’

Van den Bergen put his glasses on and peered down his nose at the phone. ‘The evidence linking Buczkowski to the building site is piss-water thin. His tools were at his place of work. Big deal! If they were lying around, the perp could have just taken them. Opportunism. True: Valeriusstraat is somehow connected to Lepiks’ murder, but there’s no match between the blood on the mattress and Lepiks’ blood. If there’s been a third victim, we don’t even have a body! And, more to the point, I
didn’t
realise we had a warrant to search Buczkowski’s apartment.’

‘Er—’

The chief inspector looked over at Elvis, disapprobation and disappointment etched into the lines in that craggy old sod’s face. ‘I told Leeuwenhoek to look into the builder, but breaking and entering? Harassing a witness? Maybe that kind of shitty, slipshod police work cuts the mustard on Kamphuis’ side of the building but it doesn’t on mine.’ He pointed at Elvis. A long, accusatory finger that trembled until he laid his hand flat on the desk. ‘You, of all people, know better than to enter a suspect’s home without a warrant or a more compelling reason than Leeuwenhoek’s hunch,
Dirk
. What have you got to say for yourself?’

Elvis slapped his knees. ‘Sorry, boss. If it’s any consolation, I think Kees is onto something. Didn’t Strietman say we were looking at some ritual sex killing thing? He mentioned voodoo, right?’

Polishing his glasses on his shirt tails, van den Bergen frowned. Was silent for almost a full minute. Kees could feel the sweat beading on his forehead. Every second felt like torture. Would he be disciplined for the unsanctioned trip?

Finally, the old pain in the arse looked at him and said, ‘Fine. I’ll let this breach of protocol slide this one time. Let’s pray you weren’t seen breaking in, you dick. Get Buczkowski back in for questioning. I’ll have another read through the forensic report on Valeriusstraat. See if I can make sense of it.’ He turned to Elvis. ‘You, me and Georgina are going to Ahlers’ surgery now, so don’t get comfortable in that chair.’

Kees noticed van den Bergen looking through the glazed door to his office at the new English girl who had started working there on some short term contract or other. She walked past, carrying a file box. Dressed like some student junkie or down-and-out. Though it was hard to see exactly what lay beneath her baggy hooded top, he suspected she had a pleasing curvaceous figure. Nice round arse, in any case. But dark meat wasn’t normally his thing. And his father said the English were a backwards race. Hardly surprising, then, that this girl had been mixing with a whore and a murder suspect. But there must have been some reason for van den Bergen getting her over here to work. And, as she glanced inside the office, meeting the chief inspector’s gaze, he could see something had passed between them. What exactly was it?

CHAPTER 39

Amsterdam, Ahlers’ private surgery, later

‘This place stinks,’ George said, holding her nose. ‘It’s damp as hell, for a start.’

She looked around at the waiting-area-cum-reception of Ahlers’ surgery: a dingy little ante-room, with eight ugly threadbare dining chairs that were the sort of thing people left on the street, in the hope that students, idiots or the destitute would magic them away overnight. A 1960s battered coffee table with curling magazines strewn messily on top. Golfing magazines. Celebrity gossip rags. Car journals that were once glossies but the covers of which were now tattered and barely legible. She looked at the publication dates on the spines. June 2008. Last decade. Imagined the germs that must cling to those pages and had to look away abruptly.

The floor was covered with cracked linoleum, framed by decades of black grime that had accumulated around the edges. Overhead, a fluorescent strip flickered on and off. Strobe-lighting with intermittent incandescence the cobwebs that hung in the corners of the ceilings, made thick like dangling grey dreadlocks by years of undisturbed dust. Peeling pistachio paint on the walls. Black, powdery mildew creeping from the dusty skirting towards the old, once-grand cornicing.

The only attractive feature in the waiting room was an ornate, centuries-old marble fireplace, that had been boarded with ply across the aperture where a fire once blazed. Even that was blighted by a red-brown handprint smeared across the mantel. George imagined some poor desperate soul coming into the surgery, bleeding from a failed hysterectomy or lost pregnancy, clinging to whatever support that fireplace offered, since she imagined zero sympathy would have been forthcoming from that quack, Ahlers.

‘What a shithole,’ she said to Elvis, who was dusting the reception desk for fingerprints.

He nodded. ‘Gives me the creeps. Trouble is, I can’t see us being able to place the murdered women in here,’ he said. ‘There must have been scores of patients coming and going in the last few months. Prints everywhere, and it’s pretty clear it’s never been cleaned. Was his apartment this bad?’

George shook her head. ‘It was fine, actually. Not too bad at all. I’d put money on it that Ahlers has a cleaner, but he sure as hell didn’t expend any effort on keeping this place sanitary.’

Van den Bergen’s tall frame filled the doorway that led to the surgery at the back. He beckoned George. ‘Come and see where the action happens. Tell me what you think.’

Taking in the shabby surrounds, George could smell yet more neglect on the air, coupled with stale alcohol and cigarette smoke. Her eyes sought out and found a whisky bottle – half empty – and a cracked crystal tumbler sitting on a sideboard at the back of the room. A full ashtray next to it. Red lipstick, the kind Katja wore, on the end of some of the cigarette butts. There was something else on the air. Stale bodily fluids.

‘He’s been using this place to party,’ she said. ‘I’d put money on it that Katja’s been here recently.’ Pointed to the ashtray. ‘We already know he does her Botox, stupid cow.’