The Girl Who Broke the Rules (23 page)

‘One thing’s for sure,’ van den Bergen said, ‘if the Filipino victim met a sticky end at the hands of our killer, then it’s possible he was picked up off one of these ships.’ He gesticulated with his glasses towards the enormous cargo ship that was being unloaded at the quayside. ‘Did you manage to get on board the ship that was docked around the time of discovery?’

His Rotterdam colleague nodded. ‘They didn’t speak Dutch, obviously. Most of them didn’t speak a word of English. The crew was mainly West African guys. Couple of Asians. Spoke French, native dialects, God knows what else. The one who did speak English really well – the Congolese captain – claimed he’d never seen the victim before in his life. Like he could tell from a naked, butchered corpse!’

‘Where is that ship now?’

‘Sailed. We couldn’t hold it. Their paperwork was all above board. The Port needed the mooring spot for MS
Berge Stahl
, the iron ore freighter. This is only one of two places in the world deep enough for a ship of its size to dock and the tidal window is tighter than a mouse’s fanny.’

Appraising his colleague, with his still-dark eyebrows sitting heavy above those hooded grey eyes, it was clear that van den Bergen was disappointed by his friend. And his friend knew it.

‘It’s just one of those things, Paul,’ Wouter said. Looking down at his loafers. Apologising tacitly, though an apology was probably not owed to a chief inspector of Amsterdam’s force. ‘We never even had time to get a translator down to interview the crew. We did what we could.’

Van den Bergen looked away. Stroked his stubble and contemplated the white outline on the floor of the steel container. ‘So, our victim was presumably taken from a ship, though we can’t be certain of it. He was murdered elsewhere – it’s a process that seems to demand time and privacy, by all accounts – and put here for you to find. Not an easy mission for our killer. So, he’s almost certainly getting help and cover from someone who works in the Port.’

Wouter raised his hands defensively. ‘It’s early days. No eyewitness statements. All we can do is trawl through CCTV footage and hope we find a rogue vehicle with its number plate clearly visible. Pray for a modern-day bloody miracle.’

‘Let’s see what Marianne de Koninck finds,’ van den Bergen said. ‘Maybe if this third body is conclusively linked, it will cast new light on the investigation.’

Finally, he turned to George, as though he had only just remembered she was there. Making her feel like an afterthought, though she doubted he had intended the slight. ‘What do you think?’

George hugged her coat closed against the bitter dockland wind and narrowed her eyes. Watched the grey-brown soup of the sea heaving up and down, throwing spurts of white foam into the air as it fought against the land.

‘This is about vulnerable immigrants in some way,’ she said. ‘It’s the common denominator between the three cases.’

CHAPTER 46

Amsterdam, police headquarters, 24 January

‘Can I at least get a coffee and something from the vending machine?’ he asked.

The lumpy-faced detective looked glassy-eyed and hyper. ‘No. State your name for the recording.’ Pointed to some outdated-looking recording equipment at one end of the table, next to the wall. Short, fat index finger with a bitten nail, though his hands were generally clean and soft-looking like a woman’s. You could tell a lot from a man’s hands. These said this arrogant son of a bitch had never done a day’s proper graft in his life. A pot-bellied Dutch pig-boy, sitting drinking coffee while his interviewee’s stomach rumbled.

The discovery of the mattress had been the beginning of this waking nightmare. Leaving his tools out had been a bad idea.

His stomach growled audibly. ‘I didn’t even get chance to eat my lunch. You’ve already had me—’

‘Name!’

‘You already know my name is Iwan Buczkowski.’ It was difficult to be pleasant when his blood sugar was so low. He had to eat and fast. Perhaps worse than the hunger and thirst was that the sweat from his morning’s labour had pretty much dried on his body but left his damp clothes freezing cold. He folded his arms tight across his chest but still couldn’t get the blood to his fingers. ‘I must make a phone call. I have to let my girl know I’m here. She’ll worry.’

The Dutchman did not answer. Started scratching at a stain on his navy jumper with a non-existent thumb nail. ‘How long have you been here?’

Iwan checked his battered watch that was pinned by its strap to the inside pocket of his work trousers. ‘Three hours.’

‘I mean in this country, smart arse.’ The detective had opened a notebook and was poised to write in it. The pages were blank but for ‘Iwan Buczkowski’ written at the top and underlined three times.

‘What’s that got to do with anything? I’m an EU citizen. I pay tax. I pay my rent. I’m law-abiding. What do you want with me?’ In his head, he tried to say a rosary but the words wouldn’t come. He had a feeling he should ask for a solicitor – one who spoke Polish as well as Dutch or English. But he didn’t even know if such a person existed. And he hadn’t actually been charged with anything. Should he just get up and walk out of this place, as he had done last time? Could they lock him up for uncooperative behaviour? Stefan might know. He’d help. He had already said yes to bending the truth about his alibi. ‘I’ve got to call my boss. Give me my phone back. You’re not arresting me for anything, right?’

The chubby blond leaned forward. Kees Leeuwenhoek. That was his name. Dressed like a fifty-year-old man but couldn’t be more than thirty. He remembered their conversation when he had been leaning against the van outside Valeriusstraat, having a smoke. The guy had been so chummy, then. But like a dog turned nasty, now.

‘You’ve got mental health issues, haven’t you, Iwan?’ He drummed his pen against the pad in an irritating manner. Produced a sheet of paper with a photocopied likeness of himself as a youth at the top. ‘I pulled your record, thanks to our police colleagues in Poland.’ Started to read from the sheet. ‘A former drug user, it says here.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Seems you’ve got quite an interesting story, Mr Buczkowski. Breaking and entering. Car theft. Aggravated assault. Becoming a nuisance and a threat because of psychotic episodes. They locked you up for a while, didn’t they, Iwan? Your folks had you sectioned.’

‘It was a long time ago.’

‘And oh, looky here! Involved in a motorcycle gang with a “known interest in Satanism”. Seems your local police were keeping an eye on you. So, I was right, wasn’t I?’ Pointed to his tattooed arm. ‘About the pentangles and upturned crucifix shit.’

Iwan shrugged. He had been to confession. Unburdened himself to the priest. That was the way Catholicism worked. Why should he discuss in intimate detail the things he had sought sanctuary from within the walls of the Catholic Church? With a Dutch detective, of all people. After years of formal repentance, he owed no more explanations. You sinned. You confessed. You prayed for forgiveness. It was a perfect system for a flawed man like him and allowed him to indulge some of his residual weaknesses. What he didn’t confess to the priest remained between him and God.

The porky Dutchman leaned forward and cocked his head to the side, as though he were about to confide in him. ‘I’m having your place turned over as we speak, you know. You’re my favourite suspect. And a little bird tells me, you might be a little bit obsessed by ritual murders. I wonder what we’ll find.’

Iwan decided to roll his eyes. Let this Leeuwenhoek bastard think he hadn’t a care in the world. But inside his chest, his tainted heart was beating at a thunderous pace. He was treading uncomfortable ground. It was definitely time he called Stefan again.

CHAPTER 47

Amsterdam, mortuary, later

‘How do you feel?’ van den Bergen asked.

He placed a hand on George’s shoulder. She knew it should feel comforting, but she was too tense to appreciate the physical contact. Shied away from it.

‘Dreading this,’ she said, as they walked along the windowless, institutional corridor to the mortuary. Visualised a gore-fest beyond her imagination behind those doors. ‘Will they all be laid out? You know. Ribs akimbo.’

She looked up at van den Bergen’s thin face. His eyes crinkled and a deep groove etched its way along the side of his mouth. A half-smile, but a smile nonetheless. ‘It’s not going to be as bad as you think,’ he said. ‘Just remember it’s police work, not violence.’

He pushed open the double doors, and they made their way to the principal examination room. More like the operating theatres she had seen on television, George thought, squinting at the glaring overhead lights. Except this place was silent; without the beeping life support or myriad surgical staff bustling about the patient that one would expect to attend the sick and still-living. And here were three steel slabs with their own in-built drainage. And there were three…

‘Aw, man. Ribs a-fucking-kimbo,’ she said, pinching her nose against the formalin stink and other smells – what they were, she simply couldn’t articulate. They toyed with her gag-reflex in a worrying way. At first she averted her gaze from the objects on the slabs. Mindful of the fact that ‘objects’ seemed a harsh label to bestow on the victims of brutal murder. But these spoiled, semi-preserved cadavers were so unlike anything she had seen before, it was difficult to attribute any qualities of the living to them, including language.
Focus, bitch. Show some respect.
George steeled herself to look at them. This mess of flesh was the only body of evidence left that bore witness to the one-time existence of three humans. It was a pitiful sight.

‘You okay?’ van den Bergen asked, wheeling a typing chair up behind her. Bidding her to sit, which she did.

‘I’m fine.’ She patted his arm.

A man she had not hitherto noticed, dressed in scrubs with the beginnings of a bald patch, approached her and offered to shake her hand, which she declined. He looked unpleasantly moist, with a shining domed forehead. His ears were red; the lobes too fleshy.

‘Strietman,’ van den Bergen said. Disdain hung in jagged tracts off those two syllables. ‘Where’s Marianne? I was told she would be doing this secondary examination.’

Strietman grinned and chuckled, as if van den Bergen had told a mildly amusing joke. ‘She’s writing up reports on the norovirus gang,’ he jerked his thumb in the direction of a door. ‘Doesn’t feel too clever. I think she’s going home in a bit.’

The muscles in van den Bergen’s jaw were flinching. Up, down. Up, down. Small yet significant movements, like the flicker of a transmission switch on an early warning system. George saw he had balled his fists and realised suddenly that the pink skin on his knuckles must have been caused by punching somebody. Hard. But that could wait for later. His irritation was obvious. If van den Bergen didn’t trust this pathologist, neither did she.

George rose out of her chair, marched to the closed door Strietman had gesticulated towards and walked in.

Marianne de Koninck was sitting at her desk, dabbing watery, bloodshot eyes with a screwed-up tissue that had long passed its best. Sniffing. ‘What are you doing in here?’ she asked, standing abruptly.

George appraised the situation. Considered what van den Bergen had told her in the car of de Koninck’s break-up with Ad’s occasional flatmate.

‘Jasper has bad breath,’ she said. ‘You can do better. Now, get out there and help us solve these goddamn murders!’

With Strietman sent home, de Koninck circled the three bodies. But for the Filipino’s genitalia marking him as the odd one out, even George’s untrained eye could see that all three had been defiled in an apparently identical manner. In silence, de Koninck examined them. Read the reports on the composition of their blood. Disappeared off for a while, leaving George to gawp and grimace undisturbed at the victims’ remains. Returned, bearing a cup of coffee and a clipboard under her arm.

‘I’ve just had a chat with an endocrinologist friend of mine,’ de Koninck finally said. Sat at the central workstation that held a computer terminal. Put her plastic cup down in a studied manner. Turned to van den Bergen with red-rimmed eyes. ‘You were right, Paul. I owe you an apology. I should have performed a secondary examination as soon as I got back in. I’ve been letting my personal problems interfere with work.’

Shunting his own chair towards her, so that the three of them described an almost intimate triangle, van den Bergen leaned in. Balanced his elbows on his knees. Pressed his palms together. ‘Go on.’

‘Strietman’s misinterpreted the results.’ She ran a rugged hand through her hair and sighed heavily. Shook her head. ‘It was easy to do. This third victim makes his mistake clearer. In fairness, Strietman wouldn’t have—’

‘Just bloody tell it, Marianne,’ George said. ‘Stop making excuses for men.’

The pathologist looked at her askance, as if contemplating a sharp retort for this opinionated, much younger woman. She clearly thought better of it. George was surprised.

‘Strietman interpreted the catecholamine storm – that’s the flood of hormones causing the heart to fail in the first victim – as being connected to ecstasy overdose. What he’s missed, is that raised intercranial pressure can cause the same phenomenon.’

‘Come on, Marianne,’ van den Bergen said. ‘Explain it to the normal folks in simple words.’

She leaned back in her chair. Rubbed her muscular, veined athlete’s arms. ‘In the first victim, the heart is still in situ. Right? In subsequent victims, the heart is missing. There is a massive black market in organ donation. I mean, the demand for organs outstrips supply by something like seven to one. People are literally dying for transplants.’

‘What’s that got to do with these three?’ George asked, although she already felt that a huge piece of this jigsaw was already being levered into place.

‘My endocrinologist friend says you can get this hormone flooding problem when surgeons harvest organs from braindead donors.’ The pathologist’s eyes widened. The puffiness of her lids was subsiding. George could see she was as enthused by the dawning of this realisation as the rest of them. ‘It’s really, really hard to take organs in prime condition. You remove this many organs from a living person,’ she said, pointing to the cadavers, ‘even if you’re trying to keep your donor alive for as long as possible by artificial, resuscitative means, it’s inevitable your donor is going to die. The onset of brain death brings with it this pressure inside the skull.’ She clutched at her own head, as if to illustrate her explanation. ‘Once a donor is technically braindead, everything starts to go to hell, then. They suffer hypothermia. Diabetes insipidus – there’s sign of that come back in the bloods with these three. Pulmonary oedema. You get this flood of hormones: dopamine, vasopressin – that’s the catecholamine storm I’m talking about. Like the brain’s anti-inflammatory, protective mechanism, except it can cause the heart to fail unless it’s brought under control. So, organ donors need intensive care, basically. Every step of the way. It’s a very specialised field.’