The Girl Who Broke the Rules (27 page)

Van den Bergen allowed a low growl to escape him but clutched his stomach to make it seem like indigestion. Mate, indeed.

‘Did you hear any rumours of strange goings on the day that the Filipino man was found? Any of your colleagues mention something untoward?’

The stevedore shook his head. ‘I came in. Did a long shift. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. Ships came in. Ships went out. You’ve seen the records of what I unloaded. Went home, ate a nice steak and chips. Drank a few beers. Kids were both out, so I boned my wife on the sofa in front of the telly. That was it. A great day.’

In his peripheral vision, van den Bergen was aware of Elvis approaching. He turned around, wishing he was anywhere but inside this chilly, over-air-conditioned office with this man who stank of cigarettes and sweat. His fingers were like blocks of ice. Perhaps he was developing Raynaud’s disease.

‘Any joy with the CCTV footage?’ he asked.

Elvis was walking with a certain swagger. This boded well, he knew. ‘You got a minute, boss?’

He followed his detective to the office that housed the security function. With a view through ceiling-to-floor windows of the silvery-grey inlet, Het Scheur, along which a giant freighter was slowly chugging towards the cargo terminal, a small, balding man sat, surrounded by screens. Large screens seemed to float above him. A bank of smaller screens lined his desk, each containing a view of different parts of the Port of Rotterdam campus.

‘This is Erik,’ Elvis told van den Bergen.

Erik offered the chief inspector his hand. It was a weak, damp handshake which made van den Bergen flinch, but the man had an honest, open face, at least. A network of lines were etched in the skin around his eyes. His uneven jawline had perhaps softened with age. Van den Bergen estimated that he was close to retirement.

‘Tell my boss what you told me,’ Elvis instructed him.

Erik clicked a mouse several times and brought a screen up which made little sense to van den Bergen. He had no option but to sit in a typing chair which was too low and too small for him. Felt like a tarantula squeezed into a match box. Yanked his glasses free of their chain that had caught on the button of his overcoat and set them on his nose.

‘What am I looking at, Erik?’

‘The CCTV footage from the day the body was found,’ Erik said. ‘At first, it seemed the recording from between one pm and five pm was missing. Wiped.’

‘And? Who could have wiped it? Who has access to your computer terminals?’

Erik clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth thoughtfully. Laced his fingers together over his uniform. Didn’t take his eyes off the screen. ‘Chances are, someone’s hacked the system. I suppose in theory, it could have been one of the IT guys. I wouldn’t like to hazard a guess, because the fellers here, well, they’re all good men.’ He leaned forward and clicked through several screens. Turned to van den Bergen with shining eyes. ‘But anyway, we back the system up, so I found a copy of the footage. Look. Here you go.’

Van den Bergen’s heartbeat remained steady while he watched the grainy footage. For a while, even at four times the normal speed, the only things to see of any note were the automated cranes, levering cargo containers off a ship called
The Mighty Horn of Africa
. Rain slanted hard onto the dock, though the camera’s resolution was only high enough to show the water bouncing up off the asphalt and the steel containers as mist, rather than as the fat beans one would have expected from such a downpour. Dark grey clouds swallowed up the light almost entirely, making it seem more like dusk than just after lunch. Twenty minutes in, however, a dark saloon car slid into view between the stacks. Not far from the ship. Van den Bergen’s heartbeat sped up, now. Thudding in his chest, as he just glimpsed a tall figure getting out of the driver’s side. Clad in dark clothing. Wearing a hood. Impossible to see if he was black or white, young or old.

When he held his hand up, Erik paused the footage.

‘Can you zoom in?’ he asked him.

Erik shook his head. ‘Not enough to get any fine detail. Your lad, Dirk, already asked me. It was a very overcast day, as you can see. Pissed it down. And there’s gull shit on the camera or something, if I’m not mistaken. Same later on, except it’s dark by then, so the visibility’s even worse.’

Erik spooled forward, as he was bidden. For almost four hours, the saloon car was absent. Then it reappeared. Not in frame enough to allow van den Bergen to ascertain what make of car it was, let alone to see a number plate. It disappeared behind a stack of containers, in the direction of where they had found the Filipino.

‘Wouter Dreyer seen this?’ he asked.

Erik nodded. ‘Showed it him this morning.’

Van den Bergen took his leave from the security man. Strode downstairs to the parking lot. Unlocked his car. With the doors closed, he was cocooned in near silence; the din from the clanking metal containers and the wail of the seagulls sounding as though it was muffled by cotton wool. He switched on his engine. Dialled Wouter’s number. Ringing through the hands-free speakers.

‘Wouter Dreyer,’ on the other end.

‘It’s Paul van den Bergen.’ He ran his long finger round and around the leather steering wheel, feeling he was on the brink of a breakthrough. A smile creeping over his tired face. ‘I’ve just been watching the footage of that car in the security office. I’ll bet a year’s rent on my allotment that you’ve got a record of this guy entering the Port. I think we’ve got our murderer.’

‘Ah,’ Wouter said, sounding hesitant. ‘About that…’

CHAPTER 53

Amsterdam, Ad’s apartment, later still

‘About what?’ George asked.

She was avoiding making eye contact with Ad. It was late. She was tired. Marie’s body odour had permeated her own clothing; her hair; her nostrils. A shower and a meal was all she wanted. The last thing she needed after flogging up and down the country all day, chasing after elusive African community groups in ramshackle, crumbling buildings, was to be cross-examined like this.

Ad stood next to the cooker. Apron on, over his jeans and top. Spoon in hand. The lenses of his glasses were fogged slightly with steam from the noodles he was boiling. Pad thai, he said he would make. She had failed to share pad thai with van den Bergen only days ago.

‘You know what!’ Ad said. ‘I want to know about how you came to arrange work over here. One minute, you’re doing some seedy job or other in London that you won’t tell me anything about. Next minute, you’re working for that bloody miserable bastard van den Bergen. Staying at his flat without telling me.’ He gasped when she did not respond. ‘You’ve still not so much as apologised.’

‘Apologise?’ George said. ‘What the fuck for?’ She was out of her chair, though she rose without any purpose, other than to express her indignation. This was Ad’s domain. Not hers. ‘You turn up in London, uninvited, right?’ Pointing. Pointing. Waving her hands around, though there was barely the space in that small, galley kitchen. ‘Expecting me to drop everything.’

‘What’s that got to do with you being at van den Bergen’s without telling me?’

George could feel the red mist descending. ‘Since when was I answerable to you? You’re my boyfriend, not my keeper. Don’t you understand that I need my space?’

Ad threw the spoon into the wok with something bordering on aggression. It bounced straight out and fell between the side of the cooker and the kitchen cabinetry. ‘Jesus! See what you’ve made me do?’

Hands in the air, now. His back was turned to her. She flipped him the bird and balled her fist at him. ‘Did I throw your fucking spoon in the pan like a twat, Adrianus? Did I? Or did you? Like a big spoiled kid.’

He was facing her again now. His handsome face devoid of warmth. Bitterness had set his soft mouth into a hard, thin line. But here, his chin was crumpling up. His eyes reddening.

‘Don’t you dare bloody cry!’ George shouted. ‘Act like a man, for God’s sake. I’m sick of being the only one with a pair of balls in this relationship. Okay?’

Now, she was torn. The burden of guilt weighed heavily on her, though she felt certain that
he
was in the wrong. Four years in a long distance relationship didn’t give him the right to own her and have her qualify how she spent every waking moment, did it? Or was she just being a selfish cow; sabotaging her relationship with this caring, loving man? She hardly knew any more.

Ad sat down heavily on one of his kitchen chairs. Tear-splattered glasses on the table. Hands obscuring his face. ‘Why has it ended up like this, George?’ he asked. His voice was tremulous and small. ‘Don’t you love me? I love you.’ He laid his hands flat on the peeling placemat, now, revealing the sadness in his eyes and a red nose. ‘You’re the love of my life.’

George had taken a seat opposite and faced him. Put her hands on top of his. His skin was warm. She wanted to say something soothing to him but couldn’t find the words. Listened instead to the bubbling, boiling water on the stove top. Watched the steam from the pan rise to the ceiling, sometimes finding its way to the window, where it turned the reflective glass opaque. It was dark outside. It was dark inside. How could she bring the light back in?

‘Love you too.’ She said the words quickly. Begrudgingly. No longer certain if she meant them. Sure enough, they elicited the beginnings of a smile from her lovelorn boyfriend.

‘Good,’ Ad said, kissing her fingers. ‘There’s nothing we can’t sort out, as long as we talk. You know that, don’t you?’

He stretched out to stroke her chin. Leaned in for a kiss across the small table. But inside, George felt compelled to shrink away from this inoffensive man she had loved so entirely at the start. She offered him her cheek instead.

Subtle movements in Ad’s facial muscles; a certain dull quality to his eyes and the downward droop of his mouth. Here was an expression of abject disappointment on her lover’s face. Crestfallen at being relegated to a humble kiss on the cheek. Intimacy between them all but gone, perhaps
because
he demanded it constantly.

George groaned.

‘What?’ Ad asked.

‘Nothing.’

Was she just being difficult, she wondered? Her overdeveloped conscience whispered to her that
she
was at fault. She was a heartless bitch. Poor Ad. Poor boring Ad. Trying so hard and getting nothing but a cold shoulder and mouthful of abuse in return. And yet…and yet. Her instincts told her
he
was in the wrong; the root cause of this irritation. She tried to articulate the elements of his unacceptable behaviour – emotional blackmail? control? possessiveness? – but the nature of it eluded her like a wriggling vein that refused to be pinned and punctured.

Fatigue enshrouded her anger; an acid-resistant membrane, tamping it down temporarily, though neither neutralising nor snuffing it out entirely. Too tired. Now was not the time to have A Conversation about how their relationship had slid from the passionate flush of first love to this suffocating torpor. That could wait. Pour oil on troubled water. Take the water off the boil. George resolved to find soothing words.

‘Look,’ she said, releasing him gladly so he could drain the noodles and heat the wok. ‘You know what I’m like, Ad. I’m impulsive and I need my space and…’

‘Do you want it spicy?’ Ad asked, less interested in the sticking plaster of her words than she had hoped. ‘Or not spicy?’

‘Spicy.’ She tugged at her hair. Wanting to reach him but feeling she was failing. ‘And honestly, van den Bergen’s just a friend. You know that by now, for Christ’s sake! I just got so wrapped up in the fact there were girls from the sex industry getting killed. Someone Silas knew, in fact! So, I—’

Ad banged the spoon on the side of the wok. Heat on full. Sizzling, prematurely drowning out her repentant monologue. Bastard was closing her down. It felt like punishment.

‘Are you listening to me?’ She stood. Touched his shoulder. ‘You asked and now you’re just frying fucking noodles like I’m not in the room.’

His back remained steadfastly turned to her. Jabbing at the frying chicken with his spoon. ‘Tell me about your unsavoury friend, Silas Holm, George,’ he said. ‘Can I expect a visit from some axe-wielding psycho?’ Glanced at her over his shoulder and held his right hand aloft, so that she could see the stump that was all that remained of his index finger. ‘The Firestarter already took my bloody index finger to add to his crazy little collection, and now I have to do everything left-handed. What’s it to be, George? Another finger? Or maybe a leg, this time.’

But now it was George’s turn to close Ad down. The light on her phone was flashing. An email. From Sally Wright, whom she had finally made contact with, although it had not been to excuse her abrupt and unsanctioned departure but to warn Sally that her serial-killing study subject might have had a minion pay an unscheduled visit to her Cambridge house.

‘Shush a minute, yeah?’ She scanned the text.

From:
[email protected]
17.24

To:
[email protected]

Subject: Silas Holm.

Dear Georgina,

Thank you for alerting me to the problem of Silas Holm writing to you at your boyfriend’s home address. This shocking breach of security is being looked into, although I have recommended that you no longer be granted clearance to interview Dr Holm or any other inpatients at Broadmoor, since there has obviously been some kind of failure to follow protocol on your part. I am also writing to your funding body to ask that approval of your Overseas Institutional Visit be rescinded.

I really preferred not to resort to aggressive tactics to bring you into line, George, but you give me no option.

As for your housemate, Lucy, one of our porters kindly dropped by and reported that she is safe and sound. The locks have been changed in light of the letter, and Lucy is temporarily staying up at Girton, so your conscience is clear on that front, at least.