The Girl Who Wouldn’t Die (16 page)

‘I’ll call you and let you know when I’ve got a free weekend,’ he said.

She leaned over the threshold and kissed his cheek. ‘Let me know how you get on with Klaus, darling. He seems great. You should definitely go to that memorial for your friend.’

Ad felt a jolt of realisation as she treated him to another pearly smile. She really was a Dutch beauty, like one of his mother’s scentless baby-pink cultivar roses in bud.

She straightened up and groaned as she picked up her rucksack with both hands, although Ad knew it was not too heavy for a girl who was five foot nine and about ten and a half stone. Astrid thought it was unfeminine to lift heavy things when there was a man around.

‘Have fun at work,’ he said. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you too, honey bunny.’

As the train pulled away, Ad felt a void in the pit of his being that could only be filled by one thing.

When George rounded the corner between Keizergracht and Leliegracht, she spotted van den Bergen’s car and then the inspector himself. Harried, frowning, chatting confidentially with another police officer. He was gingerly handling what looked to be a wallet with latex-gloved hands. Uniforms were cordoning off the area around an unprepossessing-looking large refuse bin. A young uniformed officer vomited on the ground, while a policewoman rubbed his back sympathetically.

‘What’s in the bin?’ George muttered. She breathed in sharply.

George felt the bin drawing her like a magnet to its macabre contents. She knew instinctively it would be something unpleasant. She thought of chicken carcasses from the dinners her mother had made when she was a child. Things in bins that were once alive were never put there in good shape.

Van den Bergen spotted her and scowled. ‘Go home,’ he mouthed.

She watched him as he peered in the bin, balked and said something to his colleague. His colleague spoke into a walkie talkie. Suddenly three uniforms approached George, the only early morning spectator so far, apart from the curtain-twitching neighbours.

‘This is a crime scene, Miss. Please back up to Keizergracht,’ one said.

‘I want to talk to van den Bergen,’ she said.

‘No,’ the officer said.

Just as she was about to turn and leave, she heard heavy footsteps and felt a large, strong hand grip her shoulder.

‘Wait,’ van den Bergen said.

She spun around to meet him, heart suddenly picking up to a thunderous hundred and sixty beats per minute. He looked regretful, almost wistful.

‘I need to tell you a name and see if you recognise it,’ he said.

‘What?’ she asked, hearing the waver in her own voice.

‘There was a wallet in the bin. Undamaged, so put there after … no money missing. Might not be the victim’s but—’

‘Tell me!’

‘Remko Visser,’ van den Bergen said.

‘Oh, God.’ George’s face went instantly cold and numb.

‘George—’ van den Bergen began.

‘Let me see him,’ she said, shaking.

‘No. There’s not much … Forensics will ID him.’

‘I have to see.’ She turned back towards the bin and pushed past van den Bergen. He reached out and grasped air as she broke into a sprint.

With van den Bergen on her heels, George glanced up at the surrounding apartments. It was such a public place.

She steeled herself to peer over the rim just as she felt van den Bergen grab at her coat. All she caught was a snatched glimpse of blackened remains and an overpowering toxic stench on the air.

‘Get back!’ van den Bergen shouted through gritted teeth. He yanked her away from the bin, almost dragging her to the ground. ‘I’ll put you under arrest if you ever try to contaminate my crime scene again!’

George opened and closed her mouth but nothing came out. Her knees felt like jelly. Remko. Was he rammed in there like an over-roasted suckling pig at Trinity May-Week Ball? Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe it wasn’t him after all.

‘Nice try!’ van den Bergen growled as he frog-marched her back towards his car. George could feel his hot breath against her ear. ‘Aren’t photographs gruesome enough for you? You have to see the real thing?’

He paused momentarily by a group of uniforms, still clutching the back of George’s sheepskin coat in an iron grip. The uniforms turned towards him deferentially.

‘Get forensics here! Get a fucking tent round that bin.
Now!
And police that bloody cordon. I can’t have every Tom, Dick and Harry trying to get a look at what’s inside.’

The uniforms dispersed like a group of scalded children caught chalking rude graffiti on the playground tarmac.

‘Get in the car!’ van den Bergen demanded as he pressed his fob to deactivate the car’s alarm.

George’s breath came short. She felt nauseous but she did as she was told. She glanced back over to where some uniformed officers were now busy trying to erect a forensics gazebo around the bin. Others had begun knocking on doors of neighbours, notepads in hand. A grey-faced old woman sat sobbing on her doorstep. Perhaps she had made the foul discovery.

George was certain van den Bergen was going to bawl her out. She sat and waited.

‘What are your thoughts? Initial first impressions?’ he asked, calm as stagnant water and just as opaque.

George frowned. ‘What? Aren’t you going to give me an ear-bashing?’ She quickly processed a theory. ‘If it’s Remko … He’s Jewish. Anti-semitism could be a possible motive,’ she said.

Van den Bergen nodded. ‘But that might not be Remko and this is not a suicide bombing.’ He stared straight into her eyes. Suddenly George felt like a bicycle being stripped down to its composite parts. ‘The wallet may have been tossed in the bin by a mugger,’ he continued. ‘Remko might be in bed at home, sleeping off a hangover. My officers are trying to get hold of him now.’

George reached for a cigarette and jammed it into her mouth without asking. Lit up. Inhaled. ‘But what if it is him?’ she asked.

‘This is an arson incident or probably the victim died by some other means and the perp set fire to the evidence. The other two are bombings. Organised. Terrorism.’

‘This isn’t about suicide bombers!’ George said, the exasperation coming through in her voice. ‘I’ve been telling you all along. Ratan and Joachim are victims, not perpetrators.’

‘So if this
is
Remko, how do you know there’s a connection between him and the other two?’

George wanted to give van den Bergen the ‘are you totally stupid?’ look but then she realised he wasn’t and she shouldn’t. He was not Fennemans.

‘They’re all politics students,’ she said. ‘That’s the common denominator.’

‘But Ratan and Joachim were exchange students. Remko’s not. What’s the motive then?’

George pictured Klaus Biedermeier and imagined why he would target those three men in particular. ‘Ratan was Indian. Remko’s a Jew. If it’s a neo-Nazi doing this, then Joachim just got in the way. But the personal connection’s still there to Biedermeier. Klaus gets sudden flu and stands Joachim up. Too convenient.’

Van den Bergen opened a window in the car and cleared his throat. ‘But again, the other two were explosions.’

‘And this is burning.’ George polished the gear stick with the woolly cuff of her coat as she thought. ‘Maybe it is just about fire.’

‘A ritual?’

‘Cleansing, maybe.’

‘So what would you do next, Cagney?’

‘Why are you interested in what I think?’ George asked. ‘You told me to leave the investigating to you. You’re the experienced detective.’

‘What would
you
do next?’

She looked up into van den Bergen’s ageing, handsome face and saw sparkling curiosity in those grey eyes.

‘I’d forget about al Badaar for now.’

‘If Visser was Jewish, that fits with the bombing of a synagogue and the death of two other infidels. It could still be Islami—’

‘You asked me what
I’d
do, remember? I’d go back through homicide records here and in southern Germany. I’d look for connections with the far right and Klaus Biedermeier. The guy’s a first-class anus. I’d go to Heidelberg and have a chat with his pals. See what he gets up to on his home turf.’

‘And?’

‘I’d look for a link in the murders to arson or possibly biblical rituals. Fascism is supposed to be faithless, but some of those neo-Nazis justify their hatred by alluding to the Lutheran bible. I mean, what do these Heidelberg frat boys get up to? All that hocus pocus funny handshake crap. Maybe it’s got its roots in some kind of religious lunacy or playing with fire instead of swords.’

George shrugged. Van den Bergen nodded slowly.

‘Write another blogpost,’ he said to her. ‘Do something provocative about ethnic cleansing.’

‘No! Why? The editor of
The Moment
has black-balled me now anyway, thanks to you.’ She folded her arms and sucked her teeth. Being branded as politically ‘off’ smarted.

‘I want to see what comes back. I’ll have our guys monitoring responses at our end. I think our man is hiding in the student community. I agree with you there. But we need to draw him out. Maybe you could post comments on other current affairs blogs. Ones that get a lot of hits.’

George sighed. ‘I’ll think about it.’

Van den Bergen leaned over and opened the car door. ‘Forensics have just arrived. I’ll be in touch.’

George looked at him askance. ‘Is that it? Class dismissed?’

‘Go home, George. Lock your doors and do your internet thing. Ask around about Biedermeier. Discreetly, you know. The other kids on the course.’

‘But I got thrown out of lectures. I’ve got to have one-on-ones with Fennemans.’

‘Do what you can and watch yourself around Fennemans. I’m not supposed to say anything but I’m pretty sure he’s …’ He chewed on his bottom lip as if debating whether to tell George exactly what he thought Fennemans was. ‘Just be on your guard, okay?’

Ad put on a pot for one of strong Douwe Egberts, clipped out the savings coupon from the new packet and filed it into his coupon tin. When the coffee was brewed, he assembled a milky
koffie verkeerd
in a glass. George liked it that way, although she preferred to call it a latte.

She had not been home when he had swung by on the way back from the station. He had been hoping she would at least return his calls. When his phone did ring, it made him jump. He didn’t recognise the number.

‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Hey, Ad! Klaus.’

Ad fought to keep the surprise out of his voice. ‘Hi, Klaus. How are you?’

He dropped his teaspoon onto his saucer with a clatter. Willing his senses to sharpen, he took a swig from his coffee.

‘Good,’ Klaus said. ‘I know you’re at the lecture later but it’s hard to talk when everyone’s there. I wanted to fill you in on Joachim’s informal memorial thing.’

Klaus spoke on the phone with warmth in his voice that Ad had hitherto not heard. Was he seeing the side of Klaus that so many of the other students found charming and charismatic, but which he had only interpreted as arrogance and idiocy? He felt suspicion poke him in the back of the neck. Klaus hated him because he hung out with George. The friendly overtures had to be off-key.

‘Yes,’ Ad said, grabbing a pen and pad from the kitchen drawer with his free hand. ‘Go on.’

‘It’s going to be in Heidelberg. Is travelling a problem for you?’

Ad searched for mockery in Klaus’ voice but there was none. He thought about the cost of a return train journey to southern Germany. Apart from rent, he only had three hundred euros left in his account to last him the term.
Ouch
. Maybe Jasper knew of some pharmaceutical company trials he could earn money from by being a guinea pig.

‘No. Fine. I’ve not been to Heidelberg since I was a kid.’

‘I’ll show you around.’ Klaus’ intonation was so flat that the offer sounded more of a command than a suggestion. ‘We can get the same train.’

‘Oh, great. I’d like that. I’d like that very much.’
What the hell am I agreeing to?

Ad thought about backing out from George’s hare-brained scheme, but then the image of Ratan’s severed foot and Joachim’s lifeless head prodded his conscience. He stayed on the line.

‘Right,’ Klaus said, breathing out, almost as though he was relieved. ‘We’ll go Friday night, if that’s okay with you. My frat buddies can put you up in their house. You’ll like it. It’s very comfortable. The train departs Amsterdam at 16.41. There’s a change at Cologne. We’d get in just before midnight but that’s not going to be a problem, is it?’

‘No.’

‘I can meet you under the departures board in Central Station.’

Ad nodded. ‘Yes. I’ll meet you at about quarter past, just to be on the safe side.’

In his head, a voice screamed,
This is exactly what happened with Joachim! He’s going to blow you up and say he had flu. Or maybe he’ll get one of his cronies to do it. You’re an imbecile, Karelse!

‘And Ad …’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m really glad … I really appreciate …’

‘It’s okay.’

‘It seems I got you all wrong.’

Ad wondered how he could bolster Klaus’ belief in him; make his facade more solid and convincing. ‘Yes, well,’ was all he could manage.

When he rang off, his hands shook violently. He redialled George’s number. Straight to voicemail.

‘Damn! Where the hell are you when I need you?’ he shouted into the phone.

George returned to her room. Before doing anything else, she carefully scanned the carpet for matches. Then she wedged the dining chair under the door. Next, she picked up an unopened bottle of wine by the neck and looked behind or under all large furniture. Finally, she flung open all the cupboard doors. Clear.

She washed her hands in very hot water twice, being careful to rub each soapy hand three times before rinsing. She started to polish the leaves of her gardenia while the kettle boiled. Tears were trapped inside her, as though today her emotional rollercoaster had stuck half way up.

Was it Remko? Was it Remko? What if it was?

She drove the memory of the bin from her mind. Knew she couldn’t afford to be sucked into a downwards trajectory. After all, she had her one-on-one rendezvous with Fennemans at 1.30pm.