Into the Night: Inspector Rykel Book 2 (Amsterdam Quartet) (20 page)

Monday, 10 May
08.34

‘So I’m going to announce that we’ve got the killer in custody, but I’m not going to take any questions,’ said Smit.

Jaap had been in his office for the last fifteen, going over everything they’d got.

Which in Jaap’s view was enough to put Rutte away for the drugs operation – they’d had confirmation from Pieter that all the addresses they’d got from the now dead Romanian had checked out and were stuffed full of growing plants – but not yet enough for the killings.

‘I think we should maybe hold off that for the moment—’

‘Have you seen the news?’ asked Smit. ‘Because unfortunately the mayor has, and he’s been on the phone to me twice today.’

Jaap wouldn’t really care if Smit was getting his ear chewed off except for the fact that Smit inevitably dosed out double what he got.

‘So,’ continued Smit. ‘I’ll announce it, and I—’

Jaap’s phone rang, he saw it was Tanya.

‘Anything?’ he said when he answered.

‘He has no alibi,’ she said. ‘The guy must have been paid to say he was with Rutte, but they didn’t prepare him very well. I showed him Rutte’s mug shot and he didn’t know who he was.’

This could be the leverage we need
, he thought.

‘Bring him in. We’ll see if we can’t get him to reveal who set it up,’ he said and hung up. Jaap looked at Smit.

‘His alibi for the killings is false.’

‘Good,’ said Smit standing up. ‘Let’s do it.’

Monday, 10 May
09.36

Back in Amsterdam Kees slammed the brakes on as he sailed past the house.

The numbering system didn’t seem to make any sense, and he’d only caught the number by chance as he’d glanced out the driver’s-side window. And maybe he hadn’t been paying much attention as his head was worse. Each pulse of blood felt like a depth charge going off in his left temple.

Whoever was in the car behind decided to complain about Kees’ driving by putting their finger on the horn and keeping it there. The road was only one lane, with cars parked either side; nothing could get past unless Kees moved. He got out of the car and looked at the house, the address he’d got from the man at the garage. It had stopped raining now, the air several degrees colder than it had been earlier.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ yelled a voice behind him.

He turned to see a man, his face wobbling with fat and rage, glaring at him from the car behind. Kees got the feeling he’d seen him somewhere before.

‘Fuck you, fat boy,’ said Kees. He was sure his head was just about to explode. The man’s face registered the words. Kees could see shock, then anger, forcing him to struggle out of the car and walk towards Kees.

Kees estimated his stomach would reach him a good few seconds before the rest of his body.

Then he remembered where he’d seen the man before – it was on the first case he’d worked with Jaap. The man had been outside the house of the first victim, who’d been hanging from a pulley on Herengracht, part of the crowd which always appeared at murder scenes. Kees remembered they’d had words and that he was easily worked up.

Good
, thought Kees.

‘You can’t just stop there; you’ve got to move it,’ said the man as he reached Kees.

‘Get back in the car before you get hurt,’ said Kees. ‘You fat fuck.’

As he turned away and walked to the house he could hear asthmatic breathing following him.

He spun round, noticing the dark patches spreading out on the man’s white T-shirt.

He felt like a scrap, but knew he needed to get into the house; if Isovic was there he didn’t want to let him go.

So he flashed his ID, snapped ‘Police business’ at the man and went to the front door.

‘I want to see that again,’ called the man. ‘I want your name so I can report you.’

‘Report this,’ said Kees giving him the finger over his shoulder.

On the front door, panelled wood with a bubbled-glass panel from about midway up, was the number 19. Kees then spotted a bunch of buttons to the left of the door, nine in total, all featuring the number 19 followed by a letter, starting with A.

Great
, he thought.
Either this is the wrong address, or I’m going to have to go through each flat.

Which considering he didn’t have a warrant was going to be tricky.

And he couldn’t request one as he wasn’t even on the case.

Behind him he heard the fat man start his car. He listened to the whine of the motor as it reversed back along the street. A crunch told him fat boy had hit a wing mirror.

Kees smiled, his head felt slightly better all of a sudden. Just as he moved his hand towards the first button, a shape developed behind the bubbles. He stepped back and waited for the door to open.

A young woman stepped out, shorts, a T-shirt which if it was any tighter would probably be illegal, and large bug-eye sunglasses. A small leopard-print handbag dangled off her right forearm, and a small dog, white fur bunched into a topknot on its head, nestled in the crook of her left. She didn’t even look at Kees; just walked right past him and turned left down the road, seemingly unaware of the temperature.

Kees watched her for a bit, breathing in her perfume, before turning back. His head wasn’t pounding quite as hard now, but by the time he’d made it to the top of the stairs inside it had ratcheted back up to critical levels.

Pausing for a moment, he wondered what on earth he was doing. It was now near certain he was going to get busted for passing on the locations of the cannabis farms and yet here he was fucking around on a stupid lead on a case he wasn’t even assigned to.

He knocked on the first door and waited. No one was in. He went from door to door, going down two floors until 19C yielded a result in the form of an old woman.

Kees showed her his ID and the photo of Isovic.

‘Oh, I’ve seen him,’ she said. ‘I think he’s staying in the flat directly above me.’

‘You’re sure?’ asked Kees.

‘Yes. I’d not seen him before, but I passed him on the stairs yesterday. Very polite he was, but I could tell he was a foreigner.’

Kees was sceptical. Isovic hadn’t been polite when he’d slammed his head on to the table.

Maybe his headache was related to that, some kind of delayed reaction.

Maybe he was going to collapse with a stroke.

Maybe that’d be best
, he found himself thinking.
Get it over with.

‘What time was this?’ he asked, rubbing his temple, applying pressure in the hope the pain would ease.

‘Just after eight in the evening, I was going to a church meeting, you see. I always go on a Sunday evening, and it takes me twenty minutes to walk there. Do you go to church?’

‘Who normally lives in the flat above?’

She peered at him, perhaps taken aback by his abruptness.

‘The man who lived there died a while ago. Must be back in December now. It was just after I’d got out of the hospital; they had to do an operation on my colon, you see, and—’

‘And since then nobody?’

She seemed upset that Kees wasn’t interested in her operation.

‘Not until yesterday.’

Twenty steps, each one driving a stake through his head, and he was back in front of the door, but no one was answering the buzzer. He looked at the wood. It seemed pretty solid, and he wasn’t feeling up to ramming himself against it.

But he didn’t have much choice.

It took four attempts with his foot before it opened, the lock giving way with a crunch.

Once inside Kees knew he was on to something. A short corridor with a polished dark wood floor opened out into a combined kitchen and living area which didn’t look like it had been updated since the 50s. There was no furniture, but a sleeping bag was splayed out on the floor, wrinkled like a used condom.

Beside it was a book.

Kees picked it up. He’d never been that hot on reading, but even if he’d wanted to he couldn’t have read it.

This must be Bosniak
, he thought,
or whatever the fuck their language is called.

He dropped the book, noticing something in the sink. He stepped over and saw it was a hacksaw.

What the fuck’s this for?
he thought.

A noise at the window made him turn round. A plastic bag had blown up against the glass. It jostled there for a few moments, before sliding down out of view.

His eyes travelled down with it and he noticed something glinting just inside the sleeping bag. He reached out
for it, pulling out a necklace chain with a silver crescent moon, the clasp was broken.

Memories swam around before coming into focus.

He heard voices in the corridor, someone asking if they should call the police.

He’d seen the necklace before.

The pounding in his head was reaching critical levels.

He was sure its contents were just about to splatter all over the ceiling.

Then he remembered where he’d seen it – hanging from Isovic’s neck as he had bent forward and, with no hint that he was planning on knocking anyone out, hoovered up a line of Kees’ coke.

Monday, 10 May
09.57

Jaap could feel the expectation coming from the press room like a hot blast.

Standing next to him was Smit, adjusting his suit, getting ready for the cameras.

Once fixed up he nodded to Jaap and stepped towards the door just as his phone started to ring. He answered it, having checked the screen, listened for a few moments, then held it away from his head.

‘Something’s come up,’ he said to Jaap. ‘You’ll have to take it.’

‘I haven’t prepared,’ said Jaap.

Smit looked at him. ‘It’s your case, what do you need to prepare?’ he said before striding off, phone clasped to his ear.

Jaap pushed the door open, expectation ramping up like water coming to a boil; people shuffled, cameras were readied and throats cleared for questioning. Jaap could already feel his palms moistening, his throat tightening. There was something about press conferences he’d never got the hang of. One on one he was fine, but talking to a room full of people was a skill he’d just never learned. It still made him nervous.

And then he got angry at himself for being nervous, which only made things worse. He had no problem grilling
suspects in interview rooms, but this always felt like the tables had been turned.

And he didn’t like it.

He walked to the table, each step loud in the now total silence of the room, and sat down, realizing too late that he’d put himself behind Smit’s name tag on the desk, rather than his own. He figured most of the reporters present had been to enough of these to be able to distinguish between them. Then he noticed the TV cameras at the back.

He had a fleeting thought, an image of him messing up and it all getting attributed to Smit.

That helped, and he bent forward to the mike, a blow-dried rabbit skewered on a stick, and started talking.

Keeping it brief, he gave the facts and was just wrapping it up when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket.

Then he noticed, through the bright TV lights trained on him, a kind of ripple in his audience. People were also pulling out their phones; there was a general murmur and a sense that something was going on.

He was just reaching his hand down when one of the journalists held up a pen and called out.

‘You said you’ve got the killer, right?’

Jaap glanced towards him, squinting against the TV lights. The man had a trim, almost orange beard, rounded glasses, and was looking down at his phone and then back up to Jaap, his hand still holding his pen aloft like an Olympic torch. ‘So how come someone’s just posted a third body on Twitter?’

Monday, 10 May
10.24

Jaap stepped out of the car.

Right on to an empty chocolate wrapper.

His foot slipped away and he had to grab the top of the car door to steady himself.

At least he could see that this time they’d been quick enough; a patrol car had managed to get on to the scene and lock it down before the journalists did.

Only just though
, thought Jaap, seeing at least three TV vans forging down the road he’d just driven along.

And given that once again the tweet had contained a link to a photo it was maybe irrelevant. He’d tried to call Tanya as he drove, but her phone kept ringing out to voicemail.

He started away from the car, glancing around.

The docks always looked desolate, but emerging from the centre of Amsterdam with its compactness, its mass of buildings which seemed to jostle up against each other, it seemed even more so.

Across the water a line of low warehouses studded the quay, articulated trucks parked outside, waiting for the latest batch of consumer goods made cheap in the east.

To the north he could see the channel which led out to the North Sea, a container ship just coasting into view, the hull low in the water.

Gulls screeched over to his right. He turned to watch them swarm round the arm of a massive crane moving shipping containers off a ship on to the quayside.

Tugs sliced through steel water.

Trade never stopped.

‘Seriously, when are you going to stop this guy? I’m getting sick of these headless bodies.’

Jaap swung his attention back to see the same forensic as before.

‘At least it’ll give you something to talk about on your next date.’

‘Don’t …’

‘Didn’t work out?’

‘Well, I was late. Didn’t get off to a good start,’ he said, dropping his bag by his feet. He pulled a packet of chewing gum from his pocket, offered it to Jaap. ‘If there’s any waiting to be done it’s got to be us men, right?’

All I seem to be doing is waiting
, thought Jaap, refusing the gum.
Waiting when I should be acting.

Murder investigations were mainly waiting, long stretches of time when nothing happened, waiting for results to come back, for people to remember things. This one was no different, except the killings kept on happening.

‘Actually, I know who did it,’ said Jaap.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. I just enjoy creating work for everyone. You ready?’

Jaap ducked under the red and white of the police tape, feeling it slide over the back of his head. As he straightened up on the other side he was hit with the memory of a dream he’d had.

Or was it déjà vu?

He couldn’t work it out.

But whatever it was, in it he’d been standing by the tape, about to go under when something stopped him, and he’d turned and walked away.

‘Found something?’ asked the forensic as he joined him on the far side of the police line.

‘Just thinking …’ said Jaap.

He had Rutte in custody, and depending on the time of death it might rule him out. Not that that meant he wasn’t involved; he could have ordered the hit, though from his violent history it looked like he might want to do this sort of job himself. But it did mean Jaap had less grounds to hold him for murder. Unless he could find something here to link Rutte with the deaths.

‘Thinking’s seriously bad for you, you know? Causes all sorts of trouble. I think you can get cancer from it. It’s like smoking, but worse.’

Jaap watched as the forensic walked over to where the plastic screen shielded the body, right by the edge of the concrete quay.

Following, Jaap stepped around the temporary structure. Portable lights on tripods made it look like a film set, and he could feel the heat coming off them on the side of his face.

It took him only a second to see that this killing was no different to the other two.

Head missing. Hand blackened.

He felt the usual stomach contractions, but they died down quickly.

A ship’s horn blared out across the water, booming off
the quayside, reverberating back in waves. He could feel each pulse in his chest.

Jaap looked down at the body, which was clothed in a white tracksuit made of some shiny material with a gold stripe down each leg and arm. The sleeves were bunched up at the elbows, showing skin a few shades darker than the other two victims. Like he’d spent most of his life outdoors.

‘Still warm,’ said the forensic, touching the man’s arm.

Which meant this one wasn’t done by Rutte.

Which meant he didn’t have the killer in custody.

Which meant the whole thing was fucked.

‘Anything on him?’ he asked the forensic, who had started to search the pockets.

‘Oh man,’ replied the forensic. ‘This is gross.’

Jaap looked over. The forensic held his gloved palm out to him, on it a collection of tiny white crescents jumbled together. It took him a moment to work out what they were.

‘Fingernails?’

The forensic looked sick.

‘That’s just so disgusting. Not only does he not clip, he rips them off, then stores them all in his pockets.’ He looked like he was going to throw up as he emptied them into a bag. ‘I tell you, I fucking hate my job sometimes.’

‘So the missing head doesn’t bother you, but some fingernails do?’

‘It’s just so gross,’ muttered the forensic, almost to himself. He sounded traumatized.

‘Wallet, phone?’

‘No phone, no wallet. He’s got some loose money
though, more than the previous guy,’ he said, pulling out a folded wad of notes from one of the pockets. ‘Sure you don’t want to split it this time? I feel like I deserve it after having to deal with those things.’

If Rutte isn’t doing this
, thought Jaap,
then who is?

‘Hang on,’ said the forensic, pulling out something else. ‘Look at this.’

Jaap glanced down into the gloved palm. It was a piece of jewellery, an ornate silver cross.

Jaap moved closer. He’d seen something like it before.

It took him a few moments to remember where. Tanya had brought a silver cross in when she’d searched the place where the girl from the estate agent’s had lived. The girl who had disappeared.

It’s exactly
, he thought, turning it over in his gloved palm,
the same.