The Girl Who Broke the Rules (16 page)

After she had tidied to her satisfaction, Marianne located the drawers inside the giant mortuary chiller that contained the remains of van den Bergen’s two female victims. Opened the steel doors and slid the bodies out for a preliminary inspection. The peculiar, lumpy scarring that was common to both women caught her eye and brought to the surface a memory long forgotten: a student at med school who had always been hopeless with a needle and thread. A shy, sort-of-blond boy in his first few years with an obsession for Greek mythology, but a real pest by the time he had graduated. Always following girls around, despite their studied disinterest in him.

‘What was his name?’ Marianne asked the dismantled girls. She slid the bodies back into their cold storage. This was definitely the anomaly van den Bergen needed for his investigation. You just didn’t see stitching like that often, unless an unlicensed, under-qualified backstreet butcher was involved.

She padded back through to access the computerised records. Remembered having the body of a woman come in some years ago. She had undergone a hysterectomy that had turned septic. The internal stitching had borne similar evidence of sloppy suturing.

‘Where are you?’ Marianne said, scrolling impatiently through the records listed. But there were too many and perhaps the woman in question had died before everything had been computerised.

She took a Tupperware container out of the mortuary fridge and withdrew from it a pitta filled with falafel and salad that had long gone stiff and dry. Ate it nevertheless, staring blankly at the stick-thin ankles of the old man on whom she had been working. She remembered the police had been unable to bring a case against the gynaecologist. Their evidence to demonstrate medical negligence had only been circumstantial. But there had followed backlash in the medical community, and it transpired that not only had the gynaecologist probably killed his patient, but he had been accused of trying to sexually molest some of his younger and more vulnerable patients during examinations. It had been quite a scandal.

‘Hang on a bloody minute,’ Marianne said, spitting falafel inadvertently onto the floor. She sat back at the computer and Googled ‘Gynae-sex pest’, as she vaguely remembered reading the sensationalist headline of that ilk in the tabloids.

And there was the story.

Some eight years earlier. The disgraced gynaecologist peered out at her from a photo. Leaving a casino. Bleary-eyed and on the arm of a large-breasted woman wearing a micro-miniskirt and stiletto heels. Though the man’s face was now bloated and middle-aged, all at once the bell that his name rang chimed inside her head at deafening volume and with shuddering resonance. It was the boy from med school. The stalker-type who couldn’t sew to save his life and clearly couldn’t sew to save anybody else’s either. And yes, now she remembered that he had gone on to major in gynaecology and obstetrics.

Barely able to dial his number for her shaking hands, Marianne called van den Bergen.

‘Marianne! How did you know I was going to call?’ he said. ‘I’m at Linda Lepiks’ apartment. I need you to get a team here to go over her place. The murderer’s been here. I’d put money on it.’

‘I know who it is,’ Marianne said. ‘His name’s Ruud Ahlers.’

Van den Bergen went silent momentarily. ‘A doctor?
Dr
Ruud Ahlers?’

‘Yes.’

‘Shit.’

CHAPTER 32

Amsterdam, Ruud Ahlers’ apartment, later

As van den Bergen sped away from Lepiks’ apartment amidst a cacophony of screeching, smoking tyres, the urgency of the situation heralded by blue flashing lights and the wail of the car’s siren, George sipped champagne in Ruud Ahlers’ living room. It was decadently early for alcohol, but she was feeling both defiant and celebratory. Irate messages from Sally regarding her absconsion were already stacking up on her phone. She was studiously ignoring them.

Though she scanned the Greek mythology books and Latin texts on Ahlers’ book shelves, the wide smile that played on her full lips was not for the dog-eared copy of Tacitus’
Nero et Agrippina
– a name she hadn’t heard since high school. Nor was it for the fact that this friend of Katja’s had arranged his books alphabetically, despite their being unacceptably dusty. Her smile was one of relief and triumph. Being back in Amsterdam for more than a fleeting visit felt like a sort of homecoming.

Katja came out of Ahlers’ kitchen, all clacking heels and jangling bangles. She slid an arm around George’s shoulder.

‘You look like the cat that got the cream, darling,’ she said. Batting her lashes. Pouting theatrically.

George noticed a brown stain on the collar of her friend’s pink top and subtly slid out of her embrace. ‘I needed a change of scenery. I don’t like being told what to do, where to go…you know? The things I’ve got on the go in England. They’ll keep for a few months.’

The smell of frying garlic coming from this strange man’s kitchen was good. George’s stomach rumbled. With a murdered porn starlet on her mind, she’d taken the first available flight to Schiphol. Meagre funds had prevented her from buying breakfast at the airport. The flight had been a no-frills affair that had not included an airline snack.

‘So, who’s your friend?’ George asked.

Katja threw herself onto a sagging burgundy sofa, that looked as though it had once been expensive but which was now dog-eared and covered in white cat hairs. She sipped her champagne, leaving a greasy lipstick slick on the rim of the simple flute. George perched on the sofa’s arm, unwilling to commit to the cat hairs.

‘I’ve known Ruud for years,’ she said. ‘See these beauties?’ She pointed to the fat red pillows that constituted her mouth. Kissed the air as if to demonstrate how they should work. Giggled, though her stiff face did not yield entirely to a grin that encompassed teeth. ‘We’re not all born with luscious lips like you, darling. Ruud’s my cosmetic surgeon. Everyone I know goes to him! Collagen implants. Botox. Nip and tuck.’ She poked a nail into George’s hip. ‘You look like you’ve been eating too many chips, honey. He could do you some lipo—’

George bellowed with laughter, though inside, she acknowledged a twinge of hurt. ‘Cheeky cow! I don’t need lipo. The junk in this trunk was all part of mother nature’s plan.’

Tossing her red hair over her shoulder, Katja closed her eyes dismissively. ‘Suit yourself,’ she said. ‘I have to keep in shape for the cameras, these days. And I bet Ruud would want more than just a fee off you!’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘He’s got a dick like a button mushroom.’

Wondering fleetingly if van den Bergen’s penis was in proportion to his height, George advanced to the threshold of the kitchen. Observed Ruud Ahlers from behind, as he pan-fried something. He wore a navy and white butcher’s apron tied tight, so that it dug into his fleshy back. Turned round to face her. She could barely conceal her look of distaste at the sight of the apron, stretched tight over his belly. The white stripes were browny-orange with old blood stains. Worse still, his teeth were yellow. Reminiscent of Silas Holm. But the food smelled nice. She gave the pan a once-over. Looked like steak. Or was it liver?

‘I hope that’s not offal,’ George said. ‘I don’t eat offal.’

‘Let food be thy medicine and medicine be thy food,’ Ahlers said, waving his spatula. ‘Hippocrates!’ He moved to the bank of drawers and opened the top one. It rattled, betraying the cutlery inside. Took out a long, thin boning knife and pointed it at her chest. ‘Your Dutch is excellent. I think we’re in for an entertaining afternoon.’

CHAPTER 33

Amsterdam, van den Bergen’s car, then Ahlers’ apartment, moments later

Van den Bergen floored the growling Mercedes along Leidseplein. Travelling down tram tracks. Couldn’t get snarled up in queuing traffic. Skirted the length of a tram heading back towards Vondelpark. Maybe six inches between his wing mirror and the body of the blue and white beast. Had to get to George. Had to reach her in time.

At his side, Marie yelped. ‘Jesus!’

‘Boss?’ Elvis’ voice coming through on the hands-free. Awaiting instructions.

Past the MINI showrooms on his right. Couldn’t remember where he was going. Shit! Hung a sharp left into Marnixstraat. There was the city theatre. Not far now. Flinched the muscles in his upper arm to make doubly sure his service weapon was still strapped beneath his left armpit. Honked his horn at the oncoming cars. Why were there oncoming cars?

‘You’re driving the wrong way up a one-way street!’ Marie shouted. She clung onto her seatbelt with both hands, one eye squeezed shut. White knuckles. Green face. Her tablet had slid to the floor.

But van den Bergen had no time. George was in danger.
Katja’s doctor friend. Ruud.
An image of George, staring at morgue lights with unseeing eye sockets, flashed into his head. He blinked it away.

‘This is quicker,’ he said. ‘Get out of my way, you bastards!’ Horn honking.

The city road map in his head was codeine-blurred. The right side of the river now, at least. His only thought was to get to Ahlers’ address.

‘Elvis!’ he barked down the car’s hands-free. ‘You still there?’

‘Yes, boss.’ Elvis’ voice, tinny at the other end of the phone.

‘Get uniformed backup to Bloemstraat. Suspect is dangerous and possibly armed.’

‘Will do, boss.’

‘And Elvis.’

‘Yes boss.’

‘If you get there before us, don’t fuck this up. Georgina McKenzie is there. If she gets hurt, I
will
kill you.’

‘It looks nice,’ George said, staring down at the plate and thinking that it definitely didn’t look nice. The delicious aroma in its cooking had belied the unsavoury mash of suspect meat and burnt potatoes. It could have been something she’d cooked herself, and that was no recommendation. ‘Are you sure this is steak?’

‘You’re a whizz in the kitchen, Ruud,’ Katja said, spooning pickled cabbage from a bowl onto her plate.

‘Dig in,’ Ahlers said, topping their glasses up with more champagne.

He had laid a crisp tablecloth on the table for four. Put some tight ranunculus buds in a small glass vase in the middle. George examined her cutlery for signs of dried-in food remnants or fingerprints. The fork passed muster. She gave it an extra wipe on her napkin, to be on the safe side. The knife…

‘Ow!’ she said, slicing into the skin on her index finger. ‘Jesus, these are sharp. What are they? Bloody scalpels or something?’

Ahlers snorted with laughter. ‘Something like that,’ he said. ‘I don’t know about you, but I can’t stand to eat steak with a blunt knife.’

It had occurred to George that accepting an invitation to an impromptu lunch with her porn actress, ex-working-girl-friend by a man whom she had never met before in her life had possibly been a rash decision, but she was so heartily sick of doing what was expected of her – by Ad, by Sally, by Derek at the club, even by van den Bergen – that she embraced the opportunity to do something spontaneous. Especially now she was back in Amsterdam. Besides, she was drunk. Champagne on an empty stomach meant the bubbles had gone straight to her head.

Katja raised her glass. ‘Here’s to George!’ she said. ‘Welcome back, sweetie!’

They clinked glasses, but Katja leaned over and planted a wet kiss on George’s cheek.

‘Katja, man!’ George said, setting her glass down and wiping at her skin with her napkin. ‘Boundaries!’ Now the napkin was covered in greasy, bright red stains, which made George’s eye start to twitch. She stood abruptly. ‘Where’s your bathroom?’ she asked Ahlers.

He ushered her down the hall. Deftly pulled his bedroom door closed en route. ‘This way!’

‘Thanks,’ George said, wishing she had just grabbed some buns and cheese from the supermarket and then gone straight over to the station to surprise van den Bergen. ‘I’m sure I can find it on my own.’

Her host paid her no heed. He marched ahead of her into the murk of the hallway. Stood on the threshold to a windowless room that was in total darkness.

‘Be my guest.’

Reaching out, he pressed his hand to the small of her back in a proprietorial manner. Clicked on the light and extractor fan with his other hand. The room smelled strange, as the food had looked strange. Perhaps it was the champagne, George thought. She limboed away from his touch. But, having edged past Ahlers’ belly to enter the small, tidy bathroom, she then found that he wouldn’t leave. He just stood there, watching her.

‘I don’t need a chaperone,’ she said, closing the door.

The door wouldn’t shut. Something barred its progress. She looked down. Spotted his foot, wedged deliberately in the way. His hand dipped into the pocket of his butcher’s apron.

An insistent knock at the front door drew his attention away from her.

‘Police! Open up!’

Van den Bergen’s voice? No. It could not be. George wondered if Ahlers had slipped a little something extra into her drink. But then, something hit the front door with the force of a battering ram. A cracking, splintering sound as the hinges gave way and suddenly van den Bergen was standing in the hallway, pointing his pistol straight at her.

CHAPTER 34

London, 1985

‘Sit there and don’t speak to anyone,’ Mama said, pushing Veronica into an uncomfortable moulded plastic chair in an empty corner by the fire extinguisher. Mama’s bared teeth translated into a rough approximation of a smile, but her tone of voice could have stripped the paint off the canvases and boards that hung on the gallery walls.

Rudi wriggled in Mama’s arms. His diamanté collar caught the spotlights, transforming him from an ordinary white terrier to a glittering ball of fluff in ironic hot-pink satin dog jacket. ‘Canine-drag-queen-meets-Material Girl’, as one of Veronica’s unsanctioned friends had labelled the look. Mama would not have appreciated that turn of phrase. Particularly not from the new housekeeper’s sixteen-year-old daughter, who had light-fingers and a terrible thirst when it came to Papa’s drinks cabinet. Mama insisted Rudi was flamboyant and very
now
.