The Girl Who Broke the Rules (18 page)

‘He’s not himself at the moment,’ Marie said. ‘He did something totally mental a couple of weeks ago. He was lucky he didn’t get suspended. God knows what’s eating him.’ She sighed. Didn’t expand on what it was her boss had done that had been so out of character. ‘Whatever it is, he won’t talk about it to any of us. Maybe you’ll have better luck.’

Turning back towards the interview room, George wrinkled her nose at the memory of the suspicious-looking lunch Ahlers had presented her with the previous afternoon. ‘You think that meat was really meat?’

‘We’ve sent it to the lab for analysis.’

She clutched her stomach. Two dead women. Missing organs. The potential ingredients of that lunch had a flavour of tabloid hysteria about them. But George read the broadsheets. She quelled her nausea with a gulp of coffee. ‘I step foot off the plane straight into a pile of steaming shit. What were the odds of me being lured to that pervert’s flat?’

‘Amsterdam’s a small place,’ Marie said, thoughtfully twirling her pearl earrings around in their holes. ‘You mix in vice circles, you’re sure to run into trouble at some point.’

George shot her a venomous glance. Slammed the coffee down on the sill of the one-way window, so that the hot liquid splashed over her fingers. Wiped her hand angrily on her jeans. Head bobbing aggressively from side to side as she spoke. Pointing. Realising the heady effervescence of the champagne had given way to sharp-tempered hangover words, but unable to stop herself. ‘You making assumptions about me? You judging my mate, Katja? Because I know there’s no way she’s tied up in this mess. She’s going to go fucking ballistic when you question her.’

Marie held her hands up in a gesture of surrender. ‘I wasn’t—’

‘No. You better not be.’ George jabbed an accusatory finger towards her hair. ‘You get a shower before you come to me with your squeaky clean bullshit. Okay?’

‘Jesus! There’s no need to be personal.’ Marie took a step backwards and hastily tied her hair with an elasticated grip into a ponytail. Deepened furrows on her forehead and raised eyebrows etched a show of hurt above watery eyes. ‘Is this how it’s going to be? We’ve got to work together for the next six months, the boss said.’

George sighed heavily. Reached out to Marie and, defying her inner voice which screamed that touching the woman would mean she would have to wash her hands immediately in very hot water, rubbed Marie’s thin arm in a show of contrition. ‘Take no notice of me. I was up at six yesterday and nearly got myself killed. Twice. Couldn’t sleep a wink last night. Haven’t exactly got off to a good start, have I?’

Marie nodded, though the tightly folded arms said everything. ‘It’s fine.’

‘You think you’ve got your man?’ George asked, wishing she had an override button on the smart mouth she had inherited from her mother.

Marie turned to the view through the one-way glass. Watching as van den Bergen thumped the table.

‘I can
prove
you’ve performed surgery on both women,’ he shouted. Brandished a sheet of paper in front of Ahlers. Read from it through glasses theatrically held high. A half-smile toying on his lips. ‘As fate would have it, there’s an assault report just come in about you from a Chinese man. Says you almost killed his daughter with your unlicensed backstreet butchery.’ He pointed to Ahlers’ swollen cheek. ‘Was it him that rearranged your face?’ He turned to Elvis. ‘I’d say it’s an improvement, wouldn’t you?’

Elvis nodded. ‘Good job. I hope he sends you an invoice.’

Van den Bergen turned back to the report. ‘Shall we take a look at the stitching on this Chinese girl?’

Ahlers stared at him. Silent, though it was hard to tell if it was fear or defiance that had a grip of his tongue.

‘Stop wasting my time! I can
prove
you had sex with the black girl. What was her name?!’ Even with glass separating them, the ferocity of van den Bergen’s voice was undimmed.

Finally, Ahlers cracked. First, a startled expression hinted at the fissure underlying his composure. Then, he started to weep. Leaking from those bloodshot eyes turned to torrents. Jerking shoulders. Gripping the table top with chubby hands. Snot descending to his top lip in a glistening rivulet. ‘Noor. Her name was Noor.’

‘Oh yes,’ Marie said, a flicker of a smile warming her face. ‘I think we’ve got our man.’

CHAPTER 36

South East London, Aunty Sharon’s house, later

‘I didn’t know where else to come, Shaz,’ Derek said, tilting his head back whilst Sharon dabbed at his bloody nose.

She sighed. Dipped the tea towel into the boiled water and poked him in the eye with it.

‘Ow!’ he cried. ‘Why you do that for? Ain’t I suffered enough?’

Sharon dropped the towel on the kitchen table and sat down heavily on one of the pine chairs. She sipped from her mug of strong tea, considering the man before her, whose face looked like tenderised meat.

‘You’re some kind of fucking idiot, Derek de Falco. What unmentionable shit you got yourself wrapped up in, eh? Which particular brand of fucking nightmare you brought to my house this time?’

Her former lover reached out to grab her hand. She was quick to shake him loose. No point giving that tosser false hope. Bad enough he was Tinesha’s baby-father. Twat.

‘It was them fellers from the club. Italian geezers, you know?’ He shifted his position on his seat and winced. ‘Can I have a cuppa tea?’

‘Nah. This ain’t no caf for waifs and fucking strays. Talk!’

Derek pointlessly licked his fingers and dabbed at the large, bloody spatter down the front of his primrose-yellow evening shirt. Sharon reflected that he looked like he had gone to a fancy dress party as a representation of cat sick, but she kept that to herself.

‘So, I gets invited to this party out at some farmhouse in the middle of Kent, right? Them geezers is all friendly, cos I let them bring girls to the club.’

‘The porn king know?’

He shook his head and groaned. ‘Dermot Robinson? You must be joking. He’d string me up by the balls. No, these Italians came to me, right, cos of my family connections? Why you smirking like that, Shaz? That’s very cold.’

‘Shut it, you fool.’

‘Anyway, they make money from the girls. I take a nice cut and don’t ask no questions, right? I’m glad of the cash.’

Sharon stood and slapped Derek upside the head. ‘You greedy bastard.’

Melodramatically, he jerked backwards as though she had taken a baseball bat to him. ‘You hurt me, Sharon.’ He thumped his chest where his heart may or may not have been. Sharon wasn’t sure. ‘Right to the core, babe. And I don’t see you moaning when I bung our Tinesha a few quid towards her student digs.’

Sucking her teeth, she soaked the towel in the hot water in its entirety. Wrung it out and flung it on top of Derek’s head. ‘Thems is underage girls, you morally derelict bastard,’ she said, ignoring his complaints. Advancing to the cake tin and cutting herself a slice of swiss roll. She could see Derek’s eyes on the cake. Hear his stomach growling. ‘You looking at my cake?’ Her mouth was full as she spoke. Brushing crumbs off her pink fluffy dressing gown. Licking buttercream off her fingers. ‘This my cake, not your fucking cake.’

‘You got a big slab there, darling. Give us a piece. Go on!’

Slapping her own ample behind, she waved her finger in admonition; shook her head. ‘You fellers don’t get to take that much delicious out unless I put this much delicious in.
My
cake. Eyes forward, little man. Talk. And don’t mention
my
Tinesha in this conversation again. Right?’

Bloodied head in his bruised hands, Derek began his tale.

‘So, I’m thinking, I’m well in here with the correct people, right?’ he said. ‘They picks me up in some fancy Range Rover. Man, you ain’t never seen such a big fucking car in your life. Real drug dealer bling in all white with black wheels et cetera, et cetera. And we drives to this farmhouse out Canterbury way. Big gaff, like Carnegie bloody Hall. Well,’ he grinned. Then thought better of it with a sharp intake of breath. ‘It was a fucking orgy. Serious. I mean drugs coming out of me arsehole. Birds, but not like the sort of birds I normally mix with.’

‘Thanks a fucking bundle.’

Derek tutted. ‘Jeez, Shaz. Don’t be like that. I mean, the birds at the club. Some of these was posh. You know? Professional types. Toffs.’

‘Rich, white women looking for a thrill,’ Sharon offered, one eye on her phone.

‘Yeah. Exactly. They’re all in the nip or in bondage gear and getting it on with fellers there, in full view, et cetera. I thought – no offence, like – I’m having a bit of that. Right?’

Through the swelling in his eyelids she could see pleading brown eyes, begging forgiveness. Sharon had acquired immunity to that hangdog expression. Derek de Falco wasn’t really her problem any longer. She ate her cake in silence.

‘Anyway, so, I’m going at it with some bird, trousers round my ankles, like. Out the corner of my eye, I notice this geez holding court on the sofa. He’s got all his clobber on. Looks money. And I’m all ears, right? And he’s chatting to the short Italian – the one who looks like Al Pacino in
Serpico
.’

Sharon scratched at her scalp under her hair net. ‘It’s
Scarface
, dickhead. Wrong film.’

‘Yeah, whatever. And some posh bird, built like a brick shithouse. Horsey Helen.’

‘What’s the money one look like?’

Derek rolled some toilet paper into tight bungs and shoved one up each nostril. Tilted his head back. His voice was comically nasal. ‘Well, he was white. Hard to tell how tall he was. He was sitting down. Balding geez with a buzz cut. Diamond in his tooth. Bit of stubble. Slim build. In his fifties, I’d say. Sounded proper upper crust. I ain’t never seen him before. And the three of them’s talking. I can hear something about donors.’

‘Donuts?’ Sharon was growing bored. Uncle fucking Giuseppe could naff off back to his own place in a minute. She had washing to do before Patrice came home from school. And dinner to make before her shift at the club started. Nice goat curry. Lovely. And the floor needed mopping. Plus, that bathroom didn’t clean itself. Wandering over to the kitchen window, she started to water the spider plants on the sill with water in an old milk bottle. Adjusted the tie-backs on her gingham curtains. She could quite fancy a donut.

‘Nah. I think maybe the bird was a politician or charity type et cetera. Maybe a banker. I don’t frigging know. Cos they was talking about markets and money and pricing and that. Anyway, never mind what they was fucking chatting about. Next minute, Scarface clocks me earwigging. I’m out on my arse, getting beaten to a pulp by the other two on a heated bloody driveway, no less! And them lads can swing a punch, I can tell you.’

In her mind’s eye, Sharon caught sight of the two large henchmen who had accompanied the smaller Italian to the club on several occasions. One of them had asked George for a dance, hadn’t he? Got nasty and smashed his glass when she’d turned him down. Sharon exhaled slowly. Bit her lip.

‘You going to the police?’

Derek scoffed. ‘What do you think? Since when have I been a grass?’

‘Then you ain’t got nothing to worry about, have you? Keep your gob shut. Lay low. It’ll blow over.’

Suddenly, beneath the signs of the beating he had received, beneath all Derek’s bluff that had at one time attracted her to him but had in recent years grated – like a bad joke, repeated too often – fear was apparent. Sharon could almost smell it on the air. She had always had a good sixth sense for that kind of thing. When he said, ‘It’ll never blow over. I’m fucked, Shaz,’ she knew he wasn’t exaggerating.

CHAPTER 37

Amsterdam, the Quick Bite Café, later

Looking at George was difficult. Though they had spoken regularly on the phone and briefly, by email, van den Bergen hadn’t seen her in the flesh for months. And that flesh looked amazing – what he could see, at any rate. Fresh faced. Bright eyed. Even in her self-imposed uniform of black jeans and a plain black hooded top, every inch of her was beautiful. Somebody else’s beautiful.

‘You’re staying at Karelse’s?’ he asked, taking a bite out of his sandwich, though he had no real inclination to eat. The café was mercifully empty. Just a waitress staring up at a small TV, suspended on a wall bracket. He had been careful to select a place several streets away from the station, where he knew his colleagues did not go.

George shook her head. Toyed with one of those amazing curls that sprouted from her scalp like a gravity-defying firework, whizzing skywards in a corkscrew. He loved the challenge of sketching those. Perhaps she would let him paint her this time.

‘The Cracked Pot,’ she said. ‘Just for a couple of nights. Then…I’ll see.’

Not staying at Karelse’s. This was a turn up. ‘How come?’

Slurping her soup noisily, she shrugged. ‘Space.’ She was eyeing the pink of the new skin on his knuckles. ‘You wanna tell me about that, then?’

If he told her, he would reveal too much and risk scaring her off. Damn. Why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut about that? ‘What are your first impressions of Ahlers?’ he asked, pushing a codeine tablet out of the blister pack.

George leaned across the table. Grabbed his hand. ‘Hey! You can pack that in, for a start. I didn’t come over here to watch you poison yourself slowly.’

He was reluctant. The blurring had worn off during the interview with Ahlers, leaving him exposed to feeling the pain. ‘Let me take this one. I can’t get through the afternoon without it. The headaches are—’

‘Jesus, Paul! You’re a fucking mess! What’s going on with you?’

She let go of his hand, allowing him to swallow the tablet down with a mouthful of strong coffee. It quelled the anxiety that had been building within him. But he wished she had not let go. Her skin was so soft and warm. It was so long since he had felt a woman’s touch. Another man’s woman, though. That idiot Karelse’s woman. Ha! It was a joke. What did that spineless prick have that was so alluring? He was no better than Numb-nuts – Tamara’s buffoon of a fiancé.