Black Widow (13 page)

‘Oh, there was some dismemberment, post-mortem.’

Alex winced. ‘This isn’t going to be another severed cock story, is it? I get enough of that in Diemen.’

‘No, she took his eye.’

‘Really?’ He whistled. ‘That’s unusual. Are you sure it’s a woman you’re after?’

‘You don’t think a woman would be capable of such a thing?’ Tanja queried.

‘Well, perhaps.’ Alex scratched thoughtfully at his ear. ‘Any news from Forensics?’

‘Not yet,’ Tanja replied. ‘But it should be soon.’

‘Visser still a bit weird?’

‘Check.’

‘Polderhuis still acting like a horny teenager? Word on the street is that he’s been asked to be a judge at a beauty pageant!’

Tanja laughed. ‘Really? Well, I hope he washes his hands first. You know how hands-on he is where girls are concerned.’

Alex chuckled appreciatively. ‘He’s an inspiration to us all!’

Tanja felt herself start to relax. The exchange had been easy. Free of hidden meaning.

‘So,’ Alex continued, ‘big question.’

Tanja tensed. ‘Go on.’

‘Do you think she will kill again?’

‘Oh… Well, it’s impossible to be certain, of course. Maybe it’s a one-off. But I wouldn’t be surprised if she did. That sort of excision – there’s almost a ritual quality to it, don’t you think?’

Alex nodded. ‘And the thing about rituals is that they must be repeated on a regular basis, or else lose their magic.’

There was another ritual being enacted here, Tanja considered, as a plate of prawn crackers was deposited on their table by the haughty waiter. She nibbled at hers, wishing that it was a poppadum. Indian food was much more to her taste, if not Alex’s. He claimed an allergic reaction to ghee. He was more delicate than he looked.

The main course arrived soon after. Tanja prodded at the remains of some unidentifiable animal, served up on a bed of unidentifiable vegetables. ‘What
is
this?’ she demanded, as she took a tentative bite at the pasty meat. She might as well have been chewing at a piece of pre-masticated gum; it was quite without flavour.

‘Weren’t you listening when I ordered?’ Alex replied.

‘I don’t speak Chinese,’ she answered. ‘And nor do you, for that matter. So what is it?’

‘Guess.’

‘Oh, I don’t know, Alex. Panda, maybe? Because this green stuff certainly looks like bamboo.’

He laughed again. ‘It’s chicken, actually. And the green stuff is mostly asparagus.’

‘You ordered me chicken salad? Is that what you are saying?’

He frowned. ‘Now is this you being really cross, Tanja, or pretend cross?’

‘Can’t you tell?’

‘Never could,’ he admitted. ‘It was one of the things I most liked about being with you. You kept me on my toes.’

‘Someone had to.’

Alex grinned, and leant across the table. ‘Is that a new lipstick?’ he asked.

Tanja placed a hand to her mouth, only to withdraw it when she realised that her fingers were trembling a little. Doubtless it was a case of pre-emptive nerves. ‘Oh, I’ve had it ages, probably.’

‘I like it.’

‘Thanks,’ she acknowledged. ‘It’s “salmon blush.”’

‘Do fish get embarrassed?’ Alex asked.

‘Only on first dates.’

Alex held her gaze for a moment, a look of indecision in his eye. She reached for more wine, but Alex shook his head, and placed his hand on hers.

‘So,’ he said, and she could feel the warmth of his breath.

‘So,’ Tanja echoed.

He cleared his throat with a little cough. ‘What next, do you think?’

‘Do you mean with regards to the case, or –?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Us?’ she said lightly.

‘Yeah.’ He tipped his head to one side, then the other, as if the component parts of his contemplation had actual physical weight. ‘Tonight’s been fun, Tanja. I’d forgotten how you can make me laugh!’

He broke off, looking out across the crowded restaurant.

Tanja followed his gaze, seeing nothing of interest. ‘I take it there is a caveat?’ she said.

‘That’s not the word I’d use. But I’m thinking that maybe we should take another night to think about what
us
actually means.’

She nodded, smiling all the while. ‘That sounds sensible.’

They finished the rest of their meal in what might as well have been silence, like an old married couple who had long since run out of things to say. When they were done, Alex paid the bill – more ritual – then shepherded her outside.

‘You don’t need to see me to my car,’ she said, perhaps a little frosty now, and not caring if he saw it. ‘I can find my own way.’

‘You’re not seriously thinking of driving? Not after what happened last time?’

How quickly the mood changed. Tanja blinked up at him, her hands locked rigidly to her side as she remembered
last time
. A party, and yet another row, and a drunken race across town in the Opel, a pale-faced Alex begging her to pull over and let him drive. Clipping a curb, and taking out the plate glass window of a florist’s.

It could have spelled the end of Tanja’s career; drink-driving simply wasn’t tolerated. So Alex, who hadn’t been drinking at all, had volunteered to take the rap for her. It had reflected badly on him, even if he hadn’t been given an official censure. She could still picture him being breathalysed, his face turning an awkward colour as he tried to summon the breath.

Yet she still shook her head stubbornly. Drink, and the thought of spending another night on her own had made her reckless. ‘I’m not walking. And I’m not going to wait around for a taxi.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Tanja. Listen to yourself!’

Tanja glared at him. But she couldn’t keep it up.

Alex looked at the floor. ‘I’ll give you a lift,’ he said eventually. He looked up, his dark features turned an ever deeper bronze in the sodium glow of a streetlamp. ‘Back to my place.’

Guilt, and happiness, did brief battle in Tanja’s mind. Happiness won. ‘Really? But what about taking another night to think things through?’

‘Maybe we can do that together.’ He kicked his feet into the dusty cobbles. ‘I do care about you Tanja. Don’t ever doubt that.’ He looked at her, perhaps questioningly, but Tanja didn’t understand what he was getting at, and besides, everything else was lost to her relief.

It was going to be all right.

Chapter 9

James Anderson settled back into the cracked leather armchair, then proceeded to blow the…
perfect
… smoke ring.

He had rarely felt more at peace with himself. The other members of the stag party were off looking for hookers, or
hippen
as they were known hereabouts, but he was far from lonely. The weed made for a great companion.

This old-school Jamaican shit was the good stuff! Way expensive at twelve euro a gram, but totally worth it. It was pure, so pure that he almost felt like a (smoking) virgin, touched (by smoke) for the very first time. The giggles had come within a few seconds of his first drag; his legs had gone a minute later. And now he felt as warm and optimistic as a sperm whale. He remembered watching a David Attenborough documentary in the aftermath of his first smoke, during which he’d been struck by the happy magnificence of spending your life afloat, buoyed, insulated from cold by a soft weight of blubber. The image had stuck; his inebriated mind always referenced it.

The pervasive cloud of second-hand smoke, James considered as the THC tickled random thoughts to the surface of his mind like unsuspecting trout, had a liquid quality. And it was fitting, that the best high he’d ever known should be on his last trip away with the boys. The coven of evil missuses had issued a collective proclamation, that from now on the lads would be sensible. The price of turning thirty and wanting your ironing done.

A woman emerged from the smoke, to sit down in the chair opposite. ‘
Goedenavond
,’ she said gravely.

‘
Bon soir
, baby!’

‘Ah!
Français
?
Belgique
?
Alors, je m’appelle
–’

She sounded like a whale to him, surely a kindred spirit. He held up a hand, then blew a few more smoke rings through his blow hole. ‘Um,
Ich bin ein
Mancunian?’ he ventured.

‘
Deutsch
?
Abend
!
Ich heisse
Hester.’

‘No shit. But look, I’ve really no idea what you are saying.’

The woman blinked. ‘You are English?’

‘Yeah.’ He sniffed, feeling a little defensive about it. ‘But none of it is our fault. We’ve no reason to learn a foreign language, you see. Some people say it’s laziness, but it isn’t that. Do you think the French, for example, would bother with English, if their own language wasn’t so utterly insignificant?’

‘Or the Dutch?’ the woman suggested. ‘Actually, we would, in all probability. I suppose you can relate it to our love of popular culture. Have you ever heard a song sung in Dutch? It isn’t pretty. Or French, for that matter. So, it all works much better in English. Bob van Dylan would never have made it.’

James looked at her suspiciously. Then he saw it. She was a
prostitute
. This was Amsterdam after all. She looked nice, if a bit milfy for his tastes. And she was clearly too intelligent. His own wife was pleasantly dumb; it made for a more relaxing relationship.

Still, being accosted like this was something of a bonus. He’d had to make a big decision, before: either pot, or hookers. And he’d been quite happy with the choice he’d made. But if she was going to throw herself at him –

The weed made him bolder than usual.

‘I gotta ask, love. Are you on the game?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Are you looking for business?’ he clarified.

The woman stared at him for a long moment, her fingers ruffling the margin of her blonde hair. She reminded him of a teacher he’d once fancied. Ah, single Maths, followed by double Wank. Great days!

‘If you mean, am I looking to seduce you,’ she answered distantly, ‘then yes, why not get right to it, that is precisely what I am doing. Am I so transparent?’

‘Let’s just say I’m an old hand.’ He wagged a finger. The ageing whore followed it, as if it were tipped in gold. ‘I don’t have much money left, mind. And I was sort of hoping to get a kebab, later. Do you have kebabs in Amsterdam? Yeah, course you do. The Turks get everywhere, don’t they. And another thing –’

She reached out a finger, to touch his lips. ‘I am sure we can work something out.’

‘Well then, love – consider yourself hired!’

The woman smiled, but it wasn’t the sort of smile that a man – intoxicated or otherwise – could easily engage with. But James didn’t care. He’d been with enough tarts in his time to know the score. He would roll her over and do her up the ass, if she was minded to play silly buggers. It would cost a little more – the “poo-pipe premium,” the boys called it, the childish twats – but if this really was to be the last time, then he might as well go out with a proper bang.

He lurched to his feet and placed an arm around her shoulder. He felt her recoil but, if anything, that only made him hornier.

*

The club was found at the end of a dead-end alley, just off the Kerkstraat. Ursula cast a contemptuous glance at the male bouncers, then clumped down the steps, and into the threadbare lobby. She handed over her ten euro fee to the attendant, who took it without a word, poking a tongue through a membrane of bubble gum as she did so.

Ursula moved off along the corridor. As she rounded the corner, a blast of drum ‘n’ bass thudded through her, followed in quick succession by a staccato stab of strobe lights, which caught in the bottles and glasses of the adjoining bar. She stood blinking for a moment, as her senses recovered from the onslaught. A mist of sweat hung particulated under the ceiling. The taste of salt; this was the sweat of her
sisters
.

The strobes gave way to the gentler pulse of a glitter ball, as the DJ offered up Irene Cara’s
Flashdance
, and suddenly it was 1983, and everyone was a wannabe Jennifer Beals. Ursula felt no desire to join in. She’d always come here to watch, rather than participate. She looked around. The place hadn’t changed since she’d last been here. Black blobs of paired, smug monogamy gazed out at the whores in their bright, tie-dyed colours. The club had long since formulated its own dress code: mostly black meant you were in a long-term relationship, and off-limits; colours meant you’d fuck anything with the requisite number of holes. It was roughly a fifty-fifty split.

Ursula was in black. It was an act of misrepresentation, but she couldn’t afford to waste time fighting off prospective suitors.

She had no wish to be here. Not when she was so close to starting something beautiful with Maria. Something involving long walks in the countryside and long bouts of beautiful lovemaking beneath a starry sky.

But for the moment, there was something she needed. She moved around the periphery of the dance floor, her heart starting to beat that little bit faster as she saw what was going on in the dark alcoves: here was a girl, her mouth clamped to her lover’s tattooed breast; here was another, her hand jammed between her partner’s legs; here was a third, engaged in a screaming row with a girl who looked like a miniature earth-mover, her blunt face more like a shovel than anything.

Ursula had moved on, had grown; why couldn’t they? Why secrete themselves away like this, in what amounted to little more than a dyke ghetto? She shook her head, feeling sad, angry.

Yet still horny; that couldn’t be denied.

She was looking for someone. An old friend. An old lover. They’d had a thing, a five-week thing, during the previous summer. They might still be together now, if not for Maria. Anyway, they’d always come to Club XX on a Saturday night. Maybe Emmeline still kept to the old routine.

Sure enough Emmy was sitting in their favourite alcove, alone. She wore green and orange.

‘Ursula? Is it really you?’

‘The one and only!’

Emmy stood and held out her arms. Ursula hugged her, and kissed her on the cheek. Just the cheek, for now.

It was a little quieter at the extremities of the club. Conversation was possible. ‘So how have you been?’ Emmy asked, wringing her hands in her excitement. She’d got a piercing, Ursula saw, a bar through her septum.