Black Widow (17 page)

Wever didn’t like the KLPD. He didn’t like the implication that he was incapable of dealing with things himself. He didn’t like the way they dressed, and behaved, with such awful bloody politeness. He didn’t like the sense that they were always talking behind your back, even when they were talking to your face.

‘With respect, sir,’ he said, crunching furiously on his biscuit as he did so, ‘this is
my
investigation. I’m not going to take a back seat.’

Van Kempen nodded, and carefully lowered himself into the chair opposite Wever. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘We wouldn’t want it any other way.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes,’ van Kempen answered, and his Dutch was so exquisitely Standard that he might almost have been assigned to the Royal and Diplomatic Protection Service (another arm of the KLPD, naturally).

‘So have you got any ideas?’ Wever asked bluntly.

‘Well, I think the first step is to get a psychological profile made up. Find out what sort of character we are dealing with, and we might have a better chance of tracking her down.’

‘We know what sort of person we are dealing with: the kind who likes to screw young men then rip their eyes out.’

‘There must be more to her than that, though?’ van Kempen argued.

Wever shifted awkwardly in his seat. There was really no sense in playing devil’s advocate; he’d been on the verge of going down the profiler route anyway. Whatever Tanja thought about it. ‘Maybe. So have you got anyone in mind?’

Van Kempen shrugged. ‘We’ve built up a comprehensive panel of experts over the years. There’s no contingency we can’t cover, in that sense. I’ll make a few calls.’

‘I’d recommend Professor Scholten,’ Wever said. ‘She’s worked with us before.’

‘On the Butcher case, I know.’

Wever couldn’t help but be defensive. ‘She did an excellent job, given the information that was available. We all did.’

Van Kempen’s expression didn’t change. ‘Even Detective Inspector Pino?’

‘Especially her.’

‘I’ve seen her file.’

‘I’m sure you have,’ said Wever coldly.

Van Kempen sighed. ‘Look, I’m aware of her record. It’s exemplary, in the main. I have an open mind.’

Wever forced himself to adopt a conciliatory approach. Whatever his personal feelings, he was old enough to recognise the value in setting them aside. At least for the time being.

‘So – would you like a Garibaldi?’

Van Kempen took the proffered biscuit. ‘Thank you,’ he said gravely.

*

The police cordon at the Hotel Oosterdok was more rigorously enforced than that which had been set up around the Royal William. Gus had singularly failed to get inside, or snatch a conversation with even the most token witness. It was frustrating, but surely only a temporary setback. He could worm his way into any space, given time.

But for now he was back at the
Post
, with a point to make. Crossing the floor to the crappy desk which had been his home for the last few days, he snatched up his potted plant, then made the long, symbolic walk back to the hallowed ground of Crime. His movements were slow, stately. He wanted everyone to see. He wanted them to know he was
back
.

He nodded to his colleagues as he passed by. Some grinned; others scowled. Gus wasn’t blinkered, far from it. For every man who liked him, another loathed him. The ratio was probably a bit different for the women. Most of his younger female colleagues professed to finding him a bit objectionable, at least in public.

However, Gus was absolutely a hit with the older ladies. He’d always attributed this to a mothering impulse on their part, but now he saw the truth of it: they actually wanted to sleep with him.

Miriam was a special case, of course. His editor had already pulled him to one side, to advise that he shouldn’t get too carried away, that he was very much on probation. Again. But maybe she was being a little
too
vociferous! And maybe her eyes blazed for some other reason.

Still, Gus would never go there. Never shit on your own doorstep, as the increasingly international saying went. Or, more pertinently, never stick your dick up your own boss.

Gus was aware, after a fashion, that his thoughts were becoming more prurient in nature. But that was good; that was the essence of gonzo. It was all about getting in character. To tell the story, it was necessary to live it.

‘So you got any leads yet, Gus?’ one of the Sports guys called out.

‘Maybe,’ Gus answered.

‘What you got, then, hotshot?’

‘You wouldn’t understand the subtleties of it, Albert. Stick to darts and polder-leaping, why don’t you.’

‘Go screw yourself, de Groot!’

Gus nodded happily, and busied himself for a few moments with watering his bonsai oak.

It had belonged to his mother, once.

Gus’ smile didn’t slip as he set the miniature watering can back in his desk, thinking of the days he’d accompanied the old lady to the hospital, making small talk when all around the biggest things were going down, the poison chemicals draining into her, doing
no fucking good
whatsoever.

Sometimes he thought the plant was an unnecessary distraction, that he should get rid of it. But he could never quite bring himself to go through with it.

The phone rang. He had it to his ear in an instant.

‘Go,’ he said.

‘Gus de Groot?’ said a rasping voice at the other end of the line.

‘Shoot.’

‘I want to talk to you about something.’

‘Well, clearly.’

‘I saw something,’ the voice expanded. ‘Last night. It was round the back of that hotel. Where the Englishman was killed.’

‘Yeah?’ said Gus. ‘Which hotel?’

‘The Oosterdok.’

Gus sat up a little straighter. ‘Then maybe we should get together and talk about it.’

‘I’ll want paying.’

‘I guessed that part.’

‘Plenty, you understand? Five hundred.’

‘Well, that depends on the quality of the information, my friend. I tend to employ a sliding scale, you see.’

‘Trust me, it’s good stuff.’

Sometimes Gus received crank calls when working on a big case. There had been more than one occasion when he’d traipsed out into the city, only to be stood up. And then there was the time as a novice reporter, when he’d actually been set up, and robbed of his cash at gun point. But it never stopped him.

‘Great,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring my biggest wallet. Where shall we meet?’

‘The Vondelpark. The Picasso statue. You know it? Be there in half an hour.’

‘Fine,’ said Gus.

*

Maria was back at the flat, which was a relief. Still, it pained Ursula to see her like this. The beautiful little gypsy widow sat on the edge of her bed, head in hands. She’d hardly moved, or spoken, this last hour.

Ursula cast about for something, anything, which would make her friend feel happier.

Only one thing occurred. It was the
big
thing, which Ursula had been saving for a special moment. Well, maybe that moment had arrived.

‘Maria?’

‘Yes, Ursula?’

She made a windmill of her arms. ‘You shouldn’t mourn for him, you know.’

Maria looked at Ursula through a frame of arms and fingers. She appeared an absolute portrait of grief, the silly girl! Ursula looked away, momentarily hot with frustration. Ruben – the traitor, the adulterer – was dead; Maria should be
celebrating
the fact.

Maria shook her head. ‘If you are about to tell me that Mikael is in a better place, that God will look after him, then I already know that. But it doesn’t make it any easier.’

Ursula blinked, her temper flaring. God? This wasn’t an argument she wanted to have now. She noticed that Maria was fingering a crucifix, which, as usual, she wore on a chain around her neck. Ursula had always assumed that its purpose was more ornamental than anything. Seemed she’d been wrong.

Ursula took a deep breath, reminding herself of the bigger picture. ‘Look – about Mikael. There’s something you should know.’

‘I know everything I need to know about him,’ Maria said. ‘That I loved him. That I will always love him. That he thought about me in the same way. He was tricked, you understand? There was no way he would have gone to that hotel willingly.’

‘Maria –’

Maria was suddenly on her feet, pacing a tight circle on her bedroom floor. Her hair was twisting this way and that, stirred by static. She’d never looked more beautiful, more elemental.

‘I’d give my soul to learn the filthy
kut
who took him from me,’ she hissed.

Ursula stared, no longer sure that she recognised the girl before her. Maria, using the
K
word? It was a disconcerting feeling. An exciting feeling.

And Maria would give her soul, to learn that? And where the soul went, the body would surely follow…

Sleeping with Emmy had reminded Ursula how much she needed sex. And how much better would it be, with Maria? On the other hand, Ursula had a newfound responsibility, to the object of Maria’s hatred.

It was the
sweetest
dilemma.

Leaving Emmy’s, Ursula had stood for a few hours outside the police headquarters on Elandsgracht, a grey shadow amidst the parched foliage which fronted the car park. A part of her – a very small part – was inclined to freak out at the enormity of what she knew. This weak, cowardly part, suggested it might be better to let the police in on the secret of the killer’s identity. It was Ursula’s duty, as a citizen. If she were to withhold that knowledge, then there was a chance that more men would die.

But then she’d thought of her dissertation. How she might adapt it in some way, to tell the story of the killer’s glorious mission.

She knew she would be feted if she could pull it off; that her work would transcend the usual limits of a throwaway college piece. They would speak of her in the same breath as Capote (all right, a man, but a
gay
man – and there was no one more courageous than an apostate). She might build a career as a journalist, perhaps even a novelist.

‘And what would you do with the killer,’ Ursula asked softly, ‘if you were to find her?’

‘I would make her feel how Mikael must have felt,’ Maria replied without hesitation.

‘Perhaps she already feels it,’ Ursula suggested.

As a younger girl, Ursula was a borderline anorexic. She felt something of that old confusion now. There was hunger, yet there was also constipation. If the secret was a fat, juicy apple, then for the moment she was happier to watch it ripen on the branch, than pluck it off and take a bite.

Chapter 12

Tanja and Pieter had learned very little at O’Halloran’s. With so many boisterous stag parties naturally, if unimaginatively, gravitating towards a slice of almost-home, Anderson’s group had been as good as invisible. Still, Tanja had arranged for someone to come over and take a look at the CCTV footage. It was still possible that Anderson had left the bar in the company of his killer.

They’d drawn a similar blank at the nearest coffee shop. No one remembered seeing Anderson. No one remembered very much at all, as it happened. It was a fact that most of the people who worked in these places were as partial to free weed as the fat kids behind the counter at McDonalds were keen on the complimentary burgers.

‘This is going to take all year,’ Pieter complained. ‘And what do you think we will have to show for our efforts, when that year is up?’

Tanja took a perverse delight in the hard slog. And also in Pieter’s flirtation with ill-humour. What did he expect? Sometimes the old-fashioned way was the only way. But another part of her felt a twinge of anxiety. They had followed meticulously every lead in the Butcher case, to so many dead ends. Why did this already have the feel of the well-trodden, aimless path, like the tracks in the Bos that petered to nothing, covered in dead foliage and moss?

The next café, the Green Leaf, lay an easy five minute walk from the Irish pub, perhaps double that if a person were drunk. Inside, the place had that familiar air of faded glory. Whilst the authorities were still relaxed about such places,
gedoogbeleid
was no longer the watchword for liberalism it had once been. Hallucinogens were outlawed, now – though you could still buy mushrooms from ‘smart shops’, in spore form. It was a chaotic system, Tanja had always thought, but it seemed to work as well as any. Smokers were like drunks – they only became a problem when you took their poison away.

So, the glass coffee table was cracked; whilst one of the speakers was torn, adding an uncomfortable rasp to the Wailers’ backbeat. Bob sang of days in Trenchtown. Smoke rings wobbled from gloomy corners, turning silvery in the flare of neon lighting. Tanja studied a chalk menu board, advertising such delicacies as
Malana Cream
at ten euro a gram; or, for a rougher high,
Red Lebanon
at seven. A little more than the going rate, she suspected, which probably explained why so many of the patrons had the look of tourists.

She’d had a feeling, crossing the threshold, that this might be the place. The feeling was stronger now. She overheard snatches of conversation, delivered in several varieties of English, and also a smattering of German. This wasn’t a place for locals.

Pieter was showing Anderson’s picture to the staff. One man, with long hair, and a yet longer face, said he recognised him.

‘Yeah, I remember the guy. Bought some Kingston Royal. Good shit, that. Most of the idiots who come in here don’t have a clue, you know? But this guy knew his stuff.’

‘Something of a connoisseur, you’d say?’ Pieter queried.

‘Yeah, man. Just that.’

Tanja glanced serenely at her increasingly smooth partner. He belatedly seemed to appreciate that he was on dangerous ground; there was a definite wince.

‘So what’s he done, this guy?’ the barman asked.

‘It’s more a question of what’s been done to him,’ Tanja answered. ‘He’s dead.’

The man’s eyes narrowed, though his pupils didn’t. ‘Hey. It’s not
that
guy, is it? I saw something on TV earlier –’

‘What we’d like to know,’ Tanja interrupted, ‘is whether you saw him talking with anyone else. A woman, specifically.’