Black Widow (36 page)

There wasn’t time to check with Elizabeth, but the next name he saw made it unnecessary. Mikael Ruben. Then Theo Gentz. Dates. Times. Movements. An additional column for notes.

And photos. Dozens of them. Dead men in waiting, ignorant they were being studied.

He read a few lines of the Endqvist chapter. A breakdown of the route Jasper took to work; the sandwiches he liked to have for lunch. His family background, marked with an asterisk; and his sexual orientation, marked with a cross. Was there some sort of key? Yes, there was, at the back.

Scholten, it seemed, had put her expertise to good use.

Gus hugged his arms about his chest. He prided himself on excellent circulation, but he could feel a certain chill spreading along his veins.

The woman was
cold
. And here he was, in her lair. Her den.

He shook now at the enormity of what he’d discovered. So, he would take the notebook somewhere safe, to study it more fully. He would collate his evidence, and present it to Miriam. And only then, when the presses were ready to roll, would he go to the police.

A crush of gravel outside made Gus look up. A car was pulling up, and inside was that thug of a young detective. Kissin. What was he doing here? Gus pocketed the notebook, reflecting for just a moment that withholding yet more evidence would hardly win him the love of the Amsterdam police department. He grinned – a little unpopularity in that regard would only fuel his celebrity. The best kind of hero was the anti-hero.

As he turned to go, the smell of slightly burnt coffee reached his nostrils. To his left, three feet away, a coffee pot was steaming. He hadn’t noticed it, before. But if it had just been brewed –

Gus half turned, and something smacked into the side of his face. He staggered back against the desk, reaching for the chair, but his hands groped blindly, and there was a flood of colour, of a shade which had no name, which existed beyond darkness.

Chapter 31

Dedrick van Kempen leant back in his chair, stroking the length of his chin in pensive fashion. He wasn’t given to overreaction, but the situation was growing increasingly desperate. Pino was still out there and, with her gun unaccounted for, he had to assume that she was armed. The fact that she’d so far dispatched her victims in esoteric fashion counted for nothing; he could not afford to take any chances. If they did manage to track her down, and if she did show any sign of being difficult, then he would have to take steps.

He’d already been in touch with the Prosecutor’s office; that permission had already been granted. He’d known that it would; if not, he wouldn’t have asked for it.

He fetched himself a glass of water from the cooler. As he did so, he scanned the office. It was very quiet; people didn’t speak much when they were frightened.

He could see the fear in their eyes, those who dared look up. The notion of the bad cop was an emotive one. These people might not have liked Tanja, but most had surely respected her. And trusted her. And now that confidence had been completely undermined.

He retreated to his office, closing the door behind him. He took out his pistol and set it on the desk. He looked at it for a few minutes, losing himself in the sticky play of light on metal. Would he use it on Pino, if necessary?

Yes, he would. Absolutely. Because the essence of being a
good
cop was to act for the greater good.

His phone rang. He reached for it unhurriedly, until he noticed the name that flashed up on the LCD screen.

Pino, T
.

He snatched up the phone, cursing himself that he hadn’t yet organised a trace. He heard a rumbling, the sound of a beeping horn. The roar of a lorry as it passed by. It sounded as if she was still in the city. This city?

‘Tanja?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Never mind that,’ she said impatiently. ‘I have something to tell you.’

‘Oh yes? Why me? Why not Anders?’

‘Because I get the feeling that Anders is no longer in charge of the investigation,’ she answered. ‘If he ever was.’

‘I’ll give you my undivided attention. At the station.’

‘No time! Listen, I know who the killer is.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s Antje Scholten.’ She paused. ‘Did you get that? Scholten.’

Van Kempen massaged his fingers to his eyes. ‘I see. So let me get this straight – you think the most respected criminal profiler in the country is a serial killer?’

‘I can prove it!’ A pause. ‘Is Pieter there?’

‘No,’ van Kempen replied. ‘I think I saw him head out a while ago.’

‘Shit. Where is he?’

‘I don’t know.’ Dedrick picked up his gun. It wasn’t like him to fixate on his weapon like this – he would rather spend time at the movies than the firing range – but the more he listened to Tanja go on, the more he knew that Antje Scholten was right. Tanja would never surrender herself.

‘Detective Pino, you need to come in. I can’t protect you otherwise.’

There was a dull clump, as if she’d punched the steering wheel or dashboard. ‘I’ve no time for this!’ she said. ‘Look, I’ve been to Scholten’s place in Jordaan, and she’s not there. I know she has lectures today, so she’s probably at the university. Send some men, will you? I’ll meet you at the Grimburgwal. There’s an entrance to the university complex beside the canal. Not the Criminology building, hear – I don’t want her to see us before we’ve had a chance to discuss our strategy.’

The line went dead. Placing the 9mm back in its holster, Dedrick dialled a number. Not to the local arrest team co-ordinator; he thought it better to call on the services of a neutral body. So, he knew that there was a small but heavily armed squad of Special Intervention Service marksmen in the city. KLPD, broadly speaking, albeit specialists, trained to an extreme level of marksmanship. Their main sphere of operation was counter-terrorism, but Dedrick was sure they could spare him an hour, under the circumstances.

Poor Tanja
, he thought.

Chapter 32

Pieter Kissin knocked on the door of Antje Scholten’s office. She opened it, her mobile to her ear. ‘Yes, Dedrick,’ she said, as she ushered Pieter inside. ‘I understand. Right. I’ll be careful.’

‘Problems?’ Pieter asked when she’d hung up.

‘No, I shouldn’t think so,’ she answered vaguely. ‘Van Kempen is just a little anxious that Detective Pino might decide to come here.’

‘Is that likely?’

‘Very
unlikely
, I should say.’ She sounded almost jolly, and a little breathless. ‘I can’t think of a single reason why she would.’

Pieter reached for his phone. ‘Maybe I should speak to him.’

‘No need,’ Antje insisted. ‘Trust me, I know where Tanja is.’

‘So?’

‘Let’s wait for Wever and van Kempen to arrive, shall we?’

‘Sure.’

Pieter looked around the room,. It was nothing like the soulless abodes of the Academy lecturers; this was a proper academic’s room, the sort of place he might have frequented himself, during the course of his truncated History of Art degree. He was reminded of his tutor’s rooms at Oxford. They’d been a little grander, in truth, in that reserved yet determinedly superior English fashion, but the effect was similar. He felt nervous, as if he were about to read out an essay.

He sighed inwardly, as he was reminded of his parents’ disappointment, that he hadn’t finished his degree. Father had been furious at the wasted tuition fees; at the wasted opportunity.

‘Coffee, Pieter?’

‘Yes, please.’

And perhaps, for the first time, Pieter had cause to think that his parents were right. All this – he hadn’t banked on
all this
. Maybe he would get in touch with his old tutor. Dr Stone had said that he would welcome him back. And Pieter had made a few friends in England. It was easy to think he missed them under the circumstances.

There was a somewhat soporific quality to the resinous air, and he found himself stretching into the leather armchair. He watched Antje as she made the coffee, the precise way she poured the pungent black liquid into the mugs. He felt much calmer in her presence. She reminded him of his mother.

A book caught his eye.
A Woman Scorned – Profiles of Female Serial Killers
, by Professor Antje Scholten. He stood, to pluck it from the shelf.

‘Impressive,’ he said, holding the book up. It felt heavy.

‘Thanks. But you should really read my work before complimenting me on it.’

‘What makes you think I haven’t?’

She smiled. ‘Oh, just a hunch.’

She handed him the coffee. He noticed that her skin was a little flushed.

Of course, she was of a certain age.

‘Poor Detective Hoekstra,’ she said. ‘I was shocked, when I heard what Tanja had done to him.’

‘We all were.’ Despite the fact they were entering the final strait, he found he was hardly interested. If anything, he felt a little numbed.

‘He confided in me, you know, when we worked together before. About Tanja. About his uncertainties. He had his doubts. I could hardly break his confidence.’

‘No, I can see that,’ Pieter acknowledged as he sipped at his coffee. He raised an appreciative eyebrow at the complex flavours. He saw that Antje was watching him closely. She watched everyone closely.

Pieter returned to his chair. An essay sat on a table beside it. He read the title,
Men: an Unnecessary Evil?
By Ursula Huisman. That couldn’t be right, could it? The girl who was killed?

‘Was Ursula Huisman a student of yours, Professor?’ he asked.

‘In part. She was doing one of those horrible modular courses. Only an average student, in truth. Maria was much cleverer, though her approach was a little too discursive for my tastes.’

Pieter set down his coffee. ‘You knew Maria, too? But you never mentioned any of this!’

‘I suppose I had my mind on other things. Your erstwhile partner.’

She took a seat opposite, and rested her hands on the arms. A finger started a rhythmic tapping. Pieter followed it closely, a little disconcerted.

And now that he thought about it, he didn’t feel so good. It was nothing specific, just a vague woolliness in his mind. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to concentrate. The beat of Scholten’s fingers seemed to quicken to almost a hum.

‘When do you think the others will be here?’ he asked. His voice was slurred. Disembodied.

‘Oh, soon.’

Pieter’s phone rang. He held it up to his eye, struggling to focus on the screen. Letters and numbers seemed to hover above a green glow.

Tanja Pino
, it said.

Pieter stared at the phone, not knowing what to do. He suddenly felt much dizzier. Nauseous too.

It happened so fast. The room seemed to lurch around him. And he couldn’t breathe.

Antje was there, to take the phone from him. ‘You probably shouldn’t,’ she said.

‘May I use your bathroom?’ he gasped. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

‘Of course, Pieter.’

The toilet adjoined Antje’s office. Pieter groped his way towards it.

As he opened the door, he saw that a man was lying on the floor, his head dripping dark blood into a slick on the linoleum floor. The newspaper guy. De Groot.

Pieter was on his knees.

‘What have you done to him?’ he said. ‘To me?’

‘Nothing much,’ she answered slowly. ‘Not yet, at least.’

Pieter tried to stand, but it was no use. Antje placed a finger on his shoulder, and pushed him to the floor.

‘Poor Pieter,’ she said. ‘Poor little man.’

*

Pieter awoke, to find that he was lying on the floor in the centre of Antje Scholten’s study, the bookcases looming over him. He felt a cold sweat over his skin. He was naked.

‘I didn’t want de Groot to watch us,’ the professor said.

Pieter tried to raise his head, but lacked the strength. His body no longer felt like his own; it seemed to be at war with itself.

Scholten stepped into his line of vision. She was naked, too.

And completely bald. His first thought was that she reminded him of a concentration camp victim. But no, she wasn’t thin enough for that. There was a curve to her breasts, and belly.

But the veins on her head were writhing like eels in a pan of boiling water, green-black through her skin. Her eyes seemed to have sunk back into her skull, and were twisted inwards, as if they were intent on reading the contents of her brain.

Whatever she found there, it made her smile.

Pieter felt cold metal on his wrists, and knew he’d been cuffed. It seemed an unnecessary precaution under the circumstances.

‘What have you done to me?’ he managed to whisper.

‘I gave you penicillin, of course. Just a tiny dose.’

He was angry at himself for not making the connection sooner. Anaphylactic shock. ‘How –?’ he managed.

‘Your personnel file is quite revealing, Pieter. I had no idea if I would be able to bring you back, but I made sure I had plenty of adrenaline to hand.’

Pieter’s mind seemed to lurch. He remembered the victim who hadn’t struggled. ‘Gentz?’

She tutted. ‘Now that’s a rather stupid question, for such an intelligent boy! How many people are allergic to penicillin? You were right all along; I did use a drug on him. Pancuronium bromide.’

Pavulon. One of the components of a lethal injection.

‘The only drawback is that the paralysis it engenders also renders the victim incapable of speech. Which I found quite tiresome. I wanted him to beg, you see.’ She sighed. ‘So, here we are. And so it continues.’

‘I need… hospital!’ said Pieter, and every word seemed wrenched, out of shape, from somewhere deep in his gut.

‘Really Pieter, I should say that would be a shocking waste of time.’ She checked her watch. ‘This is only a temporary reprieve. For both of us.’

She took something from a table, and held it up to her eye, as if inspecting its fitness for use. It was a metal tent peg. ‘He used to take me camping, you know. Cornelius. I was ten, the first time. It was in England. On Exmoor. He said there would be ponies, and there were. He never lied, at least not to me.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Pieter.