Black Widow (4 page)

Kissin’s impatience aside, there was value to be had in dealing with the mundane details first. But only to a point.

‘Let’s have a look at him then, shall we,’ Tanja said.

She stepped around the corner of the L, Pieter right beside her.

There was a sound. It seemed to come from somewhere deep within Pieter’s throat.

‘Oh, shit,’ he groaned.

He staggered away – sticking to the safe route, Tanja noted – and dropped to his knees over the cleaner’s bucket in the hall outside. One or two of the forensics boys cheered as he hurled up his breakfast; van Wyk cursed. Tanja was better able to control herself, but her stomach still gave a queasy lurch. A person never got
entirely
used to it.

She gazed down at the body, letting her sense of outrage run its brief, if heated course. As ever, she fought against the feelings of sympathy, of empathy; as ever, she lost. Her old boss had told her that a sense of detachment was vital to a cop, but it was a skill she’d never been able to master. All she could do was fake it.

Her practised eye took in the significant details in an instant. The victim was a youngish man, maybe thirty years old. There was blood on his wrists, and ligature marks about his neck, suggesting that he’d been tied up, and strangled. He was still semi-hard: funny the way that happened, sometimes.

There was a little blood on his bloated face, too. One of the eyes had been pressed back into its socket. The other was missing, the optic nerve dangling free like some parasitical worm. She got down on her knees, to see if the eyeball had fallen beneath the bed, but there was nothing there save dust.

There was a knock at the door. An oversized head appeared, followed soon after by a less imposing body. ‘Ah, if it isn’t my second or third favourite detective inspector. Looking good, Tanja!’

It was Erik Polderhuis, the medical examiner. He was pushing sixty, but didn’t look, or act, it. Outside of work, he was known for his determination to form romantic attachments with girls who were precisely half his age. But the maths never held true for long, and so it was that he’d never been able to settle down. His hair was blonde, whilst his blue-grey eyes, so cold, might have been scooped directly from the North Sea. Somewhat paradoxically, there was a great warmth in his smile. He had various faults, most of them founded in a sense of mischief, but it was also true that he had an eye for detail. Tanja was actually rather fond of him, although she would never admit to it.

‘Erik,’ she acknowledged. And then, as a green-faced Pieter reappeared, ‘This is Detective Kissin. He’s from the Vecht.’

‘Shit,’ Erik sympathised. ‘Tough break.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Was that you I saw just now, losing your breakfast?’

Pieter nodded unhappily. ‘Yes. But it won’t happen again.’

Erik didn’t seem to hear this promise. ‘Well, try not to throw up
on
the victim, please. Or fart unnecessarily.’ He knelt down beside the bed. ‘So what’s going on with this poor bastard?’

Whilst Erik went to work, Tanja carefully picked her way through the pile of clothes. The trousers were grey, skinny-fit Girbaud; whilst the shirt was from Turnbull & Asser. Not necessarily an indication of wealth in themselves (maybe these were his pulling clothes; maybe he wore supermarket fashions, mostly), but the contrast with the cheap surroundings was marked.

She went through his pockets, finding a packet of cigarettes (Marlboro Lights – the equivalent of shooting yourself in the head with a low calibre bullet, she supposed), a packet of condoms (
Cardinals
, a Dutch brand, rumoured to be the best available), a Zippo lighter, and a wallet (croc skin?).

She opened the wallet. She found an ID card, complete with a photo:
Mikael Ruben, North Holland IT Solutions
. It matched the name on a selection of bank cards. The colour was gold in each case, but again, that was hardly an indication of superior status nowadays. Tanja had a gold card herself, and she was far from rich.

There was also a receipt, from a bar, timed and dated to the night before.
The Den
on Enge Lombardsteeg. It didn’t ring any bells, which was odd, as she was sure she’d visited all the places on that street, at one time or another. Anyway, Ruben had ordered two lagers, by the look of things. Hardly a skinful; he would have known what he was doing.

‘Well, I think it’s safe to say he was tied up,’ Erik declaimed. ‘Cuffed, in all probability. See? Around the back of the bedpost? The wood is a little splintered, doubtless where he struggled to free himself. It would take metal, or something similarly hard, to do that.’

‘If it weren’t for the business with his eyes,’ Tanja noted, ‘I might be tempted to suggest that he was caught up in a sex game, that his death was an accident.’ She shrugged. ‘But as it is –’

Erik nodded. ‘Yes, you’re probably right. Throttling a man to within a centimetre of his life in pursuit of the ultimate ejaculatory high is not in itself indicative of murderous intent. But running off with his eyeball probably is.’

‘Christ,’ Pieter groaned.

‘Would you rather wait outside?’ Tanja asked, her impatience rising.

Pieter shook his head determinedly, and dropped down on his haunches, that he might further examine the pile of clothing.

‘This sort of excision,’ Tanja asked Erik. ‘Is it a tricky procedure?’

‘Not really,’ Polderhuis answered. ‘The rectus muscles which surround the eye aren’t noted for their tenacity. And it’s fairly obvious which bits need to be cut. It certainly wouldn’t require any specialist knowledge.’

‘Any idea as to time of death then? I presume the rigor indicates that it’s been at least three hours?’

‘Indeed,’ Polderhuis confirmed. ‘We have some nice hypostasis, too. Very neat.’ He pointed at the darker patches of blood that had gathered in the victim’s back and buttocks. ‘He’s been dead at least
ten
hours, I’d say. From the lack of gouging and the relatively small blood loss, I’d venture that the eyes were done post mortem.’

‘Right,’ Tanja said. ‘So that would take us back to sometime before midnight.’

‘Sounds reasonable.’ Polderhuis took a thermometer from his top pocket. ‘Anyway, best get it over with. Thirty years in the job, and it still upsets me that I can’t just put it in their mouths.’

Tanja smiled to herself and headed into the bathroom. She saw that one of the towels was wet, that the shower head was still dripping. There was also the faintest trace of red about the plug hole, which might just have been blood.

She would ask Visser to have a look at that. The towel, too. Human beings, even the saintly sort, shed their skins as readily as snakes.

Pieter stuck his head round the bathroom door. ‘I think I might have something.’

‘That remains to be seen,’ Tanja responded absently, as she checked her reflection in the mirror. God, she
was
looking old.

‘With regards to the case.’

‘Go on, then,’ Tanja invited.

‘I’ve looked everywhere, and Ruben seems to be missing something.’

‘Apart from his eyeball, you mean?’

‘His mobile phone.’

Tanja shrugged. ‘Maybe he forgot to bring it with him.’

Pieter looked sceptical. Of course, he belonged to a generation which would no more forget its phone than its shoes.

‘Make a note of it, then,’ Tanja instructed. ‘I doubt it’s important, but you never know.’

Pieter scribbled on his pad. ‘Do you think the killer took it?’

‘I don’t know.’

Pieter tapped his pencil against the pad. ‘Hester Goldberg,’ he mused. ‘Want me to run a check?’

‘In due course.’

‘You think it’s her real name?’

‘We rule nothing out, at this stage. Just as we rule nothing in. Maybe she is innocent. Maybe she left early, and Mikael had some other visitor.’

‘Is that likely?’ he asked.

‘Not likely. But not impossible.’

Tanja left the bathroom, Pieter just behind her. He seemed to have recovered a little, and had lost that green tinge. Tanja supposed she was
slightly
impressed by this; it had taken Alex the better part of a year to come up with an effective way of controlling his gag reflex.

Karl Visser came over to join them. ‘Will you be wanting anything in particular?’ he asked. ‘We’ll dust all the usual contact points for prints, of course.’

‘There’s a towel in the bathroom which needs your attention,’ she said. ‘And maybe you should look underneath his fingernails.’

‘What about the other DNA sources?’ Pieter queried. ‘Hair and so on.’

Erik frowned. ‘You’ve heard of DNA? I thought everyone in the Vecht believed in Creationism.’

‘I could draw you a nice diagram of the double-helical structure, if you’d like,’ Pieter offered. ‘I have the anti-parallel thing down pretty well.’

Erik turned to Tanja. ‘Do you like this kid?’

‘No.’

‘Well, that’s all right, then. I thought it was just me.’

‘Hmm,’ said Tanja. ‘But we might as well get everything we can. Hair, semen, the works.’

Visser nodded. ‘Right.’

There was a commotion outside. Tanja heard the sound of voices raised in disagreement. Irritated, she strode out onto the corridor, only to draw to a sudden halt.

Gus de Groot tipped his head in greeting. If he’d had a hat, she was sure he would have doffed it.

This fresh murder had provided a distraction, of sorts – and Christ, how messed up was her mind that it should be like that? – but de Groot’s arrival immediately dragged her back to that other place.

Of all the people she’d ever met, the wife-beaters and the arsonists, the rapists and the murderers, de Groot was the only person that Tanja had ever dreamed of killing.

It was de Groot who had relentlessly pursued the only survivor of the Butcher’s attacks, Debre, a little girl who had already been broken beyond repair. But that hadn’t stopped him ruining her further, as a witness.

But now wasn’t the time for this type of thinking. Save it for later, when she opened the wine. ‘How the hell did you get up here?’ she demanded.

Gus shrugged. ‘Trade secret, Detective Inspector.’

‘Get out,’ Tanja instructed.

‘A few questions first?’

Tanja turned to Pieter. ‘If
Meneer
de Groot is not outside these premises in thirty seconds, arrest him.’

‘On what grounds?’ de Groot spluttered, as he tried, and failed, to poke his head round the door. He was stopped by Pieter, who effortlessly blocked his path with a well-judged dip of his shoulder. And also a glare, which seemed to take even the unflappable journalist by surprise.

‘Interfering with a crime scene, perhaps?’ Tanja answered. ‘I will doubtless think of something, if necessary.’

Muttering and dragging his heels all the while, Gus was steered away. Tanja looked up at Pieter. Maybe he would prove to have the odd use.

Chapter 3

The
Binnengasthuis
complex was largely comprised of old hospital buildings, interspersed with remnants of medieval monastic gardens, and cute little houses. For all that the city’s bustle was all around, pools of near pastoral liquid, serenity were to be found within its walls, lapping at the brick built monoliths as if intent on coaxing a smile. At the lower level there were flea markets, and loose ensembles of street musicians, churning out a mixture of jazz, and traditional Dutch
levenslied
, which loosely translated as ‘songs of life’. Every third person was a tourist or an organ-grinder; the remainder were mostly students. The whole thing was overseen by the
Universiteit van Amsterdam.
It was a fine place to study.

Not that Ursula Huisman really cared about such things. She listened, absently, as her professor droned on about some interminable detail of the Cartesian Principle (
I
think therefore I am
? A lie, when applied to men; men didn’t
think
at all), but most of her attention was given over to her flatmate. Maria was anxious. And Ursula knew why.

Mikael Ruben hadn’t called. And now she was terrified that he’d abandoned her. It would be better if he had, Ursula considered.

Maria wound a finger into her long auburn hair, which to Ursula’s mind wouldn’t have looked out of place on an old-fashioned gypsy. One of the many Dutch travellers who had been sent to Auschwitz, perhaps, never to return. To complete the effect, Maria wore a long, peasant-style skirt of deepest burgundy, decorated with flower designs of white lace; and boots of dark patent leather, which caught the light of a hundred reflections, even though the lecture theatre was mostly cast in darkness. Her eyes were green, the pupils set wide against the gloom like jungle clearings; whilst her cheekbones rose high and glossy above the low arc of onyx earrings. She was soft and resolutely trusting, feminine without being too sugary. She was the most beautiful person that Ursula had ever seen, or even dreamed about.

‘Why hasn’t he called?’ Maria whispered, for the fifth time that hour.

‘I don’t know,’ Ursula answered. ‘But I’m sure he must have a good reason.’

Maria nodded. ‘Yeah, you’re right. I’m being silly. Maybe he’s out in the country somewhere. Maybe he can’t get a signal.’

Ursula kept her silence for a moment. ‘It’s a shame he couldn’t have found the time to be there for your opening night, though.’

Maria slumped in her chair. ‘He’s very busy. You don’t have any time, when you run your own company.’

‘I suppose,’ said Ursula.

Maria forced a smile. ‘At least you were there, Ursula.’

‘I was,’ Ursula affirmed, even though this wasn’t actually true. The thought of Maria parading about for the benefit of a hundred strangers had maddened her. She knew the lines as well as Maria, from the precious, late-night rehearsals in their room. Why share that with so many others?

So, on the occasion of last night’s premiere, she’d found something else to do. Something constructive. And her efforts had borne fruit. Overripe, treacherous fruit, swinging black and fermented on a man-tree of withered limbs.

‘And you’re sure I was okay?’ Maria fretted. ‘Only I was a little worried that my timing was off, and you know, I’m really a bit too young to be playing Nora, but there was no one else willing to take her on, and, well –’