The Girl Who Broke the Rules Page 10

  CHAPTER 22

  Amsterdam, police headquarters, later

  ‘Where were you on the night of the eighteenth, Iwan?’ Kees asked in English.

  As they faced one another across the table in the interview room back at the station, Kees tried to get the measure of this Polish builder who spoke such bloody good English. There was something about the man that he instinctively did not trust. Not in the slightest. For a start, Iwan Buczkowski was pig ugly. His unshaven face was swollen; his complexion grey. Blue eyes were red-rimmed; the blond lashes crusty, giving him a demonic appearance. Baggy lower lids bore a purple tinge in the corners, as though he were recovering from black eyes. Had he been fighting? Kees’ scrutiny turned to Iwan’s knuckles. No cuts. No scabs. Perhaps he’d been punched. With a broken nose like that and the black remnants of a laceration visible beneath his fair buzz-cut, Kees felt certain he was on the money. This guy was a brute. A fighter. Bad news. And he, Kees Leeuwenhoek, had undoubtedly inherited his father’s sleuthing instincts – a man who had received so many commendations for bravery and excellence, that his reputation throughout Limburg was the stuff of legend. Kees Leeuwenhoek senior: lion by name. Lion by nature.

  ‘Can I smoke?’ Iwan asked, pulling a pack of Marlboro from the breast pocket of his red and black lumberjack shirt.

  ‘No. Tell me where you were two nights ago. I want your movements from the time you left the building site to the time you returned, the following morning. I want you to give me names of the people you were with.’

  Though the man was a good three or four inches taller than he was, Kees had been careful to seat him on a lower chair – a trick Kamphuis had taught him – so that they were now equal in height. He deliberately sat bolt upright, where the builder slouched. Even better. Kees was careful to speak in a commanding voice, projecting from the bottom of his diaphragm – a trick the speech therapist had taught him as a child, to counteract his naturally soft voice; something his father agreed to only after he had received four beatings from the other boys at school. Perhaps, in a moment, he would stand up and lean over the table, arms spread wide, like he had seen US detectives do in thrillers on TV. Bear down on this thug a bit. Then, his having the upper hand would be unquestionable.

  ‘I already told you,’ the builder said. ‘I went straight home for my dinner. My girl, Krystyna, will confirm what I say. I left for Stefan’s after I’d had a shower.’ He rolled the unlit cigarette between his fingers. Failed to make eye contact with Kees. ‘Drove over to his place in my van. We all played cards and drank beer. Me, Stefan, Pawel and Michal. I got very drunk. Pawel wasn’t drinking, so he dropped me back at my place about three am. Then I crashed out and got picked up for work just before seven am.’ Raising his head slowly, he locked eyes with Kees. ‘When can I have my drill and my toolbox back? I need them for work.’

  Despite his best intentions, Kees found himself wriggling free of the clutches of this Pole’s malevolent stare. Unable to settle on anything and feeling downright uncomfortable, his gaze eventually rested on the man’s tattoo, which was just peeping beneath the cuff of the lumberjack shirt.

  ‘What are you hiding under that shirt sleeve?’ he asked.

  ‘Hiding?’

  ‘The tattoo. Show it me.’

  Iwan Buczkowski shrugged and rolled his sleeve up to reveal a beefy, muscled arm, tattooed with an elaborate black design from shoulder to wrist. The peripheral markings were detailed and delicate representations of tree branches in full leaf. But the focal points – a naked woman nailed to an inverted cross, a skull and several pentagrams – were nothing short of ghoulish. The design made Kees shudder. His father had always abhorred tattoos, and they had been outlawed in his house as something only the dregs of the barrel subjected themselves to.

  ‘Explain the design to me!’ Kees could feel adrenalin starting to course through his tired, disappointingly average body. It was a wonderful feeling. One of the things he loved about being a detective.

  ‘This?’ Iwan said, rolling his sleeve back down. ‘A friend did it for me back in Poland. I just let him do what he wanted. He’s one of the best tattoo artists around.’

  Kees snorted with derision. ‘You don’t just let a friend tattoo you with upside-down crosses and all that devil-worshipping shit.’

  Iwan frowned. He stood abruptly, towering above Kees. The scraping noise of the chair on linoleum felt like violence. ‘What the fuck do you know?’ He was shouting. His previously impassive expression had given way to open hostility, scowling as he was. ‘And what’s it to you, anyway? I gave you the information you needed. So, unless you’re planning on arresting me for throwing up on a building site, I suggest you open that door, give me back my bloody tools and leave me the fuck alone.’ He stuck the unlit cigarette in his mouth.

  At this stage, there was nothing to be gained by Kees standing as well. He had ceded any physical advantage that his higher chair had briefly given him. But his father said a good detective never gives up, and he was not ready to let this belligerent Pole go. Remember, you are a detective on your home turf, he counselled himself. Iwan Buczkowski is a lowly Eastern European manual worker inside a Dutch police station. Your police station. Strietman said ritual murders. Follow your nose. Van den Bergen has given you a green light to follow the line of inquiry. Kamphuis personally promised you promotion if you can crack this case. Fuck that ponce, Elvis. Fuck Marie. Fuck van den Bergen. Fuck teamwork. Kamphuis is your sensei. Show this Pole no mercy.

  Kees allowed himself an inward smile, reasoning that he definitely had the upper hand, psychologically. This man would surely submit to his authority.

  He steeled himself to push one more time. ‘Are you a Satanist, Iwan?’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  CHAPTER 23

  Broadmoor Psychiatric Hospital, later

  The sight of the Victorian sprawl that was Broadmoor Psychiatric Hospital made George’s heart sink. The gateway to hell. Twice now, inside a week. A large, black, arched entrance, presided over by orange-brick Italianate towers that stood like stout sentinels either side of an ornate clock face. Guarding time itself – entire lifetimes for some of the men who dwelled behind those thick walls, including the Firestarter, twisted Firestarter. If it weren’t for the bars at the windows and the high fencing, if she screwed her eyes up very tightly until everything became blurred around the edges, a stranger might mistake the place for a grand spa hotel. George sighed. It was not a grand spa hotel. And even if visitors could bring fluffy towelling robes in with them, they would almost certainly not be allowed to keep the belts, so easily used as ligatures with which a patient might hang himself or one of his fellow residents. In fact, with more than six sheets of paper on her person, George knew she might get into trouble just for that.

  Now, she produced her documentation yet again for security to see. Walked through the metal detectors. Checked in her phone, which she could retrieve only on exit.

  ‘Back so soon, love?’ the security officer said. She arranged her face into something resembling a warm smile. Started to frisk George. Her smile faltered.

  George had stupidly left a chain hanging round her neck featuring her name in gold lettering. She didn’t like the adornment, but it had been a present from Ad. She might as well have been planning to board a flight to JFK from Gatwick with contraband liquids in her handbag.

  ‘Take it off, please,’ the officer instructed her. ‘You know the rules about jewellery.’

  ‘Sorry. I forgot. This is an impromptu vi—’

  ‘In here!’ The woman’s tone was now castigating. She pointed to the container, that already held George’s phone.

  ‘Fine.’ Frosty-faced cow.

  The gates clanged open. Despite conducting research inside this infamous psychiatric hospital for a year now, George still felt jittery. She was on the inside; less than ten years since she had worn a standard issue tracksuit. Not inside these walls, but inside others like it. She willed her hands to keep from shakin
g. Clenched her fists tight. Keeping her clammy hands to herself, George was escorted across the deserted grounds to Silas Holm’s lair.

  It was neat in that wing where the sex offenders lived. Quiet. Orderly. Utterly eerie. As usual.

  ‘You couldn’t bear to be apart from me, could you, my love?’ Silas Holm said. Smiling. Arms outstretched. His nurse, Graham, was sitting at his side. Alert. Poised, by the looks.

  ‘Come on, now. Sit down, Dr Holm,’ Graham said. ‘Show Ms McKenzie some respect, please.’

  George took several screen grabs from the film out of her leather courier’s bag. Laid them on the table. ‘Silas, it would be very helpful if you could tell me the name of this actress.’ She pointed to the anodyne still she had texted to Katja without success. ‘This woman has very similar eyes to the woman in that drawing you showed me.’ She pushed the more violent images closer to Holm.

  Silas Holm snatched up the pictures and started to grin.

  CHAPTER 24

  Amsterdam, police headquarters, later

  ‘For God’s sake, give her some eyes, will you?’ van den Bergen said, watching with awe as, with a series of clicks, Marie started to transform the photo of the first victim from a sorrowful shot of an enucleated cadaver to something that resembled a portrait of a living girl. At her side, Sabine Schalks watched, also clearly rapt by Marie’s digital artistry.

  ‘Do you think her skin should be darker?’ Marie asked.

  Van den Bergen peered over the rims of his glasses and stared blankly into the middle distance. ‘Yes. Yes, definitely.’

  ‘And perhaps you could sort out her facial proportions so she looks like she’s sitting up,’ Sabine said. ‘She must have been lying down when rigor mortis set in. See how her face sags?’ The paediatrician pointed at the screen with a long, slender index finger.

  ‘Yep. No problem.’ Marie cut dark brown eyes from a model in a fashion shoot close-up, and pasted them into the composition. With a tweak here and there, she was done inside twenty minutes. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Fantastic!’ Sabine exclaimed, clasping her hands together. ‘You’re a genius!’

  Van den Bergen nodded. ‘Better than the sketch artist. Hasselblad would never have forked out for forensic facial reconstruction, the tight bastard.’ He clapped Marie on the shoulder. ‘This is our girl. We’ll get this in all the newspapers. See if anyone knows her. I want you and Elvis to show this picture round organisations that shelter refugees and trafficked women.’

  He turned to Sabine, affording her an awkward smile. Thought better of it, when he realised Marie was watching him.

  ‘Right. I’ll leave you two to discuss paedophile rings. Can I make you coffee?’

  ‘Are you being funny, boss?’ Marie asked. ‘You? Make coffee? Since when?’

  Sabine toyed with her pearl earrings and crossed her legs. The hint of a blush in her cheeks. ‘Am I getting special treatment, Chief Inspector?’ She looked up at him. Flicker, flickering eyelashes.

  He swallowed hard. ‘Absolutely not. I always pamper my staff.’

  ‘What a fibber!’ Marie said. She rose from her chair. Beckoned Sabine to come with her. ‘I’ll make us both a drink, shall I? Best not to tempt fate. Last time the boss made coffee, he gave Elvis legionnaires’ disease.’

  ‘Slander!’ van den Bergen shouted after them. Marie and Sabine left him staring at the photoshopped girl. They could not have known that he was thinking of George. Remembering last time she had visited and stayed over in his spare room. They had shared burnt pepperoni pizza and a bottle of shiraz. Discussed the peculiarities of aggressive, under-educated young men in Britain’s Category A prisons. Spoke at length about van den Bergen’s descent from the pinnacle of culture as an art-school golden boy into a job as a uniform in the Netherlands police, booking drunks and responding to concerned neighbours, reporting wayward burglar alarms in Amstel. Reminisced about the time when George was chasing down ghetto back alleys to get away from a mother who had encased herself over time in a hard, unloveable veneer; lacquered with the colours of the Jamaican flag on a Saturday night. Laughed at the fact that neither he nor George could cook for toffee. He had sketched her afterwards, sitting on his sofa, while they talked about Charlemagne, the library in ancient Baghdad under Abbasid rule and the Silk Road. It was a good sketch. It was a great evening. He could not think of one other person he could spend six hours talking to and still feel there were too many things left unsaid by bedtime.

  Was there someone out there who felt that way about these dead girls? One thing he knew for certain: if he didn’t succeed in identifying them, he didn’t have a hope in hell of finding their killer.

  CHAPTER 25

  Broadmoor Psychiatric Hospital, later

  ‘How did you get them to agree to show me these?’ Silas asked.

  His eyes sparkled with mischief. He reached down beneath the table and adjusted the crotch of his flannel trousers – back in his tweeds now, but not for long, judging by the look of horrified consternation on Graham’s face.

  ‘I cannot believe they allowed you to bring these in,’ Graham said. He grabbed Silas’ arm. ‘Hands on the table, Dr Holm.’

  George looked apologetically at Graham. ‘It’s not just for my own curiosity, I promise you. These are tied to a crime scene. I can’t say more.’ She turned to Holm, whose cheeks were pink.

  He licked his lips. That tongue flickering and reptilian emerging from his small mouth. Those ice-blue eyes, one-way mirrors revealing no soul behind them, staring down at the still taken from the point in the film where the hedge trimmer had just come into shot.

  ‘Who is she, Silas? Come on. Amputee erotica. It’s your thing, isn’t it?’

  But he was transfixed and did not look up. George grew irritated. Gathered the stills up and shuffled them into a neat pile.

  Silas Holm looked crestfallen. Cocked his head to one side and tutted. ‘You are cruel, Ms McKenzie. Denying an old man like me a little light entertainment.’

  ‘Tell me her name. Please.’ She was poised to write down whatever he said.

  ‘Let me keep the pictures.’ The directness of his stare had a manic quality to it.

  There seemed to be no space between them. George touched the place on her collar bone where the gold chain normally lay. She looked over at Graham questioningly. It was no skin off her nose, to let him keep the images. And if it meant he would play ball…

  Graham shook his head.

  ‘No,’ George said. ‘Sorry.’

  Silas sighed dramatically and looked up at the tall ceiling. Pulled his lank hair behind him in a ponytail. Though his skin stretched tight over the sinews in his neck and over his prominent Adam’s apple, George could see it was beginning to crepe a little with age. He had the papery complexion of northern Europeans. Too pale. Almost translucent, betraying the network of thin, blue veins that ran just beneath the surface. Giving its owner the appearance of vulnerability. But the fallibility of the man’s skin bore no relation to the condition of the flesh beneath. Silas Holm must have had the strength of a man twice his size to have dismembered those women. George glanced over at Graham’s reassuring bulk and felt thankful for his presence.

  ‘You know, one of my favourite postings was with Médecins Sans Frontières,’ Silas said. ‘An anaesthetist can do such good work out there, in the kill zones of Africa.’

  ‘Why won’t you help me, Silas?’ George asked.

  ‘We had to leave the medical facility of course, when it was bombed. I spent a while at Dadaab refugee camp over the Kenyan border. Helping out, you know? I think that’s why they gave me the medal.’

  She had one shot at this, goddamn it. Van den Bergen was relying on her. She could tell that Holm did know the actress. She had seen the recognition register in his face, as it lit up like a hopeful flare.

  ‘I know you’re an intelligent man, Silas. And I can tell that you’re playing me. But two women have been murdered and I think you can help.’

 
; Those ice-blue eyes locked onto hers. He was studying her face. Her inclination was to look down at her blank sheet of notepaper but George girded herself to hold his gaze for as long as was necessary. To show him she was not intimidated.

  ‘Murdered? How?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

  Staring at the ceiling again, he rocked back on his chair. ‘Of course, the tour of Afghanistan was also very satisfying,’ he said. ‘It’s amazing how many soldiers lose an arm or a leg in a skirmish. That’s active service for you. I’m not a surgeon, but assisting those doctors as they operated on limbs that had been blown to smithereens was very informative.’

  Barely able to suppress the urge to punch this self-aggrandising animal, George unfurled her fist and clicked her fingers instead. Snap, snap, ricocheting around the sparsely furnished room. Regained his attention.

  ‘You want some nice juicy details about some new psychopath on the block who’s doing the stuff you can only dream of now?’ she asked. ‘Is that the way this rolls? If I tell you, will you give me the actress’ fucking name? Right?’

  Running a fingertip along those thin lips, Silas Holm nodded. Van den Bergen didn’t need to know, did he?

  George relayed as much information as she had been given and watched with disgust as Holm’s expression transformed from one of polite indifference to incontrovertible relish. His grin revealed those incisors. Described by a thick outline of yellow scum, they put George in mind of the teeth of a cartoon villain and made her want to set about him with a stiff toothbrush and scouring powder.

  Holm sighed. Looked wistful. ‘Masterful,’ he said. Raised an eyebrow. ‘Unzipped? I like your metaphor. Although obviously, I can’t condone that sort of thing, because, as I said, I’m innocent.’ He held his slender hand aloft and spread his fingers, as though studying the empty space between them. ‘My trial was pure conjecture and defamation.’