The Girl Who Broke the Rules Page 13

  As van den Bergen sped away from Lepiks’ apartment amidst a cacophony of screeching, smoking tyres, the urgency of the situation heralded by blue flashing lights and the wail of the car’s siren, George sipped champagne in Ruud Ahlers’ living room. It was decadently early for alcohol, but she was feeling both defiant and celebratory. Irate messages from Sally regarding her absconsion were already stacking up on her phone. She was studiously ignoring them.

  Though she scanned the Greek mythology books and Latin texts on Ahlers’ book shelves, the wide smile that played on her full lips was not for the dog-eared copy of Tacitus’ Nero et Agrippina – a name she hadn’t heard since high school. Nor was it for the fact that this friend of Katja’s had arranged his books alphabetically, despite their being unacceptably dusty. Her smile was one of relief and triumph. Being back in Amsterdam for more than a fleeting visit felt like a sort of homecoming.

  Katja came out of Ahlers’ kitchen, all clacking heels and jangling bangles. She slid an arm around George’s shoulder.

  ‘You look like the cat that got the cream, darling,’ she said. Batting her lashes. Pouting theatrically.

  George noticed a brown stain on the collar of her friend’s pink top and subtly slid out of her embrace. ‘I needed a change of scenery. I don’t like being told what to do, where to go…you know? The things I’ve got on the go in England. They’ll keep for a few months.’

  The smell of frying garlic coming from this strange man’s kitchen was good. George’s stomach rumbled. With a murdered porn starlet on her mind, she’d taken the first available flight to Schiphol. Meagre funds had prevented her from buying breakfast at the airport. The flight had been a no-frills affair that had not included an airline snack.

  ‘So, who’s your friend?’ George asked.

  Katja threw herself onto a sagging burgundy sofa, that looked as though it had once been expensive but which was now dog-eared and covered in white cat hairs. She sipped her champagne, leaving a greasy lipstick slick on the rim of the simple flute. George perched on the sofa’s arm, unwilling to commit to the cat hairs.

  ‘I’ve known Ruud for years,’ she said. ‘See these beauties?’ She pointed to the fat red pillows that constituted her mouth. Kissed the air as if to demonstrate how they should work. Giggled, though her stiff face did not yield entirely to a grin that encompassed teeth. ‘We’re not all born with luscious lips like you, darling. Ruud’s my cosmetic surgeon. Everyone I know goes to him! Collagen implants. Botox. Nip and tuck.’ She poked a nail into George’s hip. ‘You look like you’ve been eating too many chips, honey. He could do you some lipo—’

  George bellowed with laughter, though inside, she acknowledged a twinge of hurt. ‘Cheeky cow! I don’t need lipo. The junk in this trunk was all part of mother nature’s plan.’

  Tossing her red hair over her shoulder, Katja closed her eyes dismissively. ‘Suit yourself,’ she said. ‘I have to keep in shape for the cameras, these days. And I bet Ruud would want more than just a fee off you!’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘He’s got a dick like a button mushroom.’

  Wondering fleetingly if van den Bergen’s penis was in proportion to his height, George advanced to the threshold of the kitchen. Observed Ruud Ahlers from behind, as he pan-fried something. He wore a navy and white butcher’s apron tied tight, so that it dug into his fleshy back. Turned round to face her. She could barely conceal her look of distaste at the sight of the apron, stretched tight over his belly. The white stripes were browny-orange with old blood stains. Worse still, his teeth were yellow. Reminiscent of Silas Holm. But the food smelled nice. She gave the pan a once-over. Looked like steak. Or was it liver?

  ‘I hope that’s not offal,’ George said. ‘I don’t eat offal.’

  ‘Let food be thy medicine and medicine be thy food,’ Ahlers said, waving his spatula. ‘Hippocrates!’ He moved to the bank of drawers and opened the top one. It rattled, betraying the cutlery inside. Took out a long, thin boning knife and pointed it at her chest. ‘Your Dutch is excellent. I think we’re in for an entertaining afternoon.’

  CHAPTER 33

  Amsterdam, van den Bergen’s car, then Ahlers’ apartment, moments later

  Van den Bergen floored the growling Mercedes along Leidseplein. Travelling down tram tracks. Couldn’t get snarled up in queuing traffic. Skirted the length of a tram heading back towards Vondelpark. Maybe six inches between his wing mirror and the body of the blue and white beast. Had to get to George. Had to reach her in time.

  At his side, Marie yelped. ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Boss?’ Elvis’ voice coming through on the hands-free. Awaiting instructions.

  Past the MINI showrooms on his right. Couldn’t remember where he was going. Shit! Hung a sharp left into Marnixstraat. There was the city theatre. Not far now. Flinched the muscles in his upper arm to make doubly sure his service weapon was still strapped beneath his left armpit. Honked his horn at the oncoming cars. Why were there oncoming cars?

  ‘You’re driving the wrong way up a one-way street!’ Marie shouted. She clung onto her seatbelt with both hands, one eye squeezed shut. White knuckles. Green face. Her tablet had slid to the floor.

  But van den Bergen had no time. George was in danger. Katja’s doctor friend. Ruud. An image of George, staring at morgue lights with unseeing eye sockets, flashed into his head. He blinked it away.

  ‘This is quicker,’ he said. ‘Get out of my way, you bastards!’ Horn honking.

  The city road map in his head was codeine-blurred. The right side of the river now, at least. His only thought was to get to Ahlers’ address.

  ‘Elvis!’ he barked down the car’s hands-free. ‘You still there?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Elvis’ voice, tinny at the other end of the phone.

  ‘Get uniformed backup to Bloemstraat. Suspect is dangerous and possibly armed.’

  ‘Will do, boss.’

  ‘And Elvis.’

  ‘Yes boss.’

  ‘If you get there before us, don’t fuck this up. Georgina McKenzie is there. If she gets hurt, I will kill you.’

  ‘It looks nice,’ George said, staring down at the plate and thinking that it definitely didn’t look nice. The delicious aroma in its cooking had belied the unsavoury mash of suspect meat and burnt potatoes. It could have been something she’d cooked herself, and that was no recommendation. ‘Are you sure this is steak?’

  ‘You’re a whizz in the kitchen, Ruud,’ Katja said, spooning pickled cabbage from a bowl onto her plate.

  ‘Dig in,’ Ahlers said, topping their glasses up with more champagne.

  He had laid a crisp tablecloth on the table for four. Put some tight ranunculus buds in a small glass vase in the middle. George examined her cutlery for signs of dried-in food remnants or fingerprints. The fork passed muster. She gave it an extra wipe on her napkin, to be on the safe side. The knife…

  ‘Ow!’ she said, slicing into the skin on her index finger. ‘Jesus, these are sharp. What are they? Bloody scalpels or something?’

  Ahlers snorted with laughter. ‘Something like that,’ he said. ‘I don’t know about you, but I can’t stand to eat steak with a blunt knife.’

  It had occurred to George that accepting an invitation to an impromptu lunch with her porn actress, ex-working-girl-friend by a man whom she had never met before in her life had possibly been a rash decision, but she was so heartily sick of doing what was expected of her – by Ad, by Sally, by Derek at the club, even by van den Bergen – that she embraced the opportunity to do something spontaneous. Especially now she was back in Amsterdam. Besides, she was drunk. Champagne on an empty stomach meant the bubbles had gone straight to her head.

  Katja raised her glass. ‘Here’s to George!’ she said. ‘Welcome back, sweetie!’

  They clinked glasses, but Katja leaned over and planted a wet kiss on George’s cheek.

  ‘Katja, man!’ George said, setting her glass down and wiping at her skin with her napkin. ‘Boundaries!’ Now the napkin was covere
d in greasy, bright red stains, which made George’s eye start to twitch. She stood abruptly. ‘Where’s your bathroom?’ she asked Ahlers.

  He ushered her down the hall. Deftly pulled his bedroom door closed en route. ‘This way!’

  ‘Thanks,’ George said, wishing she had just grabbed some buns and cheese from the supermarket and then gone straight over to the station to surprise van den Bergen. ‘I’m sure I can find it on my own.’

  Her host paid her no heed. He marched ahead of her into the murk of the hallway. Stood on the threshold to a windowless room that was in total darkness.

  ‘Be my guest.’

  Reaching out, he pressed his hand to the small of her back in a proprietorial manner. Clicked on the light and extractor fan with his other hand. The room smelled strange, as the food had looked strange. Perhaps it was the champagne, George thought. She limboed away from his touch. But, having edged past Ahlers’ belly to enter the small, tidy bathroom, she then found that he wouldn’t leave. He just stood there, watching her.

  ‘I don’t need a chaperone,’ she said, closing the door.

  The door wouldn’t shut. Something barred its progress. She looked down. Spotted his foot, wedged deliberately in the way. His hand dipped into the pocket of his butcher’s apron.

  An insistent knock at the front door drew his attention away from her.

  ‘Police! Open up!’

  Van den Bergen’s voice? No. It could not be. George wondered if Ahlers had slipped a little something extra into her drink. But then, something hit the front door with the force of a battering ram. A cracking, splintering sound as the hinges gave way and suddenly van den Bergen was standing in the hallway, pointing his pistol straight at her.

  CHAPTER 34

  London, 1985

  ‘Sit there and don’t speak to anyone,’ Mama said, pushing Veronica into an uncomfortable moulded plastic chair in an empty corner by the fire extinguisher. Mama’s bared teeth translated into a rough approximation of a smile, but her tone of voice could have stripped the paint off the canvases and boards that hung on the gallery walls.

  Rudi wriggled in Mama’s arms. His diamanté collar caught the spotlights, transforming him from an ordinary white terrier to a glittering ball of fluff in ironic hot-pink satin dog jacket. ‘Canine-drag-queen-meets-Material Girl’, as one of Veronica’s unsanctioned friends had labelled the look. Mama would not have appreciated that turn of phrase. Particularly not from the new housekeeper’s sixteen-year-old daughter, who had light-fingers and a terrible thirst when it came to Papa’s drinks cabinet. Mama insisted Rudi was flamboyant and very now.

  ‘Why don’t you give him to me?’ Veronica held her arms outstretched to receive the little dog. ‘Come here, puppy!’ She searched for vulnerability and understanding in her mother’s expression. ‘Please, Mama. It’s so boring.’

  But her mother swung the dog upwards, out of reach and started to talk to it in that ridiculous baby voice. ‘Rudi-wudi’s coming with me, aren’t you, my darling?’ The dog yapped and strained to be free. Her mother clutched its body tighter, closer to her chest. It pawed at the jewels that studded her Christian Lacroix bolero, revealing more of her bony ribcage than perhaps she had intended. Mama was too thin, these days. Hind legs scampering up her green silk puffball skirt. ‘Yes, Rudi-wudi! Mama’s taking you to meet all her gorgeous friends.’

  ‘Why couldn’t I have just stayed at home?’ Veronica asked, folding her arms across her chest in the hope of conveying some of her dissatisfaction, even if she dare not say she felt sidelined. ‘I could have hung out with—’

  ‘You could not have hung out with anyone, young lady!’ Her mother rounded on her, setting Rudi down on the gallery floor, who scampered off into a fray of Doc Martens and winkle-picker shoes. Dug her fingernails into Veronica’s upper arms so that the girl yelped. ‘You know how Mama’s parties work. I’ve got a photographer here from The Face. When he shoves his camera in my direction, you stay away. But I’ve also got people here from Harper’s. In The Face, I’m flying solo. In Harper’s, you, me and Papa – we’re the Schwartz family. Right? Berlin’s best. Got it? So, when Harper’s man wants a pretty smile for the birdie, what do you do?’

  ‘Jesus! Can’t I even go and get an autograph from—’

  ‘I’ll Jesus you when we get home, madam. You fucking stay put until I tell you.’ Mama crouched at her side, outwardly smiling as though she were sharing a tender motherly moment with her debutante daughter. But the balled fist next to Veronica’s kidneys told her that Mama was interested only in a public display of affection.

  ‘Heidi, darling!’ somebody shouted over the hubbub. The voice belonged to a giant of a man, almost as wide as he was tall. He wore a flowery, full-skirted dress, belted at the waist, that reached to the floor. His round face, bull neck and bald head had been painted a ghostly white, but for the black clownish smile that curved upwards from ear to ear. A German WWII helmet on his head. Eyes, obscured by black Ray-Ban Wayfarers over-painted with childish cartoon eyes that looked as though they had been applied to the lenses with white correction fluid. Glaring at her. Terrifying. Angry black stripes for eyebrows. Veronica shrank back into her chair a little at the sight of him, though she was used to Mama’s friends. In his arms, he held Rudi like a trophy. ‘You didn’t tell me Madonna was coming!’

  Gales of laughter from the clique of Mama’s champagne-swilling cronies standing nearby said this was hilarious. Said, they were all having a fabulous time. Said, Mama was the best hostess of the most glamorous parties in town – the launch of this art exhibition being nothing short of superlative.

  ‘Rudi-wudi, come to Mama before the naughty man eats you all up!’

  Veronica watched her mother work the crowd, glass in one hand, Rudi in another. Mwah, mwah sycophancy with the great and the good of London’s art, fashion and music scenes. Dead or Alive spinning everyone round like a record, baby through the overhead speakers. There was Mama, puckering up for the camera next to a dark-haired female fashion designer who wore a red T-shirt adorned with black writing, telling everyone she was staying alive in 85. A pretty pop band front-man who regularly adorned the covers of Veronica’s copies of Smash Hits proclaimed on his black and white T that Frankie said relax.

  On the other side of the lofty white space, standing beneath a canvas of some drab, unidentifiable shit or other, she spotted Papa. The polar opposite of her flamboyant mother, wearing a discreet double-breasted suit in dark grey. Jermyn Street, she had once heard him say. Sober silk tie. Appearances reflecting a reality where Papa was a Harvard med school alumnus and expert in his field. Anyone would think he was the old money and Mama was just a flashy wannabe who had married well, although Veronica knew the opposite was true. But Papa was publicly proud that he had climbed his way up from humble origins. What an impressive man to have as your father! And now, here he was, chatting up some ageing minor royal from a European backwater. No doubt persuading the old trout that he should rearrange her crumbling face until she looked like a younger Joan Collins. That old woman had spent more time engaging in conversation with her father on a summer’s evening in a gallery by the Thames than Veronica had spent in an entire month. Papa’s so clever. Papa’s so sought after, these days. Papa’s never there.

  Mama and Papa. She was blessed. At fifteen, she was old enough to realise they had enough money. At fifteen, she recognised they gave her everything: skiing in St Moritz; shopping in New York; a bitch of a private tutor who used to teach at Bedales; ferried around the West End in a Bentley that cocooned her from a lesser world she could only longingly glimpse from behind bullet-proof glass. At fifteen, she would still have liked nothing more than for parents to hold her; to tell her it was okay and that they forgave her for being a disappointing child. Mama and Papa. She was cursed.

  Listlessly, Veronica eyed the trays of canapés circling the gallery, carried by liveried waitresses. Acknowledged that her stomach was growling but in truth, Veronica was inured to the hunger that th
ese events occasioned. Mama never let her eat with the grown-ups. Mama had always forbidden her to mingle. Until…

  ‘Veronica, darling, come and have your photo taken!’

  Mama calling. She knew the drill. Smile coyly for the upmarket society glossies. Yes, she believed her mother had dressed her in Yves Saint Laurent. Yes, she really enjoyed meeting the interesting people at her mother’s shindigs. No, she didn’t have a boyfriend! Cue embarrassed giggling. Already tall, Veronica had read in their pages that she ‘showed promise’, though as what, she had no idea. But, she was not so naive as to fail to understand, that it was only because she had not yet reached the full flush of early womanhood, Mama did not worry that she would risk having her beauty upstaged. Yet.

  There they stood. A happy family under the glare of the gallery lights, amplified by the ice white walls and the limelight cast by the glitterati in attendance. Say, ‘Fromage!’ Beneath Papa’s fingers that entwined around her upper arm, old bruises left by her mother were still sore. Rudi, of course, took centre stage. Adorable Rudi! Who could fail to love such an innocent, fluffy soul in his pink jacket?

  She was glad when she was sent home with the driver at around 8pm. Pizza cooked by the housekeeper, Tricia. A sneaky half bottle of Papa’s vodka with Tricia’s daughter, Sharon, while they listened to Depeche Mode in the games room. Super Mario Bros. on the games console. Mama and Tricia didn’t need to know, right? Veronica would never ever tell. She was good at keeping secrets, and Sharon was her one true friend.

  Veronica was woken by her mother’s return at 2am, stumbling through the front door with someone who sounded nothing like her father. She crept down to make sure. Peered through the spindles of the grand staircase. No, Papa had not returned. As usual. Mama and the strange man retired to the games room, giggling as they descended the basement stairs. While the cat’s away…