The Girl Who Had No Fear Read online

‘Tell me about it,’ George said. ‘I’ve got to go and do a shift as a barmaid, now. I’ve only ever cleaned or danced in clubs before. What the fuck do I know about pulling pints?’

  ‘More than I know about what to do in a gay club,’ Elvis said. He followed the progress of a beautiful, leggy blonde girl, who strutted down the street in sequinned hot pants. Twenty seconds in, he realised she was holding the hand of another girl. ‘I can’t even dance. And I’ve got psoriasis.’

  They stood together outside the club, staring at the two bald bouncers on the door, who were chatting animatedly to a group of bearded men wearing make-up. The taller of the two bouncers refocused his attention on Elvis. The beady-eyed stare of a man who made snap judgements about other men for a living.

  Feeling stripped naked, Elvis blushed. Dropped his gaze back to his paunch and took out his phone. There was a text from the carer, marked urgent, asking where Mum’s incontinence pads were hidden.

  ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ he told George, texting,

  bathroom cupboard above hot water tank

  with a practised thumb. ‘I should be at home with Mum. She’s really not got long left.’ He sighed heavily at the thought of having to say goodbye to the only parent he had left. A once-robust woman who had been reduced to a frail husk. Inside three months, the doctor had estimated. He would have to deal with all the admin, alone. And clear her place, alone. Oh, and bury her too. He had been able to think of nothing else for a year. Knew he should be over the moon to get away at all and spend some time as an unencumbered thirty-something man with no responsibilities. But he wasn’t. ‘Nightclubs aren’t really my thing, either.’ Touching his hair, where George had gelled it into spikes, rather than a quiff, he felt a stranger to his own skin. She had made him trim his sideburns to conform with ordinary proportions. ‘Or men. Obviously.’

  ‘Sorry, man.’ Patting him on the shoulder, George offered him a cigarette, which he took gratefully. Lit her own and exhaled thoughtfully. ‘You’ve got so much on your plate. And a needle to find in a haystack. We both have.’

  ‘What do I even say? Or do? I don’t want to …’ He looked up at the rainbow flag; followed the line down to the muscular, perfectly groomed men who chatted animatedly to the bouncers beneath it. Winced.

  ‘Look, Elv— Dirk. You’re in the workplace,’ George said. ‘Just try to make conversation with the men in there. That’s all that’s expected of you, right? Ask about drugs. Dealers. Anything unusual. The sort of detective work you do every day of the week. How is this any different?’

  George had the keen focus of a woman who knew better than most what to look out for on a busy street scene. Not a cop’s eye, Elvis assessed. But the intuitive gaze of someone who had lived on the other side and could easily sniff out the shifty, the disingenuous and the downright illegal. ‘I wish you could do this and I could be the barman in a nice, easy straight club.’

  George guffawed with laughter. Pointed to her simple black jeans and T-shirt. ‘I’m hardly dressed for a night on the town.’ Patted her bosom. ‘And I’m lacking the correct kit, let’s not forget.’ Checked her watch. ‘Listen. I’ve got to go. My shift starts in five and I don’t want to be late on my first night.’ She squinted into the near distance. ‘So, there’s squad cars parked up if there’s trouble?’

  He nodded. ‘You know the number to call.’

  He didn’t like the way it smelled inside. Air freshener and beer and testosterone. The stairs leading down into the club were sticky underfoot, lit with blue neon treads. Every time he passed a man, he felt certain he was being checked out. He held his stomach in, conscious of having the figure of a man who ate too many frites with mayonnaise, sitting for too long in the pool car on stakeouts or tending his mother and compensating for the stress with the cake he had bought to fatten her up.

  At the bar, he was careful to order just a Diet Coke, though something stronger might have helped him through this hell. Should he ask the barman about drugs? Too obvious. Was the barman giving him a funny look? Had he already sniffed him out as a straight cop? Elvis opened his mouth to ask a question but realised there were men standing behind him, clamouring to be served. He would never be heard over the din of dance music, anyway.

  After twenty minutes of scanning the dancefloor to get a feel for the place, wondering why the hell middle-aged bearded men might want to drag up and wear full make-up, like bad pantomime dames, Elvis decided to be brave and head to the toilets. Remembering that his prejudices were founded only on his late father’s bigotry and that nobody was likely to try to bone him unless he asked. Nobody would probably want to bone him, anyway. He found himself unexpectedly saddened at that thought.

  ‘Oh, Olaf’s such a silly bitch! Guess what? He went to the hairdresser’s and asked for—’

  ‘Fuck off, Jef. I don’t need you telling everyone about my grooming disasters.’

  ‘I don’t need to tell them. They can see for themselves, you daft cow!’

  Overblown gales of laughter ensued.

  Standing at the urinal, Elvis listened to the inane banter of three of the most catwalk-ready handsome young men he had ever seen, gathered around the sinks where they were primping their hair. What would they be talking about had they been straight? Football. Obviously. And they wouldn’t have congregated in the stinking toilets. There was a rhythmic knocking sound coming from one of the cubicles. Hastily, Elvis zipped his trousers and left without washing his hands.

  Perching on a balcony above the dancefloor, he scanned the club for signs of drug use or dealing.

  ‘Hi!’ He was startled by a man’s voice bellowing in his ear. ‘I’m Frank. What’s your name?’

  Blushing in the dark, Elvis swallowed hard. Was he being hit on? Thought of a name that was neither Dirk nor that hateful damned nickname that Van den Bergen had bestowed on him, now inextricably linked with his professional persona – Elvis. ‘Antoon.’ He reached out to shake Frank’s hand. Frank, a balding boulder of a man who clearly ate iron for breakfast, laughed nervously, raised an eyebrow and shook his hand. Firm but sweaty.

  ‘Very formal, Antoon,’ he said. ‘So, what brings you here? You’re new.’

  Elvis opened and closed his mouth. Half-relieved that he was being hit upon. Appalled with himself that he wasn’t sure where to go with this conversation. ‘I’m from out of town,’ he said. ‘I just fancied coming out. Kicking back. You know?’

  Frank started to laugh. Stroked his cheek. Elvis shrank away from his touch and folded his arms across his chest.

  ‘I spy a man in the closet!’ Frank said, smiling. ‘Are you married? Fancied a walk on the wild side?’

  ‘No, it’s not like that,’ Elvis said, feeling the sweat pool around his armpits and pour into the waistband of his jeans.

  ‘Ah, shy?’ Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out a baggie of white powder. ‘Fancy a bit of chemical courage?’

  This was more like it. ‘Maybe,’ Elvis said. ‘Is that coke?

  ‘Yep. I’ve got some meth too, if you’d prefer.’

  ‘Cool. Where did you get it?’

  ‘Why?’ Frank’s brow furrowed.

  Stop acting like a cop, Elvis chastised himself. You’re undercover! This is not an interview down the station of a door-to-door. Screw this up and Van den Bergen will never respect or trust you again. ‘I hear there’s a bad batch going round. You can’t be too careful.’

  ‘Oh, I think this is good gear,’ Frank said. ‘My dealer is the go-to man in chem-sex circles.’

  ‘Chem-sex?’ Elvis gulped.

  Frank ran his forefinger down Elvis’ sweaty chest, over his moobs and gut, which he could no longer hold in. What the fuck should he say next?’

  ‘There’s been a couple of guys from the scene died lately,’ he said, reasoning that if the newspaper had printed stories about the canal deaths, then it was fair game. ‘Aren’t you worried?’

  Raising an eyebrow, Frank smiled and leaned seductively against the balcony. ‘Shoul
d I be? Are you going to fuck me to death, Antoon?’

  Feeling the phone vibrate in his pocket, Elvis’ head started to throb with the worry that some ill-fate had befallen his mother – that was almost certainly the carer texting – and anxiety that he hadn’t yet got any information of use and was now almost certainly being propositioned for sex.

  ‘I need to know about the provenance of the gear before I … er … indulge,’ he said. Thought of George and her OCD. Was she faring any better? ‘I’m very uptight about these things.’ He put his hand on top of Frank’s. Smiled. Prayed the guy couldn’t feel how dangerously fast his heart was pounding. ‘My body’s a temple. I’m sure you understand.’

  Frank slapped him on the shoulder and threw his head back. Mirth in his opiate-glassy eyes. ‘You’re funny.’ Grabbed at Elvis’ belly. ‘Temple, indeed! I like you.’

  And then he said the name that would crop up in conversation time after time in every bar and club Van den Bergen sent Elvis to.

  CHAPTER 13

  Amsterdam, Keizer’s Basement nightclub, 14 May

  ‘Nikolay?’ George asked. ‘Who the hell is Nikolay?’ She flipped the tap on and started to pour the first glass of beer from a new barrel. Channelling Aunty Sharon, who had spent the last two decades pulling pints in Soho. Maybe barmaiding was in the blood. The foam started to spurt, shooting up to the rim of the glass, covering George’s hand and T-shirt in sticky alcoholic ejaculate. Maybe barmaiding wasn’t in the blood. ‘Ugh. Grim, man. I’m gonna kill Van den Bergen,’ she muttered in English, wiping her hand on a bar towel.

  ‘He’s the Czech gangster I was telling you about.’ At her feet, her cocktail-shaking compatriot Tom was methodically stacking a beer fridge. Whispering, lest he be overheard by the manager. ‘I’ve heard the bouncers talking about him.’

  Nikolay. Nikolay. George committed the name to memory. The first decent lead she had managed to generate in ten nights of working as a cack-handed barmaid in five different clubs across the city.

  ‘Move aside for the expert.’ Tom stood. Playfully, he pushed her out of the way and started to tinker expertly with the beer tap until it produced a steady amber stream. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the magic touch.’ He winked at her.

  George was relieved he couldn’t see her blush. Eyeing his wiry, hairy forearms, she reasoned that they were the right kind of forearms. But she hated his bitten nails. Had a sudden urge to ask him why he took such good care of his hair and body and yet neglected his hands. Bitten nails made George wince inwardly. Focus, tit! You’re not here to check out some strange guy’s forearms or his hand hygiene. ‘Nikolay,’ she said. ‘So the dealers who work in here flog his gear?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Tom said, grinning, as though he were pleased at having insider information with which to impress this inquisitive new barmaid. ‘They used to just deliver to order outside. Turning up on mopeds like pizza guys. But they’ve got braver in the past year and you can spot them on the dancefloor if you know what to look for. I reckon the bouncers must be taking a cut. Nobody ever sees the man himself, though. You wouldn’t catch Nikolay on house night in crappy Keizer’s Basement, that’s for sure. Apparently, he’s the stuff of legend. Like some Scarface type, except he deals meth and other chems.’

  ‘What? Like whizz?’

  He laughed. ‘Nobody takes whizz anymore.’ Derision in his voice, as though George had said something preposterous, like an ageing parent trying to be cool. ‘Ecstasy’s popular again, but mainly it’s all crystal meth and mephedrone now. Where have you been for the last couple of years?!’

  ‘Writing my book. I told you!’ she said, treating him to a winning smile; having to suppress the desperate urge to flip him the bird. Calm down, dick. Shove your ego back in your box. It’s not his fault. He doesn’t know the first thing about you. He’s fresh out of college and a wet-behind-the-ears middle-class kid on his gap yah. ‘I’m doing this shitty barmaiding job for research. Where else am I going to get inspiration for a novel about drug-dealing and gangs and the underworld?’ She widened her eyes dramatically.

  ‘That’s so cool that you’re a writer.’ Tom leaned on the bar, as though the club was not opening in only fifteen minutes. ‘I wish I could do something arty like that.’ Smiling away. Blowing smoke up her arse in a way Van den Bergen never did.

  ‘Well, I’m pretty sure you’ve got some brilliant anecdotes up your sleeve. I can tell you’ve lived.’

  He nodded enthusiastically. ‘I suppose so. I’ve been working bars all over France, Germany and Belgium since graduation. I mean, why the hell would I wanna rush back to a job in some mind-numbing call centre in Leeds, if I’m lucky? I’m not ready to wear a suit and do the nine to five bollocks!’

  ‘Hmm,’ George said absently, studying Tom’s white teeth for signs of food. ‘Come on, then. Tell me your cool stories about this Nikolay guy.’

  He leaned in conspiratorially. A little too close. The intimacy sucked the oxygen out of the air. ‘I’ve heard his name dropped in several of the places I’ve worked. I like that sort of thing. You know? True life crime and dat.’ He stood tall. Crossed his arms, hip-hop style.

  ‘You didn’t just say “and dat” did you?’ Pushing the bar towel into his hands, George shook her head disapprovingly and started to stack clean glasses on a shelf.

  An awkward silence between them descended, smothering any further conversation, until the manager strode over, giving them both instructions for the evening.

  ‘I want you to mop the toilets through before we open,’ he told George, wiping his sweaty forehead on the sleeve of his black shirt.

  The pasty-faced lump was probably younger than she was, she assessed. He spoke with a strong Limburg accent. Almost certainly some southern farmer’s son, who had moved to Amsterdam for a taste of life in the fast lane.

  ‘I’m not mopping the toilets,’ she said. ‘I’m here as temporary bar staff.’

  The manager stared at her, slack-jawed. More surprise in his expression than annoyance. ‘You’re a temp. And I’m your boss. You do as I say if you want to get paid.’

  George was just about to tell him to go fuck himself. Remembered that Van den Bergen and the families of the floaters were relying on her. She grabbed the bucket and mop. Waited until the manager’s back was turned and mouthed ‘fat wanker’ at the back of his head. Shook her closed fist sideways.

  ‘You crack me up,’ Tom said, a wry smile on his face.

  ‘You’d be fit if you grew your nails and didn’t have a load of tats,’ George said, pointing at the inked roses and foliage that scrolled just beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt. ‘And got rid of that unhygienic bloody thing in your nose.’ Gesticulating with her chin towards his piercing.

  ‘Thanks,’ Tom said. ‘You are fit. But you’d be fitter still, if you didn’t blurt out the fucked-up contents of your head.’

  George filled the bucket with soapy hot water. ‘You have no idea what’s going on in my head.’ She eyed his crotch and grinned.

  ‘Are you flirting with me?’ he asked.

  Feeling like she’d overstepped an invisible line, George looked down at the bucket. Thought about Van den Bergen, spending long days trying to chase down bad guys in some seventh level of hell that only policemen, prison workers, criminologists and forensic pathologists occupied; spending long nights next to her in the bed that they shared, trying to scorch away the stench of death and corruption in the fires of their passion … when they weren’t at each other’s throats. Which she perversely relished. ‘No. I’m not flirting. Sorry,’ she said. Looked back up and tried her damnedest to wear an expression that was encouraging and friendly only. ‘But I do want to hear more about this Czech dude. He sounds nuts. What do you know about him?’

  Tom shrugged. ‘Like I told you. He’s Nikolay. He’s a Czech drug lord. He’s a nutter who keeps Europe’s clubland stocked with cheap meth. That’s it.’

  CHAPTER 14

  Amsterdam, police headquarters, 15 May />
  As Marie trawled through the drug-user forums, searching for mention of a Czech drug lord called Nikolay, George’s head started to throb. She read over her shoulder, wrinkling her nose only slightly at the smell of hair that had clearly not been washed for at least a week.

  I had outa this world hard-core porn sex with my GF on this stuff. She let me do things to her she never let me before. It was the best high ever. You gotta dissolve the meth with water and shove it up your ass for a really great high. Better than smoking.

  ‘I can’t take any more of this,’ Marie said, minimising the screen.

  George sat back in the chair. ‘Neither can I,’ she said. Yawned and stretched her arms, feeling the fatigue from night after night, working until the small hours, followed by day after day of dragging herself into the Dutch police HQ for debriefing, leaching the wellbeing and strength from her muscles. She sniffed her denim jacket and grimaced. ‘I’m sick of the smell of stale beer on everything. It gets everywhere. I’ve had it. Van den Bergen can bugger off if he thinks I’m doing another night.’

  Tearing the wrapper off a bar of Verkade milk and hazelnut chocolate, Marie snapped off a row, offering it to George. ‘Poor Elvis has got it worse. No wonder he’s called in sick. I wouldn’t have lasted two minutes, having to cavort and make nice with a bunch of …’ She gave the impression of choosing a derogatory term from some sort of bigot’s lexicon that the religious memorised from childhood. ‘… sodomites.’ There it was.

  ‘Seriously, Marie? That’s very Dark Ages of you,’ George said. ‘And probably a sackable offence. Don’t let Van den Bergen hear you say ignorant crap like that. And I don’t want to hear it, either.’

  Marie made a harrumphing noise. ‘Do you want some chocolate or not?’

  George eyed Marie’s dirty fingernails. Shook her head emphatically.

  Tutting, Marie rammed the chocolate into her own mouth. ‘Suit yourself,’ she said, chewing noisily.

  ‘Any news on Floris Engels’ apartment? The mystery lodger.’