Authors: Isadora Bryan
Fifty-six icons, photos-in-miniature, peeked out at her. Closing her eyes and letting the mouse move where it would, she double-clicked, opening her eyes slowly to see what she might have unearthed.
It was Maria, a ten-pin bowling ball in hand, pointing at her feet, and laughing. Yes, those shoes
were
funny. And Maria, delicate thing that she was, seemed to be struggling to lift even the lightest ball.
Click. Maria standing on the steps of the
Stadsschouwburg
theatre, wearing a gown, looking like the most beautiful gypsy princess who ever lived.
Click. Maria asleep in bed, the duvet resting about her waist, her breasts bared. They were large enough, and perfectly symmetrical, in a way that breasts mostly weren’t. But that was Maria all over – each part of her body seemed to exist in perfect harmony with its neighbours, and itself.
Ursula scowled as she considered how all this might look to a casual observer. To her mother – no, even worse, a man. Hideous men, with their objectification of women and pornography and
mindless
arousal. Where was the beauty in that?
Click. Two dark bands, and a bright line between, and in the centre of that brightness Maria, showering away the dirt of the filthy world that men had built.
Fuck it, even language itself was a male invention, if Ursula remembered her literary theory. There were no words in the corrupted lexicon of men to describe what she felt for Maria.
Ursula powered down her computer and sat very still on the edge of the bed. She could hear the other women downstairs, their voices a drone, and they might as well have been ghosts.
She took out her phone, opening the picture library. She’d taken a number of shots, during the course of her surveillance.
Mikael had fascinated her, as a virologist might be fascinated by a deadly virus. She’d wanted him destroyed, clearly, but at the same time there was a great satisfaction to be had in hunting him down. So, she’d tracked him all the way to Enge Lombardsteeg.
Something had prevented her from following him downstairs into that strange underground bar. So she’d remained upstairs. She smoked a joint; marijuana was a feminine pleasure, born of the fertile earth.
Mikael appeared an hour later, in the company of a middle-aged woman. The atmosphere in Incan Gold was so thick that Ursula could barely make out any detail – save for the woman’s blonde hair.
Ursula followed them out onto the street, and snapped a few photos, all evidence that she’d planned to show Maria.
There was one shot of Ruben kissing his date on her lips – but that was useless, as his fat head completely obscured hers.
In another, they were walking away, their backs to the camera. Ruben was looking back over his shoulder.
The woman’s face was visible in the third and final shot. Or should have been – some trick of the street lighting had cast a granular streak right through the centre of her face.
Ursula cursed her luck. She’d lost them in the crush of Dam Square, and hadn’t been able to find them again.
There seemed a good chance – Ursula shivered at the thought of it – that the mystery woman was Mikael’s killer.
She felt no revulsion. No fear. All she could do was wonder at the woman’s courage, to do what needed to be done. It was an inspiration.
The strangest thing was that there was something familiar about the faceless image. Ursula dearly wished to find out who she was. Perhaps even to thank her. Now if only there was some way of seeing through the streak.
She gave a little start. Perhaps there was.
*
Heerlijk Helder Heineken!
a voice declaimed, as, on screen, four men stumbled across a walk-in beer fridge, and started to cavort about like the girls, who, in the previous scene, had just discovered a similarly accessible store of shoes. It was amusing; stereotypes always were.
Still, for all the lager’s oft-touted
wonderful brightness
, Mikael Ruben’s killer wasn’t sure that the phone company should be accepting such ads in its phone booths. She tapped the screen, irritated at the irresponsibility of it all. She had half a mind to write a letter.
The Kermit-green KPN phone booth sat on a quiet corner, not far from the Van Gogh Museum. She’d spent a pleasant hour or so in contemplation of the lovely desolation that was
Wheatfield with Crows
, thinking how moving it was, how apposite, that Vincent had killed himself. But now it was time for work. She swiped her phone card (paid for in cash, naturally) through the slot, and lifted the phone from its receiver.
She held Jasper Endqvist’s card to the light, and dialled his number. His direct number, no less.
‘Hello?’ he answered.
‘Mr Endqvist?’
‘Yes?’
‘Hi, it’s me. Hester.’
‘Hester –?’
‘Hester Goldberg,’ she expanded. ‘We bumped into each other earlier. Literally!’
‘Ah! I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon. Has the dry cleaner given you a quote?’
‘Not exactly.’ She infused her voice with a degree of shyness. ‘I’ve been thinking about that, you see. It really isn’t much of a blouse. I’d been intending to give it to the charity shop anyway.’
‘Ah? Well, that’s very commendable.’
She was properly bashful now. She even wound the phone cord around her finger. ‘But what I was thinking –’
‘Yes?’
‘Oh, I can’t say it. You’ll laugh.’
She could almost feel the fool’s eagerness. She closed her eyes, revelling in it. It felt as if she were standing beneath a waterfall, of rich, sticky blue. She could taste salt on her tongue, too, as if she were sucking on the tears of a crying baby. Or, better yet, a crying man.
‘I won’t laugh,’ he promised.
She took a deep breath. ‘Right. I’ll say it! I’m new in the city. I don’t know anyone. And you seem like such a kind man. And trustworthy!’
‘Well that’s not something you hear every day, in my line of work. But thank you for the compliment!’
‘So,’ she continued, ‘I was thinking – would you like to go out for dinner tomorrow night? I’ll pay half!’ She blurted it out; she could make her voice do anything, convey any trick of emotion.
She held her breath, even though she knew he would accept. He always went to the cinema on a Saturday. Alone. And yet his favourite movie type was the romantic comedy. He would watch the same film two Saturdays running, if the only alternative was an action flick. She’d been trailing him for two months; she knew him well.
Jasper Endqvist was lonely. And desperately in need of a woman’s attention. It made him an easy target.
‘Let me just check my diary!’ he said. ‘You know, I think I
am
free tomorrow. Would you, ah, would you like me to pick you up?’
‘No, I’ll meet you there.’
‘Where?’
‘I was thinking of Qin Shi Huang’s on Rokin,’ she replied. ‘It’s a Chinese restaurant. Do you know it?’
‘Yes, but wouldn’t we have to make reservations? It’s very popular.’
‘I already have. For myself, I mean! Please don’t think I was
expecting
you to agree, Jasper – I would never be so bold.’
‘And you think they’ll be able to squeeze me in?’ he asked.
‘I’m sure they will find a way. After all, how many tables are built with just the one side?’
‘Hey – that’s pretty profound!’
‘Thanks. I will see you outside at seven, then?’
‘Yes,’ Jasper answered. ‘Looking forward to it, Hester.’
She hung up, then drifted off towards her favourite antiques shop. There was something else she had her eye on. Something sharp.
That done, she spent a little while on her laptop, making something up for the benefit of the police. Maybe an officer would spot it, or maybe not. It didn’t matter. She would leave plenty of other clues.
It had only been a couple of days, but Tanja had already come to the gloomy conclusion that the case wasn’t going anywhere. They’d interviewed as many of the hotel staff as they could find, but it had become evident that the manager had tried to keep costs down by employing a large proportion of illegal immigrants. Some of these – the night clerk amongst them – had since gone to ground, leaving nothing but a series of tenuous statements in their wake. The guests for their part were similarly reticent. But that didn’t necessarily mean they were concealing anything. The Royal William’s corridors were dark, and little used. Chance encounters were likely to be rare.
Tanja had also visited Mikael Ruben’s apartment with Pieter, failing to unearth anything of note. It wasn’t such a surprise. Men like Ruben tended to externalise their hobbies; the private abode was often kept spotless. She did at least confirm that he’d been doing fairly well for himself (there was a stack of bank statements), though she wasn’t sure it would prove to be relevant. Unless she was completely misunderstanding the situation, the last thing the women of The Den cared about was their partners’ wealth. It was all about looks, and vitality.
Other than that, they’d interviewed the other two Hester Goldbergs who were registered as living in the city, one a ninety-year-old paraplegic, the other a teenage junkie. The girl had caused them some problems. She’d been high – on meth, probably, if her fucked-up mouth and barely leashed horniness were anything to go by – and had found it impossible to remember where she’d been on the night of the murder. They’d had no choice but to take her to the station, to have the doctor check her over, and wait for her to level out.
Relative sobriety brought with it a strenuous denial, punctuated by the first gasps of withdrawal. Crystal was a bitch. Tanja knew the junkie was innocent. If the woman they were chasing was addicted to anything, it wasn’t narcotics.
Fuck, she was starting to sound like a criminal profiler. Like Professor Antje Scholten, perhaps. The truth of it was they might never get anywhere, if the killer didn’t kill again.
Back on familiar ground, then. The way she felt now – it was almost like the start of the Butcher case.
‘Time to go home, I think,’ she said, as she peered through the office window at the sinking sun, which still cast a blazing eye across Jordaan. God, she wished it would rain.
‘I’ll stay a while,’ Pieter said. ‘I want to go through the witness statements, first. There were twenty other guests in the hotel. There might be something we’ve missed.’
Tanja shook her head. ‘It doesn’t work like that. At least not in my experience. Trust me, if there was something there, we would already have spotted it.’
‘Ah, you’re probably right.’ He stretched, and yawned. ‘So we still haven’t heard from that doorman at The Den, yet?’
‘No.’
‘Want me to pay a visit on my way home?’
Tanja considered the offer. It was a fact that they needed to speak to the man. Just in case. On the other hand, she had no wish to send a rookie out on his own.
‘Maybe not,’ she answered.
‘Look, I can do it,’ Pieter argued. ‘Just a few quick questions then I’m out of there. If Jacobus says anything even slightly contentious, I’ll give you a call.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Sorry – it’s too soon. But well reminded, anyway – I was supposed to be running a check on Jacobus’ boss. Probably a waste of time, but if it keeps his Majesty off my back –’
Her fingers skipped across her keyboard, her tired eyes reflecting the glow of the various menu screens as she navigated to the criminal database. The system was much quicker than its predecessor, but for some reason she had no patience for this sort of thing.
Unlike Pieter, apparently, who couldn’t seem to get enough of technology. He moved in beside her.
So then, Sophia Faruk, born June 26
th
1961. The usual spread of speeding convictions, albeit of greater severity than was usual for a woman. Sophia, it seemed, liked to drive fast. 90kph on the Rokin? Quite a feat.
But there was more, much more: a three-year jail sentence for arson, relating to an insurance fraud, some twenty years before.
Tanja sat back in her chair. She hadn’t expected that.
‘Well, at least we know she’s capable of committing a serious crime,’ Pieter said.
‘It’s a long way from insurance fraud to murder, if that’s what you are getting at,’ Tanja pointed out. ‘A very long way.’
Harald Janssen, arriving (a little late) for the night shift, had caught the end of this exchange. ‘Keen, isn’t he, Tanja! He’ll probably have Wever’s job, by next week.’
Tanja considered her response. ‘You can’t fault him for being eager, Lucky.’
Harald gawped in mock amazement. ‘Are you sticking up for him? I thought you couldn’t stand him.’
Tanja could see Pieter in the corner of her eye, watching her. ‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far,’ she said. ‘What if I were to say that I find him mildly contemptible?’
Harald looked at her suspiciously. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘You
love
him.’
‘Go fuck yourself, Harald,’ Tanja retorted.
‘I’ll have to, if you won’t help me out!’ He glanced at Pieter then, and there was something in his expression which Tanja couldn’t decipher. But she didn’t labour it; Harald was welcome to his mysteries.
‘Oh, one other thing, Harald!’ she said as he made to turn away. ‘We
do
need to speak to this doorman, as I’m sure you can appreciate. Unfortunately, he seems incapable of using a telephone. Could you go and have a word?’
‘Aw, Christ Tanja!’ Janssen protested.
‘It will only take you an hour, Harald.’
‘But my feet hurt. They’re all swollen, cause of this damned heat. And I’ve got a pain in my guts.’
‘Time of the month?’ Tanja queried sweetly. ‘Well, never mind. Stop off and get yourself a bar of chocolate on the way back.’
‘Ah, all right,’ he scowled. ‘In a minute, okay? I’ve got stuff to do, first.’
He retreated to his desk, grumbling all the while. Tanja exchanged a glance with Pieter. For some reason he smiled at her. Not his blanket, easy smile; this was rather a more specific indicator, of something like gratitude. His smile didn’t slip, even when she frowned.
Tanja sighed at his enduring optimism. ‘So do you have any plans for tomorrow?’