Читать книгу Black Widow - Isadora Bryan - Страница 13

Chapter 6

Friday

Jasper Endqvist had his routines. Every Friday he would buy his lunch at Jan’s Poffertjeskraam on the west bank of the Singelgracht. It was a tiny little place, not much more than a market stall, which nevertheless served up the best soft pancakes in the city.

True, the kraam was an awkward walk from the insurance office in which he worked, but it was worth it. He’d even made a few calculations, – the journey burned off a good hundred calories, which was worth half a pancake in itself. And it wasn’t as if he was fat; his calorific intake was mostly offset by regular doses of squash and jogging.

Jan was just turning the cinnamon coated treats as Jasper appeared. ‘You’re thirty seconds late,’ he grinned.

Jasper pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘Sorry!’

A minute later, a brown paper bag of poffertjes in one hand, a Styrofoam cup of frothy coffee in the other, he made his way outside –

There was a thud, and a yelp, as a woman walked straight into him. Jasper cursed, and feared for his lunch, and might well have remonstrated further if not for the pained look on the woman’s face.

She was a good twenty years older than him, in her fifties, maybe, but certainly fit enough, if you liked that sort of thing. Which Jasper did, albeit in a very low-key way.

‘Oh, I’m sorry!’ she apologised. ‘My fault entirely.’

‘No,’ Jasper responded automatically. ‘It’s my fault. As soon as it’s lunchtime I get my blinkers on.’

‘I wasn’t looking where I was going. I’m new to the city. I was looking at the canal –’

‘It’s a very nice canal,’ Jasper noted. ‘The Singelgracht has always been a favourite of mine.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s got character,’ Jasper explained. He pointed at an unusually shaped houseboat, bobbing on the water just a few metres away. ‘See that, for instance? That’s the Poezenboot. It’s a sanctuary for stray cats. See what I mean? Only on the Singel!’

‘I love cats!’ the woman said, as she plucked at her blouse. Jasper’s coffee had spilled all over it, to interesting effect.

‘That’ll need dry cleaning,’ he said. ‘I feel bad – I’ll pay for it, yes?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Why should you pay for my clumsiness?’

But Jasper was fully committed to his chivalrous course, now. He fished about in his pocket, to hand her his card. ‘Really, I insist. Let me know how much it costs to put right, and I’ll send you a cheque.’

The woman – she really was quite striking – bowed her blonde head, and murmured her thanks. Jasper watched her leave, all thoughts of his ruined lunch forgotten.

*

Chief Inspector Wever worried at another biscuit, knowing that he would regret it later. His metabolism was no longer the worker of miracles it had once been; his gut no longer performed that dance of osmotic alchemy (as Erik Polderhuis had once described it) that had kept him thin right until his late forties. Meals tended to lurk in his body, nowadays, with all the grubby determination of squatters.

He was getting podgy, frankly. His wife had told him so that very morning. He frowned, as he considered a visit to the station gym. It really was the most god-awful place, populated by the most god-awful people. The smell of sweat and guilt always stuck in the throat. He didn’t know any man who exercised out of choice. It was always a consequence of a doctor issuing a health warning, or a woman intimating that she would rather sleep with herself than a fatty. The pervasive atmosphere of any gymnasium was one of resentment and desperation.

He looked disconsolately at the biscuits, wondering if there might be anything in this anti-fat pill he’d heard so much about.

Or maybe he could simply send for Tanja. Ten minutes in her strenuous company was the equivalent of going for a ten mile run, Harald Janssen argued. Not that he would know anything about that sort of thing.

Well, slimming aid or otherwise, Anders needed to speak to Tanja. He was still feeling a little dazed from the fallout of her recent meltdown. He couldn’t let it happen again.

He opened his door. ‘Tanja!’ he called out, half hoping that she was out of the office.

A hard little shape detached itself from the softer fuzz of rubber plants and monitors. She seemed as trim as ever, Wever noted sourly.

He’d known Tanja, what, twenty-two years? Through her husband first, but later they’d stayed close. And in that time she’d always frustrated him intensely. Surprised and occasionally delighted him with some unexpected act of kindness, yes, but frustration was the main thing. She could be rude, snappy, and dismissive of the chain of command. She doubtless had a persecution complex. And yet he still worried about her. It was the main reason, in fact, he’d invested so much time in selecting her new partner. Young Kissin had many qualities, not the least of which was an imposing physical presence. He also had one of the highest recorded clean-kill percentages at the Academy firing range. He would keep Tanja safe if anyone could.

Wever was unashamedly old-fashioned in that regard. Pulling a trigger required no special skill, but aiming did, and the simple truth was that women weren’t very good at it. Take their gun away, and things were even worse. He remembered the first time Tanja had been hurt in the course of her work, when she’d been set upon by the suspected arsonist she’d been trailing. It was soon after she’d lost Anton and her daughter, and her mind was probably elsewhere. He’d ripped the gun from her hand before she could get off a shot, then proceeded to beat her senseless. He’d left her for dead.

Wever smiled grimly, as he considered the arsonist’s fate. Being burnt alive in one of his own fires was too good for him.

Tanja entered his office, coffee in hand. She still had that commemorative Janis Joplin mug, chipped and faded now, yet she wouldn’t drink out of anything else. And they said he was set in his ways! She was smiling, probably for his benefit. She wanted him to think that everything was going smoothly. He really hoped it was.

‘Any luck?’ he asked.

‘Well, not as such,’ she answered. ‘We think Ruben left the bar with an older, blonde-haired woman, but we’ve yet to confirm it.’

‘Oh?’

‘The barman was a bit vague,’ Tanja explained.

‘No doorman?’

‘Yes,’ Tanja replied. ‘I’ve left a message for him to call me. But he hasn’t done so yet. I’ve tried ringing the bar owner to find out why, but no answer. It’s still a bit early for people like that, I suppose.’

Wever grunted, and glanced at the brief summary of the witness statements which sat on his desk. No one save the Asian night clerk had seen Ruben and Hester Goldberg arrive. And the girl had no recollection of seeing the woman leave. But her statement, tenuous as it was, tended to confirm that Tanja was on the right track. The main details of the woman being middle-aged, and blonde, were the same in each case.

‘This club sounds like a fascinating place,’ Wever said. ‘I must visit.’

‘Trust me, Anders, you wouldn’t be welcome. Not unless Ms Faruk has a few octogenarians stashed away in the cellar.’

‘This Sophia, then. Tell me about her.’

Tanja shrugged. ‘Blonde-haired. Fifty-ish, maybe. A little bit guarded.’

‘You think we should run a check?’

‘Probably,’ Tanja replied. ‘Although she claims she was elsewhere when Ruben left with the mystery woman.’

‘Have we confirmed that, yet?’

‘I thought it was a little soon to be asking for alibis. And really, she would have to be a bit mad, to pick up a man in her own bar and then kill him.’

Wever reached for his biscuits. ‘You know, it occurs to me that we really don’t know enough about this woman.’

‘We’re at a very early stage in the investigation,’ Tanja responded, perhaps a little defensively.

‘Even so. We need an advantage, I think.’

Tanja’s face was quite expressionless. ‘You’re thinking of calling in a profiler?’

‘Well, it’s a thought.’

‘Antje Scholten? Is that who you have in mind?’

‘She’s very good, Tanja. Her help was invaluable during the Butcher case.’

‘Was it? I never noticed.’ Tanja moved closer to Wever’s desk, her hands resting on its edge. ‘It’s way too early to be calling Scholten in. Let me see what I can dig up, first.’

Wever held her gaze for a moment, then looked away. ‘Right. You’d best get on with it, then.’

*

Tanja and Pieter had already visited two of the five Hester Goldbergs who were to be found in the local area. It was a largely pointless task, Tanja reasoned, as she rang the door buzzer of their latest target. Setting aside for one moment the possibility that the killer might easily have come from further afield, it seemed highly unlikely that she would have been so careless as to use her real name. The more Tanja cast her mind back to the crime scene, the more she believed that there was something preternaturally cold and premeditated about it. The fact that the killer had afterwards lingered to take a shower, for instance: it didn’t speak of panic; quite the opposite.

This Hester Goldberg lived in a flat above Dag En Nacht, one of the numerous gay bars which were to be found along Kerkstraat, which, in typical Amsterdam fashion, was equally famous for its beautiful churches. For all that it was only just after lunch, the bar leaked a noisy throb of sickly sounds and colours onto the street, the plate glass wobbling to the mellow bass of a trance anthem.

‘You’d have to be a fairly party-orientated person to live here,’ Pieter observed, as he peered up at the upstairs flat.

As it happened, his assessment was completely wide of the mark. As Hester buzzed them in, and they stepped inside her mean, one-room apartment, it was immediately apparent that the last thing on her mind was partying.

The room was almost entirely bereft of furniture. A black-and-white television sat in one corner, a coat-hanger aerial arranged above it. There was a bed, of sorts, which was really little more than a mattress on the floor. There was a sink, a tap dripping constantly into a stained bowl. And a cooker, the oven door dented, the enamel chipped. The walls were of bare white plaster, which had flaked here and there, perhaps in response to the constant pounding from below. The sound was felt, more than heard.

And in the centre of this empty space sat a woman who gave the distinct impression of being even emptier. Her blue eyes – the only spot of colour that Tanja could discern in the room – were wide and staring. Her hair was of a pale, lank blonde, and rested flat, lifeless, against her head.

She was a little older than Tanja, but still within the compass of the Cougar Club’s typical age range.

Tanja exchanged a look with Pieter. Had they got lucky?

‘What do you want?’ the woman asked.

Tanja introduced herself and Pieter. Hester glanced at the proffered badges, without seeming to see them.

‘We are sorry to disturb you,’ Tanja began.

The woman nodded. ‘Yes, and you should be. I am very busy, as you can tell.’

Tanja had seen a great deal, but there was something in Hester’s patently self-mocking bitterness which disconcerted her. She stiffened, thinking that yes, they might have got lucky. If this woman were ever to direct her self-loathing outwards –

‘We are investigating a crime,’ Tanja said. ‘A murder.’

‘And you think I did it?’ Hester laughed, a creaking, grinding sound.

‘We are not saying that at all,’ Pieter interjected smoothly. ‘But it would certainly help us if you could answer a few questions.’

Hester nodded. ‘All right.’

Pieter smiled gratefully. To Tanja’s surprise, Hester offered a little smile of her own. The kid had that way about him. People seemed to like him, as a matter of principle. She couldn’t condone it, but she did recognise that it might prove useful.

‘So,’ Pieter continued, ‘perhaps you could start by telling us where you were on Wednesday night, between, say, eight-thirty and midnight?’

‘I was having dinner,’ Hester answered. ‘With my friend.’

Pieter nodded, and took out his notebook. ‘And your friend’s name?’

‘Heidi Brinkerhoff.’

‘Do you have an address for her?’

‘She lives in Eindhoven, somewhere. I can never remember the name of her street. All I know is I turn left at the Philips Stadion, and then I’m there.’ She turned away, chin in hand, seemingly bored with everything. ‘Anyway, she put me up for the night.’

‘Do you have a phone number for her?’ Pieter pressed.

Hester stared at him for an instant, her lifeless blue eyes momentarily teeming with flecks of shoaling silver. But then she sighed, and grew still again. ‘There’s an address book by the cooker,’ she said.

Tanja moved to retrieve it. She flicked through, noting that it contained just the four names: Hans, Laura, Cornelius, Heidi.

And I thought I was lonely, Tanja mused.

Pieter seemed to be doing all right, so Tanja stepped out onto the landing, so she could ring the number herself. Heidi answered, and soon confirmed what Hester had said. Tanja sighed, knowing that the chance of making a quick arrest had passed her by. Of course, there was always the possibility of collusion; that was a given.

‘Is Hester all right?’ Heidi asked. ‘She’s not in any trouble?’

‘None at all,’ Tanja answered.

‘Only I’m very worried about her. I’m really the only person she has, now that Cornelius – her brother, I mean – is dead.’

‘Ah,’ Tanja sympathised. ‘A recent loss?’

‘A few months back. But Hester can’t let it go.’

‘Well, thank you for your help!’

Tanja hung up, and made her way back into the room. She caught Pieter’s eye. He shrugged, and shook his head a fraction.

They left the grieving woman to her misery. It was a relief, in truth, to get away from her.

*

Hana Huisman and Anita Berger had only met through their student daughters, but they’d quickly developed a quirky friendship of their own. It was an odd mix on the face of it: Anita was brash, and seemed to think of nothing but having as much fun as she could; whilst Hana liked nothing more than to revel in her own downtrodden misery.

At least that was how it seemed to her daughter. Ursula poked her head round the sitting room door, wondering if her mother’s boyfriend – the root of Hana’s unhappiness – was in residence.

No, of course he wasn’t. Lander Brill never came round when her mum had a friend over; he seemed to have a sixth sense in that regard. Anita Berger probably had no idea that he even existed. Hana would certainly never have mentioned him. She was ashamed, and with good reason.

Lander Brill! The sweat-stinking, woman-beating, oath-breaking Lander Brill, for whom Ursula had dreamed up a perfect end – involving a wooden box, and a hungry rat. She’d got the idea from a recent trip to Amsterdam’s Museum of Torture. The idea was that the box was fixed tight to the victim’s stomach, the rat inside: the only way the rodent could escape was to eat its way through the man’s guts.

Anyway, Lander was elsewhere, presumably in a bar. Ursula stepped into the room, nodding greeting. Anita, she saw, was dressed in the fashion of an eighties prostitute; her mother looked like some fifties hausfrau.

So, Anita and Hana were quite different. But then, so were Ursula and Maria. And the girls could hardly have been closer, in Ursula’s mind.

‘Anyone want a coffee?’ Ursula asked as she moved into the kitchen.

‘No thanks,’ Hana answered, without looking up. Her gaze was fixed on Anita.

The sitting room was within earshot of the kitchen and Ursula could easily hear what they were saying. She didn’t pay their conversation much heed, at first – but as the kettle came to the boil she heard a name filter through the whistling.

Mikael Ruben.

‘Of course,’ Anita said, ‘I always thought he was a bad sort. And my Maria, so sweet and trusting! I warned her about him, you know.’

‘It must be awful for her,’ Hana murmured.

‘She’ll get over it,’ Anita responded, somewhat brutally. And then, ‘I was shocked to hear of his death, though. It’s always sad when someone dies.’

‘Do we know how he died, though?’

‘Well, not exactly,’ Anita admitted. ‘The police were quite circumspect. But I can guess, given the kind of man he was!’

‘You think he kept other women?’

‘Well, as I understand it, yes.’

Ursula’s eavesdropping was disturbed by a familiar snuffling. A scruffy mongrel, half Labrador, half something unidentifiable, pottered into the kitchen, his nose twitching and his tail wagging.

‘Go away,’ Ursula instructed.

Benny sat down on his haunches, his tongue lolling in response to the heat. Ursula frowned, but gave him a quick pat on the head. She was actually quite fond of the dumb creature. They’d bought him a few years back, at the suggestion of Hana’s doctor. Ursula’s mother had always suffered from withering bouts of depression; the doctor argued that having a dog around might help to keep her cheerful. It hadn’t actually; she’d simply developed an allergy to go with her other problems. But Hana would rather put up with a permanently runny nose than countenance giving Benny away.

Or a bloody nose, if the alternative were to risk losing Lander Brill.

Stupid, stupid woman.

Ursula took her coffee through into the sitting room. Benny followed her, his lead clasped optimistically in his mouth.

‘He wants you to take him for a walk,’ her mother said, stating, as ever, the completely fucking obvious.

‘Can’t you do it?’ Ursula retorted. ‘I’ve got some college stuff to take care of.’

‘I’m entertaining, Ursula!’

That and the fact that she was scared to leave the house. The only time the poor dog ever got walked nowadays was when Ursula came round.

Or so she’d thought. ‘I’ll take him,’ Anita offered. ‘We had a fine old time when we went to the park before. Didn’t we, boy?’

Benny whined, and gave the impression that he really didn’t give a shit who took him.

‘Thanks,’ Ursula mumbled. And then, ‘I’m sorry for your trouble, Mrs Berger. Poor Maria.’

Anita sighed, and shook her head sadly. ‘Yes. Poor Maria. She will be relying on her friends to get her through this, you know.’

Ursula nodded. ‘Well, I’m her best friend. I’ll see to it.’

Ursula smiled. Anita smiled. A simple enough exchange, which nevertheless seemed to follow some deeper course. It was good; they had an understanding: neither would hog Maria during her time of need.

Ursula closed the sitting room door behind her, and, pausing only to snatch the Amsterdam Post from the doormat, flew up the stairs two at a time. It was good to be back home, if only for a few hours!

There was a brief write up of the murder, by a certain Gus de Groot. It didn’t amount to much, just a name and a location. Ursula pursed her lips, irritated at the reporter’s lack of daring. He must know more than that.

Still, she had a ritual to perform. She took out a pair of surgical scissors from her sewing kit beneath the bed, and proceeded to cut the article from the paper. Her mother would never notice: Hana never read the paper, for fear of upsetting herself; the limit of her interest was to have it delivered. Lander Brill for his part was probably illiterate, and had his own place besides. He only came round for sex, and to punch Hana in the face.

Ursula cringed at her mother’s weakness, but for once didn’t fixate on it. She rather took out her scrapbook from the locked attaché case, and proceeded to glue the article in place.

The scrapbook was almost full, now, crammed with five years’ worth of newspaper cuttings. Each related to an act of female violence. Where that violence served as vehicle for revenge, the cutting was framed in a red border.

The scrapbook was Ursula’s most prized possession. What had started out as a hobby had, in recent months, become the focus of her academic studies. It would form the basis of her dissertation soon enough. This was her final year; her year of triumph.

She spent a few minutes leafing through the scrapbook, feeling cheered by what she read there. She wasn’t alone; there were other women, just like her, who recognised men for what they were. And some of those women were living in this very city! Here, amongst the flower markets and canals, the museums and the parks, there lived a woman who seemed determined to change everything!

Let her kill again, Ursula thought.

Feeling a little more relaxed now, she opened her bag and removed her laptop. She drummed her fingers impatiently whilst waiting for it to power up, then navigated her way through the tortuous branches of an old-fashioned file tree, until she found a folder labelled Coursework. She entered her password, then opened a sub-folder, Research.

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.