Читать книгу The Girl Who Broke the Rules - Marnie Riches, Marnie Riches - Страница 25

‘I’m ill, Paul,’ she said through the half-open letterbox. ‘Just leave me be!’

Van den Bergen took a step backwards on the landing and examined Marianne de Koninck’s eyes through the rectangular gap. They were red and puffy.

‘Please open the door. We need to talk.’ He thrust the tulips closer to the door, so that she could inspect his gift. As though this were some kind of entry code to her apartment.

The flap of the head pathologist’s letterbox clattered shut. He heard her sigh behind the door. A chain being removed and a bolt being drawn back. The door opened about six inches. He could see she was wearing a fleecy all-in-one with a dressing gown on top. Furry slippers on her feet. He had imagined she would wear elegant lace-trimmed silk to bed. Perhaps that was wishful thinking.

‘I’m contagious,’ she said. Her short hair was dishevelled. Split on one side, as though she had slept in the same position for several days without washing it.

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ van den Bergen said, pressing the tulips into her hands and stepping inside.

At the breakfast bar of her expansive kitchen island, he warmed his hands on a cup of espresso that she had fixed him using a shining steel coffee machine. It was a sleek place, all right. Aubergine gloss cupboard fronts; the worktops, some sort of glittering man-made composite. He ran his fingertips along the edge, as though a grand piano’s keys were embedded into it. A dining area with Perspex table and chairs to seat eight flowed into the adjacent austere and fashionable living area. This was the sort of pad a man like him should own. Uncluttered. Full of gadgetry. Somewhere to entertain. But then, van den Bergen liked his vintage thrift-market tat and bookshelves full of old vinyl. And, he realised, that not only was Marianne full of surprises, but she didn’t have to pay maintenance to an ex. What he had noticed on entry, however, was that only women’s shoes sat in a rack on the polished parquet.

‘Nice place,’ he said.

‘Cake?’

She offered him a slice of apple cake that had been all but eaten. There was an empty plate on the kitchen island, bearing telltale crumbs. A used fork next to it. Comfort eating, van den Bergen assessed.

‘Where’s your boyfriend?’ The dimpling in Marianne’s chin told him everything he needed to know. ‘You and Jasper split up? That what all this is about?’

The pathologist nodded and sighed, wiping away the threat of a tear. ‘Bastard upped and left me for some nurse his own age.’

Making sure he did not betray the satisfaction that lurked just beneath the surface of his empathic expression, he patted her hand. Moved around the island and enveloped her in a stiff hug, which he immediately regretted. All those years, he had wondered if their professional rapport would translate to a physical one. It didn’t. There was no chemistry between them, whatsoever. And it was clear from the backwards step that she took that she thought so too.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said, retreating to his bar stool. Baffled that disappointment did not stir within him.

Marianne looked up to the spotlit ceiling with sorrowful, watery eyes and sniffed. ‘Do yourself a favour, Paul. Never fall for a younger woman. You’ll spend your life wondering how the hell she could fancy you, with your deteriorating eyesight and decaying body. Then one day, she’ll just up and leave for someone firmer. Honestly, they just eat you up and spit you out.’ She started to cry. Angry sobs with tears soaking the collar of her dressing gown. ‘He took my bloody stereo!’ Her words started to break into hiccoughs of sound, as though she were speaking down a phone line with intermittently poor reception. ‘I wouldn’t…mind but…it was m—my…birthday…present…a—and I…gave him the god—goddamned…money to…pay for it.’

Van den Bergen’s coffee had long gone cold before he could turn the subject to the case. ‘Look, Marianne,’ he said, spreading his fingers wide. He related what he knew so far about the murders.

‘So, what has all this got to do with me?’ Marianne asked. Her tone was sour. ‘Aren’t I allowed to take some sick leave? I’ve got a perfectly capable—’

‘I don’t trust Strietman,’ van den Bergen said. ‘Sorry. The guy’s just not you. He comes over like a crap crime noir film, full of theories and gum-shoe fucking interpretations.’

Marianne rubbed her face and groaned. ‘Daan Strietman is highly qualified, Paul. Yes, he loves his job—’

‘I don’t need Dick bloody Tracy or…’ He struggled to think of an illustration that would suit his purposes, but in truth, he hadn’t seen more than a handful of films since Tamara was at that age where the cinema had seemed a suitable activity for a father who saw his daughter every second weekend. ‘…I don’t know. Just Dick bloody Tracy. I need a pathologist who gives me straight facts.’ He withdrew a sheaf of paper from the inside pocket of his raincoat. It made a hefty thwack as he slammed it down emphatically on the worktop. Pulled his reading glasses up from their resting place on his stomach, at the end of their chain, and pushed them up his nose. Started to read the reports from the autopsy, giving extra emphasis to the hyperbole and melodrama with which Strietman had studded his otherwise dry medical observations.

‘Give me those sodding print-outs, you annoying old bugger!’ Marianne leaned over the island and snatched the sheaf up. The suggestion of a half-smile playing on her lips. Eyes darting from side to side as she skimmed the pages.

‘Intrigued?’ van den Bergen asked, staring at her from over the top of his half-moon glasses. ‘We should get the forensics back from the building site any time now. I’d prefer it was you who delivered the results to me.’

‘Look, I’ll come in tomorrow. We’ll see what we see.’