I haven’t already asked Sally a million times? Think I wouldn’t be in Amsterdam if I could swing it? Six months here. Six months there.’ She shook her head.
Ad grabbed her chin. Lifted her face so that she had no option but to meet his gaze. ‘Ask again. For us.’
She looked up at the departures board. ‘Your gate’s been up for ages. Go on! Else you’ll miss your flight. Aunty Sharon said you’re costing her a fortune in cake and Sky subscription as it is. Go!’ A smile was easy, now he was hoisting his rucksack on his shoulders. Guilt weighed heavily on hers.
He walked towards security. Took one last look at her over his shoulder.
‘Ask. For us,’ he repeated.
‘I’ll ask for us,’ she said. And for van den Bergen, she thought.
Amsterdam, Valeriusstraat building site, later
‘Run it again,’ van den Bergen said, as Marie clicked the stop button on the camera.
‘I don’t think I can bear to keep watching this,’ Elvis said, leaning forward between the driver’s and passenger seats.
‘Wimp,’ Marie said, digitally spooling back to the beginning, forcing the others to watch the brutal scenes backwards and at four times the speed of live action on the camera’s tiny preview screen.
Van den Bergen peered over his shoulder at Kees. ‘Don’t you throw up in here. Do you hear me?’ The young detective’s face looked like putty. He had wedged himself right into the corner on the rear passenger side, as though the supportive structure of the vehicle would provide him with an emotional bolster. ‘You’re a policeman, for God’s sake. If you can’t control yourself, get out.’
‘Need…air. Sorry.’ Kees opened the door to the Mercedes and stepped onto the pavement. Icy air whipped into the cabin.
‘Close the bloody door!’ van den Bergen yelled. With a hefty thunk, just the three of them remained. ‘Useless turd.’
He felt suddenly claustrophobic. Though the smell of the leather seats and the wool carpet of the slip-mats was still pleasantly strong – the E class, a perk of being a chief inspector with impractically long legs, was only two months old – it was not strong enough to mask Marie’s stale sweat and Elvis’ appalling cologne. He would have to valet the interior at the weekend or else go to the allotment and bring the honest scent of earth and pine back home with him. He remembered his father, sitting in a deck chair in the allotment, enjoying the morning glories and the summer sunshine. He had been near the end. The old man’s clothes swam around his skeletal frame. Not now! Not now!
Marshalling his thoughts, van den Bergen turned to Marie. ‘Go on. Play it.’
There was the blonde woman. She was dressed in a PVC catsuit, which clung to her body like a shining, black second skin. Slim and honed like a gymnast but for disproportionately large, orb-like breasts that sat high on her chest. Hair tied severely into a high ponytail. Smiling at the camera with lascivious, crimson-lipped promise. Smoky made-up eyes with black false lashes. She was probably a high-cheekboned natural beauty underneath all the paint. Clutching at a cat-o-nine tails. Swish, swish. Whipping it provocatively between her own legs. The picture was of a high quality, though there was no sound. The setting was a large bedroom that could have been anywhere, its focal point, a brass bedstead framing a mattress that had been wrapped in a red satin sheet. There were no windows to gauge the age of the building in which this took place. The bare walls were painted black. And there was no other star of this movie. Only the blonde woman.
It began with auto-erotic scenes, where the woman played mischievously to the camera. Slowly peeling away the PVC. But with a series of obvious edits, the action degenerated quickly into something that was more akin to a horror film. The woman was on her back. Naked, spread-eagled and strung by her wrists and ankles between the posts of the iron bedstead. Subject to all manner of sadistic acts – all perpetrated by someone just off screen, using the sort of implements one would find in a builder’s toolbox – and culminating in dismemberment with a hedge trimmer, which, despite having seen the film four times already, still made Elvis squeak and squeeze his eyes shut.
Marie turned the camera off. Placed it on the dash. Exhaled heavily. Hooked her red hair behind her ear and started to finger a scab on her cheek.
‘What do you think, Marie?’ van den Bergen asked, turning to his almost perfectly composed passenger. ‘You’re my internet-nasty expert. Looks very much like a recording of a murder. Snuff porn, maybe? Could the mattress in the footage be the one upstairs in this house, minus the sheet?’
‘Whatever it is, it’s disgusting,’ Elvis said, pulling a box of cigarettes out of his breast pocket. ‘Just…just…horrible.’
‘Not in here!’ van den Bergen said, eyeing the cigarettes venomously. ‘Let Marie speak.’
Marie blushed. Tugged at the turtle neck of her green jumper. ‘Well, it’s certainly not a recording of either of the Jane Doe murders we’re looking at. Both of those women were at least left their limbs.’
Van den Bergen scrutinised Marie. How the hell did this girl even sleep at night? She had never once taken up the force’s offer of counselling, to help her do the job she did. He sighed. It was a damned crummy profession they were in. Briefly, he felt a pang of nostalgia for his time as a fine art student. Ancient history, now.
‘I need to see this on my big monitor, boss,’ Marie said. She bit her bottom lip; looked through the windscreen at the builders, who were now talking to Kees. ‘It’s certainly not continuous footage and if it is snuff…’ she inclined her head in the direction of the building site ‘…it definitely hasn’t been recorded in that attic with a camera just stuck on top of a tripod. There are close-ups, for a start. From different angles. Someone was walking around the room while they were filming. Maybe there was a second camera man.’
Elvis leaned forward again, blasting van den Bergen with a whiff of peppermint. He chewed gum noisily. Clack, clack, clack. ‘What’s the bet another body turns up in the next couple of days? I think Hasselblad’s right. We’ve got a serial killer on our hands.’
Van den Bergen grimaced. ‘You sound like a Friesian cow chewing hay, do you know that?’ But though Elvis irritated him, his focus did not waver from Iwan Buczkowski. Speaking on his phone. Leaning with one arm above his head against the van. ‘Somebody was behind the lens. Some depraved bastard wielded those tools and that hedge trimmer. The print Kees lifted belongs to someone.’
Just then, Kees walked around the bonnet of the car and rapped on the glass, driver’s side, with the edge of his notebook.
At the push of a button, the window slid down with a satisfying whir. ‘You knock on my car like that again, and I’ll knock you all the way down to traffic detail,’ van den Bergen said. ‘What do you want?’
Kees leaned in. His putty-pallor was gone now, and had been replaced by flame-cheeked enthusiasm – almost palpably buzzing. ‘Been quizzing those builders a bit more. Getting chatty, like.’
‘And?’
