Black Widow (22 page)

The décor was somewhat clinical, and sparse. There was one leather reclining chair on the bare-wood floor, pointing straight at a wall-mounted flat-screen. A pair of beanbags flanked it. There was no cooker, just a microwave; no curtains, just blinds.

‘A proper bachelor pad,’ Wever approved. ‘No cushions, y’see? Not a single one. And these floors – you could strip a cylinder head on these floors.’ He turned to Scholten, a plaintive look in his eye. ‘Why is it that women need so many cushions, Antje?’

The profiler glanced towards the open bedroom door, made a nervous sound. ‘Are you asking me as a professional, or a woman?’

Van Kempen joined in. ‘Well, I’m not sure an addiction to soft furnishings is a
crime
, exactly. It’s more of a quirk of gender, isn’t it?’

Tanja glanced at Pieter. He clearly wanted to dive straight into Theo’s bedroom – perhaps to get it over with – but obviously felt that there was a hierarchy to be observed. Well, he would lose that politeness after a few more months on the job. She made a scan of the living room, noting that Wever and van Kempen were doing the same, even as they discussed cushions or whatever, then pushed past Pieter.

One look at the dead man was enough to confirm that they were dealing with a third victim. The mutilation was so precise in each case: one eye depressed, the other excised. The worm of the optic nerve. The bloating to the face, the hardening of the tongue.

There was one difference – more blood. A lot more. It lay in congealed streaks down the man’s cheeks, and was pooled around him on the sheets. It suggested that he’d been alive during the mutilation. The garrotte had presumably been applied simultaneously or afterwards.

‘Looks like she’s refining her craft,’ van Kempen said. ‘They do that. Subtle changes creep in over the course of time.’

‘How did she manage to restrain him, though?’ Tanja wondered.

There was no headboard this time, nothing for the killer to fasten her cuffs to. There were still marks about Gentz’ wrists, suggesting that they’d been cuffed together, but that didn’t explain why he hadn’t been able to fight back.

Tanja recalled the ease with which Alex had fought her off the previous night, the memory suddenly bright in her mind. God, had she really tried to hit him?

Worse than that – she’d threatened to kill him, too! Some sort of apology was probably in order.

Wever crossed his hands together, and mimed a punch. He was inhibited, but could still generate a degree of power. And then, of course, Gentz would still have been able to kick; there was no evidence that his feet had been bound.

‘I think you’ve got a point,’ Wever said. ‘Young man like this shouldn’t have had too much trouble fighting off an older woman.’ He peered closer. ‘That blood – almost looks as if he was crying, the poor bastard.’

There was a retching sound. Tanja looked over her shoulder, to see Antje stagger away. Yes, there was a
world
of difference between theory and actuality.

‘You think she might have drugged him?’ Pieter wondered.

Tanja shrugged. ‘Maybe. But the thing with the eyes – I don’t know. I don’t know if that means she wants to be seen, or the opposite of that.’

Wever grunted. ‘Antje was quite specific in that regard. The killer blinds the man because she doesn’t want him to see her naked. Drugging him to insensibility would be quite consistent, don’t you think?’

‘And there is a degree of autonomy to sexual function,’ van Kempen noted.

Tanja shook her head. ‘Just because Scholten says something is true, it doesn’t necessarily follow that it is. What about the blood? That doesn’t suggest a post-mortem mutilation to me.’

‘I’d imagine his blood pressure would have been off the scale,’ Pieter mused. ‘If the garrotte were untied immediately after death, the residual pressure might still have been sufficient to cause the exaggerated blood loss. Like knocking a hole in a dam.’

Van Kempen nodded slowly, and fixed Pieter with a look of approval. He probably played golf with Kissin’s old man, Tanja thought sourly.

Erik Polderhuis poked his head round the door. ‘What’s this I hear? Our tame missing link diversifying into forensic pathology?’

‘Just a theory,’ Pieter shrugged.

‘Is it plausible, Erik?’ Wever asked.

‘Maybe,’ the medical examiner grunted. ‘But there are many variables. No two stiffs behave in exactly the same way. You’d be amazed at the difference relative blood viscosity can make, for instance.’ He turned to van Kempen. ‘Who are you? I haven’t seen you before.’

‘This is Hoofdinspecteur van Kempen,’ Wever said. ‘He’s KLPD.’

‘I hate acronyms,’ Polderhuis said. ‘Anyway, to work. Give me some room, will you!’

Back in the dining room, Wever paced about, his hands folded behind his back. Van Kempen watched him impassively. Tanja wished that they would simply go away and let her get on with things. Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth; she wasn’t sure how much longer she would be able to hold her temper.

‘There’s no evidence that the killer took a shower, afterwards,’ Pieter said as he emerged from the bathroom. ‘Looks like she was in a greater hurry than before.’

‘She’d be more exposed here,’ Tanja agreed. ‘Neighbours tend to be more observant than hotel guests. I’ll have Karl look into it in more detail, though.’

‘Already on it, chief,’ Visser answered.

‘So what else do we know about Mr Gentz?’ Wever asked.

‘A little more than we did five minutes ago,’ van Kempen replied. He withdrew a Blackberry from his pocket, or something like a Blackberry. ‘Theo Roderick Gentz. Twenty-eight. Worked as a nurse for three years at the Medisch Centrum. Latterly employed in similar role at the “New Look” cosmetic surgery clinic.’

Tanja stood very still, at least on the outside. But her heart –

Pieter whistled, and took Antje’s report from his pocket. He scanned it, clearly excited. ‘It says here that the woman we are looking for “obsesses over her appearance”. Maybe I’m reading too much into it – but do you think she might have been a patient at the clinic?’

Wever nodded his head a fraction. ‘Professor Scholten?’ he called out.

There was a distant groan, then Antje poked her head around the door. She leant against the door frame. ‘What?’

‘Do you think it’s possible that the Cougar Killer might have undergone any cosmetic procedures?’

Antje waved a hand in non-committal fashion. ‘Quite possibly. It would be consistent.’ She thought about it a while longer. ‘On the other hand, some women’s characters are so rooted in their physical self-loathing that the thought of having a professional do something about it is actually anathema to them. They’d rather get even, as it were, than better.’ She coughed into the back of her hand. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to go outside.’

‘So what do we think?’ Pieter asked eagerly, as the green-faced profiler walked briskly away.

‘It’s certainly worth a look,’ van Kempen answered, before Wever could respond. ‘Tanja? Worth a look, you think?’

‘I suppose so,’ she replied. ‘But what about patient confidentiality and so on?’

‘I’ll make a few calls to smooth the way,’ van Kempen answered. ‘I think it’s justifiable, under the circumstances. So, the clinic should be able to give us a list of patients who match our suspect’s age profile.’

‘Right,’ said Tanja. ‘A list, yes. I’ll go there myself. Right now. If you can take care of things here, Anders?’

‘Sure,’ Wever answered.

‘I’ll come with you,’ Pieter said.

Tanja shook her head. ‘No need. Stay and see if you can learn anything from Gentz’ neighbours.’

‘Trusting me to branch out on my own now, ma’am?’

‘Perhaps,’ Tanja answered, forcing a smile. ‘Anyway, I won’t be long.’

She headed outside, before they could think to call her back. If her name was on that list, she needed to be the first to know. She felt a hot flush, of shame.

She passed Antje Scholten on the stairs. Tanja squeezed past her without a word.

*

There was no stamp on the letter; it had been dropped straight into her letterbox. She held it up to the light, her hands shaking as she read the note again.

I know what you have done. And I approve! Mikael Ruben was a pig. He needed to be put down
.

Not blackmail, as she’d thought on first reading. This was
fan
mail. Of all the ridiculous things. She moved to the kitchen, to make herself a calming mug of tea. She caught a glimpse of the apothecary’s jars as she did so, lit now with a subtle arrangement of up and down-lighters. It made for a beautiful sight.

So, the last thing I want is to tell the police what I know. I don’t want you to break off your great work, not at all. I want you to carry on with it…

‘So do I, Ms Whatever-your-name-is.’ She was fairly sure that her correspondent was female, or else a gay man. Only women and homosexuals called men
pigs
.

She was also sure, now, that the feeling of foreboding which had come to her in the run up to Ruben’s murder had been justified. Someone
had
been following her.

So – please forgive my pushiness – but there is one man in particular who I think would be worthy of your attentions. His name is Lander Brill. If you take care of him, and provide proof by noon tomorrow (Tuesday!), then you will have my undying gratitude, and loyalty…

So it was a blackmail note after all.

There were further details, advising of Mr Brill’s likely whereabouts, and how the killer should go about providing her proof.

She closed her eyes, frightened, disorientated, excited, angry. She had no wish to move beyond her own terms of reference, so carefully, so precisely constructed, but it seemed she had no choice. She wasn’t yet ready to abandon her spree, and if that meant that she had to kill a stranger, then so be it.

She moved to her wardrobe. Her dresses were neatly divided into the frumpy, the tarty, the elegant, and the sober, though it had required a good deal of effort on her part to draw those distinctions. They all seemed the same to her, each a transparent shroud. She always felt naked, whatever she wore.

But the common people, and the men in particular, didn’t see the world as she saw it. She selected a blue dress, of unknown connotation. She didn’t know Lander Brill, what sort of man he was; it hardly mattered what she wore.

*

Big Wigs was found in one of the
Oude Zijde's
numerous alleys, a little shop at the end of a cobbled nook. There were few places as resolutely picturesque as this portion of Amsterdam, and few shops which seemed as rooted in a distant century. No one bought wigs nowadays, as far as Gus was aware. Yet here it was. And here he was. It felt as if he’d stumbled on a secret world. Another one. His loathing of tourists aside, Gus felt that he could easily have written the coolest guide book, ever.

‘What I need,’ Gus said to the assistant, ‘are a few more like this.’ He handed over the blood-spattered wig. ‘Actually, when I say “like this,” I mean
exactly
like this. Is that something you could help with?’

The assistant held the wig before him. ‘It’s one of ours,’ he said.

Gus felt a familiar shiver along his spine, as if someone were dragging a knife down his vertebrae. He had the same feeling when about to ejaculate; he liked it.

‘Hey, yeah?’ he said. ‘Fancy that. How can you tell?’

‘We use a certain type of hair. We are the only importer in the country. It’s quite obvious, to the trained eye.’

Gus felt a bit squeamish. ‘That’s real hair?’

‘Of course.’

‘And that lasts, does it?’

The assistant bristled. ‘Sir – have you ever seen an Egyptian mummy?’

‘Well, not in the flesh,’ Gus admitted.

‘If you had, you would know that human hair can last thousands of years.’

‘I see,’ said Gus.

‘But you must have been told that, when you bought the original New Yorker.’

‘New Yorker?’

‘As this model is termed.’

‘Oh, I didn’t buy it,’ Gus hastened to explain. ‘I inherited it.’

The assistant gave no indication that he in any way considered this an unusual bequest. He sighed. ‘Then I am sorry for your loss.’

‘Yeah?’

‘It must have been recent, yes? I say that because we have only been using this type of hair for six months. We had a Mongolian supplier, before, but we’ve since gone Indonesian. We still have a certain colonial influence there. It makes contract negotiation easier.’

Gus only needed a second of thinking time. ‘Aunt Helen,’ he said, with an artful slump of his shoulders. ‘She had cancer. The chemo – well, she’d always been so proud of her hair. When her own started to fall out, she tried to cover it up.’

The assistant gave a sympathetic smile. ‘We have many stories like that.’

‘Yeah. I bet you get a real cross-section of customers, right?’

‘I suppose.’ The assistant looked at the wig in more detail. ‘But what are these stains?’

Gus looked sheepish. ‘My son – I’m afraid he was playing with it. I told him it was too important for that, but he wouldn’t listen. Next thing I know he’s trying to empty a bottle of pickled beetroot over it.’

‘Ah!’ The assistant opened a leather-bound ledger, throwing up a cloud of dust as he did so. ‘So when you say that you are looking for a
few
hairpieces, how many do you mean?’

Gus had long since lost any interest he may have had in the world of wigs. But he continued to elaborate; an opening was bound to present sooner or later. The ledger – he needed that ledger. There was a tantalising glimpse of names and telephone numbers.

‘Oh – ten wigs should be enough,’ he answered. ‘I’m here on behalf of my amateur dramatics group. We’re putting on a sort of musical tribute to Abba. We have a fairly big chorus line. Not sure why, exactly! Anyway, the director is keen that they should all look, well, you know – Swedish.’

The assistant looked up, peering at Gus over the rim of his glasses. ‘I should warn you – this won’t be cheap. You are looking at two hundred euro each, for work of equivalent quality.’

‘Oh, that’s fine. We have a rich patron.’