Authors: Isadora Bryan
Her number one fan was coming; she could feel it.
So, it was the perfect location. With a few exceptions, the graves hereabouts were amongst the oldest in the cemetery, and, grief being the laughably perishable commodity that it was, no one ever thought to visit them.
It was quiet.
She didn’t know how she was going to deal with her stalker. She had her scalpel; it would probably come down to that. Still, she would doubtless have to make most of it up as she went along.
She hated that sort of thing. Hated being unprepared. A day was nothing like enough time.
A figure was approaching. A young woman, short-haired, her tentative footsteps alternating with what seemed to be lunges of excitement.
The killer hummed a few lines of Tchaikovsky, and briefly imagined herself a dying bird on a bottomless lake.
But this wasn’t about her own end; not today. She had a pair of binoculars. She focused –
Ursula, was it? Ursula Huisman? The gangling self-harmer. Ursula probably thought it was a great secret, but sometimes her sleeves rode up, and the woman who sat watching didn’t miss much.
People who cut themselves generally did so because they were too cowardly to take out their anger on others. What a contemptible little fool.
But how, and why, had she got involved in all this?
Ah, of course, Ursula was a friend of Maria. Well, well.
The woman chewed on her lip, momentarily smothered with indecision. She wasn’t used to it. Not in recent times, at least.
Ursula was an evil little thing. Not to be trusted. She needed to be put down.
The killer sucked on her knife, letting the sharp metal nick her tongue. What to do?
But what was this? Another girl, dressed in black, moving so quickly through the gravestones that she couldn’t get a proper view of her.
The other girl broke cover.
Maria, now? Darling little Maria?
Damn that Ursula. She’d told, she’d told, she’d
told
.
But Maria had something in her hand. Something which glistened, bright and sharp. A knife of her own.
Ursula stood very still as Maria approached. Maybe she hadn’t noticed the knife, which was now held behind Maria’s back. Maria drew nearer, one heavy step at a time. Her long skirt, made of some dark velvet, billowed gently in the breeze.
She leant forward, her mouth pressed to Ursula’s ear.
Ursula listened, intently, then took a sudden, jerking step back.
Too late. The knife scythed round, slicing her across her guts, and now her neck, now stabbing her in the eye.
Blood. Blood. Ursula fell, snatching at her throat, Maria on top of her, relentless, stabbing, again and again.
The woman didn’t understand what was going on. But it didn’t matter. Ursula was dead. Or she soon would be.
She walked slowly away, thinking how strange it was – the world of men, and women. So frenzied, so random.
She didn’t feel a part of it. She felt in control.
If a little hungry.
On the way home, she came across a small tortoiseshell cat, sitting on a gravestone. Its attention was fixed on a patch of long grass; judging by the swish of its tail, it was on the hunt. She studied it for a moment, not sure if she should be enchanted by the mindless nature of its game, or rather a little insulted by it. Killing was a serious business.
She made a soft clucking noise, which the cat seemed to find agreeable. It broke of its surveillance and pattered towards her.
She stroked it once, then scooped it up, placing it inside her jacket.
She had an experiment in mind.
*
With one half of the cosmetic surgery list in hand (it ran to some fifty entries in total) Tanja leafed through the stack of bar receipts, searching for a match. She didn’t expect to find anything at all; in some respects she was counting on it.
She was so determined to be proved right, in fact, that she almost missed it.
But damn it, there it was. A shared name.
She checked back and forth, then brought the documents close together.
Greta Mach.
A patron of both the Cougar Club, and the New Look Clinic.
Pieter placed his half of the list on the dashboard. ‘Seems we might be onto something,’ he said. His eyes were bright with excitement.
He would lose
that
, in time; develop his game-face.
‘Luck,’ Tanja responded stubbornly. ‘Coincidence. And besides, it might not even be the same Greta Mach.’
‘But we have to check it out, don’t you think?’
‘If we must.’ Tanja fussed at her collar for a moment. ‘We’ve probably got an hour until the lazy bastards at the Prosecutor’s office get the warrant to search Sophia’s place sorted, I suppose.’
Pieter seemed surprised. ‘I’m not sure we’re interested in Sophia any more, are we?’
‘Oh right, because of course this Greta Mach is now our number one suspect. But we still have to replace the folder, don’t we?’
Pieter didn’t seem to notice her sarcasm. Either that or he was becoming immune to it. He glanced again at the list. ‘Says here we’ll find Greta out at – Palmstraat?’
‘North Jordaan.’
Pieter nodded, and dialled the Communications Centre. ‘Yeah,’ he said into his phone. ‘Detective Kissin. Could you run a check? Thanks… Greta Mach. Address is 23 Palmstraat. Sure, I’ll wait.’
He had his answer less than thirty seconds later. He listened intently, sighed, then put the phone down.
‘Well?’ said Tanja.
‘Nothing,’ he answered. ‘And I mean, absolutely nothing. No speeding convictions, no parking convictions, nothing. But it doesn’t prove a thing. Serial killers can be quite mindful of the law, in general terms. They’ll go out of their way to avoid drawing unnecessary attention to themselves.’
Tanja’s phone rang. She tended to get ten or twenty calls during a typical working day, the curse of the mobile age. Mostly it was Wever checking how she was getting on, or Visser dutifully reporting his lack of meaningful findings, or so on.
It was Harald. ‘There’s been another murder,’ he said without preamble.
‘Shit. Our friend’s work?’
‘No, nothing so fancy. A girl, this time. Stabbed in the Nieuwe Ooster. Just thought you should know, if you’re planning to tie up more resources at any point. We’ve also looking into the Lander Brill case, don’t forget.’
‘Of course. You going to deal with it, Harald?’
‘Yeah, why not,’ he acquiesced. ‘Sleep’s wasted on me, anyway. But there’s only so much we can do. Maybe it’s time we started drafting in officers from the other stations?’
‘If only,’ Tanja sighed. ‘We’ll be overrun with KLPD first. Keep me informed.’
‘Will do.’ Harald hung up.
Tanja looked up at the sky. It all looked quite innocuous, grey and cool now in the traditional Amsterdam fashion. Yet there was clearly something in the air. Five murders in less than a week? It was unprecedented. They averaged forty a year in the city.
And it wasn’t yet evening; there was plenty of time for the killer to strike again.
Unless they got to her first. Greta Mach? It still seemed a long-shot to Tanja’s mind, but it was all they had. She turned the key. The Opel started first time.
*
It hadn’t taken Gus too long to recover from the embarrassment of Sophia’s unscheduled visit. Rather than agonise over it, he’d thrown himself back into his work.
With spectacular results. The last name on his shortlist, Hester Goldberg, was neither dead, nor disconcerted by his call. She rather expressed gratitude.
‘Ah, how embarrassing! I’ve been looking all over for that,’ she said, in a voice which struck Gus as being slightly familiar, though he couldn’t think why.
But that was only a small matter, compared to the rampant thrill which was currently making a whore of his nervous system. His whole body seemed to be tingling, demanding more excitement.
I’ve got you, bitch
.
‘Right,’ said Gus, still calm on the outside.
‘Where did you find it?’ Hester asked pleasantly.
‘Not entirely sure, Ms Goldberg! The gentleman who handed it in didn’t hang around to chat.’
‘I’m a lucky person, though. I mean, how many people would go to that much trouble?’
‘It’s a heart-warming tale.’ Gus said piously.
‘I’ll be over in the morning to pick it up, if that’s all right.’
‘In the morning?’ Gus queried. ‘Not this afternoon?’
‘I’m a little busy.’
‘Fine,’ Gus answered. ‘Shall we say ten o’clock?’
A pause. ‘Why so precise?’
‘Well, I wasn’t planning to open up tomorrow in truth,’ he elaborated. ‘I’m off on a trip to Rotterdam with the family. But I need to pop in and pick up a few things myself. I’ll be there at ten.’
‘Well, okay then. Thank you so much.’
He hung up. He took a few moments to compose himself, then thought,
fuck that, why not show a little
.
He banged his hand on the desk, three times. His colleagues looked up, most appreciating what it meant: not only was Gus back in the saddle, but he was galloping hard towards the finishing line. He stood, ostensibly to fetch a coffee, in reality to let them get a better view of his brilliance. Soon enough this memory would be all that they had left of him. He was on his way!
He could hardly wait until tomorrow; he needed something
now
. Sophia – she really was a bitch, coming to the office like that. But he would have his revenge soon enough, when he finally got round to making it up to her. He’d seen a few DVDs; he had some tricks in mind.
Yes, a night of dirty, meaningless sex, followed by a morning of ground-breaking investigative journalism. He couldn’t think of anything better.
*
According to Erik Polderhuis’ preliminary assessment, the murdered girl had been stabbed at least twenty times. Her black clothes were torn all over, revealing pitiful slivers of clean flesh amidst the blood and basking snakes of greasy intestine. Harald stood to one side of the tent, sucking furiously on a boiled sweet. He was more or less immune to the gore, but that horrible sense of being hemmed in was a different matter. He tried to take his mind off it by focusing on Polderhuis’ precise movements.
No, it was no good; he needed air.
There was plenty to be done outside. Standing to one side, her head bowed, stood Ursula Huisman’s killer.
Slam, and indeed, dunk. Harald liked his American sports, if for no other reason than the frequent breaks in play allowed for plenty of quality fridge time. And this was possibly the slammiest-dunkiest result of his career. Maybe, just this once, he deserved his nickname.
He’d already ascertained that Ursula’s killer was Maria Berger. The Arrest Team had taken her down with the knife still in her hand, and a torrent of abuse still on her lips. She’d confessed immediately.
‘Tell me again,’ Harald said. ‘I want to be sure that I’ve got this absolutely straight. You
definitely
killed her?’
‘Yes,’ said Maria.
‘Why?’ Harald held his breath. This was the good bit; the unbelievably good bit.
Maria looked him in the eye. Christ, she was beautiful. For various reasons, Harald had decided that he would never lust after a woman again, but this was the sort of beauty that could make a man forget himself.
And by the time she gets out
, he thought,
she’ll be forty-something, and haggard, and you’ll be dead
.
Still, enjoy the moment.
‘Why did I kill her?’ Maria answered in a flat voice. ‘Because she killed Mikael, that’s why.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
Her look said that she was. Harald folded his arms across his chest, feeling the dangerous thump of his heart. It didn’t bother him unduly. He had some pills at home. Sometimes he took them, sometimes he didn’t. His pharmaceutical intake was an effective barometer for his mood.
He focused instead on the implications of Maria’s testimony. If Ursula had killed Mikael, then it stood to reason that she’d also killed James Anderson and Theo Gentz.
Didn’t it? Yes, of course it did. The MO was unique, and way beyond the compass of even the most dedicated copy-cat killer. At least in the short term.
Three for the price of one. Now there was a bargain.
‘I’d do it again,’ Maria stated.
‘Yeah? No remorse then, love?’
Maria considered the question. ‘No remorse,’ she said.
Harald made a note of it. She was under caution. It would all count for something, should she later change her mind.
‘Janssen! Get in here!’ It was Polderhuis’ voice.
‘Oh, you old bastard,’ Harald muttered. But still he ducked back inside the tent, where he saw that Polderhuis was holding something with a pair of tweezers. A photograph. He held it up before Harald.
Harald rubbed at the corner of his eye, to remove the residue of sleep. Still, his eyes weren’t as sharp as they’d been. He had to get in close.
He saw a body, slumped against a door.
Holy shit, it was Lander Brill. Make that four murders. And counting?
‘Found it in her pocket,’ Erik said. ‘There’s also
this
.’
Harald was presented with a piece of paper, carefully folded. He opened it, to reveal a map, of south east Amsterdam. The borders of the cemetery were marked with red ink. And within that boundary, a red cross.
He carefully bagged the evidence, then handed it to Lucia. He was experiencing that rarest of all feelings: a degree of professional satisfaction. If every day were like this, then he might almost take pleasure in his work.
It didn’t matter to Harald that Lander Brill’s murder in no way matched the Cougar Killer’s usual MO. And nor did it matter that Ursula was barely twenty, when all the witness statements pointed to an older woman. She had the kind of face that looked older (which, incidentally, might have benefited from a trip to the New Look clinic). Factor in the wig, and the darkness, and it wasn’t such a stretch to believe that he’d solved the case.
Harald could hardly wait to tell Tanja. More than anyone he knew, she deserved a break.
Tanja’s calm demeanour was starting to get to Pieter. He could hardly sit still in his seat, yet she was a study in inscrutability. Not even the Amsterdam traffic seemed to rile her.