Authors: Isadora Bryan
Gus de Groot waited in a café across the street from Big Wigs, the Anglo-Dutch hairpiece emporium, which had taken up a position of prime importance at the centre of his investigation. His fourth coffee of the morning had barely scratched the surface of his tiredness, but that was all right. It was important that a man should suffer for his craft – it made the memoirs more entertaining. Other than that, being awake, when every part of his body was clamouring for rest, was a fairly trippy experience. He’d never tried mushrooms, or any other hallucinogenic drug, but he’d written a few pieces implying that he had, and imagined that the effect would be similar.
His night with Sophia Faruk had been wilder than ever. The fact that she now knew him to be a journalist hadn’t put her off. She’d rather suggested a role play, whereby she was the Cougar Killer, and he a sort of Hunter S figure. He’d found the suggestion to be in remarkably poor taste, and all the better for it.
She still swore blind that she had no idea who the actual killer was. And Gus was minded to believe her. It was hard for a woman to lie, when a highly inquisitive tongue was lodged so persuasively between her legs.
Anyway, whilst Sophia had slept, he’d been up for what had been left of the night, further researching his story by visiting every MILF site he could find. He’d rather quickly become ensnared, but that was all right too, because he’d come to appreciate that middle-aged tits were still tits, and not to be sniffed at.
But this was now, and the game moved on. Gus had heard people talk of ‘journalistic transparency’, but he wanted nothing to do with it; this was as much about him as the killer. And in years to come students the world over would adorn their walls with his poster. He and Hunter would be mentioned in the same breath, he was sure.
‘Gonna get me a gun,’ he said aloud, in a drawl of American English.
‘What?’ said a woman at the adjoining table.
Gus looked at her obliquely, which was a challenge, as she was as fat as a bag of pigs – as they may or may not have said in the Vechtstreek – and tended to fill his field of vision.
He was preparing an insult, but at that moment he noticed a woman in a hat, entering the wig shop. No one else had approached during his surveillance, and the timing was spot on. It had to be Hester Goldberg.
He waited with growing impatience, then a sense of triumph, as he saw her reappear. She looked around herself, clearly agitated, as if afraid that she was being followed.
He stepped outside, crossing the street in a series of lengthy strides. He caught a better view of the woman as she retrieved her bicycle. What he saw was hard to reconcile.
Gus wasn’t easily shocked. But even he felt a little queasy as he saw who it was.
Not Hester Goldberg; Antje Scholten.
The
Antje Scholten.
Gus started to think in bigger terms. Did they give out a Nobel Prize for journalism?
Maybe I should phone the police
, he mused.
Then he thought, Fuck the police. This was his story! And there was nothing she could do to hurt him. She was just a woman, and a middle-aged woman at that. He was Gus de Groot, in his prime.
He allowed her to get a start, then hurried after. He ran when she wasn’t looking back over her shoulder, walked when she was. She didn’t suspect a thing. Gus had spent so many years mixing with the city’s lowlifes that he knew all their moves; he knew how to blend into the shadows. At one point, she stopped, took a black bag out of her basket, and dropped it into a skip situated beneath some scaffolding. He didn’t have time to check it.
Gus briefly considered the possibility that it was a coincidence, that Scholten had been at the shop on official business; that maybe she was following her own lead. But only briefly. That scenario didn’t fit his plans; besides, it wasn’t in the profiler’s makeup to do the footwork herself. She would leave that sort of thing to Pino.
Wherever
she
was. Gus’ source at the station, the girl with the mismatched boobs, had been quick to let him know that the once fearsome detective inspector was in the frame for the murders, and had accordingly vanished.
A quick phone call to Tanja’s superiors would surely be a great help to her in that regard. But Gus knew he had to prioritise. And besides, he didn’t like Pino; she’d always been a complete bitch to him. Let her sweat it for a while.
He was starting to tire, and dropping further behind. But no matter. He’d stayed with his quarry long enough to see her enter the university complex. He believed she had a room there. He would find it easily enough.
The name was like the first notes of the familiar tune, which roused a victim of brain trauma from their coma. ‘Scholten?’ Tanja echoed. ‘Did you say
Scholten
?’
Hester nodded slowly, as though she knew she was being led into a trap. ‘Yes. Hans. Hans Scholten.’
‘And would he have a sister, by any chance?’
‘Yes,’ Hester replied. ‘Little Antje. She came to live with us in England when she was, oh, ten or eleven, I suppose. I remember what a bright girl she was. Quiet – she used to sit in the corner a lot – but so
sharp
.’
‘She didn’t come to the funeral?’
‘No,’ Hester answered, cold again. ‘Look, what’s this about?’
Tanja wished she had Goldberg in the interrogation room. There was nothing like those four bare walls to focus the mind.
No, scrub that: the interview room was luxurious, compared to
this.
‘Why didn’t she come?’ Tanja pressed.
‘How should I know? Hans asked her, but she refused. She isn’t the friendly sort. Maybe she thinks she’s too good for us now.’
‘How old was Cornelius when Antje lived with you?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Tell me,’ Tanja said.
Hester shuddered. ‘Thirty, maybe? No, a little younger.’
Silence settled over the room. Tanja was aware that she was breathing heavily. She took a series of calming breaths, falling back on an old technique, but it was no use. The air only fuelled her heart’s mad beat. This wasn’t like other investigations; there was no experience to draw upon.
‘So why didn’t Antje stay in touch with you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Hester replied.
‘I think you do.’
‘Please, leave me be!’
Tanja shook her head. ‘You think you are miserable, right now? Well, keep your secret, and I promise you things
will
get worse.’
‘You can’t treat me like this!’ Hester cried.
‘The man I love is dead, you selfish bitch! Dead because of your impotence. I’ll ask any question I damn well choose. Tell me! Why wouldn’t Antje go to your brother’s funeral?’
Hester groaned. ‘Why do you keep asking these questions? You already know the answer.’
Tanja frowned. ‘You mentioned that Cornelius got into trouble, in England.’
Hester hung her head. ‘Yes. He was put on a list. A
register
, I think they call it in English.’
‘He abused Antje?’
Hester looked away, and so confirmed everything. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘You must leave. I can’t stand any more of this.’
Tanja scanned the room again, her eye once more settling on that square of paler colour. ‘Do you have any other photos of Cornelius?’
‘I threw them away,’ she answered, wringing her hands.
‘All of them?’
Hester straightened her shoulders, then walked in an almost stately manner to a bureau. She rummaged through the drawer and took out a battered old photo. ‘I had to keep this one,’ she confessed, even as a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth; and for a moment she seemed much younger. ‘This was taken on his fortieth birthday. We had some of our family round. It didn’t happen very often. But anyway, I remember that Cornelius was on great form that day, that he played nicely with the children, and spoke kindly to the adults. He was just like I had imagined a big brother should be.’
Tanja snatched the photo from Hester’s fingers, almost tearing it in two. She held it up to the light, pressing the pieces together, seeing the face, so familiar, so hated, so
powerful
.
As ever, she imagined how it must have been for Lisa, for Hilaire, for Greta, looking up into those
eyes
. For little Debre, who had escaped, only to fall into a deeper pit, from which she couldn’t escape. Debre, who had been found wandering in the white dress the Butcher had made her wear, a baby thrush in her hands. Apparently her tormentor had liked to demonstrate his dexterity by catching birds in a net, and breaking them before his victims’ eyes. But Debre hadn’t realised that her friend was dead, and when they tried to take it from her, she screamed, and screamed, and would not stop.
Tanja lurched to the sink, and was sick across the draining board. Not for the vision of the girls’ suffering; rather for the shock of learning, finally, the Butcher’s identity.
But she had to fight it; in the same way that she’d painstakingly set her grief for Alex aside, so she did her best to shut out that more longstanding horror.
Hardness came to her. She embraced it; she needed it.
Cornelius Goldberg
.
The contours had been fleshed out in the photofit, but there was no doubt. He was smiling in the photo, looking quizzically at the photographer as if wondering what he or she saw in him.
‘Did you take this?’ Tanja asked.
‘Yes.’
Then maybe ‘the photographer’ had seen more than Cornelius could ever have guessed. And yet she’d kept it all to herself. She’d kept that secret, and little girls had died.
And now Cornelius was dead, beyond any hope of punishment. Tanja would never have a chance to make up for her failure.
‘You must have known it was him,’ she said to Hester. ‘Who killed those little girls. You cowardly, stupid bitch.’
‘I didn’t know,’ Hester sobbed.
Was that true? Tanja knew as well as any that a thing could be in front of your eyes, and you could still refuse to see it.
But – and this, perhaps, was the crux of it – Antje Scholten had known exactly what Alex meant to her. She’d watched them work together; seen how close they were. Had she known all along who they were chasing? Why hadn’t she said?
And if no one else blamed Tanja for Cornelius’ escape, then it seemed that the professor very much did. And her hatred was boundless.
The first problem was finding a way past the amorphous blob of fur which lazed on the steps of the faculty building. Gus’ natural assumption was that it was a guard dog, but as he drew closer, the animal started to wag its tail; it actually seemed pleased to see him.
‘Um, good boy?’ Gus hedged, patting the thing on its shaggy head. Strands of dark hair came off on his fingers. The dog licked them clean. Gus wiped his hand on a tumble of ivy.
He examined the dog’s collar.
My name is Zwerver
, he read.
I belong to the Department of Criminology, UvA
. ‘Cute,’ said Gus. He stepped over the animal, into the half-lit hall beyond.
Gus quickly came to the conclusion that the building had been designed by a Victorian pothead. Corridors bent back on themselves, while stained-glass windows offered psychedelic views out over secret courtyard gardens. The ceilings were low, but just out of reach; whilst the bare floors were fashioned from wood buffed by hundreds of soles to a shine.
He found a sign at the base of a staircase.
Professor Antje J. Scholten, Chair of Criminology
.
And Murder
, Gus thought.
The Criminology department was found on the top floor. The secretary’s desk was vacant; there was a further sign, saying,
back tomorrow
. Perfect!
He knocked once on the professor’s door, but there was no answer. He tried the handle. Unlocked. He turned it slowly, and peered inside. ‘Professor?’
He pushed open the door and stepped through. The room was very still. Very still, and very dark. A little light seeped in from behind a thick curtain, but that was it; Scholten, it seemed, was elsewhere. Gus fumbled for a light switch and flicked it over.
Shelves. And books. Lots and lots of books. He looked around, thinking that the room was perfect; that it would make for an excellent photo. There was nothing the public liked more than an educated murderer.
Actually there was one thing: an educated
murder-ess
. It was out of the ordinary; it was vaguely kinky. It was everything a journalist could hope for, and more. Because the killer was also a close friend of the police. The potential repercussions were staggering!
There was a camera built into his phone. He snapped a few shots.
But natural light would be better; he tugged open the curtains. As he did so, he gazed down on the car park below. There was no sign of Scholten’s grey BMW (he knew what car she drove, because he’d been staking out the station a few days back, and had seen her arrive in such) – but of course he knew her to be on her bicycle. She must be visiting a colleague.
Whatever, there was still no sign that she was anywhere near. Gus took a few more shots, then ran his fingers over the professor’s fixtures and fittings, tugging gently on each drawer he touched. Sixteen drawers in total, spread across two desks and three cabinets.
Only one of which was locked. Ergo –
Gus took the letter opener out of the stationery pot, and inserted it under the ridge of the desk. Basic stuff. At least as far as a sneak was concerned.
Gus frowned.
Sneak
was entirely the wrong word.
He exerted a subtle pressure on his implement, trying to feel something catch inside. If it were a simple latch, he had a chance.
The end of the opener met some resistance, and Gus applied more force. There was a soft click.
‘Oh, you fucking beauty,’ he whispered to himself.
The drawer contained a large, loosely folded piece of paper. Gus opened it out on the desk. A map of Amsterdam, marked with crosses, circles and lines in various colours. Gus was trying to decipher what it could mean when something else in the drawer caught his eye. A small black book, with a Moleskine cover. He flicked through the pages slowly, noting Scholten’s regular handwriting, packed tightly across each page without the need for ruled lines. He recognised the name Endqvist. Wasn’t that the surname of the man killed in the hit and run?