The Girl Who Wouldn't Die Part 27

The pathologist sipped from a plastic cup of water and studied the photograph of Remko through narrowed, green eyes.

Van den Bergen leaned forward. 'May I?' he asked.

She held it out so that he too could examine it. Hardened though he was to scenes of violent death, van den Bergen felt pangs of anguish as he looked again at the carbonised, folded shape in the bin that was the final bleak representation of all that Remko had been.

'He just knocked this one out and threw him away,' van den Bergen said.

'We found traces of sedative in Ratan Patil's and Joachim Guttentag's blood. Unfortunately, seeing as only one intact body part was retrieved for each man, we can't read the entire story. There was no sedative in Remko Visser's or Klaus Biedermeier's blood.'

Van den Bergen crossed his long legs and banged his knee on the underside of the desk. It made a nasty cracking noise. He was sure he had a spot of water on the knee. Too much kneeling when he potted up his dahlias.

'He kept the bodies of the bombers somewhere before he delivered them to the target of his choice,' he thought aloud. 'He wanted to keep them alive before the bombs were detonated. He stalked the other two successfully but tried different techniques on them. I'm no psychologist,' van den Bergen said, running his hand through his stiff white hair, 'but I'd say he's experimenting. Maybe. Trying to find the most enjoyable way of dispatching these wretched souls. Different ways of playing G.o.d.'

When he returned to the station, Elvis swaggered towards him, grinning.

'Why are you looking so pleased with yourself?' van den Bergen said.

'There are no ex-military men, discharged with burns, that measure up to the photo of our guy. Our photofit specialist compared all the facial proportions in the squaddies' head-shots against our man,' Elvis said.

'Did you check Germany, the Netherlands and Belgium like I asked?'

'Yep. Nothing.'

'Oh? So? That's not good news.'

Elvis brandished a copy of an email under van den Bergen's nose. 'But our guy has been to Marienhospital in Stuttgart for burns treatment. They're trialling some new bandage technique there called Suprathel or some s.h.i.+t. Like artificial skin. So, our guy goes in with severe second-degree burns, some third-degree burns all on his face, neck, upper body. Won't say how he got them. But they're happy to treat him as part of the trial.'

Van den Bergen's heartbeat broke into a canter like a spooked horse. The tic in his right eye started up. The telltale signs of being on a hot trail. A perk of the job.

'Name?'

'Second name is German. First name sounds American. Oh, s.h.i.+t. Hang on, boss. That was sent in a subsequent email. I didn't print out the full exchange. I'll just go and get it ...'

Van den Bergen wondered if Elvis could feel his eyes burning into the back of his head as he shuffled off in the direction of his computer.

Elvis stared intently at his screen for a moment, clicked for an irritatingly long time with his mouse and then looked up.

'Brandon Khler. That's it,' Elvis shouted.

'We got an address?'

'Yes, boss. A Heidelberg address.'

'Get Dieter Mann on the phone immediately. We need to move fast.'

Chapter 27.

Later

'Look. I've got something to tell you,' George said, staring out of the window to the opposite side of the quad. She could trust Sally. She was sure of it. To h.e.l.l with it. 'I've been helping with the investigation all along.' There. She had said it.

Ten minutes later, she and Sally were sitting and studying the same grainy photograph, taken by Ad, that Saeng had peered at only the day before.

Sally shook her head. 'You lied to me.' The bitterness was audible in her voice. She fixed George with a hard, penetrating stare. 'You're not supposed to be doing anything that could compromise your new ident.i.ty. And yet here you are, gadding around Europe, chasing neo-n.a.z.is by proxy and finding yourself the focus of a murderous psychopath. For G.o.d's sake, George, do you know how much it costs the government to a.s.sign someone like you a new ident.i.ty?' Her arms moved through the air with drama.

George felt like a scolded little girl. 'I'm sorry. I wasn't to know this crackpot would get a fetish for me.'

Sally tutted and rolled her eyes. 'George, practically every man you come into contact with ends up with a fetish for you. Well, listen, at least you're safe now. You'll stay here until the Dutch police have caught this guy. I'm not letting you leave the country. With a bit of luck, they'll catch him this week and only then can you go back with an easy mind.

'In the meantime, I've arranged for you to meet your mother in the Copper Kettle cafe opposite King's at three pm. I want to see you back here by four thirty pm at the latest. You'll need to get changed into something smart. You'll be sitting at high table with me for dinner. There's a gown in your room.'

Let.i.tia, George thought as she marched grimly down Trinity Street. What the h.e.l.l has she got to say that's so urgent, she's breaking a three-year silence?

He had thought about leaving this Dutchman ... this little p.r.i.c.k she called Ad ... until last. After all, he already had a girlfriend. Technically, he should have been no compet.i.tion at all. But then he had observed the first buds of a clandestine romance fattening. They were falling for one another. He had watched Ad's frequent visits to her room from the discreet hidey hole that Fennemans had so kindly furnished him with in return for a free weekend with the girls.

He didn't want her to fall in love with this Dutchman. It made sense after Klaus to take this one out of the picture before it was too late.

Poor Klaus.

As he measured Ad for a box, he thought about the little Graf. They had been almost friends. Klaus had even been inside his room in the faculty. Shared a pot of coffee and a couple of lines of c.o.ke. It was almost tragic that he had felt compelled to dispatch such a good payer, but Klaus had to go. First Joachim came knocking for services rendered. Next thing, everyone knows about the girls, when they should be tucked up, nice and anonymous in the brothels until their paperwork was ready.

He had always wondered about using a grenade in the past and, as he had antic.i.p.ated, it had made an outstanding mess. Almost a work of modern art. Problem was, the fire was underwhelming. On reflection, he'd only do it again if he was, say, producing some quality snuff p.o.r.n. Yes, that could make an interesting film. That would make some serious cash. And it would do his reputation no end of good.

And now he had this little dips.h.i.+t on his slab. He poked Ad in the face. She thought he was good looking, did she? Maybe she liked him because he was educated? Sensitive. Well, this myopic b.a.s.t.a.r.d wasn't the only one who was clever and sensitive. He could be that too. He was an international business man of repute, wasn't he? Educated at the University of the Street, graduating with a starred first.

Even Fennemans respected him. Said he was a cunning linguist and purveyor of fine exotic substances and women. Wasted in the faculty in a domestic capacity. But of course, Fennemans was just another randy old pervert with a penchant for young girls and recreational drugs. Fennemans just thought he was a small-time university pusher with some connects in the red light district. He didn't know about his other work. This plan to make her notice. The smart pads in towns where he operated. Or his house in the country furnished with the finest antiques. His library full of books. His workshop, here in the garage.

Anyway, never mind Fennemans. If he died from dehydration and hypothermia, fine. If the cops found him, he'd also take the rap for Janette Polman or whatever she was called. It was nothing more than Fennemans deserved for stealing pigtails.

He took a tourniquet and tied it tight around Ad's index finger until the end of the finger turned white. Then he padded to the kitchen and pulled his sharpened meat cleaver from the magnetic knife rack on the wall.

George felt lightheaded and sick as she walked along Trinity Street in the direction of King's College. It was a cold day but the sun had come out. Mullioned windows looked down onto the cobbled street from both sides. Gargoyles peered at her from above, welcoming her back, promising her protection from the Devil.

She pa.s.sed Heffers bookshop on her left. Remembered silent mornings, spent thumbing the spines of knowledge on its shelves, luxuriating in the smell of brand new paper, feeling the thick carpet beneath her feet before parting with cash she couldn't really afford to part with for books she would absorb in a feat of intellectual osmosis.

Happy memories, dampened by thoughts of Let.i.tia.

Further on, hands dug deep inside her coat pockets, she pa.s.sed Gonville and Caius on the right a grey, stately queen, beckoning her forward to King's Street where the Church of St Mary's, like a plain older sister, looked upon the glamorous young upstart of the Senate House neo-cla.s.sical white with its perfect lawn. It spoke of graduation days full of gowned twenty-one year olds, clutching their certificates, elated and at the same time burdened by anti-climax as they began their real adult lives amongst the overdressed chintz of proud, grinning relatives on sweaty summer mornings.

And there was King's College Chapel. The jewel in Cambridge's crown, stretching its spires like slender arms up to the skies. Henry VIII's most beautiful mistress, now admired by throngs of American and j.a.panese tourists who gathered in clumps outside its white stone to take photographs that never failed to be perfect but for the unphotogenic idiots sitting on the low perimeter wall.

But George couldn't appreciate her homecoming now. Opposite King's was The Copper Kettle and on the other side of its welcoming windows, perched on a hard, wooden chair, uncomfortably the only person visible from outside, sat Let.i.tia. George knew her hands would shake, even before she pushed open the door. She clenched and unclenched her fists until they got the message that no shaking was permissible. Let.i.tia must not know that she was perturbed.

Why the h.e.l.l have I agreed to this? I must be mad.

The door tinkled. George ignored Let.i.tia and walked to the servery.

'Pot of tea for one, please,' she told the ginger-haired skinny girl behind the counter. Her voice was almost calm, almost devoid of telltale waver. Good. Let Let.i.tia sweat just a little longer.

She carried her tray over to the laminate little table behind which Let.i.tia sat with folded arms. George took in every detail. She had not really aged in three years. Her hair was thickened with extensions. She was heavily made up with rose-pink lips and glitter eyes. She was wearing a tight-fitting sequinned top in black with an applique orange lily on the front beneath a faux-fur coat that looked like silver fox. Ghetto glamour. TK Maxx at Christmas time. Apart from being a good stone heavier, which showed around the jowls and her fat neck, Let.i.tia looked good. Clearly, the old cow had lost no sleep. Do I feel any pangs of nostalgia? Should I want to hug or kiss her? Did she leave me languis.h.i.+ng in prison for three months? f.u.c.k that b.i.t.c.h.

'h.e.l.lo Let.i.tia,' George said, feeling pleased by the steadiness of her voice.

'It's Gloria now,' Let.i.tia said, flas.h.i.+ng bright red talons that made George think of Katja. 'Them police didn't offer me no new ident.i.ty. I had to f.u.c.king change my name by deed poll and move to frigging Kent, innit?'

George poured a dash of milk into her cup and poured her strong tea. The tea started to leak down the side of the stainless steel teapot. The lid was warped. Spattering everywhere. Spitting burning blotches onto her lap. Don't wince. Just pretend that didn't hurt. Be cool. She looked at her cup and noticed with distaste that there was a mouth mark on the porcelain. Changing her cup would have to wait. She spat onto a napkin and wiped the cup.

'What do you want, Gloria?' George said, meeting her mother's loveless eyes.

Let.i.tia took a lipsticky bite from her doughnut. Chewed in silence. Wiped her fingers on a napkin. 'I come to warn you, didn't I?'

He returned to the garage. Angled Ad's hand so that the index finger was easy to strike. Raised the blade in the air and brought it down hard, clean and fast on the finger. The blood was minimal. He held the finger up, smiled at his handiwork and walked back to the kitchen. He opened the freezer door and put it into the test-tube rack with the others. He had quite a collection now.

Back in the garage, despite the spray-on plaster, this Ad's head wound had made a b.l.o.o.d.y mess on the polished concrete floor. That wouldn't do. He'd need to clean that.

He moved aside a large, red plastic jerry can of petrol to reach for the bucket and scrubbing brush. He shouldn't keep petrol stored in the garage really. He knew it was a fire hazard to him personally and he'd learned his lesson about not treating the fire with respect after that time he'd ended up in Stuttgart, covered in bandages for weeks on end.

But he'd needed the can. He'd done the Jew with petrol and a match, old style, after all. It was good that he'd done it and he felt justified because the Jew had stared at his face in the cafeteria and said something patronising to one of his friends about him being a 'poor disabled guy'. That sort of disrespect could never be tolerated, especially from a Jew. The fire was beautiful. He had controlled everything perfectly.

But it didn't have the same impact as the bombings. Nothing had quite topped that. The bombings were a logistical pain in some ways, especially now there seemed to be police patrolling every public building in Europe since Bushuis and Utrecht. Where exactly could you do another if everywhere of interest or note was being watched? But if he could overcome these complications, it would be worth it. And this Ad, he deserved it. He had kissed her. Hadn't he f.u.c.ked her?

The man looked at Ad's naked body. He had his finger. But maybe he should take an additional trophy. Another appendage. He thought about his bolt croppers.

'Don't say I didn't make nothing up to you. I'm telling you this 'cos I know I did wrong,' Let.i.tia said, looking over George's shoulder at an old couple at the next table.

'Is that an apology?'

'Word on the estate is, Jez was looking for you. Offering good money to anyone with information.'

George studied Let.i.tia's face and saw fear hiding behind the makeup. 'Jez? What do you mean? He's banged up.'

'Where did you get that idea? He ain't banged up.'

George froze. All sound was drowned out by the intense rus.h.i.+ng of blood in her ears. 'Thomson, the old cop, told me. They were nicked in Holland at the same time I got nabbed getting off the ferry.'

'Well, he's been feeding you duff information.'

George remembered how the Gargoyle had been so ill. It was not inconceivable that, in the same way her informant paperwork had been a shambles because of his heart attack, the facts behind Danny and Jez's arrest had somehow been tangled up and misconstrued.

'What about Danny?'

'Nah. He ain't banged up neither. Only you was banged up, tough girl. And them slags. Word is, Jez and Danny both been laying low, building an empire.'

Danny and Jez were at still large. This was not a good development. And her ex-lover had not sought her out. How did she feel about that? Rejected? Disappointed? No. Relieved. Danny was like Filip. He should never have happened. But Jez. That psycho. That was a much more worrying prospect.

'What do you mean, building an empire?'

'Same old s.h.i.+t, I expect. They still got lads working for them on the estate, so Leroy's sister Shanice says. No one I know's seen them in person for a good long while, like, but word is definitely that Jez himself was looking for you.'

'How long ago was this?'

'A year maybe. Yeah. Then I start hearing he knows your whereabouts.'

George's thudding heart was deafening. 'And when was that?'

'Wait. Let me think. Yeah. Six months.'

George slammed her thick, pot cup onto her saucer, making it rattle. An elderly man in a pork-pie hat looked askance at her. She smiled at him apologetically and turned back to Let.i.tia.

'Six months? You knew this and didn't think to get in touch sooner?' she said in a low voice through gritted teeth.

Let.i.tia looked blankly out towards King's Chapel and shrugged. 'I been trying to get in touch the last month but you was blanking me. What can I do if my only daughter don't wanna know her mum? Filtering everything through that Doctor Whatshername. That's proper shameful s.h.i.+t, Ella.'

George forced her brain to rattle through the myriad calculations. Six months. Could Jez have traced her to Cambridge? Who would have let the cat out of that bag? Let.i.tia maybe?

'Did Jez get to you?' she said, bending over the table in the most confrontational way she could.

Let.i.tia sucked her teeth and sneered. 'No way. I been in f.u.c.king Ashford. Middle of nowhere, man. I only heard this when I was visiting Leroy's Shanice.'

'Leroy this. Leroy that. Who the h.e.l.l is Leroy?'

'My fella.' Bristling with self-satisfaction when she said this.

'Oh, yes. I remember. The one you chose over your falsely imprisoned daughter.'

George felt a sourdough lump of resentment start to bubble up inside her. But for now, she had to mentally throw a cloth over it. It could wait.

'You're talking very fancy these days. You sound like the Queen. Forgetting who you are.'

George said nothing. Stared ahead. Remained an indolent statue. She had more important things to consider. How had Jez tracked her down? Six months. Hang on. That was when she had first moved over to Amsterdam. The Netherlands. He had found her in The Netherlands. It was the last place she had seen him before her fateful return trip on the Hollandica. When the thought struck her, it was as though a broken clock had started to tick again. Jez had never left mainland Europe.

And if Jez, Danny's favourite arson-obsessed handyman, never left mainland Europe, is it not inconceivable that Jez is my little serial-killing stalker?

She flicked hastily through her archived memories; travelled all the way back to her conversation with Jez in the South London park on a cold, moonlit night. That night that he had asked her out. What had he said about fire as the moonlight had reflected on his black, unfathomable eyes?

'It's beautiful and deadly both, Ella. Giver of heat and light and death. And now, I'm the Firestarter. It's the language of anger. It's the language of love. Bringer of endings and new beginnings.'