Her main clinic is at the same hospital Hank lies in. She has lunch with him every day, where she talks to him, tells him about what’s going on, about her patients, her life without him. When she’d first told me she was doing that I wasn’t sure it was a good idea, but I’ve changed my mind. I think it’s brought her to this point now, which although terrible, is maybe for the best.
I reach down and scratch behind the dog’s ear. It would have been easier if the shots had killed Hank outright, but instead they hit his leg, and I’d staunched as much of the bleeding as I could until the ambulance got there. But by the time he arrived at the hospital he’d slipped into the coma he’s lain in ever since. I’ve often wondered if I should have left him to bleed, if it would have been better that way. But hindsight’s always twenty-twenty.
And irony on top of irony, we were busting a grow room.
It’s been years now, and there’s never been any change in his condition. Nothing that hinted at a recovery. Whoever said hope’s a cruel mistress was understating it. Hope will tear you apart, prey on your nerves till you’re a wreck. I can only imagine what it must’ve been like for Nellie, second by second, waiting for the call telling her that Hank’s woken up. Or that he’d died.
This isn’t what anyone signed up for.
‘Will you be here when –’
The emotion takes over, forcing the tears she’s been holding in for so long. I reach out for her hand and she grasps it tight. We sit like this until she’s cried it out. The dog makes his move, pushing into her leg. She reaches down, strokes him and he lets out a low growl of pleasure.
I’m feeling sick now, and guilty too, because this isn’t really the time to ask, and yet I need to. She takes it well, though, and tells me Hank’s old case notes are up in the spare room on the first floor. I leave her with the dog and go upstairs.
The room looks back towards the shore, a narrow window framing the golden minaret on top of the turquoise-tiled Elmouhssinine Mosque. The walls are covered with framed photos; one of them is of Hank and me the day we graduated posing in our uniforms. It strikes me that we look like kids. If only we knew what was coming, we probably wouldn’t be grinning like idiots. It prompts one of those moments where I don’t even know who I am, how I got here. The rest are of Hank and Nellie, their story played out in pictures from when they first met to their marriage at De Koepelkerk, and beyond.
Until that day.
The black wolf shudders. It’s hungry. It needs the anger and the sorrow and the pain.
I turn away to the boxes and I find what I’m looking for quickly. There’s a desk and chair by the window and I take the book of Hank’s notes on the Muller case over and sit down. They’re handwritten, the letters slanting forward as if leaning into the wind. A few pages in I decide I’m going to need more time. Back downstairs Nellie’s sitting on the sofa, looking out at the water. The dog is right next to her, head resting on her lap. She’s gently stroking him and he’s lapping it up.
‘He’s nice. What’s his name?’
‘So far it’s just “dog”; haven’t really had time to think.’
She strokes him a little more before she speaks again. ‘I saw Tanya the other day.’
Words which suck all the air from the room.
‘How is she?’ I finally manage.
‘I’d like to say she’s fine, but really she’s not. I can tell.’
All I’d ever tried to do was the best for her, and yet somehow I ended up hurting her, the last person in the world I’d want to harm. How did it get to this? Why was I such a fuck-up?
‘I think you should talk to her, Jaap. I know things were bad, especially after the miscarriage, but I’m seeing you both, and you’re both miserable. Being apart clearly isn’t working. For either of you.’
The reality is I tried, though. Tried several times but she wouldn’t see me, said that it was over, we were done. I’d got angry, which hadn’t helped. And then I began to wonder if she wasn’t, in fact, right, that maybe it was over and I just had to accept it and move on. I think of Sabine.
‘Did she say anything?’
‘She didn’t have to, but it’s clear she’s hurting and I think she regrets how it ended.’
Regret is such a small word for how I feel about it all. Regret doesn’t even come close. On the kitchen table Nellie’s phone rings and she gets up to answer it. I feel like I need some air, so I walk over to the door, which leads to the balcony overlooking the water. Seagulls mock me with their cries as I step out. My fingers tremble when I’m filling the vape, and I lose some of the bud over the rail.
I hear Nellie’s footsteps behind me. ‘Feeding the ducks?’
I take a couple of draws, and it starts to dampen the swelling wave of anxiety I’d felt inside. It strikes me that without this stuff I might not even still be alive.
‘You think if I tried to contact her she’d respond?’ I finally ask.
‘What have you got to lose? At worst she’ll just ignore you. But I think it’s time.’
I take a few more inhales just to steady me off. Several ducks float by, though they don’t seem interested in what I’d dropped. Probably just as well. They seem pretty stress-free; don’t look like they need it. Suddenly I hate myself for being weak, for having to medicate just to survive. Another swelling wave: this time it’s self-pity.
‘Jaap, I really think you should call her. Before it’s too late.’
Too late. The saddest words in any language.
As we walk to the door I ask her if I can take Hank’s notes and she agrees. She opens it and we see a harried-looking courier racing back to his white van and speeding off.
‘I feel like I’m failing,’ she says.
I hold her for a few moments. She seems so delicate, even though she’s probably the strongest person I know.
‘You’re doing the right thing. Hank would say the same.’
‘So you’ll be here if it happens?’ she finally asks.
I tell her I will. Even though I can’t think of anything worse.
Knocking the Walls Off
I can’t stop thinking about it as I drive through the tunnel under the IJ heading south. Hank’s life ending at the flick of a switch. Alive. Click. Dead.
As the narrow sides open up and we shoot out from under the NEMO building, Roemers gets me on the phone. I feel a quick rush of relief before I realize this all seems so familiar, distracting myself with work. Not good.
‘Remember the guy you wanted me to find, Huisman?’
‘You know, those Alzheimer’s meds must be working. What about him?’
‘You didn’t get this from me, all right?’
‘I don’t even know who you are.’
‘Promise.’
Next to me the dog barks.
‘Will that do?’
He gives me an address and hangs up. I should really call Vermeer or Jansen. But I find myself making a U-turn and heading towards the address. On the way I pass the Boerejongens coffeeshop on Baarjesweg. I’ve never been in, but it’s supposedly got the kind of stuff most of the tourist-focused places don’t; all their cannabis is organically produced, for starters. The bud Joel gave me yesterday isn’t going to last long at the current rate so I pull up outside and leave the dog in the Stang.
A few minutes later I’m back in the car with three little bags, a Krystal Kush, NYC Diesel and a Sweet Cheese. My phone goes off, the electrician, so I put the bags on the dash and answer. But he’s rung off. I call him back. Answer machine. I tell him to call me just as a text message from him comes in. How hard does this have to be? His text tells me he has the parts and is on his way now. About bloody time. I text him back telling him to get the keys from Leah.
As I’m slotting the key in the ignition, some sixth sense is nagging me that something’s wrong. I glance up to see there are now only two bags on the dash; the Krystal Kush is missing.
Quick look at dog. Mystery solved.
He has it in his mouth. I mak
e a grab for it, and he ducks his head, eyeing me suspiciously. Luckily he’s not chewing. Yet. I try again, and he ducks his head the other way. Then he starts mouthing it. It’s in thick plastic, but it’s not going to take him long before it rips …
‘Give it to me,’ I say in a sweet-toned voice.
Nothing.
I try again, more authoritarian this time, trying to channel Carice. The dog just looks at me, though I’m sure there’s a challenge in his gaze now. I try again and fail. He’s starting to mouth it, still staring at me, and I’m frozen because I don’t know what’ll happen if he manages to break through the wrapper. I’m steeling myself for one last desperate grab, when a cyclist whizzes past. The dog swivels his head round and barks. The bag drops and I grab it, checking that it’s still sealed. It is, though the paper label is dripping with saliva. Jesus, that was close.
I’m just pulling up at the address Roemers hadn’t given me, when it comes in one of those startling flashes of clarity you get where everything meshes together in a whoosh.
‘Kush,’ I tell the dog. ‘I’m going to call you Kush.’
He gives a single bark; I wonder if that’s a no.
‘Well, it’s either that or Krystal.’
This time he stays silent.
‘Good, Kush it is.’
There are no more spaces left outside the address so I have to hunt for one in the next street, just managing to squeeze between a monster SUV with blacked-out windows and an old Ford propped up on bricks. I stash the three bags in the glove compartment, which piques Kush’s interest. He keeps nosing it. Hopefully he can’t get it open.
I reach the entrance just as a woman in jeans and a shiny green bomber jacket is backing out of the door with a pushchair in tow. I hold it open for her and then slip inside. On the left wall is a bank of mailboxes, stairs on the right. I work out from the address Roemers gave me and the number of mailboxes that Huisman’s flat is most likely on the top floor, a calculation that turns out to be correct.
It’s number twenty, at the end of a corridor under a light which isn’t working. The doorbell doesn’t rouse anyone, and knocking doesn’t either. I try the handle gently, but the door’s locked. I’m just thinking that once upon a time this would have been easier. I could have simply kicked the thing in and claimed I’d heard a scream or a cry for help. I check the door sill, running my finger along just in case he’s left a key. All I get is a thick layer of dust obscuring the swirl of my fingerprint. Once again I think a well-aimed kick will sort it just as I think I hear something for real. I put my ear to the door and listen. There it is again: a faint noise I can’t quite make out. It’s like fabric moving. Maybe Huisman is in there and trying to hide behind the curtains? I kneel down and try to peer through the keyhole. It’s dark, though, so I pull out my phone and hit the torch app. It’s tricky to line up, and I’m struggling to get the angle right, which is maybe why I don’t see or hear them coming until it’s too late. I sense a presence and turn just as they see me. They stop dead.
‘Sir, what are you doing here?’ Jansen asks.
‘What he’s doing is sticking his nose in where it’s not needed,’ Vermeer says, walking swiftly towards me.
I put my finger to my lips, pointing to the door.
The look on Vermeer’s face is anger, but she stops and beckons me to her.
‘No one answered, but I heard a noise in there,’ I whisper to her when I’m level.
‘Okay, you go downstairs and wait –’
‘I –’
‘Downstairs. Wait,’ she hisses at me.
Turns out it’s not for that long.
And they don’t come down with Huisman, or anyone else. Vermeer spots me sitting on a low concrete wall, the surface of which is layered with the work of generations of young taggers practising their craft. Her phone goes off before she gets to me.
‘Wait,’ she tells me, answering her phone and walking out of earshot.
Jansen walks past awkwardly.
‘Huisman in?’ I call out to him.
‘Hasn’t been seen for several days, sir. At least according to the neighbours.’
‘Let me guess, since Kleine was killed?’
The twitch tells me I’m right.
‘You think it’s connected?’ he finally asks.
‘You think it isn’t?’
Jansen shrugs, and he looks over to see Vermeer deep in conversation, then joins me. ‘I dunno,’ he says, shaking his head.
‘I heard something in there, though.’
‘There was a blind hanging by an open window; could it have been that?’
I concede it could.
‘Something weird, though,’ Jansen says.
‘Yeah?’
Jansen glances at Vermeer again, who’s still deep in conversation. He sits down.
‘We spoke to Huisman’s boss earlier. Turns out he works shifts up at the docks. Just manual stuff, hauling around boxes in a hi-vis, that kind of thing. But his boss says that Huisman had been acting strange the last couple of weeks.’
‘Strange how?’
‘Apparently he was usually pretty quiet, kept to himself. But there were a couple of incidents recently when he got into arguments with other people on the crew.’
‘Arguments over what?’
‘Just stuff, nothing out of the ordinary. But here’s the thing, he had some leave owed to him and he booked it off a week and a half ago. His boss assumed he was going on holiday and asked him where and Huisman got uncomfortable, couldn’t give a straight answer. So I checked it out and apparently Huisman doesn’t actually have a valid passport; his ran out six years ago and he never renewed it.’
‘So he didn’t go abroad, but plenty of people holiday here.’
‘I guess … I was hoping we’d find something up there to tell us where he’d gone but there was nothing. No computer either so can’t get his emails.’
Vermeer finishes up and heads our way. Jansen takes this as his cue to stand up.
‘I thought I made myself clear yesterday,’ Vermeer says when she reaches me, ‘but obviously I didn’t. So let me be clear now: you are not to get involved with this investigation, unless we specifically ask you to look at something for us. If I find you poking round again, I’ll have you arrested for impeding an active investigation. Clear?’
I nod. She holds my gaze a beat or two longer, before walking back to the unmarked, Jansen in tow. She’s right, I should drop it now, walk away. It’s not going to do me any good. But I’m finding there’s a part of me that doesn’t like to let go.
‘So what’s next?’ I find myself calling out.
Vermeer stops, then turns back. ‘Next? I don’t think you’ve understood. There is no next.’
‘Are you telling me Huisman’s not connected?’
‘I’m telling you it’s none of your business.’
Funny, I’ve been told that my whole life. Somehow it’s comforting to hear. Vermeer and Jansen disappear into their car. Again I tell myself I should just let it go. But I slip off the wall and step over quickly to knock on the car’s window. It slides down.
‘Yes?’ she asks in a sweeter-than-sweet voice.
‘You came to me, insinuating that I’d got the investigation wrong and sent an innocent man to prison and possibly left the real killer free to kill again.’
‘Yes?’
‘And I brought you Huisman. Without me you wouldn’t have discovered his alibi was probably worthless.’
‘Again, yes. Your point being?’
I think of the letter in my pocket. I think of Joel’s proposal. I also think of Lucie Muller, and of a man in prison, put there by me, who may not have been her killer after all. I think, even though I’m trying hard not to, whether it’s possible that a mistake I made years ago has caused Marianne Kleine to die in a pool of her own blood, her last seconds spent watching her life seep right out of her.
‘My point is this case is clearly connected to the Muller case. Which was mine and
–’
‘Exactly. Was. It’s called the past tense.’ Her finger stabs a button and the car comes alive.
‘Is my case if it’s reopened. I can put a request in, and given what I discovered about Huisman I think there’s a very good chance it will be reopened.’
She reaches out and turns the engine off.
Jansen’s sitting in the passenger seat. I think he’s on my side. But who knows?
‘It might get reopened,’ she concedes. ‘But given your record, and the fact that I’m investigating the Kleine murder already it’ll come to me.’
‘Maybe. Or maybe they’ll want a larger team on it, maybe they’ll bring in someone else because the only break you’ve had so far has come from me, not you.’
‘I don’t think that’s likely.’
‘You want to take the risk? Go for it.’
She smiles again as the window glides up. The engine roars, the tyres bite hard and I’m breathing fumes. I watch them go. As the car disappears round the corner I decide it’s probably for the best. Going down this path is only going to end one way.
And now I’ve decided, I’m walking with purpose, my intention to get into the Stang and drive away from all this, dive headlong into the fear, start living my new life outside the police. Up ahead a postman turns into the street pushing a mail trolley. The idea comes out of nowhere and before I can stop myself I’ve pivoted round back towards the building. Standing by the mailboxes I time it perfectly, dropping my keys just as the postman opens the door. I pick the keys up and pretend-hunt for one, before advancing the smallest key I have towards box number twenty.
‘Here you go, mate. Twenty, yeah?’
I turn, look surprised, then grateful.
‘Thanks,’ I tell him as he hands me a couple of letters, delivers the rest and heads out.
Back at the Stang I find it’s surrounded by kids. The reason, I see as I get closer, is Kush. He’s sitting in the driver’s seat, chewing the top of the wheel. The kids are loving this; at least two of them have got their phones out and are filming it. YouTube fame at last. It’ll probably go viral and have five million views by the end of the day. I guess I’d need to own it, though, to get the ad revenues. Maybe I should confiscate their phones.
The Copycat Page 8