The Copycat

by Jake Woodhouse

  I settle for disbanding them and get in, ignoring Kush and turning to the letters instead. The first two are circulars, but the third is a credit card statement. I scan through it; it’s mostly small purchases, until on page three there’s a payment for nearly two thousand euros. I check the date: a week and a half ago. Ties in with the last-minute holiday story. And yet … That’s a lot of money to pay for a holiday if you’re not going abroad. It’s also a lot of money for someone working shifts at the docks.

  I stare at the paper a little longer, before folding it up and starting the engine. As I pull away I wonder why I’m feeling so uneasy all of a sudden. I pull over and get Roemers on the phone. He answers on the third ring.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘I need you to check something for me.’

  The six towers of Bijlmerbajes prison stand stark against the sky. Built in the late seventies the blocks look more like social housing than a prison complex. They’re mostly empty now, and by next year the whole complex will be closed, refurbished, then reopened as a refugee centre. Welcome to the Netherlands.

  I dropped Kush off at the houseboat. The bathroom has a sunken bath so I slipped a bath mat into it and coaxed Kush to clamber inside. He sniffed a bit but then settled down on the mat. He seemed happy enough until I tried to leave and he started barking like crazy. I hope Leah doesn’t mind. I park and turn the engine off, letting the silence surround me for a moment, soothing the kernel of dread that has been creeping up on me during the drive. I stare at the towers looming over me, and feel that pit-of-the-stomach dread increasing with each passing thought. Was I part of putting an innocent man in there? Did the real killer get away, only to kill again? Is Marianne Kleine’s death on me?

  The black wolf’s got his nose to the wind, sensing the anxiety, feeding on it, waiting for a chance to strike.

  My thoughts are starting to speed up, a tell-tale sign. I wonder about having a quick hit before going in, and even pull out a bag from the glovebox. I stare at it, torn. No. I can do this. I can conquer this feeling on my own. I stash it and reach for the door.

  The guy on reception remembers me from last time I’d been here and doesn’t even suspect I may not be on official business. As he leads me down brightly lit and eerily quiet corridors he tells me exactly why my trip will be a wasted one.

  ‘Don’t think you’re going to get much out of him,’ he says. ‘Guy’s fucked in the head.’

  Sometimes I wonder if that doesn’t just sum up the human condition. He motions me into a viewing booth and tells me Klaasen will be brought in shortly. I suddenly find the room seems slightly off centre, like the angles aren’t all straight. My hands are cold now, palms moist. I think of the glovebox. Damn. I should have had a pull. The anxiety’s definitely kicked up a level. In fact, it’s knocking the walls off. My thoughts are speeding up. I try to slow them down to manageable levels.

  I don’t know why I’ve come.

  To apologize? Or to try and make myself believe he really did kill Muller all those years ago?

  It’s time to go. Doing this is only going to feed the black wolf. I stand up just as the door on the other side of the cramped space opens and a man shuffles in: prison PJs, hands cuffed, head down. He seems lost for a moment, then shuffles forward and sits on the chair opposite mine. I’m swimming, treading water. My breathing’s ramping up. I get the weirdest sensation, like I want to laugh. He brings his head up, eyes settling on mine.

  I stare at the face in front of me.

  More racing thoughts. The whole investigation in a mad jumble, a shifting collage of facts, images, feelings.

  ‘Nnnnnnnnnngh,’ he says. ‘Nu … nu … nnnnnnnngh.’

  The urge to laugh has gone.

  Because Jansen hadn’t been kidding, whoever beat him did a thorough job of rearranging his features. He’s practically cubist now. I don’t recognize him at all. My hands are drenched. Trembling. The room’s breathing. I’m not. I can’t.

  He leans forward, as if he’s trying to whisper something to me.

  I instinctively lean closer to the Perspex dividing us. His tongue’s pushing out his bottom lip.

  ‘Nnnnnnnnnnnnngh.’

  He pulls his head back like a horse rearing up in slo-mo, the whites of his eyes weirdly visible. Then things switch to double time as he slams his face right into the Perspex. Again and again and again.

  Fuck. I … Am I responsible for this? Is this my fault?

  There’s blood spouting from his forehead, splattering everywhere.

  I should call out for the guard, but I’m paralysed.

  He rests his palm against the Perspex, then slowly slides it down, leaving a bloody smear.

  ‘Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnngh.’

  He’s drooling now. Eyes focused on me like a rattlesnake about to strike.

  No. God no. No, no.

  I can see he’s accusing me, just like he did in court that day when he’d been sentenced and he glared over at me and I felt the hatred being transmitted through the air like electricity.

  I can’t breathe. I get up and stumble out. Corridors, security gates, startled receptionist, car park. The Mustang’s a million miles away, tarmac stretching out with every step I take. I’m walk-running, then I’m just running. (Nnnnnnnnngh.) Keys. Fumble. Scratch the door. Shit. Slot. Open door. Fingers scrabbling at the glovebox. Bag. Rip open. Fingers trembling. Crumbling the bud. Dropping half of it. Stuff a little in the vape. Wait for the light. Taking forever, forever. Vape dies before it reaches temperature. Roll a joint instead, fingers enduring their own personal earthquake. That’s not good. Fuck it. Have to resort to my glass pipe. Fill the bowl, lighter, touch with flame.

  Inhale.

  Inhale.

  Innnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnhale.

  It’s been back-to-back meetings so far today and there’s a little pulse at his temple which he knows can get worse quickly. He reaches his office, his PA on the phone but waving to him in an I-need-to-talk-to-you way which he ignores, and goes inside, closing the door behind him. At the back of the drawer he finds a packet of painkillers, only to discover it’s empty. Damn. There’s a faint buzzing from the drawer two down, a drawer that remains locked, the key kept taped to the back of the drawer above. He unlocks it and pulls out the phone.

  ‘What now?’ he snaps. He finds himself massaging his temple with his finger. Got to get a painkiller, he thinks. The headaches have been getting worse, and if he doesn’t get the drug in his system soon it’ll blow up into a migraine, which will most likely leave him incapacitated for several days. And he can’t afford that. Not in his position. Not now.

  ‘Thought you should know Rykel visited the house of one of the cops on the original investigation. I saw him leave with what looked like a file or folder. I’m guessing they’re notes to do with Muller’s case. He’s also just visited the prison.’

  He stares out of the window across the car park to the motorway beyond. Dear God, he thinks. How much more of this can I take? For a moment he feels as if things are spiralling out of control. There’s also, and he doesn’t want to admit it to himself but it’s there nonetheless, a snaking, twisting surge of fear.

  ‘I’m going to have to talk to someone, work out what our next step is. Meantime you just keep on him, understood?’

  He kills the call, puts the phone back in the drawer, locks it, retapes the key, and heads out of the door, ignoring his PA again. The pain in his temple’s gone. Or not gone, but no longer relevant.

  He’s got a much bigger problem now. One which, if not sorted out, is going to make a migraine look like a fleabite at Chernobyl.

  Don’t Call Me, I’ll Call You

  Roemers gets me just as I arrive back at the houseboat. I’m attempting to parallel park into a space I’m not entirely convinced is actually big enough. My hand hesitates over the phone, the panic which had engulfed me at the prison now largely gone, but the memory of it a warning nonetheless. A warning I should probably heed. Then again, if there’s ev
en a chance that what I fear might be going on here is true, I can’t just walk away.

  ‘Got what you wanted,’ Roemers says. ‘Payment was made to a charitable foundation.’

  ‘Not a holiday company?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what sort of charity is Huisman giving two thousand euros to, then disappearing?’

  ‘That is exactly the question you should be asking, because I’ve got some other stuff to do which has been deemed urgent.’

  ‘Can you send me what details you’ve got?’

  ‘When I get a minute.’

  I finish parking, just managing to squeeze in without any damage, and turn the engine off. Part of me had been hoping Roemers would get back to me with something straightforward, something that would mean I could just forget about it. Instead it’s just provoking questions, reigniting old paths in my brain, the investigative mind probing, constructing scenarios. It almost feels good. Which, I reflect as I reach for the door handle, isn’t good at all. I pass the postbox and before I know what I’m doing I pull the crumpled letter out of my pocket and jam it in the slot.

  ‘Jaap, we need to talk!’

  I’m crossing the gangplank when Leah emerges on deck, waving her arms to get my attention. And she’s having to shout just to be heard above all the barking.

  ‘Sorry, Leah,’ I yell back. ‘I’m sure he’ll settle in soon. He’s just got to get used to it.’

  ‘He’s been doing that since you left; it’s driving me crazy.’

  ‘I’ll get it sorted.’

  Though how, I’ve no idea. Kush explodes from the bathroom in a frenzy when I open the door; he almost seems pleased to see me. I take him up onto the roof and flop down in a deckchair. I’m finally starting to feel normal again. Going to the prison was a pretty good reminder of why I’m getting out. Clearly I’m still prone to stress reactions which can escalate way too quickly. Just as well I posted the letter.

  But Klaasen.

  I barely even recognized him, that’s how bad his injuries were. And if he wasn’t responsible for killing Lucie Muller, then …

  Here was a man who’d always protested his innocence and I was finally starting to believe him. Only that line of thought would quickly lead back into panic; if he really is innocent, then I’m responsible for what happened to him. And what about Huisman? Why is he giving large sums of money to charity – and given what he must earn two thousand euros is a very large sum – then disappearing on holiday? And …

  I breathe out a long slow breath. I tell myself none of this is my problem, that I need to relax, put it out of my mind. I shift my focus to the leaves shimmering over the canal water. They’re already starting to colour and the occasional one breaks loose and flips its way down to the water’s surface. But before I know it I’ve got my phone out and I’m googling the charity Huisman gave the money to. Roemers had sent me a text with the details, the name of the charity anonymous, ‘FZC International’, and Google comes up with nothing, apart from the register of companies and charities, showing that it was registered in Den Haag over ten years ago. But there’s nothing else, no website, no contact details other than a PO box in Haarlem, no explanation of what the charity exists to do. Ten minutes later, with me none the wiser, I start to wonder how it is they solicit donations like Huisman’s if there’s absolutely no information about who they are or what cause they represent. How would Huisman even know about their existence? I spend a few more minutes trying to convince myself it has nothing to do with the case, with Huisman’s disappearance. But I fail miserably. And despite my earlier resolve I realize this isn’t going to leave me alone. I clamber down from the roof, the dog jumping down to the deck with more grace than I manage.

  Hank’s notes are there on the kitchen table and I sit down and open them up like they’re a holy text which will furnish me with all the answers I need.

  Words can eat away at you like a virus. There’s no vaccine, you can’t unhear them, and once they’ve registered in your head there’s little you can do to stop their relentless march. At least I think that’s what’s happened in Vermeer’s case, because my phone went off as I was taking a break and we’re now talking. She’s covering herself, though, playing up Jansen’s involvement.

  ‘Jansen has convinced me that you could be an asset on this case. So here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll talk to my station chief and, assuming he agrees, I’ll find a place for you on my team. Purely in a consultancy role. But you’ve got to be clear on a couple of things.’

  She reels off the usual: I work for her, I don’t do anything without her say-so, chain of command, blah, blah.

  ‘Agreed?’ she asks when she’s finished.

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘You’ll get a call. Until then you are not to do anything in connection with this case. Understood?’

  ‘Understood. And there’s something I think you should know.’

  I tell her about Huisman’s money and the payment to the mysterious charity which doesn’t seem to promote itself.

  ‘I’ll get Roemers onto it; he’s good at following trails. Anything else?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘Good. Like I said, wait to hear from me. And, Rykel?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Don’t make me regret this.’

  I head back into Hank’s notes, which are detailed and more orderly than mine tend to be. I follow the investigation through, all of it chiming with my own notes and I start to think there’s nothing here. But as I’m reading I start to wonder about Jan Akkerman. If it turns out that he was covering for Huisman by fabricating an alibi, was that just to help a friend out? Or was he also involved? Were there, in fact, two killers? I run through it all again, focusing on Akkerman, though initially I don’t find anything.

  Three rings and Roemers picks up. I ask him to run a current location for Jan Akkerman.

  ‘This is for your memoirs I take it? Because I had Vermeer down here chewing my balls off for giving you Huisman’s details.’

  ‘We’ve made up; I’ve joined the investigation now.’

  ‘Really? So you won’t mind if I check with her first?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Just fucking with you, Rykel. Give me a minute …’

  I hear the furious staccato tap of keys. ‘And … there are quite a few Jan Akkermans.’

  ‘Scroll through, one of them should be tagged from an old investigation.’

  ‘Nope, they’re all clean.’

  ‘What, all of them?’

  ‘Well, there are a few speeding tickets, one of them’s got a caution for chopping down a neighbour’s fence, some kind of boundary dispute. It’s all pretty hardcore stuff. Oh, here we go, there’s one here who was accused of groping a woman at a night club. Police were called, but in the end she didn’t press charges so he was just given a talking-to.’

  ‘When and where?’

  ‘Club 57, twentieth of Feb. this year. Isn’t that the place Ron Koopmans works at?’

  ‘Does he? Since when?’

  ‘Yeah, must have been when you were … off sick. He took early retirement. Pretty sure he’s now head of security there.’

  I thank him and hang up. Club 57 is about ten minutes’ walk away, west of Centraal station. I think about it for a few moments. Kush is busy excavating soil with his snout from one of the flowerpots. He keeps flicking his head up, causing sprays of dirt to cascade everywhere. Vermeer was pretty clear about not doing anything before I heard back from her. But the way I see it is this: Kush could obviously use some exercise, and if we just so happen to stroll past Club 57, then what of it?

  Just over ten minutes later I reach the building. Despite the early hour the heavy thump of bass is audible way down the street. The guy on the door – black jeans, black shirt, a curl of white snaking out of his ear – stops me.

  ‘No dogs allowed.’

  ‘Ron Koopmans in?’

  The guy’s neck is almost as thick as his head, which is shi
ny-bald.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘Jaap Rykel.’ He stares at me. ‘Inspector Jaap Rykel,’ I clarify after a few more moments.

  He looks me up and down once before raising his arm and talking to his cuff.

  A few minutes later Ron steps out through a fire door further down the building, and waves me over whilst he holds it open. He’s a good head shorter than me, allowing me to see he’s starting to thin on top. As if to make up for it he’s wearing a beard, which I’m sure he never used to.

  ‘Jaap, how are you? Long time no see.’

  ‘Yeah, good.’

  He looks at me as if he can see the lie, but doesn’t comment. ‘Come in.’

  ‘What about him?’ I point to Kush. ‘Your guy said no dogs.’

  Ron gives him the once-over, then shrugs. ‘Frankly he looks more civilized than most of the customers here. Anyway, I’m head of security. Shall we?’

  We catch up whilst he takes me through a series of corridors to his office, a room with a massive bank of computer screens covering just about every angle in the club’s multiple rooms. A woman with spiky dyed-blonde hair and large hooped earrings sits in front of them.

  ‘So, what can I do for you? Assuming this wasn’t all social.’

  I tell him about the report of a Jan Akkerman caught groping a woman.

  ‘Honestly, it’s not that rare an occurrence sadly. When did you say it was?’

  ‘Twentieth of February.’

  ‘Claudia, you remember that?’

  Claudia turns to look at us. She’s older than I assumed from the hairstyle; she must be well into her fifties.

  ‘So many creeps,’ she says. ‘What was that date again?’

  Ron tells her.

  ‘You can look it up in the dailies then,’ and she turns back to the bank of screens.

  For some reason I get the sense there’s something between these two. More power struggle than anything romantic, though. Ron rolls his eyes, sighs, mutters something about doing stuff yourself being the only way to make sure it’s done right, and opens a laptop. As it’s booting up he points to one of the screens on the bank, a bird’s-eye view of one of the largest rooms in the club. The wall is made entirely of glass, opening onto a view of the IJ’s waters. I realize I could probably see Nellie’s house across the water if I were to go and stand in the room and look north.