The Copycat

by Jake Woodhouse

  She rolls her eyes. ‘All right.’ She tells whoever’s waiting on the line she’ll get back to them and follows me inside where she duly slaps her badge down in front of Beernink.

  ‘You got it from here?’ she asks me, but heads back out before waiting for an answer. Whilst Beernink taps away furiously on his computer – Vermeer seemed to have quite the effect on him – I think of Beving and his demand that I had to keep tabs on her. Once again, I wonder why.

  ‘Okay, got the file references here,’ Beernink says, hitting the enter key with a flourish. ‘Oh.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’ve been archived.’

  ‘So unarchive them.’

  ‘They’re actually kept off-site. We have secure storage for all our clients’ documents and –’

  ‘Surely you’ve got something on the computer?’

  Beernink shakes his head. ‘We only keep files we’re currently working on on our servers, though it’s true that if the client corresponds with us via email we’ll have more. Many of our elderly clients don’t use email, though, and from what I can see here Marit Berkhout was one of those.’

  ‘It’s really important we see those files; how long is it going to take to get them?’

  Beernink checks his watch. ‘I’ll try for today but it may be first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s going to need to be quicker than that,’ I tell him.

  Back at reception Kush is lying on his back, front paws praying mantis style, having his chest rubbed by the receptionist.

  ‘He’s so cute,’ she says, not even looking up. ‘Cute, cute, cute, cute, cuuuuute,’ she says, rubbing his belly some more.

  Kush lets out a low groan of pleasure.

  Vermeer, on the other hand, lets out another type of groan when I tell her where we’re at. She’s leaning against the car, arms crossed, a frown on her face. Beernink walks out of the building and across the car park to a silver Lexus. He does a half-wave to me as if he doesn’t know whether it’s appropriate or not.

  ‘Looks like you’ve got a new friend,’ Vermeer says.

  ‘We bonded over legal stuff.’

  ‘He’s going to the archive now, is he?’

  ‘That’s what I told him to do.’

  The Lexus reverses out in a smooth arc as Vermeer’s phone goes off. Kush strains at the leash, trying to sniff a patch on the ground, darker than the surrounding asphalt, which is just out of reach.

  ‘What have you got?’ Vermeer asks. ‘Really? Okay, send it to my phone.’ She hangs up. ‘Get in.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The couple who sublet the flat to Huisman? Jansen’s found the poor battered wife’s new address. They might be able to shed some light on Huisman’s disappearing act.’

  Lifestyle

  We pull up to find the street itself is actually blocked off to traffic. A team of workers in hi-vis are clustered round a mini digger, so we have to park right at the end and walk. Kush stays in the car; Vermeer is quite clear on that point. I hope he doesn’t try the chewing-the-steering-wheel trick again. We reach the house number Jansen had got for us, the place the couple who’d illegally sublet their council house to Huisman were now staying. The small digger starts tearing at the road with its mechanical claw; it’s almost poetic in a primal machine kind of way.

  ‘According to Jansen, Gerard and Sharon van Baalen got divorced and this is the property Sharon was subsequently assigned.’

  ‘How much you want to bet they’re both living there now?’

  As we pass the mechanical claw it scrapes along the concrete. The noise is ear-splitting.

  ‘I do the talking, got that?’ Vermeer shouts at me as we’re reaching the front door. She keeps her finger on the bell until there’s movement. The man opening the door is classic benefit cheat; it’s written all over his tracksuit bottoms, the bulge of his stomach, the piggy eyes, the food stain on his T-shirt, and the shit-faced attitude. To say nothing of the expensive trainers.

  ‘Gerard van Baalen?’

  The acknowledgement is minimal so Vermeer invites herself in. The man looks for a second like he’s going to complain but then steps aside. At the back of the house a living room is dominated by a massive TV screen. I’ve never seen one so big. On it some kind of zombie video game is paused, a head just in the first stages of what is going to be a gory, messy explosion. By the sofa opposite it are a few empty cans of Amstel in a thicket of bottles which once contained much stronger stuff. Breakfast of champions. Paid for by the state, no less. There’s an overpowering scent of chemical air freshener. All the electronics are plugged into an extension cord that snakes across the scuffed lino floor.

  Vermeer pulls out a photo of Huisman and holds it up for the man to see.

  ‘You know him, right?’

  You can tell he’s used to dealing with authority; his stare’s a bit zombie-like itself. And he can hold it for an impressive amount of time, especially given Vermeer’s intensity. Or maybe he’s just very well medicated. Finally he breaks his eyes away and glances at the photo, but remains silent.

  ‘Let me put it this way,’ Vermeer says when it’s clear the man doesn’t think he has to talk to her. ‘I know you know him, I know that you and your wife have screwed the council out of two properties by going through a fake separation and that you now rent out the flat they gave you to fund your lifestyle. And I also know that the person renting it is this man, who has, it seems, disappeared. So I’d like you to take this conversation a little more seriously.’

  Gerard shrugs. ‘Never seen him.’

  ‘In which case I’ll be forced to make a phone call to the council and let them know about your little scheme. Fair to say, I don’t think they’ll be that pleased. You’ll probably lose both properties. Then where will you sit around and jerk off to computer games?’

  Upstairs there’s the sound of a door opening, footsteps, a toilet lid being raised. Whoever it is vomits hard, the heave and gush following a hard night’s drinking. Must be the lovely lady of the house, Sharon.

  ‘What do you want?’ He’s got a sullen look now.

  Toilet flush, footsteps retreat.

  ‘What I want is for you to spill your guts as effectively as that.’ She points to the ceiling. ‘You know this man, and I want to know how to contact him.’

  ‘Like I say, I don’t know him. It was done through a guy; he handles the clients and takes a cut of the rent.’

  So Gerard has an agent in the middle.

  ‘We need to speak to him,’ Vermeer says.

  But Gerard, having just admitted to defrauding the government, and therefore his fellow citizens, slumps down on the sofa, picks up the console control, and starts wasting zombies like Vermeer and I don’t exist. Time for a tried and tested psychological approach. I step forward, slap the controller out of his hand and drag him to his feet.

  ‘Did you not hear what she just said?’

  He looks at me like I’ve just swiped his last candy.

  ‘I can’t tell you that. People like him don’t like to be found.’

  I release him and he bends down to pick up the controller again.

  ‘What about this?’ Vermeer steps up to him, all reasonable, cajoling almost. Then she screams in his face. ‘Where is he?’

  Shocks the guy. Shocks me too. But it gets through to him.

  ‘All right, fuck. No need to shout. I don’t know his name and I’ve only ever seen him a couple of times.’

  ‘Description.’

  ‘My height, average-looking really. Head’s shaved, though. And he wears glasses.’

  ‘He sounds like a demigod. How do I get to meet him?’

  ‘I’ve got a number on my phone.’

  On the way out I accidentally stumble over the extension lead. Just hard enough to yank it out of the socket. Back in the car there’s a strong smell of dog, but I’m pleased to see the steering wheel’s still attached and doesn’t appear to have too many tooth marks. Kush’s actually curled up asle
ep on the back seat.

  ‘So we’ve got the middle man’s number,’ Vermeer says. ‘He’ll have had direct contact with Huisman. How best to approach him? If we call and ask to speak to him, he’s just going to disappear, given that what he’s doing is illegal. Right now he’s our only link to Huisman. I don’t want him doing a runner.’

  One of the men in hi-vis steps up to the hole and suddenly starts waving frantically to the digger driver. The claw stops moving. More men cluster round to peer at whatever caught the first man’s attention. One, the leader I guess by his slightly more upmarket hi-vis, gets on the phone and starts gesticulating a bit manically. Something’s clearly up.

  ‘Give me the number.’ I pull out my phone.

  ‘You’re not going to call him?’

  ‘Yeah. As a prospective client.’

  She looks at me then shrugs. ‘All right, go for it.’

  On my phone I punch in the number and compose myself. Then I place the call. Someone picks up on the fourth ring.

  Who?

  Incident room, late afternoon. Those present: Vermeer, Jansen and a bunch of junior staff I’ve been introduced to but whose names are going to take a little while to get straight in my head. The mood: sombre. Vermeer’s briefing everyone, and her clear and professional delivery makes me wonder if the reason Beving wants me to spy on her is purely because he’s afraid. Aside from the strangely private phone call she was having outside the law firm, from what little I’ve seen she’s more than competent, and a better cop than he’ll ever be. And really, wanting to keep a conversation private is hardly suspicious behaviour.

  She raises a laugh when she recounts to the small team an account of my impersonation of a would-be benefit cheat, telling them that it was Oscar-worthy stuff. Whatever. She can scoff – it got a result.

  The man on the phone had been monotone and guarded. Nonetheless, after having told him I had a council property which I wanted to sublet on a long-term basis he was interested, and he agreed to meet. Which we’re doing this evening.

  Kush, I notice, is not much of a team player. He’s the only one in the room not paying attention, instead exploring the space with his nose. He seems particularly entranced by the open bin close to the door. Vermeer finishes up and throws it open for questions.

  ‘You checked they didn’t have any friends in common?’ I ask Jansen.

  ‘Nothing.’

  I glance at the map on the far wall, the location of Kleine’s death marked by a red dot.

  ‘We need a map of the entire country.’

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Vermeer asks.

  ‘Apart from both being killed in the same way there’s so far been no link discovered between Muller and Kleine. And the person convicted of killing Muller is not only in prison, he’s incapacitated. And yet someone killed Kleine in exactly the same way. So far the only possibles have been Jan Akkerman and Robert Huisman. Huisman has conveniently disappeared and we’re still trying to locate Akkerman. But assuming that either he or Huisman, or both of them, are responsible for a moment, we’ve still got the question why? Why these two victims? They’re both young women, but neither showed any sign of sexual assault, and they both look different – different hair colour, different style, different body shapes – so they’re not an obvious type. So why did he pick them?’

  ‘Could just have been opportunity, sir?’ says one of the bright young things, a woman with dark shiny hair tied tight in a bun and quick, focused eyes.

  ‘Could be, but the way of killing seems so specific, so planned, that I can’t help think there’s more to it than that.’

  ‘Do you think they knew their killer, sir?’ Jansen asks.

  ‘I’ve got no evidence to say they did know their killer. It’s just a theory, which is our job to prove or disprove. And part of that is ruling in or out any connection between the victims. Let’s get a map of the whole country up and track their movements on it.’

  ‘How far back?’ Jansen asks.

  ‘Couple of years before Lucie’s death at least. Maybe more.’

  Jansen nods, though I can tell he’s sighing inwardly; what I’ve just tasked him with is massive.

  ‘And we also need to keep in mind that this may not stop with Marianne Kleine.’ I look around the room, making sure everyone’s tuned in. ‘Two identical deaths, what’s to say there won’t be a third?’

  ‘What, in another seven years?’

  ‘Seven years, seven months, who knows? But it’s our responsibility to make sure it never happens.’

  The team gets to work, Vermeer disappears, and I decide to drop in on Roemers, to see where he’s got on the payment Huisman made just before Kleine’s death. I head to the tech department, an airless room in the basement where Roemers is king, only to find the chair at his desk is empty. When I ask the nearest person, a middle-aged man who blinks a lot and never quite looks you in the eye, where Roemers might be all I get is a shrug and something about Roemers keeping his own counsel.

  Back upstairs I get a call from Ron.

  ‘The Snake is in the nest,’ he says. ‘Repeat, the Snake is in the nest.’

  I’m not sure Ron’s coping that well with leaving the police force. I try not to think what that bodes for me. Am I really ready to give this up?

  I call across to Vermeer, letting her in on the news.

  ‘Right, back in the car,’ she says. ‘Oi, what are you doing?’

  Everyone jumps, but it turns out she was directing herself at Kush, who now has his head deep in the bin. When he pulls it out he has a stroopwafel wrapper in his mouth. In the car pool I load him into the vehicle, having divested him of his prize.

  ‘Tomorrow you need to find somewhere for him to stay,’ she tells me as we head off.

  ‘Might not be a tomorrow.’

  ‘I know you had a breakdown but, damn, that sounds pretty pessimistic.’

  ‘No, what I mean is, there might not be a tomorrow because if we get lucky the guy we’re meeting will be able to tell us where Akkerman is. And I’m starting to feel he’s just as involved as Huisman. And if that’s true, we find one, we find the other.’

  ‘We can hope,’ she says, nosing out into traffic. ‘We can hope.’

  The walls are vibrating, Claudia has been replaced with a young man who looks like he’s severely hung-over, and the club itself is fuller than it was earlier.

  ‘Do none of these people have jobs?’ Vermeer asks.

  ‘It’s bewildering, right?’ Ron says. He’s been drooling over Vermeer since we stepped in a few moments ago, and isn’t showing any sign of letting up. ‘I mean, just who the fuck are they? It costs a fortune to get in, the drinks are massively overpriced, it’s not even five o’clock on a weekday, and yet here they are.’

  We all marvel for a minute at how the other half live before I ask where the man we’re interested in is. Ron speaks to the hung-over man who points to a screen marked LOWER BAR, LEFT CORNER. There are a series of semicircular booths all facing a stage. There’s a shiny pole in the middle of it, though as of yet the act hasn’t started. There are people in each booth, and the man points to one with three figures.

  ‘Snake’s the one in the middle.’

  By the time we make it down there the show’s started. A woman in sparkling bright green high heels, red hair that’s got to be a wig, and a few scraps of fabric the same colour as the shoes strategically dotted around her body, is listlessly going through her act. Her eyes, when you glimpse them, show just how far away she is. Not that the punters seem to notice, they’re still drinking and cracking jokes with each other, all the while allowing their eyes to feast on the woman’s body.

  We walk up to the table where the man known as Snake is and stand right in his view.

  ‘Fuck are you?’ he asks. ‘Out the way, babe.’

  ‘I haven’t been called that in a long time,’ I tell him. ‘What’s your name?’

  He looks me up and down with a curl of the lip. Doesn’t respond.

/>   ‘What’s your name?’ Vermeer repeats.

  ‘Snake.’

  ‘Your real name.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear?’ says one of his companions, a man in a patterned shirt, enough buttons undone to show the tattoos rising up from his chest to his neck.

  Vermeer flashes her badge. ‘Get lost,’ she says without even looking at him. ‘You as well.’

  Snake stares at her, picks up a toothpick out of a little ceramic holder on the table and tries to dislodge something, probably imaginary, from between his teeth. Finally he nods and both men get up and walk away, taking their tall glasses of beer with them. The tattooed one glares at her as he goes past. Vermeer gives him the best fuck-you smile I’ve ever seen.

  Once they’ve gone Vermeer speaks again. ‘Bit too seedy in here. Let’s go outside.’

  Snake blinks in the light. The lighter flicks on with a chirp and he brings the writhing flame to the cigarette end dangling from his mouth. He takes a big draw. A long reverberating ship’s horn blares across the water behind him. I look up to see the same cruise ship I’d seen from Nellie’s gliding along the IJ, heading for open water. People on the deck wave towards land even though no one’s returning the greeting.

  ‘Yeah, I remember the guy,’ he’s saying. Now he’s away from the others he hasn’t exactly become cooperative, but there’s a little less bravado in his manner. ‘He was really aggressive, basically kicked off and got us all thrown out.’

  ‘And that wouldn’t be anything to do with you dealing drugs?’ Vermeer asks.

  ‘I’m not dealing anything, just there enjoying the show with a couple of mates.’

  ‘Every day?’ I ask. ‘Doesn’t it get a bit boring?’

  ‘I like watching women dance, what can I say?’

  ‘Did he ever buy from you before?’ Vermeer asks.

  ‘Like I said, I don’t know what you’re talking about; you can search me if you like.’ This was directed to Vermeer. ‘Don’t forget here.’ He grabs his crotch.

  ‘If you’re searched it’ll be back at the station by a couple of my male colleagues,’ Vermeer says. ‘They don’t really have a soft touch, and they’re very thorough. So, tell us everything about him.’