The Copycat

by Jake Woodhouse

  She looks up, a soft enquiring smile on her face and dimples on her cheeks. Her brown hair is cut short, streaked through with blonde accents. There’s a red patch of skin on her neck which she absentmindedly scratches, then catches herself and stops abruptly.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Nellie de Vries gave me your name.’

  Clearly the name doesn’t mean anything to her. She starts unfolding the bike.

  ‘Dr de Vries, she works in Paediatrics?’

  ‘Oh yes. She’s the one whose husband …’

  ‘That’s the one. Have you got a minute?’

  ‘Depends on what it is,’ she says, tightening up the last hinge clamp with a grimace. ‘I’ve got to pick up my son from school in twenty minutes.’

  ‘It’s about a clinical trial you were involved in a few years ago. Run by DH Biotech?’

  Nothing changes, her expression is exactly the same, her posture is exactly the same, everything is exactly the same. And yet something’s different, like a light behind the eyes is suddenly shut off. It’s a reaction I like to see.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Police. Inspector Rykel. And we really do need to chat.’

  ‘I don’t remember anything.’ She turns her back to me, does a final check on the bike and starts to wheel it away.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist. I’ll give you a lift to the school?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘You always have a choice. But all I’m asking is for a quick chat. Please, it could really help.’

  ‘Okay,’ she says after a long look at me. ‘I’ve been on my feet for hours; I could do with a lift. But that’s all.’

  I can work with that as a start. The Stang had been parked far enough away from my houseboat that it hadn’t sustained any damage from the fire, and I’d driven it out here. It’s up on the sixth floor. Stephanie folds up the bike again and we hit the stairs. I offer to carry it for her but she refuses. It just fits in the back and soon we’re corkscrewing down through the levels and out onto the road.

  ‘So you remember the trial I’m talking about?’

  She nods, but doesn’t exactly gush information at me. I’m about to prompt her again when she speaks.

  ‘Yeah, I remember.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  A few more streets go by. We stop at a light.

  ‘It … it didn’t go well. There were twelve men signed up for the trial. I was just finishing my training and was shadowing the resident matron. She was the one who was administering the drug. We went from bed to bed and injected the numbered vial that corresponded with each volunteer; the point was that we didn’t know which was placebo and which was real. Once that was done we had to draw blood from each one every hour, and monitor vitals, things like heart rate, body temperature. We also had to administer some coordination tests, so by the time you’d finished with the twelfth you had to start back with the first one again. Anyway, it was during the second hour when the first volunteer started to complain of a headache. It got worse and worse, and then another volunteer also said they had a headache. By then the first one was screaming in pain and … Well, you can imagine how everyone started to freak out. It was chaos. That was when the first one started to bleed out of their nose.’

  She shakes her head and looks out the window. Her hands twist in her lap. A cyclist wavers out in front of me with no warning. The brakes bite hard, and the man yells at me with the kind of deep righteousness only found in urban cyclists. The kind that makes my foot itch on the accelerator.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘We were taken out of there.’

  ‘That was it?’

  ‘For us, yes. I heard several volunteers were taken to intensive care but I don’t know any more than that.’

  ‘You never heard how they ended up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit strange?’

  ‘I did ask, but was told nobody knew.’

  There’s an uncomfortable pause. I get the feeling she’s wrestling with something.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And the next day I was told to go to a room to draw some blood from a new patient. There was a man in there, but he didn’t look like a patient. He was in a suit, not a hospital gown, which was a bit odd as it was an inpatient ward. He knew my name and told me to sit down and that he wanted to talk to me. He said that he was sorry that I had to be put through what was such a traumatic thing to witness. He also said I didn’t need to worry about the volunteers any more, that they’d all made a full recovery.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Those were pretty much the words but … I got a sense that he wasn’t just letting me know; it was more that he was letting me know that he knew I’d asked about them. If that makes sense?’

  ‘You mean he was warning you off from asking any more questions.’

  ‘That’s what it felt like. But he was so polite, and seemed not friendly but … concerned at any rate. So afterwards I convinced myself I was being silly, that I was imagining things.’

  ‘Did he give you a name?’

  ‘I don’t remember, no. I would have remembered. I’m great with names and faces. Helps with the patients if you learn their names quickly.’

  ‘Do you remember what he looked like?’

  ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘Right now I’m not sure.’

  We’re getting close to the school. I’m hoping for more red lights.

  ‘He was tall, very neat blond hair. And he had a suit on. I remember thinking it was a very expensive suit. Dark with light pinstripes. There was just something about it which made me think it most likely cost more than I earn in a month. Probably several months.’

  ‘And you never saw this man again?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You think you’d recognize him now?’

  She doesn’t even hesitate. ‘Yeah, I’d remember him.’

  The traffic’s thickening, more and more SUVs with blacked-out windows are cruising the streets. Which either means we’re heading towards a wannabe-gangsta convention, or we’re getting close to the school. I’ve noticed pick-up time is like a military operation in itself. An old friend had done a tour of duty in Afghanistan, but he said that he’d never been so scared as when he’d started doing the school run. There were women screaming at each other, literally screaming, he’d told me with a haunted look, and then they’d go and stand next to each other at the school gate like nothing had happened.

  The road ahead’s clogged up now and I spot a clear side street.

  ‘Mind if I drop you here? I think it’s going to be quicker for you.’

  I find a spot to hover and she reaches for the door handle.

  ‘Just one more thing. Could you look at the photos of the volunteers and tell me which ones were affected?’

  The look on her face says she doesn’t want to, but she eventually nods.

  I shift up in my seat and pull the folded photocopy of the volunteers out of my back pocket. She takes it and stares at the images. Then she points out six of them.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘You don’t forget stuff like that.’

  I’m thinking I should mark them but I don’t have a pen. I take the sheet back and get her to point them out again. I score under each one with my fingernail. She gets out of the car, flips the seat, and reaches for her bike. I can tell she’s hesitating.

  ‘Go on,’ I tell her.

  ‘It’s just … the next day I was asked to fill out a patient death form for a man who’d died the week before. I’d filled out a report at the time but it had got lost. So I did it again and took it down to the office where they record all the deaths. I didn’t want it going missing again. Just before I went in I heard one of them talking about the extra deaths from the ICU.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you expect that from an ICU?’

  ‘No, it’s about the only department in the hospital which runs under capacity most of t
he time. I’ve been working here for years, and the most I’d ever heard of being in there at the same time is four. And of those you’d expect roughly half to survive.’

  Once she’s gone I glance at the sheet again. DH Biotech’s trial ended with the deaths of some of the volunteers who’d received the experimental treatment. That much seems clear, but what I can’t believe is that DH Biotech have been able to keep it quiet.

  I think of the fire investigator’s question.

  You got any enemies?

  Could it be that DH Biotech are already aware of me, know that I’m on the scent which could lead me straight to their door? It can’t be. That’s just crazy. Isn’t it?

  I push it out of my mind and look at the photos again, at the man with the thick beard. I’m sure I’ve never seen him before, I’ve not seen any of them, but there’s something about him, something so familiar. I note that he is one of the images with a score underneath. Which means, if what I’ve just been told is true, that he probably died as a result of the trial. But still, he looks so familiar.

  Volunteer Number Six

  To speak to sales, press one. To talk to us about a change to an existing policy, press two. To make a claim, press three. Thank you. Unfortunately all our claims specialists are helping other customers at present, but please continue to hold and one of our agents will be with you shortly.

  Bunch of fuckers. And honestly I’m dreading speaking to them. Because whilst I assume my policy covers me for arson, I can’t check because even if there was paperwork somewhere on board, and really I don’t recall seeing any, there’s precisely zero chance that it escaped the blaze.

  The only other person in the incident room is the guy who’d grassed me up to Beving about Jansen’s shoes, so I put the phone on speaker and slide it away from me across the desk. The music’s probably the headline track on a compilation called Tunes to Hang Yourself By. Just what you need on an insurance line.

  I try to shut my ears off and pull the sheet of photos out. I want to have another look, especially at the one who seems familiar. There’s definitely something there, something I just can’t place. We need to find out who all these people are. But I’m not sure how we’re going to be able to do it. DH Biotech will know of course, but we’re not at the warrant stage yet, and there’s nowhere near enough evidence to request one.

  And yet it’s crucial we know who died, and, more importantly, who survived. After more staring I’m no closer to an answer so I push it aside and, with the music showing no sign of giving way to an actual human being I can talk to, I get on the desk phone. The woman who answers tells me that Nellie is seeing patients, so I ask to be put through to the records office. My thought process is this: Stephanie was sure several died, and there must be a record of their deaths. Not even a large pharma company can cover that up, can they?

  After a bit of wheedling I’m finally hooked up to someone with a nasal voice and a clipped turn of phrase which suggests he believes he has better things to be doing. I explain what I’m after.

  ‘I’m not sure those can be given out to just anyone.’

  I disabuse the man of his erroneous notion that I’m just ‘anyone’.

  ‘In that case I’d have to speak to my manager,’ he says.

  ‘Great, I’ll hold.’

  ‘Actually, she’s away until next Wednesday. So if you’d like to call back maybe on Thursday when she’s had a chance to catch up –’

  ‘Christ, what’s that music?’

  I look up to see Jansen in the doorway. I tell Mr Nasal to expect me and hang up.

  ‘You know what this reminds me of?’ Jansen asks loudly just as Vermeer walks in behind him. ‘It reminds me of a desperately sad handjob.’

  ‘Is there any other type?’ Vermeer asks, flopping down on a chair and putting her feet up on a desk. She closes her eyes and rubs her temples. I’m tempted to tell her that’s what cocktails do, but instead I just kill the call and the music stops, leaving us with sweet silence. They both seem pretty morose, though. Which considering everything I’ve been through in the last twenty-four hours seems unreasonable at best. True, Huisman being put out of the picture’s a major blow to everything we’ve been working on up until now, but still. At least neither of them had their house burn down.

  I turn back to what I’m doing. I should get going to the hospital. But even if I get the death records that’s not going to tell me who the survivors are without knowing all of their names. And it’s the survivors I’m interested in. I pull up Google and punch in FAA673. To my surprise I get a few hits. The first being a government database of all clinical trials, current and past. With my heart beating a little faster, I click on the link for FAA673. It brings me to a detailed page which outlines the original proposal, the date the trial was set for, and eventually the fact that the trial was abandoned. It doesn’t say why, though. But there’s more, a copy of the original advert, with contact details.

  They’re not those of DH Biotech, but another company.

  I quickly find their details online, and their website boasts of a proven track record in finding and screening suitable candidates for all sorts of clinical trials. Their address is less than fifteen minutes’ drive away, close to the AMC itself. This might cheer Vermeer and Jansen up. I call them over and am just about to take them through what I’ve got when they both get up and flit away like small fish scattering when a shark enters their stretch of water. The shark in this case is Station Chief Frank Beving. A few minutes later I’m standing across from the desk in his office, listening to his condolences about the fire. All delivered with the sincerity of a menopausal supermarket checkout clerk. Duty done, he gets on to the good stuff.

  ‘Obviously, I’ve heard that subsequent to the fire you weren’t that well?’

  ‘I was a little upset,’ I concede.

  ‘Yes, well. The report I have here makes it sound a bit more serious.’

  ‘I wouldn’t pay any attention to that. You know what patrol are like, drama queens the lot of them.’

  He stares at me, but somehow I’m immune to it. It’s weird, a few hours ago I was deep within the dark wolf’s clutches, now I feel like that Sarah Jarosz song which talks of green lights, open roads and skies of endless blue. Which makes me remember that particular CD, along with everything else I owned, is now gone.

  Beving picks up a couple of sheets of paper. He spends some time on the first, then peels it back to look at the one underneath. His eyebrows rise. Dear god, spare me the theatrics.

  ‘No shoes?’ he says. ‘You were found wearing no shoes and mumbling incoherently.’

  Why is everyone so hung up on shoes all of a sudden? It’s not like bare feet are illegal or anything.

  ‘My feet were hot. And I was reciting poetry; you can’t expect patrol to know the difference.’

  ‘All right, enough horseshit. The point is you were only allowed back on to this investigation because –’

  The door bursts open behind me. Roemers, headphones round his neck, a laptop clutched under his arm. ‘Been looking all over for you.’

  ‘How strange then that you find me in my office.’

  ‘Not you, him.’

  ‘What have you got?’ I ask.

  He reaches across the desk, roughly shoves a pile of papers out the way, and opens up the laptop. Beving, after pulling a can’t-believe-he-just-did-that face which we both ignore, reluctantly gets up and steps round so he too can see the screen.

  ‘There you are,’ Roemers says, pointing to the image.

  I peer at it. It’s exactly the same as the one I showed him earlier.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I gave you.’

  He hits the enter key with a flourish worthy of a camped-up stage magician. More theatrics.

  The image changes. It’s a close-up of the man’s head. It’s pixelated, blurry and only really his mouth and nose are visible, the hoody low enough to cover his eyes. But nonetheless it’s a partial face. Of the man who burned down my boat.r />
  ‘This is the man who torched my boat,’ I tell Beving.

  ‘Whoa, hang on a moment. I thought it was an accident, something electrical?’

  I can’t believe he hadn’t heard. Then again I can’t actually remember who I’ve told about the fire investigator’s findings. Things have been a little blurry recently.

  ‘No, the fire was started deliberately. At least four ignition points.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Says the fire investigator. I can’t remember his name, but he was adamant. He showed me them. No question, according to him.’

  I don’t usually like weather metaphors, but Beving’s face really is like thunder.

  ‘And this is the man who did it?’ he says, stabbing his finger into the screen so hard the laptop moves.

  ‘Yeah, most likely.’

  Or maybe a volcano is a better description, one that’s vibrating just before it explodes. Jesus. It makes me think of my own Volcano.

  ‘Rykel,’ he says, turning to face me, ‘we’ve had our differences, but this is not going to go unpunished. We are going to find this man and we are going to make this motherfucker pay.’

  He gets on the phone, starts shouting orders, and in a matter of minutes has assigned four teams to comb the area starting on Bloemgracht and working outwards from there. Their brief is to find and requisition any CCTV, to question residents, business owners, tourists and anyone else they find in their path. They are to be a marauding army of righteousness; nothing is to stand in their way.

  ‘Get this photo to them,’ Beving instructs Roemers once he’s finished shouting orders down the phone.

  ‘Will do.’

  As I leave, Beving reaches out and holds my arm. He looks right at me. ‘Don’t worry, Rykel,’ he says. ‘I will not let this stand. We are going to get him. I promise you that.’

  I’ve clearly misjudged him. I always thought he was an asshole, but now, when it really matters, he’s putting aside our petty differences and pulling through for me. I nearly choke up and have to walk away. As I’m heading down the stairs back to the incident room I think how strange it is that kindness can be harder to take than hostility.