The Copycat

by Jake Woodhouse

  ‘What did the father do?’

  ‘Dealer of some sort. I don’t actually know that for sure, but that’s what he looked like to me. They used to spend the summer holidays up near the coast somewhere. Bergen, I think. I remember Rein telling me about all the spiders they found in the log cabin they slept in. Pretty much the only people around here who can afford holidays are dealers.’

  ‘So what happened to Rein after that?’

  ‘I saw him around but we never really talked again. Pretty sure he didn’t get into acting class, though. Shame, he would have been good at it. He had that thing where he could imitate people just by changing his posture. When he was younger you’d see him walking behind people, copying their movements. He was pretty good at it. It cracked his brother up, but, like I said, don’t think the dad saw much point in that kind of thing.’

  ‘Was he close to his brother?’

  He thinks before replying. ‘He seemed protective of him. I guess their father didn’t really look out for them so Rein took on that role for his younger brother. Only natural really. So what’s he done that you’re here asking questions? Must be bad.’

  ‘I can’t go into that, but if you know where I can find him it would be very useful.’

  The man pulls a thread from his sleeve and wraps it round a finger until the tip goes pink, then white. He releases it.

  ‘No, can’t help. Sorry. Last time I saw him would have been ten, eleven years ago. The brother died I heard, and then Rein left. Not long after someone else moved into their flat.’

  Beethoven moves things up a notch. It’s still slow, but it’s got intense all of a sudden.

  ‘Seven?’

  He smiles but shakes his head.

  ‘Three. “Eroica”. Dedicated to Napoleon. Then undedicated when it turned out he was just as much a tyrant as anyone else. Way of the world as far as I can see.’

  A plane rumbles overhead. I can see its reflection in the window.

  ‘Were you here when the plane hit?’

  ‘No, luckily I was out. Heard about it when I was riding back on the tram. Rammed that block over there.’ He points out of the window, across the garden. ‘Helluva mess. Had to be evacuated until they were sure the other buildings weren’t going to go.’

  My phone goes off. I let it go to answer machine.

  ‘I stayed with my sister for a year afterwards. I think that was crucial. Many people who came back straight away got sick. I didn’t.’

  I spend a few more minutes with him, but there’s nothing else he can tell me. Outside I stand for a moment and look up as if the answer to it all is up there, written on the sky. Then I spot Vermeer exiting a flat at the far end of the walkway. I call out but the wind’s picked up and it funnels my voice elsewhere. I head in her direction, listening to my message on the way. It’s from Nellie. The board have given her a time. Hank’s life support will be turned off at six tomorrow evening. She asks me to be there.

  ‘Bad news?’ Vermeer asks as I reach her. She’s chewing gum and smells minty.

  For a second or so I wonder about telling her. But then I think I might just start crying.

  I shake my head. ‘Just some personal stuff. You get anything?’

  ‘Blank stares mostly. No one who seemed to know him. Mind you, it would have been years ago. You?’

  I relay my conversation.

  ‘Doesn’t really help. Station?’

  ‘Yeah. Just let me make a call first.’

  Nellie. But she doesn’t pick up. I don’t blame her.

  Back at the hub. We have a probable perpetrator, we have a motive, we have strong links to the crime. The only thing we haven’t got is any idea of his whereabouts. After the trial he seems to have disappeared into thin air, so at the very moment when an investigation would be running at speed we’re now stuck in a crawl.

  ‘He must’ve planned it.’

  Vermeer’s back to tapping a pen on her desk. I agree with her assessment. He disappeared so that he could plan the killings out in detail. But there are still so many questions. Why, after killing Lucie Muller, did he wait all this time until killing Marianne Kleine? So we wouldn’t make the link? But if he was that careful, then why follow Kleine’s death up with Dirk Zeeman’s straight away? Why not wait like he did before?

  ‘You think he could be sick?’ I ask. ‘Maybe he’s only got limited time left and had to do it now?’

  ‘He was the only one who had the experimental drug and survived, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe it didn’t kill him but damaged him somehow. Like those people at the Groeneveen; it took some time after exposure for them to get sick.’

  ‘The problem is, there are basically two cases: the murders, and DH Biotech’s cover-up of their failed trial. Given the lengths they went to it was more than financial expedience; they must have been worried about a criminal prosecution. Which means they might have known the drug could have had the effect it did.’

  Tap tap tap goes the pen.

  I find one and start doing the same. Vermeer gives me a look and stops.

  This all centres on DH Biotech, but we don’t have anywhere near enough evidence to go after them. They’ll have lawyers crawling all over us the second we make any sort of move. Or start burning down Vermeer’s place. I decide not to tell her this. Her phone rings and she answers it whilst I realize I’ve made a mistake. I asked for Dirk’s sister to be put in protective custody, but what I should have done is sprung a trap for Rein Benner, made sure a decoy was in place. I check the time then get on the phone. Once I’ve sorted it out I hang up and wait for Vermeer to finish. Judging by her face whatever she’s hearing isn’t good.

  ‘Yes, we’ll be right there.’ She hangs up. ‘That was Beving on the phone; he says we need to get back to Dirk Zeeman’s right now. They’ve found something.’

  Back in the car I find the piles of paper we’d left there earlier and I sift through them as Vermeer drives. One of her finger’s tapping on the wheel the whole way. I’m starting to hope she’s all right. Just as we’re pulling into the street I start reassembling the papers when one slides over the photos of the volunteers.

  And suddenly it all comes into focus. The lower half of Rein’s face is partially covered, hiding the beard and allowing me to see what I’d not been able to see before.

  The reason he looks familiar.

  My stomach feels like I’ve just jumped off a cliff. Fuck.

  ‘Look at this.’

  Vermeer glances over. ‘What?’ She seems annoyed, distracted.

  ‘This, Rein Benner. Only it’s not Rein Benner. It’s Sander Klaasen. They’re the same person.’

  She glances across, then shakes her head. ‘I don’t really see it.’

  But then she’d not known Klaasen. I had. I’d sat opposite him in interview rooms. I’d watched him during his trial. I was there when the judges sent him down and he looked across the courtroom at me with hatred in his eyes. How did I not see this before?

  ‘It’s him. It’s definitely him.’

  ‘Impossible. He was in prison. And you said he’s now dead.’

  I think back to the day I’d visited him. I hadn’t recognized him. The injuries and the panic attack I’d had made sure of that. More bits fall into place. Rein Benner disappeared after the DH Biotech trial. He must have changed his identity to Sander Klaasen then. More stuff: Klaasen had no background, he’d been like a ghost, we couldn’t find anything on him at all. Fits in with Benner’s disappearance. So what next? Klaasen kills Lucie Muller but I catch him. He goes to prison. But he beats someone into a pulp and then takes their place. I think of what the artist had said. Benner was good at imitating people, mimicking their posture. And the reason there’s been a gap between Lucie Muller’s death and Marianne Kleine’s is that Klaasen probably got out of prison recently and decided to carry on with his plan.

  I lay it out for Vermeer.

  ‘Wait, hang on. How could he have taken someone’s place? Surely it would
have been noticed?’

  But would it? Prison guards have a lot to deal with, prisoners transferring in and out all the time. If Klaasen was smart there might be a way.

  I get the prison warden I’d spoken to earlier on the phone.

  ‘Who was the prisoner who fought with Klaasen the day he was transferred to prison?’

  The warden says he’ll check and tells me to hold. We sit in the car in silence. Vermeer seems agitated. I don’t blame her.

  ‘The prisoner was called Klaas Blok,’ the warden says when he comes back on the line.

  ‘Has he been released recently?’

  ‘Yeah, he was only in for seven years. Released two months ago.’

  I hang up and am relaying this to Vermeer as a uniform knocks a knuckle on the window next to me. It makes me jump.

  ‘Beving wants you both upstairs, now.’

  We get out and I run it through in my head again, testing it, trying to see any faults. At first I’d thought pulling a switch like that, in a high-security prison, would be impossible. But the more I think about it, the more I realize it could just happen. In the end they’re all just prisoners to the guards, maybe someone wasn’t paying attention that day? And if he had pulled it off … Still seems unlikely.

  There are two uniforms by the door, as if there’s a prisoner inside. Beving himself opens the door as we approach.

  ‘Follow me.’

  ‘We’ve got something,’ I tell him. ‘We –’

  ‘Not now,’ he snaps. ‘Just follow me. You two as well,’ he says to the uniforms.

  My phone starts ringing.

  ‘Inspector Rykel? I’m leading the team looking for the man who torched your boat. Think I’ve got a possible suspect so wanted to come back to you straight away.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  Everyone is standing waiting for me. Beving looks impatient. Vermeer … I can’t tell what Vermeer’s thinking.

  ‘Long story short, one of my men was talking to someone at a medical centre on Tuinstraat. They said they’d treated a man who smelt of solvents. The doctor treating him thought it was odd, said the guy seemed jittery as well, particularly when he was asked about it. Gave some story which the doctor didn’t think much of. He got treated anyway and left. They didn’t think any more of it until my man was canvassing the street.’

  ‘Anything on him? Name, details?’

  ‘Gave a false name but we got a photo from the medical centre’s CCTV. Looks like he was trying not to get noticed but they have a hidden camera which he didn’t pick up. I can get the image over to you if you’d like?’

  ‘Send it to my phone.’

  ‘Will do. We’re stepping up our efforts to track where he went next. I think we’re on to something.’

  I’m just thanking him and about to hang up when a question pops into my head. ‘What was he being treated for, burns?’

  ‘He had a little burn on his arm, but the main thing was a dog bite. Pretty bad according to the doctor.’

  I think back to the image we had of the man from Rashid’s CCTV, the way he looked like one of his arms was trailing. It’s because Kush was defending the boat from him, probably got hold of his arm with his teeth.

  ‘Rykel, we need to go upstairs, now.’

  We go up the stairs, the two uniforms following as Beving had commanded. The seventh floorboard creaks. Past the ticking clock. Into the room. The body is still there. Max Bakker is as well.

  The uniforms are close behind us, jamming up the doorway. Vermeer’s moved away from me now, closer to Beving. I get an odd sense of being alone.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We got a DNA match,’ Beving says. ‘Bakker, tell him.’

  Bakker coughs, stares at the body, as if his script is written there. Which in a way, it is.

  ‘We checked the blood under the fingernails. It’s not his, so we ran it through the system.’

  ‘And? Whose is it?’

  Bakker coughs again, shuffles his feet. Vermeer’s face is drained. Beving’s unreadable.

  My phone buzzes, the image finally arriving. I glance at it, then double-take. There is no air in the room. It’s impossible to breathe. Because I’m staring at an image of the man I’d known as Sander Klaasen. Somehow he’d managed it. He’d made the switch in prison and done his time as someone else. Then on his release he’d killed again.

  ‘What is it?’ Vermeer asks.

  I turn the phone round so she and Beving can both see it.

  ‘Sander Klaasen. Or Rein Benner, whichever you prefer. This is the man who torched my boat. The same man who killed Lucie Muller, Marianne Kleine and Dirk Zeeman.’

  Silence drapes a blanket over us all, making the clock in the hallway louder.

  Eventually Beving speaks. ‘I’m not so sure.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He steps forward and hands me a sheet of paper. It’s the DNA results.

  I look at the name. It jolts me. Because right there on the sheet in black and white is a name I know well. The room starts spiralling. I look from face to face. Beving, Vermeer, Bakker. Colleagues, the good guys. I have shudders down my spine, and my legs feel too weak to hold my weight. I look down at the body, a person who I didn’t even know existed up until a few hours ago.

  ‘Is this a joke?’ No one’s catching my gaze. ‘Seriously, what the fuck is going on?’

  ‘Jaap Rykel,’ Beving says, adopting the bland, disinterested tone of authority. The uniforms are right behind me; I can feel moist breath on my neck. The clock ticks. Someone shifts and the floor creaks. ‘I’m arresting you for the murder of Dirk Zeeman.’

  Schizo

  The paper’s snatched out of my hand and the two uniforms behind me grab my arms. I hear the ratchet mechanism of the cuffs, feel the cold metal tightening round my wrists. They check my pockets and one of them pulls out the tin containing the pre-rolled joints. He hands it to Beving who turns it round in his hand before giving it a sniff. The look he gives me is hard to decode, but it’s shiny with hate and loathing and fear and maybe, just maybe, a little triumph as well.

  ‘Get him out of here.’

  ‘Wait, this is crazy. I –’

  ‘Shut it!’

  I’m dragged out of there like a common criminal. I should be protesting, I should be appealing to their reason, telling them that there’s some mistake. But I can see from the looks on their faces it won’t do any good. The chances of a DNA match being wrong are so small as to be impossible. Maybe the new faster machine is prone to more mistakes? But that’ll be for my lawyer to explore later on; there’s no point raising it now. The clock ticks as we walk past. I feel it’s ticking just for me. The seventh floorboard creaks again as we descend. At the bottom of the steps the whole thing becomes a walk of shame. Uniforms stand aside. Shocked eyes, disgusted eyes, and eyes which are greedy for the unexpected drama of it all. The fall of one of their own.

  And all the while my head chases its tail, trying to work out how this has happened. I’m marched down the road towards a waiting patrol car. Faces pop up in windows, desperate to know what’s going on. I feel like ducking my head, hiding my face, but I try and force myself to stand tall. The noble hero being abused.

  But just before we reach the car I have a thought so terrible it feels like it’s stopped my heart.

  What if I did do it?

  What if it was me who killed Dirk Zeeman? Or rather a different part of me. The part that I’ve called the black wolf. What if all along the cannabis wasn’t really feeding the white wolf, it was actually nourishing the black? Made it strong enough to fully take over, without me even noticing?

  I try to think, imagine how that could be.

  I remember coming here, to this street, the house where the body lies. I remember working out the chain of logic. Dirk being the son of the last remaining board member at DH Biotech when the trial took place. I remember it all, so none of this makes sense. Unless …

  Unless that all could be
leakage between the two parts of me. False memories, disrupted realities to cover what I’d done?

  I’m shaking badly, and even though I’m freezing cold sweat is seeping out of my skin. It’s true I’d not been able to get hold of Vermeer or Jansen on the way. But maybe I hadn’t really tried, maybe I was living between worlds and only pretended to call them, pretended that they didn’t answer. Was one side of my brain fooling the other? Spinning stories to cover its tracks, keeping part of me from knowing just what the other part was up to? I’ve interviewed people like that, people who seemed genuinely confused about what they’d done. Have I become one of them?

  Has cannabis, just like the authorities have always claimed, made me schizo? Am I the copycat?

  The thought’s like a thunderclap.

  In the vacuum of its aftermath my mind speeds up. What else could I have done, what else isn’t as it seems? The houseboat fire. Could I have started that, done it to make myself look like a victim, show I wasn’t just being paranoid? Had I hurt Kush in the process? A wave of nausea hits me. Is Kush even real? The first time I saw him I thought he looked like the black wolf. Had part of my mind conjured him up? And then, further back, could I have been the one to kill Marianne Kleine? And if so, why, why would I do it, what reason would I have other than some kind of psychic echo from the original Klaasen case, something the black wolf has been feasting on inside me for years? I’d broken down; they called it Uncomplicated PTSD, and I thought I’d got better. But what if it wasn’t a breakdown, more like a change of form, a dark metamorphosis?

  I feel like crying. I feel like laughing. It’s coming, I can sense it. They took the tin off me. I need it. I need it now or it’s going to get worse. Or do I? Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe that’s what’s causing this …

  I let my head fall back and from out of my throat rushes an ear-splitting, all-consuming scream. Only to part of me, part of me that’s rapidly disappearing, it sounds more like a howl.

  I’m on the ground, pavement pushed into my face. Or the other way round. It’s hard to tell.

  ‘What happened?’ Vermeer’s voice.