The Copycat
Page 30
Soon I’ve reached the point where I have to ditch the car. I’d stopped off at a petrol station and bought a pre-pay phone, then used the last of my cash to buy food and drink and a cheap rucksack. It’s bright orange so before loading it I find a ditch and rub it in the soft mud at the water’s edge. The moon ripples on the water’s surface as I work. Once it’s covered I take the four cans of Red Bull, a packet of sliced Gouda and three chocolate bars out of the car and stuff them all into the rucksack. I check the phone. I’ve got two bars. I can see the place I’m heading to on the phone’s map app, but I just hope that when I’m in the woods I’ll still be able to use it to navigate.
And the forest ahead, now that I’m here, seems several times darker and larger than I’d thought it would be. I raise my nose and sniff the air a couple of times before setting off. It smells like rain.
Off on the hunt.
The trunk had probably come down in a storm. Or maybe its roots had been damaged by insects or fungus, or perhaps it had just reached an age and, tired of this world, had decided to keel over, taking as many of its neighbours as possible. In any case, it’s right across the path I’m on. I sit down by it, the huge girth partly sheltering me from the rain which has begun to fall. A cluster of mushrooms sprout from the wood like little umbrellas. I check the phone and see I’ve been going for just over two hours. Rucksack, Red Bull. The can hisses loudly into the night. It’s almost flat by the time it’s finished fizzing over. But I’m grateful for the energy it gives me.
I think back to all the crimes I’ve been witness to, how all of them were really nothing more than the almost inevitable conclusion of some earlier action, some chain of events whose outcome would have, despite their inevitability, been hard to predict. Invisible strings play us like puppets.
I’m here because of two bits of information that had come together in the lock-up, teased out by the Sour Hound. The artist on the Groeneveen estate had said Benner spent the summer holidays in a log cabin in Bergen, and I remembered the note in the file on Lucie Muller’s death, the officer from Bergen who’d said they’d seen a man fitting the description we’d sent out. And he’d been living in a log cabin deep in the woods. Two little bits of information that are going to end this once and for all. And to it I now add a third: Klaasen had worked on a building site in Alkmaar, which I’d passed to get here. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before.
Then I think of Benner and his brother signing up for the trial, the lure of easy money overriding the danger that it actually posed. By some chance of fate both Rein and his brother were given the drug, and both fell ill. But Rein survived, and having watched his brother die wanted to get revenge. But then the question: would Rein have flipped, would he have killed at all just from the grief? Or had the drug done something to him? Had his brain been rewired in a way that made him more likely to kill, that made it easier for him to transform from Rein, frustrated actor working as a waiter and labourer, to Sander Klaasen, a stone-cold killer? Had he made the transformation out here in the woods, sitting in the building I’m searching for as the change occurred? Had it been gradual, or had it struck like lightning, the switch happening from one moment to the next? At what point did Klaasen decide he wanted to get revenge on me as well? And, the question I’m not yet willing to face, what part did Sabine play in all this? Because I’m starting to feel that meeting her that day can’t have been a coincidence. Or maybe that’s just paranoia.
It has to be.
Sabine upped and left, that’s all. She has nothing to do with this. She doesn’t. I hear her whispering I’m sorry in her sleep. My throat dries up.
A noise somewhere behind me. It’s like a twig snapping, distinct from the softer dripping of the rain. I’m fully alert, muscles tense, hairs on the back of my neck standing proud, ears primed. I hold my breath and turn my head slowly. Darkness, trunks standing sentinel, moonlight spikes through the canopy. I can smell pine resin, earth, something fungal. But I can’t see anything moving, and the sound doesn’t happen again. After a few minutes I slip off the trunk and continue on my way.
Only now I’ve got the feeling I’m not alone.
Reception had slipped down to one bar before it disappeared totally. I’m on the right track, though, as I’d tried to commit the rest of the way to memory; the path ahead is going to bend round towards the edge of the trees and there’ll be a field. I’ll need to skirt that, before diving back into the forest, following a small path that should lead me right to the property whose roof had just been visible on the phone. I move forward. The path does bend and I step into a field flooded with moonlight, almost too bright after the dark of the forest. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. I pick out a pale structure off to the right.
It’s a ribcage.
I move towards it only to see it’s not human. Given the size it most likely belonged to a fallen sheep. I spot the skull lying a few metres away. There’s no way of telling if the head had been detached before it died or after. The bones are clean of flesh and glow eerily in the moonlight. My lip twitches. I move on. I’m suddenly worried that I’m wrong, but there’s a feeling inside, a kind of animal sense, that tells me this is right, that I need to carry on. There is no other option.
I give in to it, picking my way along the path, slippery with dry pine needles and roots which course across it at random, ready to trip me up. At first I’m tentative but I gradually find a rhythm and soon I’m moving with a confidence and fluidity I didn’t know was possible. I’m slipping in and out of it more easily now, the transitions aren’t so jarring; it’s almost like I’m both at once, me and the wolf.
The question is, am I the black one, or the white?
On the path again I break off to investigate a tree, before pissing against it in a hot gush illuminated by a sliver of moonlight breaking through the dense canopy. It starts to rain again, softly.
I find it. I’m crouched by a large pine tree with the wooden hut up ahead. The forest drips around me. I take in the structure. You probably could just about fit a family in it for a holiday, so it’s easily big enough for one person. It’s quiet; no lights on, though that’s hardly surprising as we’re probably not far off dawn. It’s made of rough-hewn planks, both the walls and the sloping roof. There’s a crooked drainpipe which leads to a water butt on one side. The front door looks sturdy. I sniff the air before creeping forward.
I do a circuit of the place, stopping frequently, but by the time I’ve done a full circle and am standing by the front door I’ve noticed nothing that would lead me to believe Klaasen is inside. I reach a hand out and place it against the wood before applying very soft pressure. It starts to open, and it seems, despite the rustic nature of the place, to be on well-oiled hinges. I step in quietly and try to let my eyes adjust to the even darker interior. My breathing’s slow and quiet, controlled, ears pricked for any movement inside. Anything that might hint at Klaasen being here.
The dim interior starts to take shape. A metal sink is attached to the wall, the plumbing exposed underneath. A couple of basic shelves display a few glasses and cans of food, too dark to make out the labels. There are a couple of mismatched armchairs, though both are in competition to see which can sag the most. There are thick cross-beams at intervals and above the internal triangle of the roof. To my right there’s a wall with a door. It must be the bedroom. I slip towards it, staying as close to the wall as possible, hoping the boards will be less likely to creak than walking across their middles. There’s a mustiness to the air.
I pause by the door, my ear up against it, primed for any noise at all. But after a minute or so I’m sure there’s no one on the other side. I push it open slowly. About halfway gravity takes over and it swings away from me, creaking loudly as it does.
Stock-still, ears primed.
Nothing.
I step inside. There’s a bed with a bare mattress, and a crumpled sleeping bag on top. It looks old, worn, but when I put my hand on it I feel warmth.
‘Nice of you to join me.’
I recognize the voice. It’s Klaasen.
Make Them Pay
He slips cable ties round my wrists and pulls them tight. They bite into my skin. The floor creaks. Something scuttles across the roof. There’s a strong smell of damp and kerosine and something else I can’t place.
‘Shall we go for a walk?’ he whispers in my ear.
I have no choice. He keeps the gun jammed against my neck. We walk out of the bedroom, out of the house and into the trees, through thick undergrowth which gradually transforms into brambles. Klaasen pushes me hard, and soon my shins and knees are ripped and bleeding. And still we march on, rain prickling my face.
‘I know why you did it,’ I tell him. ‘I know about your brother.’
‘So you know who the real bad guys are then. Why aren’t you going after them?’
‘I am going to go after them. I’ve got enough evidence to make them pay.’
Which is a lie. Because there’s nowhere near enough. It’s no longer raining.
‘Beat you to it. My version is better.’
‘The people you killed didn’t deserve that.’
‘My brother didn’t deserve that! He didn’t deserve to die face down, naked, screaming in pain with blood filling up his lungs. He didn’t fucking deserve any of that, not after the life he had. But he got it. He got it because of them. Their greed. And I didn’t deserve to see it happen. I didn’t deserve to survive when he died.’
He starts making a weird choking sound. It takes me a moment to realize he’s sobbing. The victim’s postures now make sense. It was a message, one only the people he meant to hurt the most could understand.
‘No, neither of you deserved that. And that’s why I’m going to make them pay. But I need your help to do that.’
‘And what, I’ll just go to prison?’
‘There’s no way to avoid it, you know that. But we can still hurt them; you can hurt them from prison. You can help me expose what they’ve done, what they’re most likely still doing, but I need you to –’
The gun smacks me on the back of the head. Through the pain I think of a bell being rung.
‘I’m going to make them pay, but I’m going to do it without you.’
‘Just tell me one thing, what did you do with Sabine?’
He laughs. ‘Every word you speak from now on just means I’m gonna do it slower. You get that, right?’
Up ahead I catch a glimpse of the treeline, another clearing perhaps, or maybe the edge of the forest. As we break through I look up to see the candyfloss smudge of dawn …
He puts the phone down. This time, instead of locking it in his drawer he opens up the back, takes out the SIM and removes the battery. In the little canteen area at the end of the hallway he drops the SIM into a ceramic mug and puts it in the microwave. It fizzes and pops and thirty seconds later he removes the cup and rinses it in the sink, what’s left of the blackened SIM disappearing down the plughole. Back in his office he sits, wondering what to do next. When he’d received that call from Rykel he’d acted calm, despite the fear rampant inside. It’s only a matter of time now, he thinks. The question is, how long? He’s been instructed to clean up his operation, leaving no trace. Including the man who’d been doing the work for him. He’s due to meet him later this evening, ostensibly to pay him off. Only the payment’s not going to be what he expects.
Bite
I’m on my knees. Naked. A gun at the back of my neck and also a knife in play. Not a lot going for me.
Except for one thing.
The knowledge that I hadn’t been making all this up. I hadn’t killed the people the police think I killed. I hadn’t made myself schizo.
I take in deep breaths, the air’s never seemed so sweet. Painfully sweet. The sky lightens by the second, stars blinking out, and the world rebirthing around me. A clearing hemmed in by trees. There’s grass, probably millions of blades of it, and on each blade tiny droplets of dew are glistening as they come alive in the light. A bird starts a long warbling melody, complex and simple and one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard. There’s a stillness to it. It’s like a key to another place, another time, which is nevertheless right here, right now. I feel deep pangs of regret. I’ve made so many mistakes, so many things that I could have done better.
Most of all I think of Tanya. But even that slips away and I start to sense this place is different, that this place is better. This place is –
‘You know what I’m going to do, don’t you?’
Klaasen’s voice. I don’t want to hear it, the ugly intrusion into where I’m heading. I just want to die here peacefully, taking in the world that I’d never fully appreciated before. The sheer beauty of it all and my failure to see it before more painful than anything he can do to me with his knife.
Klaasen leans in and whispers in my ear, his breath hot and rancid. ‘I’m going to cut your throat and watch you bleed to death.’
I’m leaving this world. It suddenly seems so simple. Like I was destined for this all along. I breathe in again as Klaasen shifts behind me and I feel the knife at my throat. The metal’s cool, but then turns hot as it slices into my flesh.
The pain’s like a switch. It ignites me, electrifies me, jolts through every cell I have. Thought is gone. Thought is nothing.
I slam my head back and to the side, away from the knife. I feel Klaasen’s nose crunch. I throw myself down and roll several times, my hands still bound at the wrist. The world spins, grass, trees, sky, grass, trees, sky. Something’s happening. I feel different.
I turn to face him. He’s standing now, grinning at me, gripping the knife. Nose to the wind. I also see that I’ve been tricked. In his other hand, the hand that I thought was holding the gun, is a very short piece of metal piping. He holds it up, taking aim. He pretends to fire it, and then grins even more.
The world drops away. My stomach lurches. I can feel a huge swell inside me, rising up and gathering strength and speed and power. Up and up and up until I can control it no longer. I’m taken by its sheer magnificent intensity.
As I launch myself towards him, a terrible cry coming from my lips, I know that I’m not me.
Everything’s easy now, everything’s slow. I dodge the swing of the knife, and throw myself right at him, slamming into his chest, knocking him backwards. He takes a few stumbling steps, then catches a heel on something. It takes forever, his arms windmilling, but still he goes down. The earth vibrates as he hits. I leap forward and stamp on his wrist. The knife drops from his fingers. With the other hand he swings the metal rod up and round into my knee. The pain feels amazing. Clear, pure. I stamp on that arm as well and he drops it. He’s still grinning but it’s fixed now. There’s fear in his eyes. There’s fear in the air. I can smell it.
I drop down, knees pinning both his arms. I shove a hand under his chin, exposing his neck. It’s unprotected, stretched out in the gathering light.
Something shifts inside me. Our teeth are bared. Saliva drips.
We itch to bite. Bite the neck and shake it till the crunch that tells us it’s finally broken and he goes limp.
Tremors. Trembling. Bite. Bite. Bite bite bitebitebitebite …
I pull back. It’s got me this far. But I’m in control. I’m still trembling. The desire to bite a blazing fire in my head, my whole body. I force myself to breathe slowly.
I am in control. I start to speak, the words alien sounds at first, odd shapes in my mouth. But they begin to come into focus. I’m breathing hard, the desire is fighting back, and wants to take control, to deal with this situation as it should be. I force it down, force myself to be the one in charge. I start to speak again, and this time the words make sense to me right from the start.
‘Rein Benner, I’m arresting you for
the murder of Lucie Muller, Marian—’
His scream of rage drowns out the rest. A bird, startled in a nearby tree, flaps up into the air.
Epilogue
An early frost crunches under my feet as I weave my way up the gentle slope. Kush is ahead, nosing around the gravestones. On top of one of them a crow perches, wings shimmering like a petrol spill in the low sun. My nose feels like it’s dripping, but the back of my hand comes away dry. Kush reaches Hank’s grave first and turns round, baffled by my comparative slowness.
‘All right for you,’ I tell him as I get close. ‘I’ve only got two legs.’
He ignores me, now entranced by the stone itself, sniffing intently. Nellie’s scent, most likely. And all of a sudden I’m back with her in that room with Hank lying in bed and the thin doctor with the purple birthmark on his neck asking for permission to switch off the life-support. I found Nellie’s hand in my own, and it stayed there as we listened to the beep from the heart-rate monitor ping and the silence after it sounded for the last time. Hope’s important, but sometimes it can become a trap, a trap Nellie’s now free from.
I’ve seen her a few times over the last few weeks and there’s a change already, a subtle shift in her which she might not even be aware of yet, but one that I’m glad to see.