The Girl Who Broke the Rules

by Marnie Riches

  A whistle some way off. The dog bounded away. Derek remained undiscovered.

  In time, as the storm clouds rolled in, and the light began to fail in earnest, he made it, against every odd, to the train track. Now, somebody would definitely find him. People walked their dogs along train tracks, didn’t they? And perhaps the Eurostar driver would see him in those powerful headlights. It was still light enough.

  Telling Sharon would be the last thing he did. God was keeping him alive for this purpose and this purpose only, he realised. A sort of redemption.

  Overhearing the conversation between Tony and Dr Doolittle, as they had driven him to the field, he now knew everything. The police in Britain were trying to solve the serial murder of illegal immigrants. The police in Holland were on the hunt for a surgeon with an interest in satanic ritual killing. Now he, Derek de Falco, knew the name of that perpetrator. His attackers had said it in the car. He would remember it as long as there was breath in his body, so that he could tell it to Sharon. Then, he could die with a clear conscience.

  But no ambling dog-walkers came. A magpie alighted on him and pecked at his leg, then flew off. Presently, the rumble in the earth beneath him said the train was coming, causing rabbits to scatter from their burrows beneath the tracks. Sound followed the reverberations, and finally the two pinpoints of strong light heralded the train’s approach proper.

  Stand up, Derek. Let the driver see you.

  With the last of his breath, a blood-soaked Derek scrambled to his feet and waved his arms to and fro.

  Please see me. Please stop.

  The driver of the Eurostar, bound for St Pancras, did see what looked like a zombie, covered in blood, standing on the tracks, waving its arms. He balked. Sounded the horn. Slammed on the brakes. And came to a stop almost a quarter of a mile beyond the place where Derek had stood. Derek’s body travelled on the front of the train, glued to it by forward momentum alone, for almost half of that distance before being flung like a savaged rabbit into the sidings. By the time the driver found him in the driving rain, he was conclusively, finally, very dead.

  CHAPTER 62

  Kent, on a train, then Amsterdam, mortuary, later

  ‘This is the 11.05 Southeastern high-speed rail service from Ramsgate to St Pancras…’ came the man’s voice over the Tannoy. He spoke with an estuary twang that reminded George she was still far from the comfortable home turf of South East London, though they were, at least, on their way.

  She stretched out and yawned. Scratched her crotch surreptitiously and readjusted the seam of her jeans. Sipped from the still-hot latte she had bought at the station. So far, so good.

  Except the train slowed to a halt and it transpired that the man had not finished his announcement.

  ‘Hello ladies and gentlemen. I’m sorry to announce that due to an earlier…er…fatality on the line involving the Eurostar, there will be a delay to this service. On behalf of Southeastern Rail, I’d like to—’

  ‘Shit! Typical! The one time when we’re over here together and we’re on a bloody time limit!’ George said, talking over the bad news. She turned to van den Bergen. Studied his face. ‘You’re quiet.’

  His smile gave nothing away. ‘Just tired.’

  She could almost see turmoil like latent heat coming off his skin. Perhaps now was not the time to probe. He had seemed happy enough only half an hour ago when he had been inside her. George had her own demons to wrestle with – the most pressing of which was the spectre of a meet with Letitia the Dragon later that evening.

  Letitia. With her fat neck and her ‘Leroy this and Leroy that’ and how it was all George’s fault that Letitia had had to move to that shithole, three-bed box in Ashford, losing her family and her nice little fiddle at work. Letitia had a selective memory. She chose only to remember George as that grassing little cow who sold her mum up the fucking swanny. Convenient that Letitia forgot her own divisive role in all that had come to pass.

  The train shunted forwards and began to pick up speed. On George’s phone were three missed calls from Ad and a text, saying he would do anything to make her happy. This was the really onerous demon with which she must inevitably grapple, but he would keep for now.

  She was just about to Google the woman Sharon was planning on introducing them to, when van den Bergen’s phone rang.

  He frowned at the screen. Looked askance at her. Answered, ‘Van den Bergen. Speak!’

  Though the phone was pressed to his ear, on the other end of the line, George could hear the high-pitched voice of a woman, clearly bawling him out.

  ‘Marianne! Marianne, calm down!’ he said, blinking rapidly. ‘Take a deep breath. Tell me again. Slowly. Elvis and Leeuwenhoek are doing what?’

  ‘They’re arresting Strietman!’ Marianne de Koninck said. ‘For God’s sake, van den Bergen. Call your dogs off. This is nonsense!’

  On the other end of the phone, van den Bergen was explaining in a placatory tone that he had not ordered the arrest – in fact, that he had ordered the opposite; that he was sure it was some kind of mix-up.

  She was tempted to cut him off in temper, but knew it was prudent to keep an ally on the line. But she wasn’t really listening to the chief inspector’s explanation. The scene before her was too absurd. The young detective Leeuwenhoek was reading Strietman his rights while Elvis, van den Bergen’s normally unassuming sidekick, had her unassuming sidekick bent over the cadaver of an elderly man, who had died from suspected carbon monoxide poisoning.

  ‘Jesus! You pair of baboons. You’re contaminating this man’s body!’ she shouted at the two detectives, trying to pull Elvis off Strietman.

  ‘Help me, Marianne!’ Strietman said, panic in his eyes. ‘Call the police!’

  ‘We are the police,’ Leeuwenhoek said. Smug prat was grinning. ‘And as I said, just in case you missed it, I’m arresting you, Daan Strietman, for the murders of Magool Osman, Linda Lepiks and an as yet-unidentified man.’

  Strietman wrestled in Elvis’ grasp, like bait trying to wriggle free of the hook on the end of a fishing line. ‘Then, I want a solicitor. Immediately!’ Strietman looked pleadingly at Marianne. ‘This is ridiculous. Please. You’ve got to get them to stop. Find me some legal representation, for Christ’s sake!’

  Marianne tugged at the sleeve of Elvis’ leather jacket. Thought if she used his real name instead of the undignified moniker van den Bergen had saddled him with, he might pay her words heed. ‘Leave him, Dirk! You know he can’t possibly have murdered those people.’ But her impassioned pleas seemed to hit the side of Elvis’ hirsute face and slide off, unanswered.

  She contemplated threatening the two policemen with the weight of the Ministry for Security and Justice. Although they were all governed from on high by the same authorities, when all was said and done, so that wouldn’t work. Wondering how to play this, she scrutinised Strietman’s unremarkable form, in his baggy scrubs and rubber shoes. Considered his soft-featured face and propensity to crack inappropriate jokes. How unlikely it appeared to be that this man who had worked under her for years would be a murderer. And yet, she realised she was making these assumptions of his innocence on the basis of what she knew of Strietman; the professional, easy-going colleague, whom she spent most of the working week with. But what was he like in his own time? How much did she really know about this man? Torn, she fell silent. Physically distanced herself from her number two, cutting van den Bergen off on the other end of her phone. Propping the worktop, wearing a concerned, disapproving expression but feeling like this was some sort of betrayal that she could not help but commit.

  Eventually, when the handcuffs were securely fastened and Strietman’s arms had been yanked up high against his back, Elvis looked her in the eye apologetically.

  ‘It’s out of my hands,’ he said, his mouth arcing downwards with something that resembled regret, or at least uncertainty. ‘We’ve got evidence linking him to another prime suspect and the Valeriusstraat crime scene. The errors in his autopsy look l
ike an obstruction of justice. Hasselblad gave the order.’

  ‘Van den Bergen said Valeriusstraat was a hoax!’ Strietman yelled, twisting himself around to face his captor. ‘Who the hell am I supposed to have been in cahoots with? I’m innocent!’

  Leeuwenhoek unzipped his anorak. A florid rash spattered up his neck. His cheeks were shiny and red. Smiling like a Roman emperor about to lead a victory parade.

  ‘Innocent? We know what you’ve done, you animal, and soon the whole world is going to know about you and your sidekick.’

  CHAPTER 63

  South East London, later

  ‘When was the last time you went to church?’ Dorothea Caines asked, occupying her plastic chair in the Kingdom of Heaven Church Community Hall in a way that said she ruled that draughty, damp space by divine right.

  She was the sort of elder that made George itchy. A judgemental type in a home-sewn floral dress, full of nostalgic stories of the old country, as though she had personally stepped down the gangplank of the SS Windrush, along with her forefathers. Opining at every given opportunity in that loud, admonishing voice of hers, so that everyone could hear what she had to say; right along the Old Kent Road, from the fringes of Elephant to well beyond the boundaries of New Cross. She was always the woman the papers contacted for a sound-bite. Professionally mourning the loss of scores of young boys over the years, beaten/stabbed/shot on the streets of Peckham/Catford/Deptford and how it was the fault of the government/the police/the inequalities in society. Those boys, with their premature homecomings into the arms of sweet Jesus Christ the Saviour. She had a rousing way with words and put the pastor to shame, apparently. But Aunty Sharon had let slip that Dorothea Caines, possessor of the world’s most outdated wet-look hair helmet, had been born in the Borough of Lewisham in 1959 to borderline middle-class parents who were both medical professionals and was full of home-sewn legendary bullshit. Those stories weren’t hers at all. And that dress was actually from Debenhams, not the product of her own industrious hands. Still, she was a font of wisdom, all right. Apparently.

  ‘I don’t go to church,’ George said, absently watching swaggering teenaged boys, almost certainly excluded from school since they were here and not there, strutting around the hall in their baggy, low-rise trousers and Nikes. Carrying trays of fairy cakes and sandwiches for the old ladies in their Sunday best wigs and old men in button-down cardigans and tailored gabardine trousers. It was a heart-warming sight. The pensioners were sitting at long trestle tables, evidently having a fantastic time. It was somebody called Iris’ eightieth birthday, judging by the cake. Maybe Dorothea Caines wasn’t as bad as Aunty Sharon let on. ‘Chief Inspector van den Bergen and I are here to find out about the deaths of these men.’ She showed Dorothea the news clippings from weeks ago, where two African men had been found at the docks, and then, clippings from the subsequent discovery of the man in Ramsgate.

  Tut. Tut. Tut. Dorothea Caines shook her head and sucked her teeth. Folded slender hands on her lap like a prim school teacher.

  ‘You should give more thought to nurturing the spiritual side of you, young lady. Your Aunty Sharon, here, tells me you’re quite a clever girl.’

  ‘She is,’ Sharon said, staring with unblinking eyes at van den Bergen’s white hair, whilst gnawing at the icing on a fairy cake she had liberated from Iris’ party buffet.

  ‘But there ain’t nobody cleverer than the Lord,’ Dorothea said. ‘He sees all. All.’ She nodded slowly, as though she were imparting special wisdom.

  George ran her fingers up and down the soft suede of her sheepskin coat, remembering tedious trips to church with Letitia, when she had been small. Having her hair brutally brushed out by Grandma beforehand and tied up into tight little bunches. Always some face-wiping exercise involving spit and a hanky. Pure white knee socks that dug into the backs of her knees. Patent leather shoes that had no give to them. She had been forced to join in singing, though she couldn’t hold a single note.

  ‘Good. Good,’ George said. ‘Well, if the Lord sees all, can you ask him if he saw who killed these men?’

  Aunty Sharon smirking behind her cake.

  Pursed lips on Dorothea Caines, now. Not happy with the glib retort of this upstart seated before her. She looked down at the clippings. Shook her head. ‘Nah.’

  Van den Bergen, who looked ludicrously too long in the limb for those silly plastic chairs, leaned forwards. Clasped his hands together and peered at the elder over his glasses for some time before he spoke, as though choosing his words carefully. ‘There’s a possibility these men had been hiding in London before they were found dead,’ he said, adding, ‘Ma’am’ as an afterthought.

  ‘London’s a big place,’ Dorothea said.

  ‘We need to catch this killer before he takes another member of your community.’

  Dorothea looked at the clippings once more. ‘If they’re African immigrants, they ain’t any members of my community,’ she said. ‘Maybe you wanna check the church down the way. Full of folks from Sierra Leone and that. They got their own way of doing things.’

  Van den Bergen looked confused.

  ‘Come on, Dot,’ Aunty Sharon said, sweeping crumbs from her skirt onto the scarred parquet floor of the hall. ‘I know there’s gossip been going round about these dead fellers.’

  ‘I can’t tell you what I don’t know.’

  ‘How about I get my boss to make a charity donation for your thing?’ Sharon examined her broken fingernail without looking up at Dorothea.

  ‘Immoral earnings, Sharon. Why would I accept proceeds from Sodom and Gomorrah to do the Lord’s work?’

  ‘Because you’re always on the tap, and my boss is worth a mint? I have the feeling he might find a couple of grand down one of the girl’s thongs, if I ask him nicely. That might extend your outreach to some cake and sarnies that ain’t actually stale. Know what I mean?’

  Dorothea Caines closed her eyes in a begrudging show of consent. Turned to George, as though van den Bergen was not there. ‘This all in strictest confidence, right? Nothing I tell you I’d put my name to.’

  George nodded. It was like somebody had put fresh batteries into Dorothea Caines, then.

  ‘Right, so, my Jeffrey done some legal work for a lad on Pepys Estate in Deptford, right? He specialises in immigration and criminal law, my Jeffrey.’ The sudden animation in her stony face told George this woman liked nothing better than a good bit of gossip to go with the good Lord’s gospel. ‘So, this lad – I ain’t naming names, but it was Slow Clyde Johnson, the one who got accused of ram-raiding B&Q with his mum’s Nissan – this lad was saying there was these African guys ran away from a fishing trawler in Dover. They’d been abducted as slave labour, apparently, by some people traffickers in the DRC, right? Proper international intrigue. Came to the Pepys, thin like sticks and on their last legs. They’d been used as punch bags for a month or two, by the looks. And they was staying with some ropey Ghanaian pusher in one of the flats, there.’ She was really getting into the swing, now. Folding her arms across her chest, squeezing minty words out in rapid succession like toothpaste from a tube. ‘So, Slow Clyde is on probation for some other misdemeanour, like cussing a copper out or something. You know? And he’s round the pusher’s, buying a bag of weed and meets these fishermen. Tells them about my Jeffrey and how he can help them seek asylum and make it all legit. But it gets out, right? You know? And then, consequentially, these Italians are asking around for the boys. Some grassing rarseclart starts mouthing off for money. Next minute, there’s proper hot pursuit through the estate. Guns was fired, Lord protect us, although I couldn’t say I seen it with my own eyes. Obviously, Deptford being outside my realm of influence and all. That’s the last I heard of them, until we seen this in the papers.’

  Van den Bergen cleared his throat. ‘Did you not think to tell the police before, Mrs Caines?’

  Dorothea looked him up and down. Laughed heartily. ‘I do the Lord’s work, here, Mr Dutch Thing. But I ain’t ready to
die on the cross for my sins.’

  CHAPTER 64

  Amsterdam, police headquarters holding cell, later

  In his cell, Ahlers had been working hard. He ignored the commotion next door, when they brought somebody new in, although he could hear loud protestations from a man who, judging by his well-spoken voice, was not your average criminal. Perhaps under other circumstances, he would have stood by the door and tried to eavesdrop on the heated exchange between this new inmate and the detectives. But today, he was busy.

  ‘Unless you give up the whereabouts of Noor’s baby and your accomplices, Ruud, you’re going away for a long time,’ his solicitor had said, looking decidedly less slick than he had on previous visits. ‘The Chinese girl with the ectopic pregnancy whom you performed an abortion on has died from MRSA. You’re culpable for her death too. I don’t think I could even get involuntary manslaughter for you.’

  ‘I’ve told you,’ Ruud had said, surreptitiously running his hands over his stomach; probing for signs that he had begun to shed weight with the appalling food they were giving him. He hadn’t. ‘If I give them the full story and rat out whom I’ve worked with, I’m dead anyway.’

  Nothing had changed. As far as he knew, he was still prime suspect for three, perhaps now four murders. Not good. It was fortuitous that the police seemed so preoccupied with this new inmate. And he hadn’t seen the surly bastard of a giant for a couple of days. So, his handiwork in his cell had gone unnoticed.