'Now, where was I?'
Chapter 53
The houses were the sort the Dutch call, ‘Merchant’s Houses’. Like many of their type, they overlooked one of Amsterdam’s many canals. Carver couldn’t remember which one. He’d lost his bearings within a minute of them leaving the car on the meter into which Erik had actually fed coins. ‘Bastards at Headquarters are clamping down,’ he growled, seeing Carver’s surprise.
As they crossed yet another ornate footbridge with intricate ironwork, Erik pointed across at a house which, apart from being bright blue - the others were mostly yellows and oranges - was indistinguishable from the rest. ‘There,’ he said, as if he were one of the country’s famous circumnavigators spotting landfall. Given what Erik had told him about the place they were heading for, Carver wondered how Erik knew which building it was before they were close enough to make out numbers.
Carver remembered visiting a ‘preserved example’ of such a ‘Merchant’s House,’ during a leisure-break weekend with Gill, years before. He was surprised, therefore, when he stepped through the open front door and discovered that the two properties could not have been more different. At some stage in its recent history, the house had been gutted and re-built from the ground up. Open staircases connected what looked like a series of mezzanines constructed from a range of wooden, glass and metal materials. The arrangement meant it was possible to see up as far as the roof – which was also partly glass. The design allowed light to flood in and reach areas which, before the rebuild, would never have seen any. Carver thought it looked stunning, the sort of thing you might see in a Bond film. It wasn’t the only similarity.
Amongst the spotlights, reflectors and cameras littering the various levels, floated several men and women. Most of the men were dark, muscular, and swarthy - villains’ henchmen types. The woman on the other hand were toned, tanned, good-looking and, in most cases, not wearing much.
As Erik turned to check Carver’s reactions, Carver tried to look as if porn-sets were ten-a-penny in Warrington. Erik wasn’t fooled. Turning, he spoke with the slim young man dressed all in black and sporting a full beard who came rushing over to intercept them. Erik spoke in English, telling him they were Police officers and showing his identification, before informing him they were there to see Oscar Werner. If the young man was phased by the police arriving on set wanting to see his Producer, he didn’t show it. Looking up, he shouted.
‘HEY, OSCAR.’
A couple of mezzanines up, a shaven-headed black man lent over a metal railing to gaze down on them. The way his muscles bulged under his black tee-shirt, Carver wondered if he also had a performing role. The young man jerked a thumb at Erik and Carver.
‘Police. They want to talk to you.’
Oscar looked somewhere between annoyed and intrigued. ‘What about?’
‘Katelijne Mertens,’ Erik said.
Oscar hesitated, then called, ‘Come up. Mind the cables.’
As they passed the various levels, Carver took in what he assumed were the normal trappings of such productions. Beds in various states of disarray. Bare flesh. Sex paraphernalia. He wondered what went on there when it wasn’t being used as today. He was also conscious that some of the actors – both sexes – were eyeing them, or maybe just Erik, in a way that suggested that bagging a police officer still carries a certain cache in some quarters.
They reached Oscar’s level as he finished telling everyone to take five and that he would call them when he was ready to go again. Turning to them he said, ‘Coffee?’
‘Five minutes later, they were sitting on a corner-couch arrangement on one of the upper levels. Below, cast and crew had gathered to smoke, drink coffee, and speculate over what the police were after. Mixed with the cigarette smoke drifting up was a pungent smell Carver had no difficulty recognising. They were in Amsterdam.
‘So tell me,’ Oscar said, sipping from his steaming Styrofoam cup. ‘What’s your interest in Katelijne?’
Erik turned to Carver. Over to you. He took his cue.
Carver told the former porn-star how he was investigating Katelijne’s involvement in a modelling shoot that might have a bearing on a murder enquiry. He didn’t mention fetish and skipped over the details of the killings themselves. Oscar listened in silence, staring at him as if he were weighing him for a part, though it would have to have been someone’s father. Carver ended with, ‘I’m hoping Katelijne may be able to tell me something that would point towards our murderer. She might even have an idea where he’s gone to ground.’
Oscar looked at Erik. ‘Gone to ground?’
‘Where he’s hiding,’ Erik said. Oscar nodded.
Carver waited. Oscar finished his coffee. Carver prompted him. ‘Do you know where I can find Katelijne?’
As Oscar took a deep breath, his chest expanded and his muscles rippled in way that hinted at his former, career. ‘You won’t find Katelijne Mertens in Amsterdam. Or anywhere for that matter.’
Carver’s stomach sank. She’s dead?
‘Why not?’ Erik said.
Oscar shrugged, like it was no big deal. ‘She doesn’t go by that name anymore.’ Carver’s depression lifted. ‘She goes by the name, Franky, now. She runs Jeux.’
In the silence that followed, Carver wondered what he was missing. Oscar’s face read, Conversation over. He turned to Erik. His colleague’s face was a mix of surprise, amusement, and admiration. He passed Carver the knowing look Carver was beginning to find irritating.
‘What’s Jeux?’ Carver said.
Chapter 54
Megan Crane dialled the number on the piece of paper. A woman answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Anna Kirkham?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘My name’s Megan Crane, Anna. Please don’t hang up, I mean you no harm, but I know you used to go by the name Angela Kendrick. I’m sorry to contact you like this, but someone we both know is in trouble and I’m ringing because I think that we, you and I, may be able to help him.’ On the other end there was only silence. Eventually, Megan said, ‘Are you still there?’
‘Who do we both know?’
‘Jamie Carver.’
There was another pause. ‘Who are you? How do you know Jamie? Did he give you my number?’
‘No, he didn’t. I’m happy to explain everything, including how I got your number, but I’d rather not do it over the telephone, if you get my meaning? I’m helping him with a case much the way I think you once did. I’m not out to cause trouble and I know how you are probably feeling right now, but I-’
‘Is this the press? Are you a reporter? Because of you are I’ll-’
‘No, I’m not a reporter. Please believe me, Angie, I’m just someone who’s in a similar position to the one you once were.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean that we share some similar, shall we say, personal interests?’
‘Are you in the business?’
‘Not exactly. But I’m close enough to understand some things.’
Another pause. ‘Do you know someone called Jess?’
‘Jess Greylake? The sergeant who works with Jamie? Yes, I know her very well. In fact, she and I-’
‘Is this coming from her? Did she ask you to contact me?’
‘No, she doesn’t know anything about this. What makes you think that?’
‘It doesn’t matter. When you say he’s in trouble, what are you talking about? And what makes you think I can help him?’
‘I know he had some, problems, in the past. I think you’ll know what I’m talking about. If I’m right, you’ll also know he doesn’t like to talk about such things. I’m worried it may be happening again, maybe worse this time. I thought that if you and I could meet, swap notes as it were, it might give me a better idea of what, if anything, I ought to do. Of course it might all just be in my imagination and I could be wrong, but at the very least you can probably say if it’s the same as before. I’m sure you know him a lot better than
I do.’
‘What makes you think I’d know him any better than you?
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to infer anything. I understand you worked with him over several months? I’ve only been involved a few weeks so I assumed-’
‘What do you want? It’s not easy for me. I have a little boy and I’ve had enough disruption here lately. If you want to meet, I’d have to arrange for my mother to come over to look after him.’
‘That’s fine. Like I say, I don’t want to cause trouble, especially if you’ve got a youngster. Whatever works best for you. Where do you live? I’ve only got your mobile number.’
‘I’m in Leeds.’
‘That’s not too far. I’m just the other side of the Pennines. What about a pub somewhere? I don’t mind driving over if it would help?’
There was another silence. Eventually she said, ‘There’s a pub called The Oak On The Hill. It’s on the old road over the Pennines, the A268. Just this side of Hebden Bridge. I could meet you there.’
‘That would be fine. When do you think you could manage?’
Carver tossed his mobile on the bed and poured himself a drink from the bottle he’d bought from the kiosk opposite the hotel. Whatever Rosanna said, it was obvious there was something she wasn’t telling him. He didn’t think it was anything to do with the problems they’d been having. This was something else. She’d sounded strange, like she was reluctant to talk, almost as if she was afraid someone might hear. It made him wonder what was going on. She’d blamed it on her being unsettled by the prowler she’d though she’d spotted a couple of times recently, but he suspected that was just an excuse. There’d been a couple of occasions over the past fortnight when she’d thought she’d seen a figure in the garden at night. He’d checked around but found nothing. There were fields at the back of the house, a footpath running along the back fence. He’d put it down to her mistaking walkers for prowlers. That said, he had found an area of flattened grass by the tree that stood at the corner of the garden which suggested someone may have lingered there, though when and for how long it was impossible to tell. It could just be a walker pausing for a rest, or waiting for a partner to catch up. He’d promised to mention it to the local PC and ask him to give the path some passing attention, but hadn’t got round to it. There hadn’t been any burglaries in their area for years, and all the houses around were alarmed, including his. ‘I’ll ring Josh and ask him to call round and see you tomorrow,’ he told her. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s nothing.’
‘Just hurry back, Jamie,’ she said just before she hung up. The way she said it, it sounded as if something was riding on it.
He spent the next thirty minutes replaying the conversation in his mind, looking for clues. There weren’t any. He rang Erik.
‘Can we do Jeux tonight?’ he said when Erik answered.
‘No reason why not. But what happened to our reunion night out?’
‘Maybe next time. I think I ought to get back.’
‘Worrying about how they’re managing without you eh, Jamie?’
‘Something like that.’
‘You do know that an inability to let go is a sign of insecurity, don’t you?’
‘Fuck off. What time will you pick me up?’
Chapter 55
The entrance to ‘Jeux’ lies in an alleyway just off Muiderstraat in the Docklands district of Amsterdam. It sits on the edge of the Entrepotdok, the complex of sought-after converted-warehouse apartments in the heart of the city. It was still early - before ten - and as Carver and Erik approached the nondescript black door with the dim orange light above, there was only one other couple heading in the same direction. They were dressed outlandishly and disappeared inside as the two men arrived. Erik spoke briefly to the Asian doorman and flashed his I.D. He directed them inside and they made their way up the stairs.
At the top, the young Goth-Girl in charge of the cloakroom gave them a distasteful look, as if she thought anyone who didn’t take the trouble to dress properly lacked respect. They moved through into the main lounge.
The room was ‘L’-shaped. At the far end a bar ran the length of one wall. At first glance, it looked no different to your average nightclub - apart from the chains and shackles hanging from hooks around the walls. Carver couldn’t tell if they were real, or plastic props. He suspected the former. Tables and chairs were dotted around with upholstered, semi-circular, bench seats around the perimeter. Mirrors and reflecting surfaces were everywhere and the lighting was subdued with an over-emphasis on red. Around the corner of the ‘L’ was a dance floor with a raised stage at the far end. There, two men and a woman were busy assembling some sort of apparatus. Jazzy music was playing, but it was easy enough on the eardrums to signal that the night hadn’t started yet.
But what marked the place from other venues, were the outfits. Oscar Werner had said that that the club operated a strict dress-code - which meant fetish, though men, apparently, could get away with black tie. Carver and Erik had chosen not to comply. It being early, there were only a few groups of people in the place. For the most part they were dressed in striking outfits of leather, rubber or similar, shiny materials. Buckles and straps were in abundance. Everyone watched as Carver and Erik made their way across the room to the door next to the bar. Carver reflected on the irony that it was Erik and himself who were attracting the strange looks.
Erik knocked on the door and they waited. Carver studied the two young women sitting a few feet away at the bar. They were sipping exotic-looking drinks through straws. The taller, black-spiky-haired one was holding a length of chain, the other end of which was attached to her blond friend’s collar. Both had far-away looks in their eyes as they regarded the two detectives with a distinct lack of interest. Erik flashed Carver a smile and a wink. 'I think we should have dressed to come here Jamie.'
Carver didn’t respond. He was surprised how uncomfortable he was feeling, conscious that the surroundings were triggering disquieting associations.
The door opened to reveal a grossly overweight man wearing evening dress. He had thinning hair, a florid face and was holding a cigarette at chest height, pointing it at them as if it were a gun. He was expecting them - the door guy had obviously rung ahead - and ushered them in without a word. He closed the door behind them and locked it, before turning to address them. Erik spoke with him, in Dutch this time. The only word Carver recognised was, ‘Franky’. When the conversation finished, the man left. After he’d gone Erik turned to Carver.
'You okay Jamie? You seem a bit quiet.'
Carver pulled a face. 'Not my sort of place, Erik'
A couple of minutes later the door opened and a woman came in. She had striking platinum hair that was ruler-straight and fell to just below her shoulders.
'I’m Franky. Sorry to keep you. I was setting up my equipment.'
Carver didn’t ask what type of equipment. It took him a few moments to place her as the woman in the Skin-Tight photo-shoot. Several years had passed, and despite the makeup, they all showed. Her body, however, was as trim as it had been. Her eyes were bright blue, her nose a bit on the large side. She wore a low-cut, shiny-black blouse, a knee-length, red-leather pencil skirt and carried herself with the confidence of someone who feels she doesn’t have to explain herself. As they shook hands, Carver thought she looked like someone who smiled a lot, though right now her expression was serious.
'Oscar told me to expect you,' she said to Erik.
'Then you know what we want to speak to you about, Mevrouw,' Carver interjected, remembering to use the formal Dutch term of address.
She turned to him, taking him in for the first time, as if debating whether she was going to deal with him or Erik. As she was making up her mind the fat man returned. He walked over to the desk, picked up the phone and pretended to speak to someone.
Whatever questions may have been in Franky’s mind they seemed to resolve themselves as she answered Carver directly. 'Yes, I do.' She threw a glance at the man
at the desk and said, 'Come. Let’s go somewhere we can talk.'
They followed her out of the room and she led them to a table at the back of the club.
'Peter is okay,' she said, 'but sometimes he’s too nosy for his own good.' She asked what they were drinking, then went to the bar and spoke with one of the young waitresses.
Erik turned to Carver. 'An interesting woman Jamie, yes?'
'We’re working Erik, remember?'
'I might have to ask her to show me her equipment!'
Carver shook his head.
Franky returned and offered them cigarettes. Erik took one and held out his lighter for her. Carver noted it as just one more example of Amsterdammers playing by their own rules. But he spotted the look that passed between her and Erik as she leaned into his flame.
She turned to Carver. 'I understand you are investigating some murders?’ He nodded. ‘And you are interested in a photo-shoot I once did?’ He nodded again. The waitress arrived with their drinks. Franky waited until she’d gone before continuing. ‘Let me guess. I am tied in this position-’ She put her hands and wrists together and held them up in the way Carver recognised. ‘While a man threatens me with a ribbon? ‘Carver gave her a hard stare. ‘What makes you think it’s that one?’
‘Because in all the time I was doing that sort of work, it was the only time I felt scared. And when I say scared I mean terrified, as in, for my life. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he’s killed someone.’
Carver glanced to his right. Erik was suddenly quiet, all his attention on her.
‘What was it, exactly, that terrified you?’ Carver said.
‘Right from the start, there was something about him that just wasn’t right. I’ve met people who are into all kinds of weird shit in my time, but not like him. He was into the scene we were shooting in a really deep way. He was so intense, I had the feeling that if I’d just been some trick off the street-’ A shudder rippled through her. ‘Well, I don’t like to think what might have happened. And the phone calls after didn’t help.’
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