drugged by their attackers.’
‘No, Paul,’ Strietman went on. ‘She’s definitely been drugged, and that’s ultimately caused her heart to fail. There’s a puncture wound from a cannula in her arm.’ He lifted a grey/brown arm and displayed a tiny black mark, the top of which was encrusted with a small, dried bead of blood. ‘Abrasion up her nostril and the remnants of surgical tape, which suggested a tube has been put down her nose. Think about it! The missing organs. The sexual intercourse. The fact that she’s maybe of Eastern African origin, given the presentation of her genitals. Voodoo ritual killing. Ever hear about the torso of the African boy they found in the UK in the River Thames?’
‘Please stick to the medical facts and stop trying to play detective. That’s my job. What else have you got?’ van den Bergen asked, impatient now. Wishing he could somehow turn back time. That Marianne would get better and come back into work with her nice neck and strong runner’s physique. Wishing he didn’t find this new woman so attractive. This was neither the time nor the place to be checking out women. Keep your dick under control, you moron.
‘We’re waiting for more refined information to come back from the path lab regarding her blood,’ Daan continued. ‘But initial tests show hypernatraemia. Electrolyte imbalance. Dehydration. Consistent with ecstasy misuse. She’s undergone a caesarean delivery within the last twelve to eighteen months,’ Daan said. ‘The suturing style is unusual. Unidirectional barbed suture instead of bidirectional or traditional knots.’
Studying what was still evident of the scarring to the girl’s abdomen, van den Bergen grimaced. ‘That means nothing to me. Explain!’
‘She’s been delivered of a baby and sewn up by someone who clearly knew the theory of what they were doing. But I guess they weren’t very good with a needle and thread. The lumpy scar tissue’s a giveaway. I don’t think a qualified surgeon would do a bodge job like that in the Netherlands.’
Amsterdam, private medical surgery, much later
The instructions told him to enter his user name, which he did. His password had been stored. Unsurprising, given how frequently he visited the website. He ordered five sterile suture packs – the budget ones – three blue disposable couch rolls, although he saved money by using a length twice if it hadn’t ripped, and a new scalpel. The blade on his other one had snapped off from the handle, despite still being pretty sharp. What a waste. Rummaging through the other supplies on the shelf in his surgery, he ascertained that he still had an adequate supply of syringes and needles. He was good for butterfly cannulas and tourniquets. Ah, but he was on his last speculum, so made a last-minute addition to his basket. Clicking on the checkout icon, he looked at the running total.
‘Fucking rip-off merchants!’ he told the screen. ‘Decimating my bottom line. What am I? A bloody charity?’ Took a large swig from the bottle of single malt. Swilled the hot, stinging liquor around his teeth before swallowing with a gasp.
It had been much easier when he could lift these supplies from the hospital in the normal course of duty. Nobody seemed to notice for a long, long time that stocks were depleting. Once they did, he was the last person to come under suspicion. Happy days, long gone.
He sighed. Took another slug of whisky. Pulled a scuffed-up credit card out of his wallet and typed in the details, which the website had not saved. At least business was brisk. The Pole was coming at 5pm. That was more cash, plus she would help him magic away the guilt.
The guilt. Oh, how he struggled beneath its weight. He hadn’t meant to do that to the girl. Noor had always been harmless enough. And she was some kind of hot with those narrow hips and big, brown eyes. But he had so little control over the monster within. The beast that had somehow, over time, made it from the shadows under his cursed childhood bed into his head. Just as the dragon, Ladon, had guarded the golden apples of Hesperides, the monster had always been his saviour. His downfall, too. When the monster wanted to take charge, he had no option but to submit.
The doorbell sounded shrilly. He put his wallet away and moved from the cold, damp surgery to the waiting room at the front. Peered briefly into the mottled mirror on the wall. Licked his fingers and smoothed his strawberry-blond hair down. Pulled his trousers over his gut. Undid the three heavy-duty locks and grinned at the leggy Pole, who was primping her fire-engine-red curls.
‘Hello, darling,’ she said. Pouting. Kissed him on both cheeks. Grabbed his crotch. ‘Botox time for Katja! My lips are pruning like an old man’s testicles and my forehead’s like a road map.’
‘You brought the money?’ he asked, eyeing her buoyant breasts in the tight top she wore beneath her puffa jacket. He had done an excellent job on those puppies.
She pushed past him and strode inside. With some effort, given the skin-tightness of her jeans and the length of those pink talons she called nails, the Pole levered an envelope out of her back pocket. Waved it under his nose. ‘It’s all there.’
‘You brought the whip?’
She giggled. Actually, it wasn’t a giggle. More of a cackle. He could tell she was looking forward to that bit, as a sweetener to take the edge off the pain of having her face poked and prodded with fine needles; filled with botulism until it was shining and tight. From inside her bulky jacket, she produced a black leather cat-o-nine tails. Swung it around her head so that it made a pleasing swishing noise, as it cut through the dank air. Slapped his behind with it playfully, though he was hoping that once her cosmetic surgical needs had been met, it would hurt enough to make his eyes water. Yes, that would be a tremendously rewarding punishment for the terrible, unpredictable way the monster was behaving at the moment.
‘A promise is a promise, darling. A fifty-euro reduction for the beating of your life. Seems a bargain.’ She set the cat-o-nine tails down on the waiting room coffee table as he locked the door. Removed her coat. Strode into the surgery at the back and sat on the crumpled blue covering on the examination couch. ‘Have you been a bad boy, then?’ She raised an eyebrow archly.
He snapped on blue latex gloves, took up his prepared syringe and ejected a sprightly fountain of the Botox solution from the end of the fine needle. ‘Appalling, my dear. A modern-day Caligula. Truly appalling.’
Amsterdam, police headquarters, 18 January
‘Okay. Jane Doe.’ Van den Bergen started to affix large photographs of the disembowelled girl to a pinboard: in situ, glittering with frost on the bench at the crime scene; detailed close-up shots, taken whilst on the mortuary slab. His senses were sluggish from taking too many codeine tablets before he’d even had breakfast. Fumbling with the tacks, he managed to impale his thumb on a sharp point. ‘Ow. Shitty little things. Give me a hand, somebody!’
Van den Bergen turned to scowl at the members of his team. They had assembled around the large table in meeting room four in order to be debriefed on the previous day’s autopsy. The air was heavy with curiosity and the smell of burnt rubber and cabbage.
‘Give them here, boss.’ Marie was the first to volunteer. Van den Bergen’s internet research specialist gave a sharp intake of breath as she levered the photos from his oversized clumsy hands. She started to pin them in a row at the top of the board. ‘Jesus. Poor woman. She’s been sliced open like a…a…boil in the bag sausage. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘Thank you for that analogy,’ van den Bergen said.
Kees, one of the detectives who had been drafted in from