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Agitated, he finally realised the phone had fallen into his oversized wellington boot.
‘Yes,’ he barked down the phone, wondering if his blood pressure was dangerously high. Made a mental note to switch vibrate on.
‘It’s Marianne,’ the chief pathologist said. ‘I’ve got the toxicology report back from Floris Engels. He’d taken a cocktail of drugs prior to death.’
‘Oh.’ Van den Bergen sat back down heavily onto his deck chair, inadvertently flattening his ham sandwiches. ‘An OD?’
‘Well,’ she said. ‘He had a lot of the drug G in his system – Gamma Hydroxybutyrate. But that wasn’t what bothers me. He’s also been poisoned by bad methamphetamine, commonly known as crystal meth or Tina. Acute lead poisoning, to be precise, apparently common where lead acetate has been used as a substrate in production in a bad batch.’
Van den Bergen rubbed the lengthening stubble on his chin and gazed up at the treetops contemplatively. ‘What about the others? The kids?’
There was a shuffling of paper at the other end of the phone. ‘I dug out the original toxicology reports from our younger floaters. There was nothing had been flagged apart from drug misuse. But then, they’d been in the water so long and were so badly decomposed, I guess it was hardly surprising the results were inconclusive. Especially given the weight of evidence that it was death by drowning, hence the open verdict. But then, when Floris Engels showed signs of having taken contaminated meth, I had the toxicology on the kids redone. And this time round, we found that they had suffered the same fate. Renal damage was present, consistent with severe lead poisoning. I’m sorry. I don’t know how Strietman missed it. Sometimes, you just have to be looking in the right place.’
‘Any other similarities starting to emerge?’ he asked. Perching his glasses on the end of the nose. Unable to read the instructions on a packet of seeds, thanks to a muddy smudge on his left lens.
‘Floris Engels and Greg Patterson had both had rough anal intercourse prior to death, given the abrasion. But there’s nothing to say it was forced. If they’d been taking drugs …’
‘It’s likely they’d been partying. Right.’ Fleetingly, Van den Bergen tried to imagine what young gay guys might get up to in a liberal city that was full of possibilities. He grimaced as his haemorrhoids twitched involuntarily. Wondered if he was due a prostate check. ‘And Ed Bakker?’
‘I couldn’t tell you about Ed Bakker, because of the tissue damage from being in the water so long, but witnesses say he’d been to a gay club, hadn’t he?’ There was a pause on the line. She was chewing something over. Something unpalatable, clearly. ‘Maybe Maarten Minks is not a million miles away with his serial killer theory, Paul. What if someone is spiking gay men on purpose and then shoving them into the canals?’
‘Bullshit!’ Van den Bergen shouted, well aware that her theory was anything but bullshit.
‘Suit yourself.’ The ice in her tone of voice almost froze the line. ‘You’re the detective.’ She hung up.
Mind whirring at how best he could step up the investigation without sparking media hysteria, he dialled George’s number. She picked up on the fourth ring, sounding sleepy.
‘Morning, hot stuff. What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘I need you to get a job.’
‘A job?! What do you mean, get a job? I’ve got a job. I’m a criminologist, remember?’ Agitation had supplanted the sleepy affection in her voice.
‘You need to get a job in a nightclub. A barmaid or something. I need to find out about meth supply in the city. Urgently.’ He pinched the piece of skin at the bridge of his nose, imagining her outraged expression.
‘I told you this was about drugs! Didn’t I say last night?’ She sounded momentarily triumphant. Good. ‘Hang on.’ The triumph was abruptly replaced by suspicion. ‘You want me to do what?! I don’t want to work as a fucking barmaid in a club.’ He could hear her sparking her e-cigarette into life.
‘Don’t smoke in the flat! George!’
‘Yeah. Whatever.’
He imagined the fumes from the e-cigarette, lingering in his curtains. Finding their way into his lungs, causing changes in his healthy cells. An image of his father, wired up to the chemo for long afternoon sessions, hope ebbing away with every drip of poison that entered his bloodstream. Struggling to gasp his last on oxygen at the end.
Van den Bergen’s own breathing quickened. ‘I thought you liked clubbing! It’s your chance to be like a young person.’
There was a disapproving sucking sound that almost deafened him. How could he talk her round? Marie would never be able to pull a surveillance gig like that off. ‘Look, if it’s any consolation, I’m going to make Elvis go undercover too.’
‘As what? A shit Elvis impersonator?’
‘A gay clubber.’
She started to laugh but it wasn’t the sound of amusement. It was sarcastic and loaded with disappointment. ‘Do you really think Elvis – the straightest man in the world – is going to abandon his terminally ill mother to twerk in chaps until some murderous homophobe tries to bump him off with an overdose and a watery end? You’ve lost the fucking plot, old man.’
For the second time that morning, a woman hung up on Van den Bergen, leaving him alone with a half-chewed ham sandwich and a sense that something was deeply amiss in his beloved city of Amsterdam.
CHAPTER 12 (#ulink_e477dfa6-79b3-5e33-8011-e0987f440a5f)
Amsterdam, Reguliersdwarsstraat, 1 May (#ulink_e477dfa6-79b3-5e33-8011-e0987f440a5f)
‘Come on, Dirk. You can totally do this,’ George told Elvis. She grabbed him by the arm and marched him towards the entrance to the Amsterdam Rainbow Cellars. Music thumped its way up and out onto the bustling Reguliersdwarsstraat, which thronged with clusters of men, making their way from bar to bar. A rainbow flag was suspended from the façade of the tall townhouse in which the cellars were situated, just in case the tourists hadn’t worked out what sort of place this was.
Elvis swallowed hard, tugging at the uncomfortably tight white T-shirt that George had persuaded him to wear. Contemplating his burgeoning paunch, he then cast a judgemental eye over the ripped gay guys who were sitting outside a café, draped nonchalantly over their chairs like men who knew they could carry off tight clothing.
‘This is ridiculous,’ he said. ‘This is the worst idea the boss has ever had.’
‘Tell me about it,’ George said. ‘I’ve got to go and do a shift as a barmaid, now. I’ve only ever cleaned or danced in clubs before. What the fuck do I know about pulling pints?’
‘More than I know about what to do in a gay club,’ Elvis said. He followed the progress of a beautiful, leggy blonde girl, who strutted down the street in sequinned hot pants. Twenty seconds in, he realised she was holding the hand of another girl. ‘I can’t even dance. And I’ve got psoriasis.’
They stood together outside the club, staring at the two bald bouncers on the door, who were chatting animatedly to a group of bearded men wearing make-up. The taller of the two bouncers refocused his attention on Elvis. The beady-eyed stare of a man who made snap judgements about other men for a living.
Feeling stripped naked, Elvis blushed. Dropped his gaze back to his paunch and took out his phone. There was a text from the carer, marked urgent, asking where Mum’s incontinence pads were hidden.
‘I shouldn’t be here,’ he told George, texting,
bathroom cupboard above hot water tank
with a practised thumb. ‘I should be at home with Mum. She’s really not got long left.’ He sighed heavily at the thought of having to say goodbye to the only parent he had left. A once-robust woman who had been reduced to a frail husk. Inside three months, the doctor had estimated. He would have to deal with all the admin, alone. And clear her place, alone. Oh, and bury her too. He had been able to think of nothing else for a year. Knew he should be over the moon to get away at all and spend some time as an unencumbered thirty-something man with no responsibilities. But he wasn’t. ‘Nightclubs aren’t really my thing, either.’ Touching his hair, where George had gelled it into spikes, rather than a quiff, he felt a stranger to his own skin. She had made him trim his sideburns to conform with ordinary proportions. ‘Or men. Obviously.’
‘Sorry, man.’ Patting him on the shoulder, George offered him a cigarette, which he took gratefully. Lit her own and exhaled thoughtfully. ‘You’ve got so much on your plate. And a needle to find in a haystack. We both have.’
‘What do I even say? Or do? I don’t want to …’ He looked up at the rainbow flag; followed the line down to the muscular, perfectly groomed men who chatted animatedly to the bouncers beneath it. Winced.
‘Look, Elv— Dirk. You’re in the workplace,’ George said. ‘Just try to make conversation with the men in there. That’s all that’s expected of you, right? Ask about drugs. Dealers. Anything unusual. The sort of detective work you do every day of the week. How is this any different?’
George had the keen focus of a woman who knew better than most what to look out for on a busy street scene. Not a cop’s eye, Elvis assessed. But the intuitive gaze of someone who had lived on the other side and could easily sniff out the shifty, the disingenuous and the downright illegal. ‘I wish you could do this and I could be the barman in a nice, easy straight club.’
George guffawed with laughter. Pointed to her simple black jeans and T-shirt. ‘I’m hardly dressed for a night on the town.’ Patted her bosom. ‘And I’m lacking the correct kit, let’s not forget.’ Checked her watch. ‘Listen. I’ve got to go. My shift starts in five and I don’t want to be late on my first night.’ She squinted into the near distance. ‘So, there’s squad cars parked up if there’s trouble?’
He nodded. ‘You know the number to call.’
He didn’t like the way it smelled inside. Air freshener and beer and testosterone. The stairs leading down into the club were sticky underfoot, lit with blue neon treads. Every time he passed a man, he felt certain he was being checked out. He held his stomach in, conscious of having the figure of a man who ate too many frites with mayonnaise, sitting for too long in the pool car on stakeouts or tending his mother and compensating for the stress with the cake he had bought to fatten her up.
At the bar, he was careful to order just a Diet Coke, though something stronger might have helped him through this hell. Should he ask the barman about drugs? Too obvious. Was the barman giving him a funny look? Had he already sniffed him out as a straight cop? Elvis opened his mouth to ask a question but realised there were men standing behind him, clamouring to be served. He would never be heard over the din of dance music, anyway.
After twenty minutes of scanning the dancefloor to get a feel for the place, wondering why the hell middle-aged bearded men might want to drag up and wear full make-up, like bad pantomime dames, Elvis decided to be brave and head to the toilets. Remembering that his prejudices were founded only on his late father’s bigotry and that nobody was likely to try to bone him unless he asked. Nobody would probably want to bone him, anyway. He found himself unexpectedly saddened at that thought.
‘Oh, Olaf’s such a silly bitch! Guess what? He went to the hairdresser’s and asked for—’
‘Fuck off, Jef. I don’t need you telling everyone about my grooming disasters.’
‘I don’t need to tell them. They can see for themselves, you daft cow!’
Overblown gales of laughter ensued.
Standing at the urinal, Elvis listened to the inane banter of three of the most catwalk-ready handsome young men he had ever seen, gathered around the sinks where they were primping their hair. What would they be talking about had they been straight? Football. Obviously. And they wouldn’t have congregated in the stinking toilets. There was a rhythmic knocking sound coming from one of the cubicles. Hastily, Elvis zipped his trousers and left without washing his hands.
Perching on a balcony above the dancefloor, he scanned the club for signs of drug use or dealing.
‘Hi!’ He was startled by a man’s voice bellowing in his ear. ‘I’m Frank. What’s your name?’
Blushing in the dark, Elvis swallowed hard. Was he being hit on? Thought of a name that was neither Dirk nor that hateful damned nickname that Van den Bergen had bestowed on him, now inextricably linked with his professional persona – Elvis. ‘Antoon.’ He reached out to shake Frank’s hand. Frank, a balding boulder of a man who clearly ate iron for breakfast, laughed nervously, raised an eyebrow and shook his hand. Firm but sweaty.
‘Very formal, Antoon,’ he said. ‘So, what brings you here? You’re new.’
Elvis opened and closed his mouth. Half-relieved that he was being hit upon. Appalled with himself that he wasn’t sure where to go with this conversation. ‘I’m from out of town,’ he said. ‘I just fancied coming out. Kicking back. You know?’
Frank started to laugh. Stroked his cheek. Elvis shrank away from his touch and folded his arms across his chest.
‘I spy a man in the closet!’ Frank said, smiling. ‘Are you married? Fancied a walk on the wild side?’
‘No, it’s not like that,’ Elvis said, feeling the sweat pool around his armpits and pour into the waistband of his jeans.
‘Ah, shy?’ Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out a baggie of white powder. ‘Fancy a bit of chemical courage?’
This was more like it. ‘Maybe,’ Elvis said. ‘Is that coke?
‘Yep. I’ve got some meth too, if you’d prefer.’
‘Cool. Where did you get it?’
‘Why?’ Frank’s brow furrowed.
Stop acting like a cop, Elvis chastised himself. You’re undercover! This is not an interview down the station of a door-to-door. Screw this up and Van den Bergen will never respect or trust you again. ‘I hear there’s a bad batch going round. You can’t be too careful.’
‘Oh, I think this is good gear,’ Frank said. ‘My dealer is the go-to man in chem-sex circles.’
‘Chem-sex?’ Elvis gulped.
Frank ran his forefinger down Elvis’ sweaty chest, over his moobs and gut, which he could no longer hold in. What the fuck should he say next?’
‘There’s been a couple of guys from the scene died lately,’ he said, reasoning that if the newspaper had printed stories about the canal deaths, then it was fair game. ‘Aren’t you worried?’
Raising an eyebrow, Frank smiled and leaned seductively against the balcony. ‘Should I be? Are you going to fuck me to death, Antoon?’
Feeling the phone vibrate in his pocket, Elvis’ head started to throb with the worry that some ill-fate had befallen his mother – that was almost certainly the carer texting – and anxiety that he hadn’t yet got any information of use and was now almost certainly being propositioned for sex.
‘I need to know about the provenance of the gear before I … er … indulge,’ he said. Thought of George and her OCD. Was she faring any better? ‘I’m very uptight about these things.’ He put his hand on top of Frank’s. Smiled. Prayed the guy couldn’t feel how dangerously fast his heart was pounding. ‘My body’s a temple. I’m sure you understand.’
Frank slapped him on the shoulder and threw his head back. Mirth in his opiate-glassy eyes. ‘You’re funny.’ Grabbed at Elvis’ belly. ‘Temple, indeed! I like you.’
And then he said the name that would crop up in conversation time after time in every bar and club Van den Bergen sent Elvis to.
CHAPTER 13 (#ulink_f5545f04-9781-5cd8-8e62-02ecd703a364)
Amsterdam, Keizer’s Basement nightclub, 14 May (#ulink_f5545f04-9781-5cd8-8e62-02ecd703a364)
‘Nikolay?’ George asked. ‘Who the hell is Nikolay?’ She flipped the tap on and started to pour the first glass of beer from a new barrel. Channelling Aunty Sharon, who had spent the last two decades pulling pints in Soho. Maybe barmaiding was in the blood. The foam started to spurt, shooting up to the rim of the glass, covering George’s hand and T-shirt in sticky alcoholic ejaculate. Maybe barmaiding wasn’t in the blood. ‘Ugh. Grim, man. I’m gonna kill Van den Bergen,’ she muttered in English, wiping her hand on a bar towel.
‘He’s the Czech gangster I was telling you about.’ At her feet, her cocktail-shaking compatriot Tom was methodically stacking a beer fridge. Whispering, lest he be overheard by the manager. ‘I’ve heard the bouncers talking about him.’
Nikolay. Nikolay. George committed the name to memory. The first decent lead she had managed to generate in ten nights of working as a cack-handed barmaid in five different clubs across the city.
‘Move aside for the expert.’ Tom stood. Playfully, he pushed her out of the way and started to tinker expertly with the beer tap until it produced a steady amber stream. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the magic touch.’ He winked at her.
George was relieved he couldn’t see her blush. Eyeing his wiry, hairy forearms, she reasoned that they were the right kind of forearms. But she hated his bitten nails. Had a sudden urge to ask him why he took such good care of his hair and body and yet neglected his hands. Bitten nails made George wince inwardly. Focus, tit!You’re not here to check out some strange guy’s forearms or his hand hygiene. ‘Nikolay,’ she said. ‘So the dealers who work in here flog his gear?’
‘Oh yeah,’ Tom said, grinning, as though he were pleased at having insider information with which to impress this inquisitive new barmaid. ‘They used to just deliver to order outside. Turning up on mopeds like pizza guys. But they’ve got braver in the past year and you can spot them on the dancefloor if you know what to look for. I reckon the bouncers must be taking a cut. Nobody ever sees the man himself, though. You wouldn’t catch Nikolay on house night in crappy Keizer’s Basement, that’s for sure. Apparently, he’s the stuff of legend. Like some Scarface type, except he deals meth and other chems.’
‘What? Like whizz?’
He laughed. ‘Nobody takes whizz anymore.’ Derision in his voice, as though George had said something preposterous, like an ageing parent trying to be cool. ‘Ecstasy’s popular again, but mainly it’s all crystal meth and mephedrone now. Where have you been for the last couple of years?!’
‘Writing my book. I told you!’ she said, treating him to a winning smile; having to suppress the desperate urge to flip him the bird. Calm down, dick. Shove your ego back in your box. It’s not his fault. He doesn’t know the first thing about you. He’s fresh out of college and a wet-behind-the-ears middle-class kid on his gap yah. ‘I’m doing this shitty barmaiding job for research. Where else am I going to get inspiration for a novel about drug-dealing and gangs and the underworld?’ She widened her eyes dramatically.
‘That’s so cool that you’re a writer.’ Tom leaned on the bar, as though the club was not opening in only fifteen minutes. ‘I wish I could do something arty like that.’ Smiling away. Blowing smoke up her arse in a way Van den Bergen never did.
‘Well, I’m pretty sure you’ve got some brilliant anecdotes up your sleeve. I can tell you’ve lived.’
He nodded enthusiastically. ‘I suppose so. I’ve been working bars all over France, Germany and Belgium since graduation. I mean, why the hell would I wanna rush back to a job in some mind-numbing call centre in Leeds, if I’m lucky? I’m not ready to wear a suit and do the nine to five bollocks!’
‘Hmm,’ George said absently, studying Tom’s white teeth for signs of food. ‘Come on, then. Tell me your cool stories about this Nikolay guy.’
He leaned in conspiratorially. A little too close. The intimacy sucked the oxygen out of the air. ‘I’ve heard his name dropped in several of the places I’ve worked. I like that sort of thing. You know? True life crime and dat.’ He stood tall. Crossed his arms, hip-hop style.
‘You didn’t just say “and dat” did you?’ Pushing the bar towel into his hands, George shook her head disapprovingly and started to stack clean glasses on a shelf.
An awkward silence between them descended, smothering any further conversation, until the manager strode over, giving them both instructions for the evening.
‘I want you to mop the toilets through before we open,’ he told George, wiping his sweaty forehead on the sleeve of his black shirt.
The pasty-faced lump was probably younger than she was, she assessed. He spoke with a strong Limburg accent. Almost certainly some southern farmer’s son, who had moved to Amsterdam for a taste of life in the fast lane.
‘I’m not mopping the toilets,’ she said. ‘I’m here as temporary bar staff.’
The manager stared at her, slack-jawed. More surprise in his expression than annoyance. ‘You’re a temp. And I’m your boss. You do as I say if you want to get paid.’
George was just about to tell him to go fuck himself. Remembered that Van den Bergen and the families of the floaters were relying on her. She grabbed the bucket and mop. Waited until the manager’s back was turned and mouthed ‘fat wanker’ at the back of his head. Shook her closed fist sideways.
