‘You’re such a jerk, Kees,’ Marie said, miming masturbation. ‘I’ve seen more depravity in an afternoon on my work laptop than you’ve seen in all your born days, peering up Kamphuis’ hairy backside.’ She studied the board, wearing an expression that married sympathy with respectful sobriety. Took her seat slowly. Clearly mesmerised by the images. ‘Kind of glad I was still redecorating my toilet with that stomach bug when you guys got the call. It’s one thing to see photos…another thing entirely to find a body in that state.’ Kees was treated to a particularly pointed glare. ‘You’d better watch yourself, pal, or I might slip a little something in your sandwich when you’re not paying attention. Very contagious, that norovirus.’
Van den Bergen allowed himself an amused snort. ‘Pay attention, children!’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Now, our victim is about fifteen. Sixteen at most.’ He sighed involuntarily. Relayed Strietman’s findings.
Despite the fact that everyone was now eyeing him, rapt with attention, van den Bergen realised he had clammed up. He was sketching a cactus dahlia in the corner of his pad. Mind wandering elsewhere, thanks to yet another sleepless night. He grabbed at his stomach, still sore from the procedure.
‘Boss?’ Elvis said. ‘You okay?’
‘What? Yes. The only thing we can be certain of at this point,’ he said, focussing on Elvis’ greasy quiff. ‘Is that we’re looking for someone with surgical training.’ He pointed to the girl’s unfurled ribs and exposed abdominal cavity with his pen. ‘The prat standing in for Marianne de Koninck – Strietman – said she’s had…’ He grabbed his glasses which hung at the end of a chain around his neck. Perched them on his straight nose and squinted at his notebook. The writing was a blur. His eyesight was deteriorating rapidly. For God’s sake! If he’d have known his self-indulgence would have had such annoying after-effects, he would have found a better way of dealing with his demons. ‘…I can’t read a damn thing I’ve written.’ Thrust the book at Elvis. ‘Read this out, will you?’
Elvis held the notebook close. His lips moved as he tried to decipher the tight scrawl.
‘Well?!’ van den Bergen snapped, crossing his long, thin right leg over his left knee. Failing to wedge his sneaker under the table top because there was simply insufficient space for such a large shoe. Uncrossing his legs. Damn it, if he could get comfortable. Visualising his father’s feet, near the end. So sinewy and yellow, in carpet slippers that swam around his bony ankles. Five years.
‘Had you been drinking when you wrote this, boss?’ Elvis asked. He took one look at van den Bergen’s face and apologised quietly.
Over the years, Elvis – so nicknamed by van den Bergen because of his propensity for wearing the ridiculous King-like quiff – had gained in confidence. Rightly so. He had earned van den Bergen’s respect. But there were some lines the loyal little dipshit should never cross. Van den Bergen maintained his admonishing glare.
Elvis cleared his throat. ‘Okay. Says here, “Jane Doe was subject to a midline laparotomy and sternotomy”.’ He pronounced the medical terminology hesitantly, like a child trying to read long words in easy, phonetically distinct chunks. ‘What the hell are those? You’ve written, “Murderer knew exactly how to do it.”’
Van den Bergen nodded. Laced his fingers together behind his head. ‘The clinical terms refer to the way she has been cut open. Strietman says the technique used is the same sort of thing a surgeon would do when performing abdominal or heart surgery. The murderer has cut around the belly button, instead of through it.’ His junior colleagues’ faces were blank. ‘Apparently, the belly button is full of bacteria and surgeons cut round it to avoid infecting the patient. But I want to know…’ he ran his hands back and forth through his thatch of thick, prematurely white hair ‘…is why would a murderer take so much care, if the only goal was to kill his victim? Why the missing organs? What do we think about the drugging theory? Or ritual killing? Any thoughts?’
‘Ritual killing,’ Marie said, nodding slowly. ‘We haven’t had one of those before. Was that your idea, boss?’
Van den Bergen shook his head. ‘We have a stand-in pathologist with a very vivid imagination. Still, anything’s a possibility at this stage. The paediatrician Strietman brought in for an expert’s opinion seemed to think he may be onto something.’
Van den Bergen allowed himself a fleeting moment to savour the memory of Dr Sabine Schalks, as he had escorted her from the mortuary to the lift.
‘Sabine,’ he had said, stifling the inclination to touch her arm. ‘I’d love it if you’d come in and meet my detective, Marie. She does our internet research and has some experience with child pornography and paedophile rings. I think input from you would really help.’ He had given her a business card. ‘Will you pay us a visit?’
The paediatrician had smiled. It was a wide smile, showing perfect white teeth. He had admitted to himself that this was an attractive woman. Of his own age. No wedding ring. Potentially so easy. And yet, his heart belonged to a woman much younger.
The doors to the lift had slid open and Sabine Schalks had stepped inside. Pressed the button. The doors started to close. Disappointment setting in fast. But then, she had treated him to a glorious grin.
‘Nice line, Chief Inspector. If you wanted to go on a date with me, you could have just asked!’
Elvis interrupted the memory of this unexpected flirtation.
‘The murderer took her organs as trophies,’ he suggested, fiddling with the buttons on his leather jacket. ‘That’s common, isn’t it? Trophies, I mean. Like the Firestarter, with his test tube rack full of frozen fingers.’
The others nodded.
‘Maybe this perp wants to keep his victim unspoiled,’ Kees offered. ‘A clean-freak who can’t stand bacteria. That’s why he did the belly button thing.’
‘If he’s a medic or vet, he’s used to doing things a certain way,’ Marie said, ‘So, it stands to reason he’d open her up carefully instead of hacking her apart. Those guys train for years. Old habits, and all that…’
Sagely nodding, van den Bergen filled in the petals of his doodled dahlia with cross-hatching. ‘Any feedback yet from the door-to-doors?’ he asked. ‘Witnesses?’
‘Not a sausage,’ Elvis said in English.
‘Not even a boil-in-the-bag sausage.’ Kees winked at Marie, who thrust a middle finger skyward in response.
Soho, London, Skin Flicks Media Group, later
‘Yeah. Come up,’ the girl said through the intercom. ‘Top floor.’
The buzzer sounded. George pushed the heavy green door inwards and started to climb the stone stairs two at a time. The air was heavy with that smell of damp and neglect that you got in Victorian buildings. Peeling magnolia paint and ingrained dirt from who knew when. A musty tang that made her sneeze. She was careful to pull down the sleeve of her sweater and put it between the handrail and the naked skin of her palm.
Rhythmic, dance-music thump issued forth from the music business on the first floor. Stoking up the dust, no doubt. George covered her mouth with her free hand to avoid inhaling it.
Second floor up, two bearded white boys dressed in pastel-coloured jeans and ugly Fair Isle jumpers descended as she climbed. Talking about the tedium of a sweaty editing suite.
Pausing on the landing,