The Copycat Read online

  Jake Woodhouse

  * * *

  THE COPYCAT

  Contents

  Prologue

  FOUR DAYS BEFORE Sour Hound

  Sucked Back In

  Lucie Muller

  White Wolf, Black Wolf

  THREE DAYS BEFORE Crumbled Away

  Bit of a Punk

  Disturbance in the Force

  Knocking the Walls Off

  Don’t Call Me, I’ll Call You

  Appropriately Medicated

  Friends in Common

  Lifestyle

  Who?

  Oscar

  Police Brutality

  TWO DAYS BEFORE Sorry

  Client Confidentiality

  Glass

  Chateau Lafite 2000

  There’s a Man With a Gun

  For Your Own Safety

  Fire

  Stark Night

  ONE DAY BEFORE Green

  It’s Not The World – It’s How You Look At It

  Familiar

  Volunteer Number Six

  A Very Dangerous Game

  DAY ZERO Junk

  Just Like the Others

  Burn

  Is This a Joke?

  Schizo

  Sour Hound II

  Moonlight

  Make Them Pay

  Bite

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Welcome to Amsterdam

  About the Author

  Jake Woodhouse is a Sunday Times bestselling author. The Copycat is his fourth book.

  For Zara

  Prologue

  The candyfloss smudge of dawn.

  Stars glittering up high.

  The gun at the back of my head.

  ‘I can explain,’ I say. ‘Just give me a –’

  ‘What did I just tell you?’ the man says as he slaps my ear. ‘Maybe you need these unblocking?’ He slaps the other one so hard my ear starts ringing.

  We’ve been walking for what must be an hour now, stumbling through a wood slippery with fallen leaves. Roots snake across my path at random as if they’re trying to trip me up. Water drips from branches all around. His breathing’s close behind, I can feel it on my neck, and he pushes the gun harder, spurring me on. Up ahead I glimpse a break in the trees and soon the forest falls away on either side as I step into a round clearing.

  Skewered on a craggy branch is a bright misshapen moon. Long thin clouds slide across the sky. The cable ties he slipped on earlier pinch my wrists.

  For the briefest of moments I think about running. I shake it off. Back at the academy they teach you what to do if you’re ever held at gunpoint, and it sure as hell isn’t run. Lesson number one: you can’t outrun a bullet, movies notwithstanding. The preferred route is to shut the fuck up, do what you’re told, try not to anger them until you can work out a better plan. Or backup reaches you. As backup isn’t even aware of me, I’m left with the first. And I failed the not-angering-him bit before we even started the forced march.

  ‘Stop,’ he says as we reach the centre of the space.

  What choice do I have?

  Muscles ache from the march. My right heel, rubbed raw with each step, feels like it’s bleeding. And it’s all my fault.

  ‘Undress,’ he says.

  Oh fuck. I know what’s coming now. I thought, given he had the gun, he’d use it. At least that would be quick. But if he’s asking me to undress … My pulse techno-beats in my ears. I need to think of something, fast, but he hits me across the back of the head with the butt of his gun and my thoughts scatter again. I start fumbling with my belt to bide time.

  ‘Faster,’ he growls.

  Jeans pool at my feet with a soft exhale.

  ‘Everything,’ he whispers into my ear. ‘Take off everything.’

  Socks come off slowly, giving me time to think. Underwear. My balls shrink and shrivel – the cold air’s like a caress from a dead hand.

  ‘T-shirt.’

  ‘My hands are tied. How can I –’

  Another blow to the back of my head. The exact same spot as before. Everything sways, narrows sharply, but I just cling on to the thin, fragile thread of consciousness, forcing myself back into the world. He grabs my T-shirt, lifts it away from my back, and I hear the soft hiss of fabric being cut. Which means as well as the gun he also has a knife. Of course he does. He has a fucking knife and I’m naked with my hands tied in front of me in a wood in the middle of nowhere and no one knows I’m here and –

  I try to ground myself, slow things down. I’ve two enemies right now: the man behind me, and panic. I can’t defeat the former if the latter takes hold.

  ‘Knees,’ he says once the T-shirt drops away and I’m shivering hard. I hesitate and feel his grasp on my shoulder. He pushes me down. My knees strike the ground and something scuttles away from me. I listen to it escape into the night.

  I smell earth, rotting leaves, my own fear. The black wolf raises its head, nose to the wind.

  I glance up at the sky, the immensity of it all striking me for the first time. I was part of this, I think, but soon I won’t be.

  Because I know how this is going to end.

  Panic hits and questions fly at me: how did I end up here, how did it come to this? Thoughts rush and tumble over each other until it comes, the memory of how it started just days ago with a woman’s scream. I hear it again, the piercing intensity of it, which I now recognize as a signal to stay away. If only I’d realized that at the time.

  I’m breathing fast. I feel the black wolf shudder.

  ‘You don’t have to do this,’ I tell him.

  All I get in response is a laugh. And a cold blade against my throat.

  A cloud crosses the moon, cutting out the light.

  The stars flicker downwards.

  Towards the raw, bloodshot dawn.

  FOUR DAYS BEFORE

  * * *

  Visiting the graves,

  the old dog

  leads the way.

  Issa

  ‘I told you to never contact me on this number unless it was absolutely necessary.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but we may have a situation on our hands.’

  ‘You mean Marianne Kleine?’

  ‘I spoke to her father not long after she … she was found. He told me how she had been killed and it reminded me of Koen Muller’s daughter.’

  ‘I am aware of the similarities. The main thing is, are the police?’

  ‘Well … I’ve been doing some digging through my connection there, and so far it seems they aren’t. Whoever clean-swept the original case did a good job. Their system didn’t alert them to the similarities. And it turns out, of the three cops on the initial investigation one is in a coma, and one has disappeared from the face of the earth.’

  ‘You said three, what about the third?’

  ‘He’s alive, but he’s no longer a serving officer. He had some kind of psychotic breakdown last year. Thing is, because the details of how Kleine died haven’t been released to the press he wouldn’t have any way of connecting the dots, even if he reads about her death.’

  ‘Still, he’s the biggest threat in all this.’

  ‘Are you saying what I think –’

  ‘What I’m saying is this, you keep monitoring the situation for now. I’ll want reports every day and I’ll text you a new number to get me on.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘One last thing, the cop that had the breakdown, what’s his name?’

  ‘Uhh … Rykel. Inspector Jaap Rykel. Or ex-inspector I should say.’

  Sour Hound

  I hear it as I turn the corner, dazzled by the canal blazing gold in the setting sun. At first I think it’s the shriek of brakes and I take a pull on my vape, savouring the taste, the
little head rush, and look around, searching for the source. It comes again, only louder, clearer, a long soprano note swooping through the air before sliding down to a choked-off finish. This time I work out what it is. It’s a scream.

  I’d been out at the lock-up working on the Mustang and decided to get off the train two stops earlier, walk back to my houseboat through the canal district. Sure, it’ll take me twenty minutes or so longer, and I’ll have to contend with all the tourists, many of them in Halloween gear, but I could do with the walk. And anyway, I’ve been an Amsterdammer all my life, I don’t even see tourists any more. Except when they wind up dead and it’s my job to step in and sort it out.

  Was, I remind myself. Was my job.

  And now this, a man, less than thirty metres away, with his hand round a woman’s throat. She tries to scream again, though this time it’s quickly muffled as his grip tightens. I start forward, taking another hit from the vape before sliding it into my pocket.

  The woman tries to wriggle free. They’re face to face now, arms flailing like fighting crabs, and she shifts round into profile. For a split second I think it’s Tanya – her hair the same shade of red, held up in a ponytail with the exact same bounce – and a deep sadness washes over me as I relive in a single moment all that went wrong between us.

  Another cry snaps me out of it. The man grabs the woman’s hair, jerks her head back and starts whispering in her ear. They’re by a cluster of shiny metal tables. Steps behind them lead down into a bar, the glass doors of which are crammed with Halloweened faces peering out. I note that none of them are rushing to get involved.

  ‘Hey! Let her go!’ I call out when I’m close enough.

  ‘Fuck off,’ he says without even turning round to see who it is. He’s wearing a grey suit, his tie loosened, the top buttons on his shirt undone, tails hanging loose. He sticks his pale tongue in her ear where it darts and writhes like a hungry, slippery eel. The woman’s trying her best to fight him off, but he’s bigger and stronger than her and she just can’t break free.

  I reach them and swing my arm out round his throat, hauling him back hard. He tries to fight but I just tighten even further, closing off his airway. A few more seconds of that and he can see he’s not going to win. He stops struggling and releases her, though I can feel he’s still tense, still amped up. The woman stumbles away, hands at her throat, each gasp for air a saw through wood. A couple of spectators, finally deciding it’s safe enough, stream out of the bar towards her. He’s dressed in a skeleton suit. She’s got yellow skin with a cobweb creeping across her face. They flank her and all three move down the steps.

  ‘I’ll release you,’ I tell him once they’re safely inside. ‘Don’t make me regret it.’

  ‘All right,’ he says, voice tight and breathy. ‘All right.’

  I loosen my arm, allowing him some air. But he’s quick, one step ahead of me, and he stamps down hard. My left foot explodes with pain as he slithers out of my hold, grabs a bottle off one of the zinc-topped tables and smashes it on the edge. I try to duck as he spins round but the bite of jagged glass lights up my arm. The black wolf shudders. I stagger left and he takes advantage, charging me like a bull. I’ve no time to dodge and he rams his shoulder into my stomach. It knocks the wind out of me and still he keeps on coming, feet slipping and skidding until my heel catches a ridge at the top of the steps. Then there’s weightlessness and pit-of-the-stomach fear as I’m launched backwards into space. He starts to run away as I fall, gritty footsteps receding fast as I hit the ground hard. My hip and shoulder take the brunt of it. My head whiplashes down.

  By the time I scramble up, the shock of the impact still reverberating through my body, the wound in my arm pulsing and the rush of blood loud in my ears, I can see he’s long gone.

  I’m sat in one of the bar’s semicircular booths staring at the shard of glass in my arm when two uniforms finally saunter onto the scene, closely followed by a paramedic. A muted trumpet melody haunts the space and the air is warm with exhaled alcohol. I move and light flashes across the surface of the glass. It’s got an elegant shape, curved like a sail catching the wind. Or a fang. I reach out to grasp it.

  ‘Don’t,’ calls the paramedic, striding towards me with a kitbag. He’s young, sleeves rolled up, and has the air of a man who can deal with a situation. He snaps on some gloves, does a quick visual.

  ‘Nasty,’ he says. ‘Looks like it’s gone deep. Should probably get you to a hospital.’

  It’s that soft time between afternoon and evening, and I’m pretty sure the wound isn’t life-threatening. Meaning I’ll be back of the queue at A & E, most likely oversubscribed because it’s Halloween and people have started drinking early, despite the fact it’s a Wednesday. Do I want to spend hours under fluorescent lights waiting for my name to be called, surrounded by sick people and relatives desperately hoping for the surgeon to stride out and tell them everything’s going to be okay? Or by drunk people sobering up after their friend got so roaringly drunk they’d put their head through a shop window and were right now being stitched up so their face will be a permanent reminder of Halloween?

  ‘Can’t you just pull it?’ I ask as he’s about to make the call.

  ‘Problem is, if it’s hit the brachial artery and I pull it out then you will bleed.’

  His radio bursts on, a priority-one request for another incident not far from here. I know priority one is only used for injuries deemed potentially fatal if not treated swiftly.

  ‘That sounds more urgent. Just pull it. I’ll be fine.’

  He frowns, but allows his eyes and fingers to rove, assessing damage, checking angles of entry and possible exit.

  ‘Squeamish?’ he asks.

  ‘No.’

  He reaches into his bag and pulls out a miniature torch, then pinches a bit of flesh, opening up the side of the wound to see how deep the glass goes. I glance down into all that glistening pinky moistness. Well, maybe I am a little squeamish after all.

  ‘I dunno …’ he says, clicking the torch off and stowing it away.

  He looks at me and checks the shard again, frowning to himself whilst probing round it gently. His hair’s close cropped with a widow’s peak pointing to an oddly flat nose. He’s also drenched in a strong aftershave which is giving me a headache. Or maybe that’s from the fall.

  ‘Honestly I’d be happier taking you in. I don’t want a bleeder.’

  ‘Just do it,’ I tell him.

  The paramedic weighs it all up for a moment then nods. ‘You just can’t help some people,’ he says with a shrug.

  He starts assembling what he needs and I take a moment to look around. The place was full when I’d been helped in by the barman, but most of the people have cleared out, not wanting their evening to be disrupted with answering tedious questions posed to them by the police. Major buzzkill when all you’d wanted to do was leave the stresses and strains of the day behind you and party into the night as if morning’s never coming round again.

  The only people left now are the woman, the barman and the manager who’d come down from the office upstairs, wringing his hands and fussing like an old woman with unexpected guests. Further afield severed heads, crooked-winged bats with glowing eyes and alien autopsy jars hang from the ceiling. Filaments glow dimly in oversized bulbous glass retro bulbs imitating the Edison originals. I find myself staring at one.

  ‘Hey, second thoughts?’

  ‘Ready,’ I say. A ghost of the filament stays with my eyeballs, merging two realities into one. It dances as I watch him pinch the shard delicately between thumb and forefinger, the blue gloves wrinkled as if they’re just a bit too big for him. He gives it a little wobble first, just checking how well embedded it really is. Pain shoots right up my arm and into my neck. He catches my eye and nods. I nod back and blow air out of my mouth three times in quick succession. On the third he yanks it out. Blood wells up in the shard’s wake. The sting’s sharper than I’d thought it would be.

  He’s qui
ck, lost in the flow of work, and soon has a folded swab pressed hard against the wound, which he asks me to take charge of. After thirty seconds or so he checks it, gives a satisfied nod, and sprays the cut.

  ‘Not a bleeder,’ I say, more relieved than victorious.

  ‘Lucky for you,’ he says, dressing it. ‘Seriously, though, me? I’d want it stitched.’ He packs up swiftly and dashes off.

  The uniform taking the woman’s statement finishes up and walks over with his hands in his belt like he’s John Wayne. Typical patrol. Overinflated sense of self-importance. He asks for my details.

  ‘Inspector Jaap Rykel?’ he asks when I give him my name.

  I think of the letter in my pocket.

  It’d come earlier in the week, forwarded by my lawyer, Pieter Roskam. I’ve still not signed it. Every time I go to pick up a pen I find something better to do. I’ve been carrying it around for days now, hoping that maybe I could somehow sneak up on myself and sign it whilst I wasn’t paying attention. So far I’ve not managed.

  ‘Used to be.’

  ‘Right.’ The uniform nods. ‘Thought I recognized you. You worked with Inspector Jansen for a bit, didn’t you?’

  ‘How’s he doing?’

  ‘Seven shades of hell I think. He’s on that big case, the Marianne Kleine murder? Pretty nasty from what I’ve heard.’

  He says it like I should know who Marianne Kleine is, and maybe I should, but I don’t follow the news. Part of my treatment plan is to avoid triggers wherever possible. And the news is definitely a trigger. Despite that, I find I’m about to ask him, and catch myself just in time. I’m done with all that, I tell myself. None of my business now. I need to focus on me, getting better, getting away from everything that screwed me over in the first place.

  I give him my statement, and then ask about the woman perched on a bar stool. She’s in tight jeans which show off the curves of her legs, and a loose black top, which has slipped down, exposing a creamy, freckled shoulder. A glass of water stands untouched by her elbow. She shifts in her seat and pulls the top back up, as if she can feel our eyes on her.