The Copycat Page 2

  ‘Bit shaken up, but okay. Knows the guy apparently, had trouble with him before. Sounds stalker-like if you ask me, but she says she’s not pressing charges.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Sabine Wester.’

  I look across at her. It’s easy to see why I thought she was Tanya, even if it was only for a brief moment. It’s been over a year, but from the sting of it you’d think it was yesterday, and clearly the mere thought of Tanya is another trigger of mine.

  ‘I’ll talk to her,’ I say.

  He snaps his pocket book closed. ‘Knock yourself out.’

  She turns to look at me as I slide onto the stool next to her. Blue eyes, not green, I find myself thinking.

  ‘Hey,’ she says. ‘Thanks.’

  Her voice is smoky going on hoarse, probably an after-effect of the screaming and the hand clamped across her throat. She gives a little cough, reaches for the glass and takes a sip.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ The wound in my arm throbs like someone’s just turned the pain dial right up. ‘You know the guy?’

  Sabine winces and looks away. Her top slips over her shoulder again. She pulls it back up. ‘Sadly I do,’ she says, turning back to look right at me. ‘What you might call one of life’s mistakes.’

  ‘Let me guess, he doesn’t see it that way?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  She picks up a beer mat. On it a grinning white squid wraps its tentacles round a glass of foaming dark beer. She turns it over and over, hitting it against the bar and sliding her fingers down before flipping it and starting again. Bruises are already starting to form on her neck. By tomorrow they’re going to be very visible.

  And I’ve seen all this before. Enough times to know how it usually ends. The muted trumpet breathes its last. The piece segues into a more upbeat sax number.

  ‘You need to press charges, stop him doing it again.’

  She’s still working the beer mat. ‘He showed up outside my flat the other day so I called the police. You know what they said?’

  I can probably guess. Truth is we, they, only have limited powers until a crime has actually been committed. Unless there was a restraining order and the man had breached it, there’d be little they could do.

  ‘I was told to stay inside,’ she says. ‘They didn’t even send anyone. So I press charges against him? He’s only going to get more angry. And it’s not like he’ll be locked away forever.’

  Realistically he would probably only get community service. I don’t tell her this.

  ‘Where do you live?’ I ask just as someone, presumably the barman, cuts the music. My voice booms in the sudden silence.

  She glances up. For a moment my surroundings blur away and I experience an internal, expansive whirl I’ve not felt for a long time. I wonder if she felt it too. I guess I’m hoping she did, though I’m not sure I can see any sign of it.

  ‘On Nassaukade,’ she says. ‘By the park?’

  I take the beer mat off her, borrow a pen from the uniform now talking to the manager, who is still wringing his hands. If he carries on like that he’s not going to have any skin left. I write on the mat, along one of the straighter tentacles.

  ‘You see him again? Call me.’

  I tap the mat, turn and walk out. Not a bad exit if I say so myself. For some reason I hope Sabine was impressed. I get that giddy little whirl again.

  It’s dark now, colourful lights streak across the canal’s black surface, and I stand for a moment breathing in the city I know so well. The city that made me.

  And then tried its best to break me.

  The earlier warmth left with the sun. A shudder trembles my spine.

  I pull the hood over my head with my good arm and slip off into the neon night.

  Just before I reach Bloemgracht, the canal where my houseboat is moored, I pass a newsagent’s board screaming the headline ‘No leads in Marianne Kleine case’. Inside I pick up a copy of De Telegraaf and take it to the counter.

  ‘Anything else?’ The bored guy’s question brings me back to myself. What am I doing?

  ‘Uhhh … no. Actually I don’t need this either.’

  A bell tinkles as I open the door and leave. I’m shaken, but also pleased I didn’t fall back into the trap. These days I have to celebrate the small victories. I turn off Prinsengracht and my houseboat swings into view. I stop for a moment and admire it.

  In its day it hauled freight, coal I’m guessing, until a fire in the mid-sixties took out a large part of the upper deck. Headed for the scrapheap, or whatever the marine equivalent is, someone snapped it up at the last minute and repurposed it as a houseboat. They rebuilt the deck and reconfigured the inside into liveable space. I bought it eleven years ago, just when my career in the police was really taking off and it seemed like the future had open arms.

  Now, standing here remembering the past, I think of the letter in my pocket. My current future. Which doesn’t seem like much of a future at all.

  The gangplank sways and creaks underneath me. Odd. I notice the motion sensor light above the door hasn’t come on. I reach up and wave my hand. Nothing. I tap it a few times. Darkness reigns.

  The lock yields to the key and I’m trying to remember if I’ve got a replacement bulb somewhere. I step inside and flip the switch on the wall. No light here either. The circuit board’s tucked at the back of a cupboard in the old engine room and I follow my phone’s light through the houseboat right to it. The board itself is a mystery. I start randomly flipping switches in the hope something will work. It doesn’t. I should really be able to do something like this myself, go the DIY route, but whenever I try that sort of thing I step into a parallel world where I’m Wile E. Coyote and everything I touch is made by ACME. And in this case I’d be dealing with live electricity, so on balance I decide the situation warrants a professional. Which is going to cost. I think of the letter, the offer they’ve made. Truth is I could use it. But by signing I’d be out forever, with no chance of going back.

  As I exit the utility cupboard my shoulder knocks something off a shelf. Illuminated in the phone’s beam is a round tin, with the most kitsch hand-painted Virgin Mary you’ve ever seen. Added to that, the painter wasn’t actually that skilled; an unfortunate smudge makes it look like the Virgin Mary has a moustache. I pick it up, remembering the day Tanya and I bought it out at the flea market at Waterlooplein. It was one of those spontaneous purchases you make when you’re high on another person; at the time we thought it was hilarious, but in the end it was just a stupid tin which never had any use and quickly got lost in everyday life.

  Now, though, it reminds me of it all, of how it ended between us and I start to feel the deep pull of loss and regret. I think back to that night, to the things I had to do to keep her safe, and which meant that in the end I lost her.

  I shove the gun right into his face. The barrel pushes his lip up.

  The flashback’s brief, a split second, but still so disorientating. And I know that it might return at any moment. I stumble back into the main area, reaching for my sealed glass stash jar on the shelves behind the sofa. They are ferocious beasts, the flashbacks, and the only thing that even has a hope of taming them is cannabis.

  Inside the jar there’s only a single nug left, a rare strain called Sour Hound which I got from Joel. I break up the sticky bud with shaky fingers and put it in the grinder, twist it, then load up the vaporizer with the ground herb. It’s taking an age to heat up. I find myself staring at the red light, willing it to turn green. C’mon, c’mon. I feel the deep, sucking groundswell telling me there’s another one coming. The space is closing in around me. I’m having trouble breathing. For some reason I can feel the back of my neck more than anything else. My arms feel four times too long. I wonder if I’m going to throw up.

  The light turns green and I inhale fast, pulling the vapour deep into my lungs.

  I caught it in time. It’s five minutes or so later and I’m melting into the rug, my back agains
t the sofa. From my shifted perspective the flashback seems inconsequential, not something that should hold any power over me. And yet at the time they grab you and don’t let go. They’re part of the condition I’ve been diagnosed with, Uncomplicated PTSD, and they seem more real than real itself. And what’s so scary is the speed; it’s like a switch’s been flipped, changing the channel of your world. There’s no way of telling how long it’s going to last either. It could be seconds, it could be minutes. The worst episode happened mid-afternoon, just as I was leaving my therapist’s office; by the time the switch flipped back it was dark and I was halfway across town slumped behind a row of dumpsters with no memory of how I got there, a large scratch running down my left calf.

  Now I’m just grateful the cannabis has worked, and I become fascinated with ripples on the water, visible through the large pane of glass running along the entire living area. They’re tinged with the street lights’ glow, and appear random at first, but if you really watch them you start to see there is a pattern; it’s just hard to work out exactly what it is. I get caught up in them for a while before realizing I’m settling in nicely, time relaxing its frantic grip as I slide into the everlasting present, and the thought of food is just emerging when my phone lights up the ceiling. The number on it is one I know well, the station. My old station. I don’t want to take it, but call it force of habit.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Sir? It’s Arno Jansen. Heard you’ve turned into a vigilante.’

  Inspector Arno Jansen, closest thing I ever had to a protégé. Before I was forced to knock him out with a rock in a quarry just outside Amsterdam. I’m not sure he’s ever forgiven me for that, even though he knew it was done at the behest of a psychotic killer who was holding Tanya hostage and would have killed her if I didn’t follow his orders.

  ‘Just a bit of fun. Haven’t beaten anyone up for a while.’

  ‘Well, glad you weren’t hurt too badly.’

  I take another pull from the vape. ‘How’s things?’ I ask after exhaling.

  ‘Well … been meaning to call you actually. Wondering if you can help me with something?’

  ‘If it’s itchy, I’d see a doctor. Better safe than sorry.’

  ‘The old ones are always the best, sir.’

  Truth is, I’ve hardly spoken to anyone in months. Since the diagnosis I’ve been doing my best to get better, but I learnt early on that being around other people wasn’t helping. Now I’m starting to see the result of shielding myself, walling myself off from the world. And yet it’s worked. I’m better now than I’ve been at any other time since I was diagnosed. Better, but still not fully there. And I don’t need anything to knock me back. Which is why I’m starting to feel nervous about this call.

  ‘So what is it then?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ve just been helping out Marit De Jong. He arrested someone earlier who he thinks is the guy who broke into a Rashid Benkirane’s coffee place, stole a machine and beat the owner up. Apparently Rashid’s a friend of yours?’

  ‘You’ve got the guy?’

  ‘Marit did. Been trying to get hold of Rashid but his phone’s off. I believe you helped him when he made the original report and I was wondering if you knew where he was. You live right by him, don’t you?’

  I get up and step over to one of the windows. Rashid lives above his business just across the canal and I can see lights on in the two-room apartment.

  ‘Looks like he’s around.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you could nip over there, pass the message on? Maybe even bring him in if he is?’

  ‘Is it really that urgent?’

  ‘Kinda is. I’m up against it at the moment. Big murder case and I’m only on this as one of Marit’s kids was taken to hospital, and we’ll have to release the suspect soon if we’re not able to charge him. Honestly I just want it off my desk so I can get back to what I’m really supposed to be doing. Please?’

  ‘Why do you need me to bring him?’

  ‘Marit said Rashid’s really nervous of police, and that you’d gone with him all the previous occasions.’

  Which is true. Rashid comes from a culture where you fear the police, and, whilst he’s adapted well to life here, some feelings run too deep to ever entirely eradicate. But I don’t want to go to the station; I want to sit back and watch the ripples and let the Sour Hound ease that tension away. I look down at the grinder only to discover I’m out. And the Sour Hound I’ve already inhaled has fled, tail between its legs.

  I’m just about to say no when the idea hits: if Joel’s around I could drop in on him on the way back. I don’t buy from coffeeshops if I can help it. All that low-grade stuff they produce for the tourists is covered in pesticide residue and half the time grown so poorly they have to drench it with illegal research chemicals bought in bulk from China just so it has some nominal effect.

  That’s junk. I need medicine. Which is where Joel comes in.

  ‘Call it repayment for the rock thing,’ Jansen says, breaking into my thoughts.

  ‘Well, shit, if I’d known you’d be so bitter … All right, I’m on my way.’

  I fire off a text to Joel and get ready to leave. As I shrug on a fresh hoody, my arm still sore, I remember the letter. I pull it out of my jeans and drop it on the table.

  Despite the darkness I can’t help but notice a few drops of blood on it.

  I don’t know why, but I bend over and sniff it.

  Sucked Back In

  ‘Seriously, how much?’

  I’m with Rashid, we’re walking down Marnixstraat, the station less than two minutes away, and I’m listening to the electrician reel off his fees for an out-of-hours call. Out of hours? The way I see it, it’s dark, the most likely time you’re going to need light. Try telling the station chief that you’re not heading out to the crime scene because it’s out of hours and see what happens. I ask what the in-hours rate is and just as he answers a tram judders past and I have to get him to repeat himself. I settle for an appointment tomorrow morning. By the time I hang up my phone’s like a hot coal.

  ‘Will I have to see him?’ Rashid asks. He’s in jeans and an Ajax sweater, a team he’s embraced with a fanatical zeal that some of his countrymen pour into headier philosophies than football.

  ‘Most likely he’ll be in a room. You’ll be able to see him but he won’t be able to see you,’ I reassure him.

  I can understand his hesitation. Rashid came to the Netherlands to escape conflict. I don’t know the full extent of it because he’s never told me, but from what I’ve managed to piece together he’s the only survivor from a large family. He’d run the usual gauntlet of immigrant jobs until he’d struck lucky, a boutique roastery out in Haarlem. He started off as floor sweeper but whilst there had discovered a love for coffee and had eventually persuaded the company owners to give him a chance at learning to roast. Which turned out to be the best move ever, because Rashid found he was an artist, his medium the bean. Less than six years later he’d opened his own place, complete with two very expensive coffee machines. The Van der Westen Speedsters, he’d told me many times, are like the Bentleys of coffee making. He doted on those things, cleaning them up each night with a spit polish so they started the next day with a gleam.

  A gleam which had caught someone else’s eye, because one night he’d heard noises, sneaked down the steep, twisted stairs from his flat and got knocked unconscious by the man who’d broken in. Rashid woke on the cafe floor with a cricked neck, a bad concussion and two spaces on the counters where the Speedsters had been. He’s been battling the insurance company ever since.

  ‘This will help with insurance?’

  ‘Hard to say. But maybe.’

  ‘Hope so. I had to get loan to buy new machine.’

  ‘How much did that cost?’

  He tells me. Jesus. I hope for his sake the insurance comes through, and fast.

  The station’s just up ahead now. Apart from a couple of secondments to Haarlem and Den Haag early on, it’s been
my home for the best part of eleven years. And like any home, the people there became like family. As in, we bickered, talked behind each other’s backs and held on to resentments long enough to forget what we were actually resenting in the first place. In between that we managed to solve a few murders as well, so it wasn’t all bad.

  A desk sergeant I don’t recognize is busy processing two arrests as I step inside so I take a look around. There are framed photos on the wall, previous station chiefs, all in full regalia. One of them makes my stomach flip. Station Chief Henk Smit. His unexplained disappearance last year was a major embarrassment to the force.

  He’s laughing. I shove the gun right into his face. The barrel pushes his lip up. There’s a rough band of yellow plaque on his canine. My finger’s on the trigger and –

  The flashback cuts out, jarring me back into reality. The curse of PTSD: the flashbacks which seem more real than real.

  ‘Jaap Rykel?’

  The source of my name is the desk sergeant; he’s giving me an odd look.

  ‘Sign here,’ he says, holding out a pen. ‘Inspector Jansen told me to look out for you.’

  I get my signature on the page. It’s shaky as hell.

  We’re just being handed our VISITOR badges, which feels strange and sad at the same time, when I spot Jansen. He’s about my height, short blond hair, and always looks like he’s ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. Since I last saw him he’s obviously been working out. His shirt sleeves are tight with pumped muscle, though his face is maybe gaunter than I remember.

  ‘Sir, thanks for coming in. This shouldn’t take long.’

  ‘Seriously, what’s up with the “sir”? You never called me that when I was actually your boss.’

  ‘New regime.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘Just got into the habit I guess.’