The Girl Who Wouldn't Die Part 18

Ad looked out at the acres of polytunnels, laid across the Dutch fields like silvery, fat worms in the steel-grey twilight.

What a treat.

'Come on in, Paul. I'm almost finished here,' Marianne de Koninck said.

Van den Bergen had been perched silently against the door frame, watching the attractive forensic pathologist dissecting, weighing and evaluating the minutiae of this man's life right up until the moment he was killed.

'Don't be squeamish,' she said, snapping off her latex gloves and heading for the sink.

He pulled a face as he looked down at the eviscerated corpse on the slab. The bin man's blackened ribs had been sawn apart to reveal the now heartless, semi-cooked contents.

'I'll just finish making these notes,' the pathologist said, turning away to speak monotonously into a Dictaphone. After a while, she clicked the recording equipment off. 'Right, done,' she said brightly, as though she had just finished her weekly shop at the supermarket.

Van den Bergen eyed up her lithe runner's form underneath the ugly overalls. 'The human body is so beautiful,' he said. 'Right up to the point where it's mutilated. We're all stinking and horrible on the inside.'

The pathologist laughed. 'You're such a cynic!'

Van den Bergen put his hand in his trouser pocket and prodded his aching hip. 'This job and a bullet in the hip made a cynic out of me a long, long time ago. And this place ... how the h.e.l.l do you work here? It's freezing and depressing. I prefer a p.i.s.sy holding cell to this.' He wafted a hand around to indicate the austere tiles and the glare of the overhead lights. 'Don't you get nightmares?'

The pathologist grabbed his arm. 'I'll make you a coffee.'

Van den Bergen relished the warmth of the contact but pulled his arm away. 'I haven't got long. Just give me the low-down.'

In the presence of the corpse, the pathologist told van den Bergen how it had come to be on her slab.

'It's Remko Visser, all right. Dental records match. He suffered trauma to the head. The skull was indented by something with a square edge I'm guessing a lump hammer or something of that ilk. It caused a bleed on the brain but that didn't kill him.'

Van den Bergen breathed in deeply and closed his eyes. He dreaded the return visit to the Visser family, wondering with ever-diminishing hope where their only son was; barely clinging on to sanity, as fate swept away all they held dear on a rip tide of grief and loss. 'Go on.'

'His index finger is missing with a plastic tourniquet still attached at the stump.'

'The kind you find in hardware stores?'

'It had melted, but yes, I would guess so.'

The pathologist left Remko Visser's body without a backwards glance and started to head down the glum, chilly corridor.

'He was definitely still living when he was set on fire,' the pathologist said. 'Petrol in his lungs.'

Van den Bergen was possessed by a sudden urge to go round to Tamara's flat, hug her and blow raspberries on her cheeks like he had when she was little. He slid his hand into his pocket and fingered his mobile phone.

'Do you think Visser felt anything?' he asked, silently praying that the boy had been out cold.

Marianne de Koninck unlocked her office and held the door open for van den Bergen. 'He felt everything,' she said. 'Arms raised defensively; the cla.s.sic pugilistic stance of someone meeting their end in an inferno. Melted plastic under the fingernails where he'd scratched at the inside of the bin. There's absolutely no doubt that he was fully conscious when he was burning.'

Heidelberg's main train station is reputed to be the architectural jewel in Deutsche Bahn's crown. Opened in 1955, it is an elegant building full of windows and s.p.a.ce, both reflecting modernity without being brutalist and carrying from the past a whiff of art deco as well as the unfortunate whiff of p.i.s.s.

When Ad and Klaus arrived, it was midnight. Ad yawned and steadied himself against the pitch and roll of the sleep-deprived. He followed Klaus through the station without speaking, only dimly aware of the sgraffito of the sun G.o.d, Helios, above the clock on the wall of the main hall. He was not concerned with architecture or the station's seedy ambience but rather that he needed to urinate badly.

They headed out towards the taxi rank. The starless sky was overcast. A light drizzle started to descend. Ad b.u.t.toned up his reefer jacket and put up the collar against the January cold.

'Old town,' Klaus told the cab driver of an ageing BMW.

The cab driver eyed Klaus' scars and sniffed.

'You want to put those bags in the boot?' he asked with a rolling Swabian accent.

'No thanks,' Ad said.

Klaus ignored the driver entirely and had already got into the cab, putting his weekend bag and sword case on his knees.

'I'm dropping my friend here near the Corps Rhenania on Hauptstra.s.se,' he said. 'Take us to the junction with Friesenberg. We'll walk it from there.'

Ad saw the cab driver sizing him up in the rearview mirror. He wondered how the man was judging him. Did he think he was one of Klaus' number? An ent.i.tled, arrogant bigot with a frat membership for life?

He looked away from the cab driver's searching eyes and watched the inky blackness of the River Neckar speed by to his left. On the opposite sh.o.r.e, the pitch dark was punctuated by a braille strip of lights, dusting the banks with their homely glitter as they blazed in the windows of grand old houses. To the right, beyond Klaus' bulk, were the silhouettes of steep-roofed historic buildings. By day, Ad remembered the buildings were like beautiful courtiers wearing elaborate costumes. But they skulked silently by the river now; shy and retiring in their widow's midnight black.

Presently the taxi stopped and Klaus handed over a ten-euro note. Ad immediately pulled out his wallet, stuffing a five into Klaus' free hand.

'What's this?' Klaus asked.

'Haven't you heard of going Dutch?' Ad said. 'We like to pay our way.'

Klaus pushed the five back at Ad, trumping his gesture of generosity. 'I don't need it. Come on. We're wasting time.'

They marched slightly uphill, along a tree-lined street with only a couple of grand villas on either side. High above the street to the left, Ad saw the crumbling castle, floodlit and magnificent among the trees. The blackened windows in the facade peeped like watchful eyes through the icy mist in which the castle was partially wreathed. He felt like he was being observed by a host of sinister spectres.

'Come on,' Klaus said with excitement audible in his voice. He pushed against a tall wrought iron gate and led Ad inside a garden surrounded by high walls.

'Where's this?' Ad asked.

'Corps student accommodation.'

'Jesus.' Ad looked up at the three-storey villa. Its pale render glowed in the streetlight. Most of the tall, shuttered windows were lit from within. Through a ground-level window, he glimpsed a heavy wooden chandelier hanging from a high ceiling. On the dark, wood-panelled wall he spied several mounted stags' heads complete with colossal antlers.

'Membership has its benefits,' Klaus said.

Klaus knocked on the door with the large bra.s.s knocker. Voices inside sounded jubilant. Footsteps. Then the door was opened by a small, dark-haired man whom Ad judged to be in his second year at the university. Not quite haggard enough to be a third-year student. Too much stubble for a fresher.

'It's Biedermeier, guys!' the small man shouted to the house's occupants within.

Inside, there was much embracing, clapping of backs and greetings given in German by raucous, well-spoken voices. Ad stood by an open guestbook on a table by the door. He glanced at the names that were written there. Each was signed with a flourish in one column and then printed in another. All names were ended with two numbers. 54:32. 47:23. 15:21. Klaus took the pen and signed his name, ending it with 47:33. What did it mean? He frowned.

'Who's this then?' one of the men asked.

Klaus laid claim to Ad by flinging a cashmere-clad arm around his shoulder. 'This, my friends, is a Dutchman.'

Ad smiled weakly and stuck out his hand, prepared to shake with the housemates like a gentleman, but they all jeered and started to crack jokes.

'Hey, guys, what do Dutch kids get for Christmas? Coupons!'

'Hey, hey! Why did Ikea stop opening stores in the Netherlands? They couldn't afford to keep restocking the free pencils any more!'

'I've got one! How do you tell a Dutchman from a Belgian? Burn a five-euro note and see which one sweats the most.'

Ad swallowed hard. He was outnumbered. Resentful that he didn't dare fire back at them an entertaining anti-German joke that his father had taught him when he was twelve. 'Ha ha. Yes, very funny. h.e.l.lo, I'm Ad Karelse.' He tried to make himself heard above the laughter.

Despite the ridicule, one by one, the frat boys all grabbed his hand and shook it. He was ushered into a communal lounge and pushed into a deep old leather sofa. The decor was wood-panelled old German gentleman's club. The air smelled of wood polish and dust beneath a fug of Marlboro cigarette smoke. There was a faded Persian rug on the floor. On the walls were the stags' heads he had spied from outside together with mounted foxes and even a moose. The sad, gla.s.sy-eyed taxidermy was interspersed here and there with old oil paintings of young men wearing fraternity caps and sashes over military-looking dark uniforms. Next to one such portrait hung a curling A1 poster of a naked blonde with enormous silicone b.r.e.a.s.t.s and a red thong.

'Drink! Bring the Dutchman drink!'

'Feuerzangenbowle!' Klaus bellowed.

'You bet,' said the small man who had opened the door. 'Krambambuli! Krambambuli!'

Ad's mastery of German was not as strong as his command of English. He wondered what the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l a fire thingy bowl was. What kind of a battle cry was Krambambuli? Perhaps they were going to burn him alive.

Klaus punched the air, set his sword case on the table and clicked the locks open.

Ad's pulse quickened.

'Ha ha. Are you going to run me through with your sword and then roast me?' Ad asked.

Klaus smiled sardonically and pointed the tip of his sword at Ad's heart. 'Like a sacrificial Dutch lamb.'

Chapter 19.

17 January

Rattling along the old streets on her boneshaker of a bike towards the well-heeled Old South district, George wondered if she still had the knack of breaking and entering. Going to Klaus' apartment had been an impulsive decision. But she was sick of feeling impotent and alone in Ad's bedroom with only the lingering scent of him on his bedsheets for company. Now she giggled in the dark; savouring the early morning adrenalin pick-me-up. Just like old times.

Klaus' Daddy Dearest was definitely picking up the tab for his son's Vondelstraat address. The street was lined with BMWs and Mercedes, parked too close together beneath winter-bare trees like upmarket sardines in a tin. The spire of a church at the end of the street pointed up towards the pink haze of the city's night sky, which may or may not have contained a watchful, vengeful Calvinist G.o.d.

George breathed in. The air was clean here. No whiff of rancid kebab meat, burgers, pot, p.i.s.s or trash.

Being careful to hang back in the shadows, she spied the communal entrance to the old house that had been divided up into exclusive flats. Illuminated by the glow of the Victorian-style lamp posts, she could see a buzzer entry system.

'Don't tell me I've made this trip for nothing,' she muttered. Her watch showed it was almost 2am. 'But at least it's Friday night. Maybe I'll catch someone coming home from a club.'

George smoked her way through three cigarettes and, at 2.34am, her patience was rewarded by two young women click-clacking down the street towards her. The sequinned, miniskirted good-time girls laughed like their lives depended on it and shouted out the contents of their drunken heads for all to hear. Somebody leaned out of a third-storey window. Threatened to call the police. Blowing raspberries at their disgruntled neighbour, the women staggered to the front door of Klaus' house on vertiginous platform heels.

Now's my chance.

George crossed the road. Made like she was just walking down the street on the way somewhere. Hood up. Hands in pockets.

The women unlocked the communal door. Giggling. 'Did you see that guy? He definitely wanted to score with you.'

George was within three feet of the door as the women pushed it open and clattered inside. She prayed they would not look back to see why the heavy security door had not clanged shut behind them. She wedged her foot in the gap. George rejoiced silently that she had worn her heavy boots.

When the women's chatter had been swallowed by a closed door somewhere on the first floor, George nimbly climbed the stairs to the second floor. Clean, grand and brightly lit, the communal area looked like an upmarket hotel with an ornate mirror on the landing hanging above a half-moon table. She caught her reflection. Even without her hood up, she would stand out as an intruder. How many shabbily dressed women would be skulking around an apartment block like this? No time for second thoughts. Shelve it.

Klaus' door loomed before her. Flat number 5. Yale-style lock and old two lever mortise. From her pocket, she pulled out her keys. Her steady fingers immediately found her two prized skeleton keys and she silently prayed that Klaus' apartment would have no alarm system. The locks clicked. Good. She pushed the door open only to hear the musical tinkling of an alarm on its thirty-second countdown.

'Just my luck!' she said through gritted teeth.

Panic grabbed hold of George and threatened to throttle her. 'Keypad? Keypad?'

She pushed the door closed, moved quickly down the hallway and spied a keypad on the wall just out of sight of the door. Lifted the flap. Yes, she recognised the type. Four digits and a tick to unset. But which four? She didn't know Klaus' date of birth. Her phone pinged loudly with a text. Not now! But reflexively she grabbed at it. Stared at the display. Beeping, reminding her the time was almost up. Dropped it through trembling jelly fingers.

Come on. Come on.

'Lift your top up so I can skewer you properly,' Klaus said, grinning at Ad.

Ad's eyes widened behind his gla.s.ses. He had instinctively folded his arms and crossed his legs. Reluctantly he revealed his midriff.

The sword that Klaus held was about three feet long, maybe longer, with a basket over the hilt bearing corps colours in dark blue, white and red stripes. The blade had been sharpened on both sides. Now, it stuck in the skin just below Ad's heart. Ad nervously bit the inside of his cheek. The others didn't seem disquieted by the sight of this ... public execution.

Ad's bladder was suddenly pushing to empty itself in fear. Another few seconds and the floor would rush up at him, knocking him out cold.

Klaus started laughing merrily like an evil Santa.

'Jesus! Why the f.u.c.k are you laughing?' Ad asked in a strangled voice.

Suddenly a large steel stockpot was produced by a lanky man with strawberry-blond hair. He hung it over a small fire in an old, open brick fireplace at the end of the lounge, which Ad had hitherto not noticed. Into the stockpot, the man poured three bottles of red wine. He tossed in some orange peel and a bundle of spices.

'Krambambuli!' Klaus swung the blade away from Ad, marched over to the fireplace and balanced the blade of his sword over the pot. Onto it, one of his comrades placed a white cone.

'Oh, it's b.l.o.o.d.y glhwein!' Ad said, breathing out a sigh of relief. 'You b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!'

He dared to shuffle over to the fireplace to get a better look.

'What's that white thing?' he asked Klaus.

'It's a sugar cone. We soak it in rum. Pa.s.s me the bottle, Carsten,' Klaus said to the strawberry blond.

Carsten pushed a bottle of Bacardi into Klaus' hand and Klaus carefully poured the rum onto the sugar cone in a steady stream until it was soaked. He produced a box of matches, lit one and set fire to the cone which burst into blue flames. The cone began to caramelise and bubble brown. The smell was delicious. Ad thought briefly that if he was going to be beheaded or have his throat slit in his sleep, it wouldn't hurt to try a little of the punch.