‘Listen, Vermeer?’
‘Don’t talk to her,’ the uniform next to me snaps.
‘Vermeer, you need to listen to me. You know this isn’t right, and I think I can prove it.’
We’re now parked outside the front of the station, and I know that as soon as I’m over that building’s threshold things are going to get a hell of a lot harder. This is my last chance.
‘Prove it how?’ she says, turning the engine off. ‘Your blood was found under the victim’s fingernails. I don’t see there’s anything to prove.’
‘It was planted there. By the killer. He wants to frame me for his killing.’
‘Even if I was to entertain such a crazy idea, how would whoever the killer is get your blood?’
This is where it gets tricky, because it’s the only thing I can think of, the only way it would be possible. I need to make it sound plausible enough that Vermeer actually listens.
‘I think he followed me somewhere, somewhere I changed the dressing on my arm. Look, it’s bleeding now.’ I glare at the uniform beside me. ‘If they got hold of the dressing I threw away, then they could have scraped my blood off it.’
A lorry speeds past us, and the car rocks in its wake. I sit in the silence, waiting for Vermeer to make a decision. My arm throbs, pulses. It’s angry.
‘Where would this have been?’ she finally asks.
I tell her about Sabine. About how I haven’t been able to get hold of her. I tell her my fear that Klaasen may have hurt her, or worse, if he did indeed go there to harvest my DNA. And whilst doing so I can’t help but think of the worst possible outcome, the real reason Sabine hasn’t been answering, her body lying naked in her flat just like Dirk Zeeman.
‘Check my phone,’ I tell her. ‘There’s an image there of the man they think burned down my boat. Compare him with one of the volunteers, the one with the beard.’
Reluctantly she does.
‘Cover the beard. You’ll see it’s the same man.’
‘Why would Benner want to burn your houseboat down?’
‘Because Benner is Klaasen. And he wants to frame me as revenge for catching him in the first place.’
I take her through what I’d discovered, and she stares at the screen and the photo. She shakes her head. I think I’m losing her, despite what she’s just seen.
‘We should take him in now,’ the uniform next to her says.
If I could reach through the safety cage I’d kiss him. Because I know how Vermeer’s going to react to that. She turns the ignition on.
‘When I want to hear from you I’ll ask,’ she tells him as we pull out into the road.
I give her Sabine’s address.
‘We’re going there, and then we’re coming straight back, understood?’
‘Understood.’
‘If we find something, then you’re still under arrest until Beving says so.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Understood?’
‘Understood.’
‘Good.’
Five minutes later we’re outside Sabine’s building.
‘You stay here,’ she says to the uniform who’d given her advice. His face is impassive, but he’s boiling inside from the rebuke. ‘You’re with us,’ she says to the one next to me.
‘Cuffs?’ he asks.
Vermeer’s eyes appear as a strip in the rear-view. ‘You need cuffs, Rykel?’
‘I’m not running,’ I tell her.
She stares at me then nods. ‘Keep close to him,’ she tells the uniform.
The bell doesn’t summon anyone. Vermeer knocks a few times and calls out but still Sabine doesn’t come to the door. I’m starting to fear just what I’m going to find inside.
‘This definitely the one?’
‘Yeah, this is hers.’
‘Knock it down,’ she says to the uniform.
It takes him two well-aimed kicks, then wood splinters and the door swings open, crashing into the wall and bouncing back shut so he has to open it again.
‘Sabine,’ I call out. ‘Are you okay?’
Nothing. No movement. I need to swallow but there’s something blocking my throat.
We step into the flat, and three sets of footsteps on the wooden floor echo through the place.
‘Are you sure this is the right one?’
Because it’s empty. Not just empty of Sabine, empty of things. No personal possessions at all. The TV’s gone, the cardboard box the photo of her had fallen from, all gone. It looks exactly like what it is, a rental between tenants.
‘I need to check the bathroom, that’s where I put the dressing.’
Vermeer nods to the uniform who comes with me. He’s standing in the doorway as I reach down for the bin, dull metal dented with age. I already know what I’m going to find. It’s empty. Cleaned out like the rest of the flat. I can feel the panic lodge in my throat, seep into my chest. I glance at the window. Then I shift my grip on the bin.
‘Look.’ I point into it.
He moves closer, bending to see what I’m pointing at. Which is when I swing it round. It smashes into his face and he staggers back. Before he can react I shove him hard in the chest. He steps back again and catches his heel on the threshold, toppling out of the room and hitting the floor with a loud crash. I slam the door shut, lock it and rush to the window. It’s stuck, jammed hard and my fingers scrabble at the wooden frame.
Someone’s banging on the door.
‘Rykel, open this door right now!’ Vermeer’s voice.
I haven’t got much time. I swing the bin. The glass shatters into a hailstorm of glinting shards. Blows on the door behind. I hear the lock give and Vermeer’s in the room. I turn to look at her. She’s drawn her weapon and is aiming it right at me.
‘Drop it,’ she says.
Bin vs gun. I drop it.
‘On the ground. Now!’
‘Listen, you’ve got to believe me. I’m being –’
‘On the ground now or I will shoot.’
‘No you won’t. I don’t have a gun. You can’t shoot me.’
She switches her aim to my leg. ‘I will shoot. And I’ll tell them you grabbed the uniform’s gun so the rules of engagement will be on my side. So just fucking do it!’
I look at her, eyes ablaze, but the rest of her cool, in control.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Okay.’
I kick the bin towards her, scooping it up so it flies between us, and launch myself through the window and onto the tiles. I slide down towards the lip of the roof, just managing to stop myself before I go over the edge.
Below me a car is parked. I’m high, but I can probably just make it. I have to make it.
‘Rykel!’
I twist my head round to see Vermeer at the window. She’s pointing her gun at me. Again. Somehow I think this time she really will fire.
‘Come back. We can work this out!’
‘I didn’t do it!’ I yell back. ‘I’m being set up.’
I can tell she doesn’t believe me.
‘Don’t run,’ she says. ‘You know it’ll only make it worse.’
I slip off the edge, out of her sightline. The shot rings out as my feet hit the car’s roof. The metal crumples. Pain shoots from my left foot all the way up to my hip. I roll down the windscreen and slip off the bonnet. Blood’s pumping. People are staring. A young couple walking a tiny dog, an older woman on the phone with her mouth frozen open, two workmen turning round from the pipe they’re fixing.
I start to run. I reach the corner when I hear a noise that can only be Vermeer following, landing on the indent I’d made in the car’s roof. I run even faster, trying to lose myself in the city. Though that’s only going to solve my immediate situation. I need somewhere I can hide out, because every cop in the city will be on the lookout for me very soon. They probably are already. I think of going to Joel’s, but that’s too easy for them to work out. The thing is, I’m without a phone, without money and without any way of getting more. And each time my left foot hits the ground pain screams up to my hip.
Then it comes to me, a place where I can go. A safe place.
By the time I reach the lock-up I’m drenched with sweat and my lungs are burning, as is every other muscle in my body. I limp-jog up the row to mine and when I get there double over for a few seconds, hands resting on legs, trying to suppress the urge to throw up. Then I hear voices, Mark Liu’s and someone else. They’re just round the corner, and it’s clear he’s with a prospective customer. I cannot be seen. I straighten up and fumble the three little dials on the lock, thankful I’d bought this one, not one that opened with a key. The lock clicks open, I slip it off the rings and haul the door up just enough for me to scramble under. Once inside I lower it into position. I lean my back against it, trying to catch my breath. I can hear them, closer now, and I hope Mark doesn’t notice the lack of lock. I move to the other end of the space so they can’t hear my breathing, which is still out of control, and inch along the wall, trying not to stumble against anything in the darkness. I reach the pile of paint cans, put my back against the concrete blocks and slide down into a sit.
As my breathing starts to settle I become aware of the fact my mouth is utterly dry. I need liquid. My head’s pounding. Limbs shaky. As soon as Mark’s moved on I explore with my hands. There’s a torch here somewhere, which I used to peer deep into the Stang’s engine cavity. If only I can find it. I’m on my hands and knees, starting to feel faint, and I sweep the ground like I’m looking for landmines. The floor’s rough; there’s grit, a metal bolt, unknown objects. As the search goes on I become bolder, until something jabs right into the fleshy end of my finger. I just manage to muffle my cry of pain and surprise. Finally my fingers clasp the cold aluminium case, it wasn’t where I thought I’d left it, and I flip it on. I have light. I check what it was that punctured my finger. The sharp point of a one-handed saw.
Next up, stop the dehydration. I hunt down my two remaining cans of Red Bull and crack them open, downing one, then the other. The voices are coming back now, and I hear them agree on a price as they walk past. It’s considerably less than what I pay. I think I should take this up with Mark next time. Then I see the absurdity of that thought. I have far more pressing concerns than Mark Liu’s flexible pricing structure.
I flip the torch off and sink into the darkness, hoping it will help me think. I try to go over everything, right from the start, and tease out anything which will help me find Klaasen. Because that’s the only way this ends.
What it comes down to is him or me. I’m not ready to roll over. Not yet.
What feels like hours later – though I’ve no real way of telling; darkness seems to hold its own kind of time – I give up and flip the torch on. I rove around the space, my breathing starting to speed up. There’s got to be something. I remember the rent money I’d stashed in the old paint tin and, with nothing better to do, try and locate it. I find it and prise it open. The money’s there, but so too are a couple of joints I’d rolled ages ago and then not smoked. I’d put them away and then totally forgotten about them. I pocket the money and look around for the blowtorch. I find it over on the other side and pick it up. Then I hesitate. I try to put it down. But before I do I bring it back up again. Part of me is saying no, don’t do it. Another part is whispering sweetly that it’s the only thing that will help. I’m caught between them, like an innocent bystander. I have no say in this. I’ll simply do whatever the winning voice commands.
Soon I find my finger pushing the button. The blowtorch blazes into life. The flame’s bright blue and heats my face as I light up. Ahhh … this is Sour Hound. I recognize it straight away. Torch off. Darkness. Just me and the Hound, its glowing tip dancing in the dark. By the time I’ve smoked half of it my brain is freer, less tethered. I pinch out the joint and stop trying to think. I need to let my mind free, free to do its own thing. It darts around, chasing idea to idea in a sequence that seems unrelated. But I start to sense something, a shape almost, a possibility. Random facts, connections, the THC firing up my lateral thinking, allowing me to see what I couldn’t see before.
I’ve lost all sense of time here in the dark, so I don’t know if it’s taken me minutes, or hours. But I’ve got it now. It’s there. I can see it all.
I pocket the half-smoked joint and the unsmoked one, the money and the torch. After a little thought I select a couple of tools I can carry with me easily, a screwdriver and a small wrench.
I breathe in a couple of times, then head towards the door.
It’s time.
It’s time to make this right.