Kneeling down, Van den Bergen took a deep breath and started to unzip the first body bag. The only noise in the warehouse was coming from the barking cadaver dog.
‘Get that thing out of here!’ he shouted, never taking his eyes from the zip.
The smell that emerged was that of sweet putrefaction, where the bacteria had already got to work on the mouldering flesh. Intestinal gases, all escaping the body bag in a noxious, invisible cloud that made him gag.
He expected to see Elvis’ face staring blankly out at him but saw instead an unfamiliar long tangle of grey hair that framed a wizened face. No eye in the right socket. Only a blackened mess remained. There was extensive scabbing around the man’s mouth.
‘A junkie,’ he said, holding his nose. A nagging feeling of déjà vu whispered to his subconscious that there was something familiar about this dead man’s ruined features, though. Scrolling through the records in his memory of past arrests, he happened upon a match. ‘This guy was one of my detective’s informants,’ he told the uniforms. ‘Sepp something or other. An ex-con. I remember, because I’d arrested this chump years ago. He was running with the Rotterdam Silencer in the Nineties. Did a couple of years for dealing coke to tourists looking for a little extra sparkle dust to jazz up their long weekend.’ As the zip moved downwards, it revealed holes the size of a man’s fist in the body’s abdomen. ‘Jesus! What the hell caused this?’
At his side, one of the uniforms cleared his throat. ‘There a fork-lift back there, Chief Inspector, sir. Its blades or prongs or whatever you want to call them are covered in almost-dried-in blood.’
Nodding, Van den Bergen exhaled slowly and turned to the second bag. Knew exactly whom it contained. Or rather, what it would contain, since his young detective had clearly departed this life. The cadaver dog was never wrong.
He sighed. Tugged at the zip and drew it in one smooth movement to the bottom. Best to get it over with. Tears were queueing in their ducts for release. If it were possible for a heart to sink literally, he was sure his just had. He could feel it in his bladder. Or maybe that was just prostate trouble or a urinary tract infection. ‘Here we go.’
Pushing the bag’s aperture wide, he drank in the grim sight of Elvis’ battered body. His mouth had been gaffer-taped. His nostrils were encrusted with what appeared to be stale vomit. Dried blood on his forehead had turned his otherwise ashen face to purple-red. But there was a bulge behind the gaffer tape.
Van den Bergen reached inside his pocket. It was empty. ‘Damn it! I forgot my gloves.’ He turned around to face the sombre audience. ‘Anybody got any latex gloves?’
The paramedic, who had been standing some way behind the investigative gathering, stepped forwards. ‘Here,’ she said, proffering a pair.
In vain, he tried to snap them onto his hands. ‘Too small.’ They stretched and split immediately.
‘I’ll get more from the ambulance,’ she said, smiling apologetically.
‘No. Don’t bother. Sod it,’ Van den Bergen said, taking hold of the edge of the gaffer tape between his fingertips. Gently, he peeled the tape away from Elvis’ mouth, taking some of his skin with it. He winced. Wondered briefly that Elvis’ raw lips started to bleed immediately.
‘Er, Chief Inspector,’ the paramedic said.
But Van den Bergen wondered what was inside Elvis’ mouth. He parted his detective’s lips with careful fingers to reveal a bloodshot, dull eyeball that stared blankly at him. ‘Christ,’ he said, calculating that since Elvis’ eyelids were closed tight over eyeballs that were clearly present and correct, this must be the orb that the grey-haired informant was missing. ‘Sick bastards.’
‘Chief Inspector!’ the paramedic said, pulling at the sleeve of his raincoat.
Turning around in irritation, Van den Bergen barked, ‘What? What the bloody hell do you want, woman?’ Saw the feverish excitement in her eyes. Became aware at that moment that the skin of Elvis’ cheek beneath his fingers, though deathly pale, was still relatively warm.
‘He’s alive!’ they said in unison.