Marnie Riches - The Girl Who Broke the Rules

Sally lit a cigarette and coughed wheezily. Her throaty, rasping voice was punctuated by bouts of choking. ‘I know I could swing it. Theoretically. Not for nothing am I the senior tutor of St John’s College, Cambridge. I got MI5 to agree to you visiting for weekends, didn’t I? Study leave for half a year is, however, an entirely different kettle of fish.’ She started to type on her keyboard, cigarette hanging out the corner of her pruned mouth as she spoke. Studied indifference, George knew. Then, pausing dramatically, her eyes sought out her protégée once more. ‘But I do not wish to swing it. Capisce? ’ Sally inhaled deeply. The hacking cough started up anew. She thumped herself in the chest. ‘Because the last time you went gallivanting off to Amsterdam for the year, you nearly wound up dead and could have taken half of Trinity Street with you. Stay put, young lady! My rules. Good reasons.’

George took the sucker punch.

Dragging herself over the hump of the narrow stone corridor that was the Bridge of Sighs, traversing the sluggish, inky, almost frozen River Cam and negotiating the frost-dusted backs, she acknowledged that she had lost this bout with Sally. Trudging up towards the monolithic brick phallus that was the University Library tower, George resolved that she would come back fighting in round two. I will not go down and stay down. Got to get the hell out of this beautiful prison. Got to help Paul.

‘Stop torturing yourself, you donkey,’ she said under her breath, as she cleared the library’s security and climbed the stairs to the silent, gloomy stacks, where under the timed lights, she would find what she was looking for.

‘No. Sorry. Didn’t see a thing.’

One by one, the doors had all slammed in van den Bergen’s face. Same lines, almost verbatim, from neighbours who differed in age, gender and ethnicity but who all had that upper-middle-class Museum Quarter/Old South thing in common. Nobody seemed to be neighbourly. Everyone kept themselves to themselves. Unfortunately, the woman, whose Koninginneweg house faced onto the back of the building site, was away on business, according the cleaner.

Van den Bergen slammed his pad onto the meeting room desk. ‘What have we got?’ he asked Elvis, Marie and Kees.

‘ Nada ,’ Elvis said. ‘Absolutely zilch. Not a single eyeball on our man. Nobody heard the back door being forced. I mean, Christ! Nobody saw someone dragging a double mattress over a fence. I can’t even see how it’s possible to get a mattress from the street into the back of that house. Our guy must be a damned magician.’

‘Unless I was wrong, and the mattress was already in situ,’ van den Bergen said.

Kees shuffled out of his bright red anorak and draped it over his chair. Ruffled his mousy, thinning mop. Rolled his white shirt sleeves above his brown jumper, as though he were about to reveal something breathtaking. ‘About my hunch…’

Van den Bergen sighed. Rubbed the tiny remnants of scabbing on his knuckles, which had given way to new skin beneath. ‘Go on. Let’s hear it.’

‘I think the builder’s our man.’ Kees smiled triumphantly, treating the team to an eyeful of his jutting tombstone teeth. ‘Well, one of our men. Old Iwan.’

It was all the chief inspector could do to stifle a groan. ‘Do tell us, Mr Leeuwenhoek! Why is, “Old Iwan” our man?’

Kees folded his arms; his smile gone, now. Clearly not the reception he had been expecting. ‘He’s got access to the building,’ he began, counting the facts off on his fingers. ‘He pukes all over the crime scene, meaning his DNA is everywhere anyway. So chances are, if we find his DNA on the mattress, it’s inadmissible in court. The perp uses builders’ tools in the film. His mate’s got a van. And there was something about the guy. I dunno. He’s got one of those tattooed sleeves down his arm. Pentangles and skulls and shit. My detective’s intuition is just screaming that we should look into him.’

‘Bollocks!’ Elvis said, rocking back on his chair. ‘Poor guy was shaking like a leaf. He was genuine.’

‘Kees, you’re such a dick,’ Marie said, shaking her head. ‘We’re looking for someone who can wield a scalpel, not a pickaxe.’

Van den Bergen pushed his chair out from the table. Drummed his pad with his Biro and bounced his right foot on his left knee. ‘No. Kees has got a point. It’s far-fetched, but we do need to check into the Poles’ alibis. That building site is simply not accessible from the back. You’ve got two parallel rows of terraces with no alleyway between. The gardens are all fenced off and overlooked. How did that mattress get in there? One of the builders might be covering for someone. Kees, it’s your hunch. You get on it.’

Van den Bergen caught sight of Marie rolling her eyes, but opted not to challenge her. ‘Marie. Footage?’

She jumped. A flush of red crawling up her neck. ‘I’ve examined it in detail, boss,’ she said, toying with her pearls. ‘It’s not a film of a murder.’

‘What absolute crap!’ Elvis said.

Holding up his hand, van den Bergen silenced his scoffing sidekick. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s a porno flick,’ Marie said. ‘Shot on a quality camera. Professionally edited. Only thing that’s missing is the bum-chicka-wow-wow soundtrack. All that gore you can see…’ She smiled wryly and sipped from her plastic cup of coffee, as though she were savouring the undivided attention of the men. ‘It’s special effects. The footage on the camera’s memory disc is basically a kinky slasher movie.’

‘You certain?’ van den Bergen asked, recalling the horrific scenes that had appeared so convincing.

‘Yep,’ Marie said. ‘If anyone knows the difference between genuine snuff and horror CGI, it’s me. I love horror films.’

Though it was done surreptitiously, van den Bergen noticed Kees nudge Elvis.

‘The blonde’s an actress,’ Marie clarified. ‘She’s probably walking round the supermarket right now, doing her shopping. Fit and healthy with a fat wad of cash in her back pocket, while old perverts all over Europe are tugging themselves senseless over her on-screen demise.’ She turned to Kees. ‘I saw that! I have got the gift of sight, you know.’

Kees said nothing. Pulled the wide-eyed face of the innocent.

Van den Bergen nodded. Clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth repeatedly, while he absorbed this revelation. ‘Do you know who she is? The actress.’

Marie shrugged. ‘Never seen her before. Never seen porn this violent before that wasn’t actual snuff.’ She handed a small disc to him. ‘I made copies and filed the original with the other evidence.’

Opening his laptop, van den Bergen loaded the film up. Watched with utter absorption as the blonde filled the much larger screen. Paused it, once the actress was spread-eagled and naked on the bed. Pointed to the undersides of her ample breasts with the chewed bottom of his Biro. ‘See that?’

The others leaned in closer, their breath on the back of his head.

‘What?’ Elvis asked.

‘I saw this scarring on the mortuary slab with my own eyes. It’s not like the scarring you normally see from shoddy boob jobs. It’s too distinctive not to be from the same surgeon’s hand. I’d put money on it that this actress is our second Jane Doe.’

‘I’m ill, Paul,’ she said through the half-open letterbox. ‘Just leave me be!’

Van den Bergen took a step backwards on the landing and examined Marianne de Koninck’s eyes through the rectangular gap. They were red and puffy.