Marnie Riches - The Girl Who Broke the Rules

‘A promise is a promise, darling. A fifty-euro reduction for the beating of your life. Seems a bargain.’ She set the cat-o-nine tails down on the waiting room coffee table as he locked the door. Removed her coat. Strode into the surgery at the back and sat on the crumpled blue covering on the examination couch. ‘Have you been a bad boy, then?’ She raised an eyebrow archly.

He snapped on blue latex gloves, took up his prepared syringe and ejected a sprightly fountain of the Botox solution from the end of the fine needle. ‘Appalling, my dear. A modern-day Caligula. Truly appalling.’

‘Okay. Jane Doe.’ Van den Bergen started to affix large photographs of the disembowelled girl to a pinboard: in situ, glittering with frost on the bench at the crime scene; detailed close-up shots, taken whilst on the mortuary slab. His senses were sluggish from taking too many codeine tablets before he’d even had breakfast. Fumbling with the tacks, he managed to impale his thumb on a sharp point. ‘Ow. Shitty little things. Give me a hand, somebody!’

Van den Bergen turned to scowl at the members of his team. They had assembled around the large table in meeting room four in order to be debriefed on the previous day’s autopsy. The air was heavy with curiosity and the smell of burnt rubber and cabbage.

‘Give them here, boss.’ Marie was the first to volunteer. Van den Bergen’s internet research specialist gave a sharp intake of breath as she levered the photos from his oversized clumsy hands. She started to pin them in a row at the top of the board. ‘Jesus. Poor woman. She’s been sliced open like a…a…boil in the bag sausage. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

‘Thank you for that analogy,’ van den Bergen said.

Kees, one of the detectives who had been drafted in from a drugs case, nudged Elvis knowingly. Winked and grinned at Marie. ‘Squeamish, love?’ he asked, patting his stomach. ‘Bit too much for a girl like—?’

‘Hey, smartarse!’ van den Bergen said, mouth downturned with disapprobation. ‘You’d better not be trying to bait a senior member of my team, or I’ll hand you straight back to that fat prick, Kamphuis. See how much more fun you can have, rifling through piss-ridden crack dens in Bijlmer.’

‘You’re such a jerk, Kees,’ Marie said, miming masturbation. ‘I’ve seen more depravity in an afternoon on my work laptop than you’ve seen in all your born days, peering up Kamphuis’ hairy backside.’ She studied the board, wearing an expression that married sympathy with respectful sobriety. Took her seat slowly. Clearly mesmerised by the images. ‘Kind of glad I was still redecorating my toilet with that stomach bug when you guys got the call. It’s one thing to see photos…another thing entirely to find a body in that state.’ Kees was treated to a particularly pointed glare. ‘You’d better watch yourself, pal, or I might slip a little something in your sandwich when you’re not paying attention. Very contagious, that norovirus.’

Van den Bergen allowed himself an amused snort. ‘Pay attention, children!’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Now, our victim is about fifteen. Sixteen at most.’ He sighed involuntarily. Relayed Strietman’s findings.

Despite the fact that everyone was now eyeing him, rapt with attention, van den Bergen realised he had clammed up. He was sketching a cactus dahlia in the corner of his pad. Mind wandering elsewhere, thanks to yet another sleepless night. He grabbed at his stomach, still sore from the procedure.

‘Boss?’ Elvis said. ‘You okay?’

‘What? Yes. The only thing we can be certain of at this point,’ he said, focussing on Elvis’ greasy quiff. ‘Is that we’re looking for someone with surgical training.’ He pointed to the girl’s unfurled ribs and exposed abdominal cavity with his pen. ‘The prat standing in for Marianne de Koninck – Strietman – said she’s had…’ He grabbed his glasses which hung at the end of a chain around his neck. Perched them on his straight nose and squinted at his notebook. The writing was a blur. His eyesight was deteriorating rapidly. For God’s sake! If he’d have known his self-indulgence would have had such annoying after-effects, he would have found a better way of dealing with his demons. ‘…I can’t read a damn thing I’ve written.’ Thrust the book at Elvis. ‘Read this out, will you?’

Elvis held the notebook close. His lips moved as he tried to decipher the tight scrawl.

‘Well?!’ van den Bergen snapped, crossing his long, thin right leg over his left knee. Failing to wedge his sneaker under the table top because there was simply insufficient space for such a large shoe. Uncrossing his legs. Damn it, if he could get comfortable. Visualising his father’s feet, near the end. So sinewy and yellow, in carpet slippers that swam around his bony ankles. Five years.

‘Had you been drinking when you wrote this, boss?’ Elvis asked. He took one look at van den Bergen’s face and apologised quietly.

Over the years, Elvis – so nicknamed by van den Bergen because of his propensity for wearing the ridiculous King-like quiff – had gained in confidence. Rightly so. He had earned van den Bergen’s respect. But there were some lines the loyal little dipshit should never cross. Van den Bergen maintained his admonishing glare.

Elvis cleared his throat. ‘Okay. Says here, “Jane Doe was subject to a midline laparotomy and sternotomy”.’ He pronounced the medical terminology hesitantly, like a child trying to read long words in easy, phonetically distinct chunks. ‘What the hell are those? You’ve written, “Murderer knew exactly how to do it.”’

Van den Bergen nodded. Laced his fingers together behind his head. ‘The clinical terms refer to the way she has been cut open. Strietman says the technique used is the same sort of thing a surgeon would do when performing abdominal or heart surgery. The murderer has cut around the belly button, instead of through it.’ His junior colleagues’ faces were blank. ‘Apparently, the belly button is full of bacteria and surgeons cut round it to avoid infecting the patient. But I want to know…’ he ran his hands back and forth through his thatch of thick, prematurely white hair ‘…is why would a murderer take so much care, if the only goal was to kill his victim? Why the missing organs? What do we think about the drugging theory? Or ritual killing? Any thoughts?’

‘Ritual killing,’ Marie said, nodding slowly. ‘We haven’t had one of those before. Was that your idea, boss?’

Van den Bergen shook his head. ‘We have a stand-in pathologist with a very vivid imagination. Still, anything’s a possibility at this stage. The paediatrician Strietman brought in for an expert’s opinion seemed to think he may be onto something.’

Van den Bergen allowed himself a fleeting moment to savour the memory of Dr Sabine Schalks, as he had escorted her from the mortuary to the lift.

‘Sabine,’ he had said, stifling the inclination to touch her arm. ‘I’d love it if you’d come in and meet my detective, Marie. She does our internet research and has some experience with child pornography and paedophile rings. I think input from you would really help.’ He had given her a business card. ‘Will you pay us a visit?’

The paediatrician had smiled. It was a wide smile, showing perfect white teeth. He had admitted to himself that this was an attractive woman. Of his own age. No wedding ring. Potentially so easy. And yet, his heart belonged to a woman much younger.

The doors to the lift had slid open and Sabine Schalks had stepped inside. Pressed the button. The doors started to close. Disappointment setting in fast. But then, she had treated him to a glorious grin.