Black Widow

‘I didn’t always want to be a policeman,’ he answered with a shrug.

He seemed cool enough. Yet Tanja suspected that it was an act. She remembered a similar occasion, just a few short years before, when Alex had accompanied her to his first crime scene. His aura of toughness had dissipated rather quickly, as she recalled.

So much had happened since then. Tanja closed her eyes, just for a second –

‘Are you all right, Detective Inspector?’

Tanja blinked. ‘Of course.’ She brushed an imaginary speck of dust from her blouse, and took the final few steps along the corridor.

The diminutive Scene of Crime Officer, Nelleke van Wyk, was her usual fastidious self, making a point of asking their identity, and various other self-evident details, and recording them on her clipboard. Whereas Tanja thought nothing of circumventing an unnecessary formality, it was the process itself that van Wyk seemed to live for. She made no secret of the fact that she loathed Tanja’s methods; Tanja made no secret of the fact that she didn’t care.

‘You’ll need to suit up,’ van Wyk instructed.

‘Are we talking the full ensemble?’ Tanja enquired.

‘Can’t be too careful, Detective Inspector.’

‘Fine,’ said Tanja, as she set about shrugging herself into the proffered coverall. There were also gloves, boots and a mask to deal with. It was never a quick business.

‘Keep to the walls as much as possible,’ van Wyk added.

‘Of course,’ Tanja acknowledged.

She moved inside, Pieter a step behind. The first thing she noticed was that the room was L-shaped; that the bed, and its contents – apart from one pale foot – were neatly hidden from view by a wall. The forensics team, looking more comfortable in their white suits and blue booties than she felt in hers, were already moving through this space. One or two nodded greeting; others seemed to look straight through her. They were a curious bunch, not easily understood. Chief amongst them was Karl Visser, so laconic she wondered if he had a pulse. She waved a greeting across the floor. He shrugged.

Pieter edged ahead of her, but she blocked him with an arm.

‘What’s the rush, detective?’ She handed over a pencil. ‘How about you draw me a nice picture instead?’

‘So what are we going to do?’ he protested. ‘Wait for our friend to fossilise before taking our hammers to him?’

‘Don’t forget you are on probation. I can have you transferred at any time.’

‘You can?’

Tanja tapped a finger to her head. ‘I’ve made a mental note, to investigate how I might get rid of you.’

‘How about an acid bath?’ Karl Visser suggested as he held up a microscope slide to the window.

‘Funny,’ said Pieter.

‘Hey, relax,’ Visser said. ‘He’s not going anywhere. Not without his guide dog, at any rate.’

‘What does that mean?’ Pieter said.

‘You tell me. You’re the detective. Or so I’m led to believe.’

Tanja held up a hand to forestall further bickering. ‘How’s that picture coming along?’ she asked Pieter. ‘I’m expecting something in the Rembrandt envelope, at least.’

‘Or perhaps we could simply wait for the photographer?’

‘I want both. Do it.’

Tanja moved slowly around the wall, Pieter beside her, sketching all the while. Tanja noticed that he was working in 3D, rather than the usual plan. So, he was either being facetious, or stupid. On balance, she hoped it was the former. A stupid cop had nothing to fall back on save luck. And Harald Janssen had already cornered that market.

The room was fairly grubby, and gave the impression that it hadn’t been decorated in thirty years or more. The walls were magnolia, whilst the carpet was beige. There was an interior door, closed, which presumably led into the bathroom.

The floor was covered in a loose pile of male clothing, suggesting that the dead man had been in a hurry to get naked. Well, no mystery there; men were like children in that regard.

A low-def TV sat in one corner, a coat-hanger aerial arranged above it. The plug was missing. Tanja didn’t suppose that most guests had cause to notice. There was a kettle and accompanying tea service. The cups were face down.

Kissin’s impatience aside, there was value to be had in dealing with the mundane details first. But only to a point.

‘Let’s have a look at him then, shall we,’ Tanja said.

She stepped around the corner of the L, Pieter right beside her.

There was a sound. It seemed to come from somewhere deep within Pieter’s throat.

‘Oh, shit,’ he groaned.

He staggered away – sticking to the safe route, Tanja noted – and dropped to his knees over the cleaner’s bucket in the hall outside. One or two of the forensics boys cheered as he hurled up his breakfast; van Wyk cursed. Tanja was better able to control herself, but her stomach still gave a queasy lurch. A person never got entirely used to it.

She gazed down at the body, letting her sense of outrage run its brief, if heated course. As ever, she fought against the feelings of sympathy, of empathy; as ever, she lost. Her old boss had told her that a sense of detachment was vital to a cop, but it was a skill she’d never been able to master. All she could do was fake it.

Her practised eye took in the significant details in an instant. The victim was a youngish man, maybe thirty years old. There was blood on his wrists, and ligature marks about his neck, suggesting that he’d been tied up, and strangled. He was still semi-hard: funny the way that happened, sometimes.

There was a little blood on his bloated face, too. One of the eyes had been pressed back into its socket. The other was missing, the optic nerve dangling free like some parasitical worm. She got down on her knees, to see if the eyeball had fallen beneath the bed, but there was nothing there save dust.

There was a knock at the door. An oversized head appeared, followed soon after by a less imposing body. ‘Ah, if it isn’t my second or third favourite detective inspector. Looking good, Tanja!’

It was Erik Polderhuis, the medical examiner. He was pushing sixty, but didn’t look, or act, it. Outside of work, he was known for his determination to form romantic attachments with girls who were precisely half his age. But the maths never held true for long, and so it was that he’d never been able to settle down. His hair was blonde, whilst his blue-grey eyes, so cold, might have been scooped directly from the North Sea. Somewhat paradoxically, there was a great warmth in his smile. He had various faults, most of them founded in a sense of mischief, but it was also true that he had an eye for detail. Tanja was actually rather fond of him, although she would never admit to it.

‘Erik,’ she acknowledged. And then, as a green-faced Pieter reappeared, ‘This is Detective Kissin. He’s from the Vecht.’

‘Shit,’ Erik sympathised. ‘Tough break.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Was that you I saw just now, losing your breakfast?’

Pieter nodded unhappily. ‘Yes. But it won’t happen again.’

Erik didn’t seem to hear this promise. ‘Well, try not to throw up on the victim, please. Or fart unnecessarily.’ He knelt down beside the bed. ‘So what’s going on with this poor bastard?’

Whilst Erik went to work, Tanja carefully picked her way through the pile of clothes. The trousers were grey, skinny-fit Girbaud; whilst the shirt was from Turnbull & Asser. Not necessarily an indication of wealth in themselves (maybe these were his pulling clothes; maybe he wore supermarket fashions, mostly), but the contrast with the cheap surroundings was marked.

She went through his pockets, finding a packet of cigarettes (Marlboro Lights – the equivalent of shooting yourself in the head with a low calibre bullet, she supposed), a packet of condoms (Cardinals, a Dutch brand, rumoured to be the best available), a Zippo lighter, and a wallet (croc skin?).