Black Widow. Isadora Bryan

and headed into the bathroom. She saw that one of the towels was wet, that the shower head was still dripping. There was also the faintest trace of red about the plug hole, which might just have been blood.

      She would ask Visser to have a look at that. The towel, too. Human beings, even the saintly sort, shed their skins as readily as snakes.

      Pieter stuck his head round the bathroom door. ‘I think I might have something.’

      ‘That remains to be seen,’ Tanja responded absently, as she checked her reflection in the mirror. God, she was looking old.

      ‘With regards to the case.’

      ‘Go on, then,’ Tanja invited.

      ‘I’ve looked everywhere, and Ruben seems to be missing something.’

      ‘Apart from his eyeball, you mean?’

      ‘His mobile phone.’

      Tanja shrugged. ‘Maybe he forgot to bring it with him.’

      Pieter looked sceptical. Of course, he belonged to a generation which would no more forget its phone than its shoes.

      ‘Make a note of it, then,’ Tanja instructed. ‘I doubt it’s important, but you never know.’

      Pieter scribbled on his pad. ‘Do you think the killer took it?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      Pieter tapped his pencil against the pad. ‘Hester Goldberg,’ he mused. ‘Want me to run a check?’

      ‘In due course.’

      ‘You think it’s her real name?’

      ‘We rule nothing out, at this stage. Just as we rule nothing in. Maybe she is innocent. Maybe she left early, and Mikael had some other visitor.’

      ‘Is that likely?’ he asked.

      ‘Not likely. But not impossible.’

      Tanja left the bathroom, Pieter just behind her. He seemed to have recovered a little, and had lost that green tinge. Tanja supposed she was slightly impressed by this; it had taken Alex the better part of a year to come up with an effective way of controlling his gag reflex.

      Karl Visser came over to join them. ‘Will you be wanting anything in particular?’ he asked. ‘We’ll dust all the usual contact points for prints, of course.’

      ‘There’s a towel in the bathroom which needs your attention,’ she said. ‘And maybe you should look underneath his fingernails.’

      ‘What about the other DNA sources?’ Pieter queried. ‘Hair and so on.’

      Erik frowned. ‘You’ve heard of DNA? I thought everyone in the Vecht believed in Creationism.’

      ‘I could draw you a nice diagram of the double-helical structure, if you’d like,’ Pieter offered. ‘I have the anti-parallel thing down pretty well.’

      Erik turned to Tanja. ‘Do you like this kid?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Well, that’s all right, then. I thought it was just me.’

      ‘Hmm,’ said Tanja. ‘But we might as well get everything we can. Hair, semen, the works.’

      Visser nodded. ‘Right.’

      There was a commotion outside. Tanja heard the sound of voices raised in disagreement. Irritated, she strode out onto the corridor, only to draw to a sudden halt.

      Gus de Groot tipped his head in greeting. If he’d had a hat, she was sure he would have doffed it.

      This fresh murder had provided a distraction, of sorts – and Christ, how messed up was her mind that it should be like that? – but de Groot’s arrival immediately dragged her back to that other place.

      Of all the people she’d ever met, the wife-beaters and the arsonists, the rapists and the murderers, de Groot was the only person that Tanja had ever dreamed of killing.

      It was de Groot who had relentlessly pursued the only survivor of the Butcher’s attacks, Debre, a little girl who had already been broken beyond repair. But that hadn’t stopped him ruining her further, as a witness.

      But now wasn’t the time for this type of thinking. Save it for later, when she opened the wine. ‘How the hell did you get up here?’ she demanded.

      Gus shrugged. ‘Trade secret, Detective Inspector.’

      ‘Get out,’ Tanja instructed.

      ‘A few questions first?’

      Tanja turned to Pieter. ‘If Meneer de Groot is not outside these premises in thirty seconds, arrest him.’

      ‘On what grounds?’ de Groot spluttered, as he tried, and failed, to poke his head round the door. He was stopped by Pieter, who effortlessly blocked his path with a well-judged dip of his shoulder. And also a glare, which seemed to take even the unflappable journalist by surprise.

      ‘Interfering with a crime scene, perhaps?’ Tanja answered. ‘I will doubtless think of something, if necessary.’

      Muttering and dragging his heels all the while, Gus was steered away. Tanja looked up at Pieter. Maybe he would prove to have the odd use.

       Chapter 3

      The Binnengasthuis complex was largely comprised of old hospital buildings, interspersed with remnants of medieval monastic gardens, and cute little houses. For all that the city’s bustle was all around, pools of near pastoral liquid, serenity were to be found within its walls, lapping at the brick built monoliths as if intent on coaxing a smile. At the lower level there were flea markets, and loose ensembles of street musicians, churning out a mixture of jazz, and traditional Dutch levenslied, which loosely translated as ‘songs of life’. Every third person was a tourist or an organ-grinder; the remainder were mostly students. The whole thing was overseen by the Universiteit van Amsterdam. It was a fine place to study.

      Not that Ursula Huisman really cared about such things. She listened, absently, as her professor droned on about some interminable detail of the Cartesian Principle (I think therefore I am? A lie, when applied to men; men didn’t think at all), but most of her attention was given over to her flatmate. Maria was anxious. And Ursula knew why.

      Mikael Ruben hadn’t called. And now she was terrified that he’d abandoned her. It would be better if he had, Ursula considered.

      Maria wound a finger into her long auburn hair, which to Ursula’s mind wouldn’t have looked out of place on an old-fashioned gypsy. One of the many Dutch travellers who had been sent to Auschwitz, perhaps, never to return. To complete the effect, Maria wore a long, peasant-style skirt of deepest burgundy, decorated with flower designs of white lace; and boots of dark patent leather, which caught the light of a hundred reflections, even though the lecture theatre was mostly cast in darkness. Her eyes were green, the pupils set wide against the gloom like jungle clearings; whilst her cheekbones rose high and glossy above the low arc of onyx earrings. She was soft and resolutely trusting, feminine without being too sugary. She was the most beautiful person that Ursula had ever seen, or even dreamed about.

      ‘Why hasn’t he called?’ Maria whispered, for the fifth time that hour.

      ‘I don’t know,’ Ursula answered. ‘But I’m sure he must have a good reason.’

      Maria nodded. ‘Yeah, you’re right. I’m being silly. Maybe he’s out in the country somewhere. Maybe he can’t get a signal.’

      Ursula kept her silence for a moment. ‘It’s a shame he couldn’t have found the time to be there for your opening night, though.’

      Maria slumped in her chair. ‘He’s very busy. You don’t have any