Angel in the Shadows Page 21
‘Was he drugged?’
‘I don’t speculate,’ Ellen said with a sigh. ‘I only relate what I see.’
She instructed her assistant to roll Meijer on to his back again and then, making a Y-incision, sliced open the front of the body to expose the liver, lungs, heart, pancreas, adrenal gland and spleen, so these could be removed and examined. She took a slice from each organ. Her assistant placed each slice in a separate plastic bag, which was sealed and labelled. Radjen knew the organ tissue would be studied under a microscope and that the toxicologist would look for substances foreign to the body.
Ellen Mulder used a handsaw to open the skull. If given the choice at that moment, Radjen would’ve rather heard her singing than sawing.
Mulder’s first finding when she examined Meijer’s skull couldn’t have been clearer. ‘A bone fragment from the axis shot into the brain, pushed the vertebrae apart and severed all the nerves.’
Ellen Mulder straightened her back and stated for the record. ‘Traumatic spondylolisthesis of the axis.’
‘A hangman’s fracture,’ Esther said.
Ellen looked at Esther amused. ‘Correct. In a perfect fall, the neck breaks. The spinal cord is severed close to the top, usually between the first and second vertebrae, resulting in immediate paralysis of the entire body including the respiratory muscles. In addition, the body’s weight also closes off the carotid arteries, cutting off the blood flow to the brain. The latter causes the victim to lose consciousness within ten seconds.’
‘And death?’ Radjen asked, who thought of those ten seconds in which your entire life flashes by you.
‘About eight minutes later,’ she said, as she began to remove the brain for further examination. When she’d finished, the assistant reinserted the organs and the brain into the body. Head and pubic hairs were removed for eventual DNA testing. All the tissue samples were preserved for counter-expertise.
Ellen took off her goggles and dropped her plastic gloves in a bucket.
‘I’ll send some colleagues to retrieve the corpse,’ Radjen said. ‘Is there a possibility that you could expedite the toxicology results for me?’
She looked at him, worried, tapped him on the chest with her finger and scolded, ‘I know detectives who’ve let unsolved cases become an obsession. Don’t let that happen. Solve this case, however little time you’ve got. And once you’ve done that, take a break.’
While Esther had already gone outside to have a much-needed smoke, Radjen lingered behind in Ellen’s office, admiring the elegant handwriting with which she added extra notes to the preliminary autopsy report. He wondered why it moved him so, until he realized it was the music she was playing.
‘Elgar’s Ninth Variation,’ she said, as she looked up and saw his expression. ‘ “Nimrod”. The only piece that isn’t a portrait but an ode. It’s dedicated to a dear friend who continued to visit Elgar when he was so depressed that he wanted to stop writing music, and who encouraged him to continue his work despite his problems.’
She handed him the report.
‘I’ll make sure that you have the preliminary toxicology report by tonight.’
He found Esther outside by the car. She handed him her half-smoked cigarette and lit a new one. A variation on a theme, Radjen thought.
‘Thanks so much,’ she said.
‘For what?’
‘The idea of giving me that camera.’
‘Looking through a lens helps to distance yourself.’
She gave him a look that he’d never seen before. He was amazed at her show of tenderness.
‘That woman,’ she said, ‘Ellen –’
‘What about her?’
‘She means a lot to you, right?’
‘She’s had a rough time,’ he said. ‘I think how she fought her way back is wonderful.’
‘Nice to see how you interact with her. It’s a gift few men have.’
The surprise with which he looked at her made her laugh. It was a liberating laugh. ‘Hasn’t anyone ever told you that?’
‘No.’
She took a few long drags and looked at him seriously. ‘I want to figure out how Meijer was hanged. Even if he was sedated, and that must have been the story, it’s no small task to put a man on a stepladder and hang his head in a noose.’
‘It will take quite some time to make a dummy and re-create the setting so the dimensions accurately match.’
‘Not what I had in mind. I want to do it ninja style.’
‘What do you need?’
‘A sturdy beam, and some mountain-climbing gear.’
‘The man was strung up in a shed, Esther, not on a climbing wall.’
‘Mountain climbers tie themselves to each other using all kinds of knotting techniques. If something happens to one of them, the other can reach him or pull him up. I suspect that Meijer was lifted and then his head was put in the noose. But I want to check if it’s possible.’
She stared into space. ‘Normally we’d do a reconstruction in the shed.’ She turned her head in Radjen’s direction. ‘But this is a ninja operation, so we need an alternative space and I’ve got an idea. The only thing I need is a volunteer. Preferably one who can keep a secret.’
She looked at him.
‘Interested?’
11
The words that came to him when he opened his eyes sounded like an ancient text, a forgotten fragment from a dust-covered book, which he must have stored in his subconscious after reading. And now, as he was watching his sleeping mother, they suddenly resurfaced.
Respect for the truth.
Isobel was nearly sixty, and, although life hadn’t been easy, she was as beautiful and wonderfully eccentric today as she had been in her younger years, with bindi rhinestones on her heavily made-up face, big fake eyelashes, henna-red hair, a silk blouse and flared Indian skirt. In the former cow shed that Raylan had converted into a studio for her – now a mess of tubes, brushes, unfinished canvases, and all saturated with the smell of linseed oil and paint – she spent her days working on yet more portraits of Raylan. She’d keep painting the love of her life until she dropped.
After the research and other preparations for the press conference, which had taken him and Edward the entire night and the best part of the day, Paul had finally dropped by the studio to visit her.
‘I’m planning another exhibition, Paulie,’ she’d said. ‘A major retrospective, which will showcase my enduring love for him and the city where we were so happy.’
He looked at the panoramic canvases she’d made of Kabul. The everyday scenes from a bygone era were painted in earth colours – ochre, sienna and moss-green. When he was still only a baby, she’d wrapped him in a sling around her waist and taken him on her long rambles through the streets of the Afghan capital together with her sketchbook, pencils and pastels. They’d walk along the banks of the River Kabul, where men washed their clothes and where he, when he was a little older, dived in after the other boys to mess about in the green water. In his mind, he was back meandering with her through the cattle market of Jalalabad, inhaling the aroma of the smoky bread ovens, tasting kebab with coriander. The trees were blossoming again, and he could see the snow-capped mountaintops in the distance.
He ran his hand through Isobel’s reddish-blonde hair and thought about the first few weeks following his father’s death, when she would sometimes wander around the fields in the middle of the night, half-naked, whining like a wounded animal. On those occasions he’d go out and search for her, and when he found her she’d be confused and unresponsive. Back at the farmhouse, he’d help her into the shower, rub her dry, put her to bed and lie beside her until she was asleep, their faces close together, his hand in hers.
Perhaps it was Isobel who’d got him thinking about the meaning of truth. He didn’t know anyone who denied the fact of Raylan’s death so categorically. Instead, she created her own truth through her paintings. Each portrait of Raylan reinforced her belief that he was alive and well.
It could be a good opening line for the press conference: Respect for the truth; a right to the truth. But he didn’t want to think about that now. Not now. He wanted to do something. Feeling restless, he went to the old barn, where he paused in front of a contraption hidden under several horsehair blankets.
‘A motorbike deserves to be treated like a friend,’ his father once said. And Paul could no longer leave their old friend, a BMW R27 with sidecar from 1963, standing there swaddled in blankets. As a little boy he’d often sat in the sidecar, next to his father, and, while going up and down the streets of Kabul and far beyond, he’d grown as attached to the motorbike as Raylan was.
It was raining. Thunder could be heard in the distance. An old song popped into his head: ‘Riders on the Storm’ by The Doors.
He looked at his watch again and came to a decision. He’d breathe new life into the BMW. He’d use it to travel to the three locations where he’d deliver on his promises and carry out his duties today. He was well aware that by doing so he was going against Isobel’s wishes. His mother had held on to the motorbike all this time only because she stubbornly believed in a miracle that would defy all laws of physics: her husband’s return.
He started by cleaning the engine block, the gear box and the rear-wheel drive. Then he checked the oil level and greased the gear box. He filled up the battery with distilled water, washed the air filter with petrol, took apart the carburettor and gave the bores and nozzles a good flush-out. He made sure the wheel axles, screws and nuts were properly fastened, adjusted the valve lash and checked the spark plugs.
Girl, ya gotta love your man. Take him by the hand. Make him understand, the world on you depends.
When he rode off an hour later, he did so with the feeling that both Raylan and Isobel watched him go until he’d become a fading dot in the polder landscape and the engine’s roar had all but died away.
But he knew it was only an illusion.
Isobel was fast asleep and Raylan had been dead for more than thirty years.
In the ninety minutes it took him to reach the first location, the one where he’d fulfil the promise he’d made to Farah in Moscow, he and the machine under him had become such a tight unit that all of his manoeuvres, including the cornering, avoiding and especially the overtaking, were going more and more smoothly. He was trying to explore the boundaries of controllability by slowing and gearing down as little as possible when taking corners.
Although the ride through wind and rain made him feel elated, he frequently glanced at the empty sidecar in which he’d sat so often as a little boy. Now grown up, he’d assumed his father’s place, but the emptiness of the low seat beside him seemed to symbolize that sinking feeling he’d had for years now.
He’d had many relationships, but there’d been no pitter-patter of little feet.
Paul must have been an intimidating sight as he entered the children’s hospital in Rotterdam, dressed head to toe in leather and holding Raylan’s battered helmet like a relic. The way the trauma surgeon, who introduced herself as Marileen, looked at him when they first shook hands in the lobby made him realize this.
‘Tough guys like you are not all that common around here,’ Marileen said mockingly before escorting him down a long corridor that connected the main building to the secured pavilion.
There, from the doorway of the last room in the hall, Paul caught his first glimpse of the little boy who’d been left for dead on a deserted woodland road weeks ago and was now staring silently at the ceiling, as if trying to burn a hole in it. The first thing he noticed were Sekandar’s hands. They were tied to the bed.
‘He tried to undo the screws of his fixator,’ Marileen explained. ‘We couldn’t think of any other way to stop him from trying again.’
Paul slowly leaned over to Sekandar and listened to his breathing, which was becoming shallower. Paul cleared his throat.
‘Hello, Sekandar, my name is Paul,’ he said in Dari. ‘Your friend sent me. You remember, the one with the blue eyes and the black hair. Fereshteye nejat.’ ‘Your guardian angel.’
He saw Sekandar’s eyes grow moist and slowly turn towards him. His first words were little more than a hoarse whisper. ‘Where … is …?’
Paul leaned in closer. ‘There were men. They wanted to hurt her. So I helped her escape. To a place where nobody can find her. That’s why she can’t be here with you. But she’s safe and she asked me to look after you while she’s away. Is that all right with you?’
‘Yes.’ After some hesitation.
‘Do you know why you’re here?’
‘I was running, but then the light hit me.’
‘It hit you hard, that light. You broke your leg and your pelvis, too. And you had an operation to put everything back together again. The best doctor in the world helped you. She did quite a job, I’ve heard. Do you mind if I take a look?’
He waited for Sekandar to nod before lifting the sheet a little, so he could see the fixator. He didn’t let on how shocked he was but exhaled deeply instead.
‘Looking great. It’s meant to help everything that’s broken inside your belly and legs grow together again. And once it’s all grown back together, they’ll remove it. And that’s going to happen really soon, I hear. Perhaps even in a couple of days’ time.’
When he saw that Sekandar’s eyes lit up, he lowered the sheet and leaned in as close as possible.
‘But it’s really important to leave it all in place for now, not to touch it. Do you think you can do that?’
Sekandar nodded solemnly.
‘Excellent. If I untie your hands, do you promise not to touch the screws?’
For the first time, Sekandar turned his head all the way to Paul and looked at him. His soft voice sounded firm. ‘Wada medaham.’ ‘I promise.’
Paul turned to Marileen, who was standing behind him. ‘He promises not to touch it again.’
Very gently, he began to untie the restraints around Sekandar’s wrists. Then he picked up his leather shoulder bag, opened it and took out a parcel.
‘A little surprise,’ he said, and held the parcel in front of Sekandar. ‘From Farah. For you.’
Speechless, Sekandar looked at the object emerging from the wrapping paper: a butterfly the size of a fist, made from fabric, rope and paper.
‘This butterfly,’ Paul whispered, ‘will bring you good luck.’
Sekandar ran his fingers along the two long antennae on the butterfly’s head. Then he looked at Paul with unexpectedly sad eyes.
‘Man degar nametoanam.’ ‘I can’t do it any more,’ he stammered.
‘What is it you can’t do any more?’
‘Fly … I can’t fly any more. My wings are gone.’
‘Your wings … ah … but they’ll grow back, won’t they? A little bit every day. Once the metal’s out of your body, it won’t be long before you can stand again. And once you can stand, we’ll teach you how to walk again. And once you can walk, I’ll teach you how to run again. And once you can run …’ He touched Sekandar’s cheek. ‘I’ll teach you how to fly again.’
For the first time he heard Sekandar giggle, a high-pitched chortle under his breath. He reached for Paul’s hands, held them like he’d never let go and looked at him with incredulous eyes.
‘And when you’re better,’ Paul said, ‘we’ll go and see Farah together. Because she’d love to see you.’
‘We’ll fly to her,’ Sekandar whispered.
‘We will,’ Paul said, and kissed the boy on the forehead. ‘Man ba zudi pas miayam.’ ‘I’ll be back soon.’
The second he’d made eye contact with Sekandar, he understood Farah’s fascination with him. The boy not only brought back memories of their distant childhood, but, more than that, he personified Farah’s traumas. Paul too was deeply touched to see a
child in this state – so fragile, so uprooted, so desperate to trust someone, someone who understood what he was going through. Someone who could help him.
In the forty-five minutes it took him to reach Westerdoksdijk in Amsterdam, where today’s second task awaited him, he’d come up with a new plan. It was a plan that would not only help Sekandar, but also Farah, his own mother and perhaps even Chief Inspector Radjen Tomasoa, who’d arranged for him to see Sekandar today.
He was now meeting the same Tomasoa at the National Police Intelligence Service. As he came towards him in the large lobby, with his bald head and square jaw, he vaguely reminded Paul of the classic Hollywood film star Yul Brynner.
‘Good to meet you,’ Tomasoa said, after they’d exchanged a sturdy handshake. He accompanied Paul to the fourth floor where, in an empty, windowless room, a well-dressed and sophisticated man was waiting for them. He introduced himself as Detective Joshua Calvino.
Paul smiled in spite of himself. He remembered the paparazzo picture from De Nederlander that had been tacked on to Farah’s white board among all the other notes and photos. It showed Calvino, wearing three-quarter-length sweatpants and sandals but bare-chested, in a clinch with an equally scantily clad Farah on the deck of his houseboat on a canal somewhere in Amsterdam. The photo was captioned, ‘In her leisure time Farah H. does not adhere to the letter of Islamic law.’
‘Detective Calvino has been officially relieved of his duties for the duration of the internal inquiry into the death of a witness in the hit-and-run case,’ Tomasoa said.
‘And by witness presumably you mean that Russian, the freelance muscle from AtlasNet,’ Paul replied.
‘Correct,’ Tomasoa said. ‘Detective Calvino is currently working at Interpol, where he’s in contact with an old friend of yours from Johannesburg, Detective Elvin Dingane. He asked us to get in touch with you.’
Tomasoa and Calvino exchanged a knowing glance and, after a nod from his former boss, Calvino launched into his story.
‘Detective Elvin Dingane is keeping me abreast of the investigation into suspicious financial transactions within South Africa’s ruling party, the ANC. We’re in contact because the name Valentin Lavrov has cropped up both in this case and in a European matter. Dingane has reason to believe that Lavrov’s energy company, AtlasNet, bribed several leading political figures in South Africa in exchange for mining concessions, but so far he’s got insufficient evidence. The reason he wants you to contact him is that you were also involved in the case and were about to receive some crucial information. Dingane told me what happened to you in Ponte City.’