Reckoning Point, стр. 34

but she’s pulled over and parked the car up after crossing the last dam between Rotterdam and Delft. She glances at her reflection in the rear view mirror, noting that she’s even paler than usual, apart from two spots of colour high in her cheekbones. Her skin is covered in a thin sheen of sweat and angrily, she angles the mirror away, sitting still for a moment before unlocking the door and pushing it open with her foot. She gets out of the old blue Mondeo and slamming the door, she walks past the graffiti-stricken concrete, down the verge and onto the Zwethpad footpath. She follows the path until it opens up to the fields and there she pauses, scanning the horizons for answers that won’t be found here. These fields are green now, the first bloom of the poppy is over, but in September they’ll be back for a second season, which is more than she can say for herself.

There’s a randomly placed picnic table here by the path and she sits down, back to the fields, facing the stream that runs to join the canals.

Finally, at last, she lets herself weep, pushing her hands into her cropped, jet black hair and pulling at the roots.

There’s nobody down this track today, the sun is too hot for joggers or cyclists, and knowing she’s totally alone, she throws her head back and lets her sobs scream out to the sky.

Best to get it all out of her system before she goes home to Erik.

32

THIRD MURDER

WALDOPSTRAAT

8.7.15 Near to midnight

He’s taking a risk; he knows that although he can’t stop himself. A little part of him is aware that it’s getting dangerous now, and he reminds himself to tread carefully. He hasn’t done this with such frequency in ages. He’s at her home, and a voice in his head whispers that he is being extremely foolish. He ignores the warning.

It’s very dark out here and he’s thankful for the alleyway that conceals the entrance to her home from the road. Not that the street is busy at this time. The party-goers and likely lads have retired for the night to sleep off their drink and drug induced state, not to wake until the following lunchtime. And in this particular area, he’s willing to bet nobody would even respond to a cry for help.

The lights are all off inside the ground floor apartment and the door is locked, but the kitchen window has been left ajar. He snorts at her stupidity as he pulls the window open wide, reaches through and opens the door from the inside.

He edges inside, waits; listens. He lets his body adjust to the night-time noises and wait for his vision to become accustomed to the gloom. Only when he’s totally comfortable does he move through the kitchen into the hallway.

He can hear her before he even reaches her bedroom, a deep, throaty rumble that makes him wonder if a man is in there with her. But no, he watched her come back on her own. To be on the safe side he peers through the open door, revulsion crawling over him as it registers that she is indeed alone. She’s spread out on top of the bed, wearing nothing. She still has her full make-up on and as he inches closer to her he can see that the mascara has smudged across one cheek.

How long will it take for her to sense that someone is standing over her? Will she wake with a start, or slowly come to consciousness?

He doesn’t have to wait long to find out, as she clears her throat in her slumber, waking herself. She begins to turn over, starts to reach for the thin sheet that is knotted up at the end of the bed. She sees him and is slow to react. Perhaps she thinks he’s a ghost in the moonlight; an apparition left over from a forgotten dream. She sits up and with a hand to her throat he lays her back down against the pillow.

In his back pocket he has his knife, but it’s as though she’s already accepted it. He doesn’t reach for the blade; instead he keeps his hand at her neck and tightens his gloved fingers. There’s a moment, very brief, as she rears up, gasping. It doesn’t last long and she leans back. She locks her gaze on him and he sees the tears spill from the corners of her eyes and track their way down her cheeks which blaze red; a strange contrast to her blue tinged lips.

He feels it when she is gone and he removes his hand, staring for a moment at the livid marks his fingers have made.

He doesn’t want to sit beside her, so he moves to a chair in the corner of the room. He sweeps her neat pile of laundry aside and lowers himself into the chair. He checks the time, glances into the hallway. Everything is still. There is no rush.

He has a moment of fear; unusual for him, but he moves over to her, pulls his glove back on his right hand and holds his exposed wrist over her face. Nothing; no breath is left.

He returns to the chair again but doesn’t sit. His fists clench of their own accord and he tucks his thumbs under his fingers and punches the dirty laundry pile. It is not satisfactory.

And that’s the source of his despair; nothing about this evening has satisfied him. She didn’t even fight him. And with a glare at her inert body, he aims a kick at the laundry, sending pillow cases and underwear flying and like a ghost; he exits the building and makes his way home.

33

ERIK FONS & ALEX HARVEY

HOOFDBUREAU

9.7.15 Late morning

Erik levers himself up from his chair and moves