Chapter 7
The new Centraal station, only recently finished with its soaring ceilings and multiple tracks, is wasted on me.
I fling myself off the train with eyes for only one thing.
I’m immediately relieved to see Joren Van Engelenhoven waiting with a tight smile and a nod, letting me know all is well before I even cross the distance to him.
Mama is still alive, at least.
Joren is in his fifties, with tightly coiled hair that’s turned from black to mostly iron gray now. The lines worn into his handsome brown face are from worrying but also smiling. I see more worry than anything else right now, though.
“What’s happened?” I ask, falling in step with him as he turns toward the exit. Dozens pass us but I cannot see any faces, cannot hear their voices. I’m a person of singular, burning purpose.
“After Dávid sent word, we sent men to protect your mother. She wouldn’t leave the house or allow any of the officers inside, though.”
It doesn’t surprise me, but it does make things more complicated. “You posted guards still?”
“Yes. No one has come.” Joren pauses, so I do, too, expecting something even worse.
Instead, he takes one of my hands between his and presses it.
“When your father died, I thought it was an isolated event. I’m sorry.
” Joren holds my gaze as firmly as he does my hand, and again emotions I don’t know how to handle well up inside me.
It stings that it took photographic evidence and a physical threat for Joren to believe me about Diavola’s existence.
Joren has been my mentor and friend, but how much would have been different if he’d helped me hunt her from the beginning instead of insisting on his slow, methodical training in forensic detective work?
I’m grateful for it, I am, but things could have been different. They should have been different.
“It wouldn’t have mattered,” I say, trying to brush it off. “We couldn’t have caught her trail again until now, anyhow.”
“It mattered to you. I never meant to make you feel foolish or untrusted. I hope you know I wanted—and want—only the best for you.”
I close my eyes so the tears don’t fall.
Joren has never been like a father to me.
Mostly because he respects me, listens to me, and notices me.
In my experience, that’s not what fathers do.
But it could have been. I could have had this conversation with my own father.
Diavola took that from me. “But you believe me now.”
“I do.”
It’s what I’ve longed to hear, and somehow feels superfluous. Joren didn’t believe me, but he’s always believed in me. I’m only in the position I am now because of his faith and support. If he hadn’t taken the time to teach me, I would never have seen the signs of Diavola’s return.
I squeeze his hand back and nod. “Good. That’s all I need.”
We climb into a waiting carriage. I’m surprised to find a young woman, probably not more than fifteen or sixteen, her brown hair perfectly pinned beneath a hat.
She has olive skin with lively green eyes and full lips pursed in a serious expression.
Her matronly blouse tucked into a blue-and-brown-striped skirt is more somber than someone her age should dress.
I recognize the signs of a girl trying desperately to be respected.
On her lap she holds a leather folio, a pad of paper, and a pencil.
Why does Joren have a secretary, and such a young one at that?
“This is my daughter, Inge,” Joren says with no other explanation.
I’m caught up short. I wasn’t aware he had a wife, much less a daughter.
Joren’s past has always been a locked vault.
Though he has a Dutch name, his heritage is African.
I know nothing more specific than that, and have never pried.
I’ve merely been grateful to work with such a brilliant, capable man.
Who has a daughter, who looks nothing like him, and is in the carriage with us.
“Joren, I—”
“Speak freely,” he commands. “Inge is aware of the cases.”
I pass him the photographs of Diavola—the five portraits Maher took, as well as the crowd shot—and the letter.
Then I pass along the photos of the dead family as well.
Inge takes notes despite the motion of the carriage.
She accepts the evidence and glances coolly over it, jotting down a few more things before carefully tucking the photos and letter into her folio.
I recognize her expert detachment as my own affectation, and I resolve to treat her with nothing but professional acceptance.
But I want the letter back. The photos, too, but especially the letter. It was for me.
“The images of her are strange,” Joren says when I finish detailing the events of the last two days.
“How so?”
“In the first she looks young, the next she could be her own mother, the third she looks sickly, the fourth she looks bold. The fifth looks more like a reflection in water. If it weren’t for the black hair, I wouldn’t believe they were all the same woman.
And I don’t think I could pick her out of that crowd if you hadn’t pointed her out.
The photographer is certain those are all her? ”
“Yes,” I say, once again puzzled. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been haunted by her gaze for five years, but I’d recognize her anywhere. There’s nothing indistinct about her. She’s singular. Inimitable.
“Which photograph looks the most like her in person?” he asks.
They all do, but I say the fourth.
He nods. “We’ll have an artist make sketches and distribute them to the guards and around the city.”
“Good. And we need to contact all the detectives and morgues in Amsterdam. If I’m right, there have already been other strange suicides or murders.”
Joren’s frown deepens.
“What?” I press, my heart picking up.
“Last night. Before your telegraph arrived. Centrum borough, Binnenstad.”
Not near my house. I know what I’m about to hear is terrible, but I’m relieved nonetheless.
Joren continues. “A couple hanged themselves. Upside down.”
“It took them at least twenty-four hours to die,” Inge says.
“Most likely of asphyxiation—the lungs become compressed by the other organs—or heart failure because of the strain of pumping blood. Bodies are designed to keep blood from pooling in the feet, not the head. Brain hemorrhage could also be the cause. But we don’t know because they haven’t allowed my father to do the autopsies since the cause of death was, and I quote, obvious. ”
I raise my eyebrows at Joren. He sighs heavily. “She should be at university.”
“You learned by doing. I will, too.” Inge looks expectantly at me. I’m supposed to continue on as though nothing is unusual here. But the twitch of a smile on Joren’s face makes it clear that he’s not merely tolerating his daughter. He’s proud of her.
It breaks something inside me. Tears threaten to spill, but I refuse to allow them. I’m just tired, is all.
“Yes. Right. I actually meant other suicides or murders in the past. I didn’t think she’d strike here again so soon. Which makes me wonder how many we’ve already missed. We’ll need to canvass the area and see if anyone—”
“Already in progress. De Haas does listen to you, even if he pretends otherwise. A neighbor of the shipping clerk confirmed she saw a cloaked figure leaving the building with a large, heavy box and a folded tripod. Because of that, de Haas has been making inquiries all around the city about cameras. One of the officers on this newest crime scene contacted him with a similar description. Someone with a camera, or what might have been one, leaving the scene before anyone realized the deaths had occurred,” Joren says.
“And the couple died last night?” That timing doesn’t work. Diavola still would have been on the train.
“No,” Joren answers. “They had been dead for at least three days before the bodies were discovered.”
“So, it predates our other body. It could still be her.” My exhausted brain tries to put together the timing.
“When did your friend take photos of her?” Inge asks, apparently on the same track I am.
“Five days ago. So, she went to Budapest, killed the family by brain hook seven days ago, sat for photos five days ago—no, sorry, six days now; shift everything by one day.” I rub my forehead. “Then she came here, killed this couple by hanging three days ago—”
“An approximation,” Inge notes, and I nod.
“Two days ago killed our shipping clerk via vivisection, and then immediately went back to Budapest. And then possibly came back here.” It makes even less sense when I say it aloud.
Diavola asking Maher for the train schedule seems unnecessary for a woman going back and forth so often. Surely, she’d know her options by now.
“Killed them all without directly killing them,” Inge adds. “Also, the neighbor interviewed outside the hanged couple’s home said the cloaked figure was a man.”
“What time of day?”
“Evening.”
“If I were wearing a cloak and suit and the light was dim, I could be confused for a man.”
“Doubtful.” Inge gives me a dubious look.
“If the cloak were very large,” I argue. “Besides, you haven’t seen her. I have. She’s taller than I am, and broad-shouldered.”
Inge still seems dubious, but she lowers her eyes and focuses on her notes.
She’s building a timeline. Joren might not have wanted this for her, but she’s already proving useful.
And I can’t help but feel affection for another young woman forcing the world to allow her a place where she shouldn’t have one.
“De Haas believes you,” Joren says. “Or at least, he’s willing to consider your theories. De Lange, on the other hand—”
“Can drown in a puddle for all I care. I’m right. Their belief doesn’t change that one way or another. Diavola killed my father, and we have no idea how many others.”