Read Online The Devil's Playground by Stav Sherez - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stav Sherez
Ads: Link
of
council estates towering like accusatory fingers pointing up
at the sky.
‘The fuck-up’ they called him. Whispered in corridors and
lunchrooms throughout the department. In the eyes of his
commanding officers and the unspoken reproaches of the
young recruits. In the stories that people tell to ease the
tension before a bust, department legends, cautionary tales
dragged into gossip, gradually stratifying into myth.
But Van Hijn was used to worse. This was just the latest
in a long line of events that had gone only slightly wrong,
had at some point sheared away from their original intentions
and taken shape as something much less explainable let
alone excusable. He wasn’t sorry that he’d killed the man.
Sometimes you were given a chance and you had to take it —
how many more women would he have mutilated? — but he
was sorry that it had been the wrong man, that this fiend was
still on the loose.
But finding the old man had been a break. A sudden flash
of hope in the darkness of the case. A shift in patterns.
Experience had taught him that it was these changes that
would eventually yield meaning, clues, perhaps even resolution.
That he had been given a singular chance to, if not
erase, then at least make up for the events in February. The
ones that earned him the sobriquet of ‘the fuck-up’.
Detective Ronald van Hijn had been the star pupil of his
year at the police academy. Even the other students, usually
so resentful of these things, had to demur to his obvious
brilliance in all fields of police work. His teachers had
predicted a bright future, there were whispers of city commissioner and mayor even and, on his graduation, everyone
agreed that great things were in store.
It seemed more than a lifetime ago.
As he sat in his office waiting for the Englishman, he
wondered about where it had started to go wrong. What had
happened? He unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and
took out a joint that he’d prepared earlier in the men’s toilets.
He was supposed to be giving up. But hadn’t he said that at
least once a year for the last ten years? It didn’t matter. This
year he was going to do it. He was getting older, things were
starting to go wrong and he wanted to stack the odds as
much in his favour as he could. The cigarettes would have
to go too, but those were harder, almost a necessary part of
the job sometimes, he thought, placing the joint back into
the drawer, allowing himself to feel a moment’s virtue from
this small denial.
The phone rang. It was Captain Beeuwers.
‘Ronald. What’s this I hear about an Englishman coming
to see you?’
Damn. So someone had told him, leaked the news in hope
of future appraisal, a remembered payback. ‘I called him,’
was all he said, wary not to let slip anything more.
The captain was breathing heavily, as if he’d just come
back from a gruelling run. ‘Ronald, there’s really no point in
you interviewing him. Let Zeeman do it. There needs to be
some continuity.’
He hated how his first name was used to patronize him.
His father’s son. Still. ‘That’s why I thought it’d be best for
me to do it,’ he replied, trying not to let his anger show, not
to give Beeuwers the satisfaction.
‘Pass it over to Zeeman, Ronald. I promised him this case.
You do that and I’ll make sure the board awards you the full
pension, not the discriminatory one.’
Van Hijn leaned back in the chair. The captain was
unusually eager to get him off the case. It had been partly the
captain’s vote that had prejudiced his pension appeal. He
thought about it. Drop the case and triple the settlement.
Enough money to go to America on. Retire early. Enough
not to have to worry.
, .‘Well, Ronald. I need a decision now,’ the captain said,
”breathy and urgent.
‘Goodbye, Captain. I’ll see you at the hearing.’ He
slammed down the phone. Tried to take a deep breath. He
could feel his nerves
council estates towering like accusatory fingers pointing up
at the sky.
‘The fuck-up’ they called him. Whispered in corridors and
lunchrooms throughout the department. In the eyes of his
commanding officers and the unspoken reproaches of the
young recruits. In the stories that people tell to ease the
tension before a bust, department legends, cautionary tales
dragged into gossip, gradually stratifying into myth.
But Van Hijn was used to worse. This was just the latest
in a long line of events that had gone only slightly wrong,
had at some point sheared away from their original intentions
and taken shape as something much less explainable let
alone excusable. He wasn’t sorry that he’d killed the man.
Sometimes you were given a chance and you had to take it —
how many more women would he have mutilated? — but he
was sorry that it had been the wrong man, that this fiend was
still on the loose.
But finding the old man had been a break. A sudden flash
of hope in the darkness of the case. A shift in patterns.
Experience had taught him that it was these changes that
would eventually yield meaning, clues, perhaps even resolution.
That he had been given a singular chance to, if not
erase, then at least make up for the events in February. The
ones that earned him the sobriquet of ‘the fuck-up’.
Detective Ronald van Hijn had been the star pupil of his
year at the police academy. Even the other students, usually
so resentful of these things, had to demur to his obvious
brilliance in all fields of police work. His teachers had
predicted a bright future, there were whispers of city commissioner and mayor even and, on his graduation, everyone
agreed that great things were in store.
It seemed more than a lifetime ago.
As he sat in his office waiting for the Englishman, he
wondered about where it had started to go wrong. What had
happened? He unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and
took out a joint that he’d prepared earlier in the men’s toilets.
He was supposed to be giving up. But hadn’t he said that at
least once a year for the last ten years? It didn’t matter. This
year he was going to do it. He was getting older, things were
starting to go wrong and he wanted to stack the odds as
much in his favour as he could. The cigarettes would have
to go too, but those were harder, almost a necessary part of
the job sometimes, he thought, placing the joint back into
the drawer, allowing himself to feel a moment’s virtue from
this small denial.
The phone rang. It was Captain Beeuwers.
‘Ronald. What’s this I hear about an Englishman coming
to see you?’
Damn. So someone had told him, leaked the news in hope
of future appraisal, a remembered payback. ‘I called him,’
was all he said, wary not to let slip anything more.
The captain was breathing heavily, as if he’d just come
back from a gruelling run. ‘Ronald, there’s really no point in
you interviewing him. Let Zeeman do it. There needs to be
some continuity.’
He hated how his first name was used to patronize him.
His father’s son. Still. ‘That’s why I thought it’d be best for
me to do it,’ he replied, trying not to let his anger show, not
to give Beeuwers the satisfaction.
‘Pass it over to Zeeman, Ronald. I promised him this case.
You do that and I’ll make sure the board awards you the full
pension, not the discriminatory one.’
Van Hijn leaned back in the chair. The captain was
unusually eager to get him off the case. It had been partly the
captain’s vote that had prejudiced his pension appeal. He
thought about it. Drop the case and triple the settlement.
Enough money to go to America on. Retire early. Enough
not to have to worry.
, .‘Well, Ronald. I need a decision now,’ the captain said,
”breathy and urgent.
‘Goodbye, Captain. I’ll see you at the hearing.’ He
slammed down the phone. Tried to take a deep breath. He
could feel his nerves
Similar Books
