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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