‘Sander Klaasen. Or Rein Benner, whichever you prefer. This is the man who torched my boat. The same man who killed Lucie Muller, Marianne Kleine and Dirk Zeeman.’

Silence drapes a blanket over us all, making the clock in the hallway louder.

Eventually Beving speaks. ‘I’m not so sure.’

‘What do you mean?’

He steps forward and hands me a sheet of paper. It’s the DNA results.

I look at the name. It jolts me. Because right there on the sheet in black and white is a name I know well. The room starts spiralling. I look from face to face. Beving, Vermeer, Bakker. Colleagues, the good guys. I have shudders down my spine, and my legs feel too weak to hold my weight. I look down at the body, a person who I didn’t even know existed up until a few hours ago.

‘Is this a joke?’ No one’s catching my gaze. ‘Seriously, what the fuck is going on?’

‘Jaap Rykel,’ Beving says, adopting the bland, disinterested tone of authority. The uniforms are right behind me; I can feel moist breath on my neck. The clock ticks. Someone shifts and the floor creaks. ‘I’m arresting you for the murder of Dirk Zeeman.’

Schizo

The paper’s snatched out of my hand and the two uniforms behind me grab my arms. I hear the ratchet mechanism of the cuffs, feel the cold metal tightening round my wrists. They check my pockets and one of them pulls out the tin containing the pre-rolled joints. He hands it to Beving who turns it round in his hand before giving it a sniff. The look he gives me is hard to decode, but it’s shiny with hate and loathing and fear and maybe, just maybe, a little triumph as well.

‘Get him out of here.’

‘Wait, this is crazy. I –’

‘Shut it!’

I’m dragged out of there like a common criminal. I should be protesting, I should be appealing to their reason, telling them that there’s some mistake. But I can see from the looks on their faces it won’t do any good. The chances of a DNA match being wrong are so small as to be impossible. Maybe the new faster machine is prone to more mistakes? But that’ll be for my lawyer to explore later on; there’s no point raising it now. The clock ticks as we walk past. I feel it’s ticking just for me. The seventh floorboard creaks again as we descend. At the bottom of the steps the whole thing becomes a walk of shame. Uniforms stand aside. Shocked eyes, disgusted eyes, and eyes which are greedy for the unexpected drama of it all. The fall of one of their own.