Читать книгу The Girl Who Wouldn’t Die: The first book in an addictive crime series that will have you gripped - Marnie Riches, Marnie Riches - Страница 15

‘A dead white bomber changes everything,’ George said. ‘I want to get in touch with Marianne de Koninck. Ask her about the head … Do you think Jasper will give me her number?’

‘I think you should bow out gracefully from this thing,’ Ad said. ‘Van den Bergen’s been using you. Let him choose somebody else to spy for him.’

It had been Ad’s idea to cycle down to de hortus – the botanical gardens. He thought she was looking overwrought. Thought the change of scenery would do her good. His treat. Now they stood side by side in the butterfly greenhouse. George breathed in deeply, wondering if this was the sort of private place where he might cross the line and kiss her again. She stared at a giant blue butterfly sitting on a glossy fat leaf of a breadfruit tree. It flapped its shimmering wings and she entertained the notion that the tiny disturbances it created in the humid air were somehow responsible for the chaotic whirl of thoughts and emotions that churned inside her; in equal parts intrigued by violent death; consumed by desire for Ad; in fear of her stalker.

Ad kicked at the ground. ‘You’re not listening, are you?’

George looked at him. Imagined his delicate-featured head detached from his shoulders. She pushed the ugly thought away.

‘Come on. I’ll buy you cake at the orangery,’ Ad said.

Arm in arm, they brushed past the oversized leaves of a Chilean giant rhubarb, stretched out towards them in supplication like a beggar’s hands. Past the man who had been standing in the plant’s shadow, observing them for the last fifteen minutes. As George followed Ad back outside from the warm and tropical damp into the cold January air, in the furthest reaches of her peripheral vision, she thought she saw someone staring straight at her. She turned around quickly. There was nobody there.

In the orangery’s airy café, George pushed a large piece of chocolate fudge cake around on her plate. Ad was chatting away about the first essay assignment of the year for Fennemans. But George wasn’t listening. She was transfixed by one of the full-height windows. It reflected what was going on behind her, and in the glass, she thought she saw someone familiar. Was it Filip? She dropped her fork onto her plate with a clatter and turned around. Nobody there.

‘You’re acting really strangely, you know,’ Ad said.

I’m smoking too much weed, George decided. I’m getting a paranoid head on. That’s all.

‘I had a late night,’ she said. ‘You know. Research.’

‘Come over to Ratan’s with me. I promised Rani I’d drop by. She’s been driving me nuts, asking where he is. Has he been to football? Did he change his mind after the party? Like I’d know! Nobody’s heard from him since before Christmas.’

Ad’s mobile phone suddenly pinged. He picked it up and frowned at the screen. Then he smiled.

‘Anything interesting?’ George asked.

‘It’s Astrid. She’s coming down this weekend.’ He tapped away at his keypad with his thumb. He was smiling but George could see his demeanour was stiff. Maybe he felt on show; exposed with a cynical audience watching and judging his every move.

George delved into her coat pocket and pulled out a ten-euro note.

‘Look,’ she said. ‘It’s all I’ve got. I’m going. Thanks for this. I’ll see you later. I’ve got Cambridge stuff to do.’

Ad looked up at her with eyes that seemed to betray both relief and disappointment. Or maybe he just looked up at her and felt nothing. George couldn’t tell.

‘It was my treat,’ he said. ‘I don’t want your money. One friend to another. You needed a break.’

He held the bank note up to her. One friend to another. George swung her bag onto her shoulder and walked away, leaving Ad clutching her money. When he didn’t run after her, she felt like somebody had put a hand inside her chest and squeezed her heart hard.

‘Hey, honey,’ Katja shouted as George entered the coffee shop. ‘Come and join us.’

Katja and Jan were sitting together at a table by the till. Katja was wearing her pre-shift clothes: jeans and a pink, baggy sweater. They were drinking coffee. Jan was smoking the largest joint she had ever seen. It looked like a Cuban cigar.

‘What’s up with you, little Georgina?’ Jan asked in English. ‘You look like somebody took a piss in your vla.’

George threw her bag onto the floor and shrugged. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,’ she said. She looked at Katja’s backstreet Botox trout pout and forced herself to smile. ‘Have either of you seen anyone hanging around my flat?’ she asked.

Jan dragged hard on his spliff. ‘You mean the spotty boy?’

‘Ah, Mr Lover Man from before Christmas,’ Katja nodded, knowingly.

George groaned and grabbed the joint from Jan. When she was satisfied that the tip was still dry and spit-free, she inhaled the pungent smoke and felt instantly as though somebody had pushed down hard on her head.

‘His name’s Filip.’ she said. ‘He’s not that spotty.’

‘Honey, you can do so much better,’ Katja said. ‘And I thought you had it going on with the other one. The pretty boy with glasses.’

George looked at her short fingernails. She looked anywhere but at Katja. Katja leaned forward and held her gently by the chin. George reluctantly met her neighbour’s ice-blue eyes.

‘There’s nothing going on between me and Ad,’ George said. ‘He’s a friend. The other one was just … just a booty call.’

Katja let her chin go and clapped her hands. ‘If you’re going to have such low standards, darling, you should sell it. Men would pay through the nose for a piece of that perfect round ass. You can sublet my room when I’m off shift.’

‘No thanks,’ George said, feeling the corners of her mouth jerk upwards into a smile. ‘But cheers for the offer.’

‘Any time, honey.’ Katja drained the contents of her coffee cup and wrapped a piece of her blood-red hair around her index finger. ‘Any time. It’s just supply and demand.’

James Brown suddenly shrieked inside George’s pocket, making her jump. She held her phone to her ear. It was Ad.

‘Can you come over to Ratan’s?’ he said. ‘I need your help.’

He needed her. Trying to make nice after de hortus? A mischievous glimmer of glee sparked within her, lighting up the dark places.

‘Why?’ she asked. ‘I’m busy.’

‘The landlady hasn’t seen him either but she won’t let me in his room. He could be ill in there or dead or anything, I suppose.’

‘You think I can charm the landlady?’ she asked.

There was a pause. ‘The landlady’s Black,’ Ad said.

George sucked her teeth. This wasn’t quite the show of contrition she was hoping for but it was something. ‘He’s just off Herengracht, isn’t he? Hartenstraat. I’ll see you in about ten. Wait outside.’

‘Had you received any threats prior to the bombing?’ van den Bergen asked Fennemans.

Fennemans sat behind his desk, running his fingers along the wooden tabletop. Van den Bergen felt like the academic had cultivated the wide-eyed, questioning appearance of a bewildered child. He had not worn that face when he had given George McKenzie a hard time and called her ‘Little Miss’.

‘None whatsoever, Detective,’ Fennemans said.

‘It’s Inspector.’

‘So sorry. As I’ve already told you, I can only assume that the Bushuis bombing is unrelated to the faculty. That the terrorists just selected a university building at random.’

‘And do you have any connections to Utrecht synagogue?’

‘None whatsoever.’

Van den Bergen surreptitiously looked around Fennemans’ office. He noticed the books bearing his name, prominently displayed on a shelf. He noticed that there were no family photographs on the desk. But there was a framed photograph on the wall of Fennemans standing outside the temple carved into the rockface in Petra.

Van den Bergen pointed to the photo. ‘I see you’ve travelled in the Middle East.’

Fennemans tutted. ‘Of course. I’m a senior lecturer specialising in the politics of the Middle East. Jordan is one of my favourite places. The snorkelling there is simply superb.’ He laced thick fingers together over a yellow silk shirt. ‘Have you been?’

‘No.’ Van den Bergen sniffed and wondered whether now was the time to say what he knew would result in a shit-storm of almighty proportions blowing up around him. He thumbed his stubble and tapped his teeth with his Biro. ‘You taught Janneke Polman, didn’t you?’

Van den Bergen watched Fennemans’ reactions carefully. He sat perfectly still. He didn’t flinch. He continued to smile inanely with those ridiculous child’s teeth that he had. But van den Bergen noticed the pupils in Fennemans’ eyes shrink suddenly to the size of pinheads. At the same time, almost spontaneously, a sheen of sweat appeared on his upper lip and forehead.

‘Why, yes. I seem to remember she was one of my students. She dropped out, though. Mental ill health. Poor girl.’ Fennemans’ voice was even and calm. Polite interest. Nothing more. ‘I hope she’s not involved in the bombings in some way.’

‘She’s dead. Murdered.’

The small teeth disappeared and gave way to a gasp and raised eyebrows. His pupils dilated now. ‘Oh, no. What a pity. Such a waste. When was this?’

‘Christmas Eve. Around lunchtime.’ Van den Bergen was stabbed in the chest by stomach acid. He was careful not to show his discomfort in front of Fennemans. ‘Tell me, Dr Fennemans. What were you doing on Christmas Eve around lunchtime?’

‘What are you insinuating?’ Fennemans gripped the edge of the desk and stood up. ‘I had lunch with a friend and then travelled down to my mother’s for Christmas.’

‘I’d like the name and telephone number of your friend, please. An address too. And your mother’s contact details.’ Van den Bergen started to scribble on his notepad but noticed Fennemans getting redder in the face. He paused and peered up at a very agitated-looking man.

‘Are you harassing me, Inspector?’

‘Just trying to eliminate people from our enquiries. That’s all. Especially in light of the Rosa Bianco case.’

Fennemans walked briskly to the door and opened it. He was twitching visibly now. ‘That case was thrown out,’ he said, spitting slightly as he spoke. ‘It was a miscarriage of justice that it ever reached court. I was the real victim there. She almost had my reputation in tatters. I had a breakdown!’

Van den Bergen remained in his seat and bounced his right foot across his left knee. Rosa Bianco. A sweet girl with the delicacy and innocence in her face that her name promised. Tamara’s roommate in her first year at university.

‘Was that before or after you raped her and beat her to a pulp?’

‘Goodbye, Inspector,’ Fennemans said.

The statuesque landlady opened the door for George and glowered at Ad.

‘He’s late on his rent. Not like him. Ratan’s normally a good kid,’ she said in heavily accented Antillean Dutch. ‘You sure you’re not police?’

George gave the woman her best smile. All teeth. ‘I swear. Just worried friends,’ she said. ‘Thanks. We won’t touch anything.’

George advanced inside the dark room. Ad skulked behind her, shoulders hunched. She saw that the landlady still stood on the threshold, watching with meaty arms folded over her floral viscose-clad bosom. ‘I promise,’ George said.

The woman nodded and left.

Ad drew back the curtains and coughed as the dust was disrupted on the heavy mustard velvet. George held her hand up to her eyes. The sudden warm sunlight felt like an invasion in the cold room. She shuddered.

‘I don’t like snooping around someone’s space, you know,’ she said.

Ad stood over a desk underneath the window. He leafed through some papers and picked up a book. George approached and squinted at the red, black and white cover. The edges were curling upwards from frequent use.

‘The Gun and the Olive Branch. I’ve got that,’ she said. ‘Israeli–Arab conflict. Pro-Palestine.’ She was close to Ad now. She could smell the sandalwood scent of his aftershave.

She took a step back and looked around. A coffee mug stood on the bookshelf. She peered inside. Mould grew in round, green blotches on the surface of the half-drunk contents. But the room was generally clean. Ratan’s bed was made. Clothes were hung in an orderly manner on an industrial clothes rack. No cup rings anywhere. No marks of him being a slob. So why the mould?

George lifted the cup to her nose and sniffed. Coffee with milk.

‘He’s not been here since before Christmas judging by this cup. At least not for a good few days. And he must have last been here after dark,’ she said.

‘Because the curtains were shut?’ Ad suggested.

‘Right. He never kept his date with Rani. My guess is he hasn’t come back since the party.’

George walked over to a cork pinboard that was screwed to the wall. Three eight-by-ten-inch photographs were stuck to it with drawing pins. Ratan with Mum and Dad outside a house painted white. The paint was peeling. The sun was bright. It looked like a suburb of somewhere far away. Mumbai. Ratan with other young Indian men his age in a room, drinking Royal Challenge beer. University friends maybe. Ratan on a tropical beach with two girls who looked Thai. Gawky. Wearing shorts. Bare feet. Bare ankles.

George felt as though everything had ground to a halt inside her body. Her mouth prickled cold with realisation.

‘Ad. Come and look at this.’

Ad drew near and studied the photograph she was pointing to with a slightly trembling finger.

‘What am I looking at?’ he asked, shaking his head.

‘You remember you said you recognised that tattoo from Jasper’s photograph? The one of the bomber’s foot?’

Ad’s face suddenly seemed to drain of all colour. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ he said.