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 9

The laptop’s monitor glared at George, daring her to begin writing her guest post for Het Ogenblik – The Moment. She dragged hard on her cigarette, praying it would somehow peel away the tension to reveal the inspired thoughts beneath.

‘Coffee?’ Jan asked, brandishing a glass percolator jug in her direction.

She hadn’t realised he had been standing over her. The coffee at the bottom of his jug looked black and oily. It had been sitting there all morning.

‘Go on,’ George said.

Jan poured the jug’s contents into the special mug that she insisted he keep behind the counter only for her. George sipped it and grimaced.

‘You make shocking coffee,’ she told him.

‘Nobody comes to the Cracked Pot Coffee Shop for the coffee,’ he said. He peered over her shoulder through smudged Trotsky glasses at the masthead for the blog. ‘What are you writing about?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘That’s the problem. I’m supposed to have done a blogpost about political unrest in the Middle East. I can’t concentrate with everything that’s going on.’

She punched ‘De Volkskrant’ into Google. The latest headline from the broadsheet stared at them.

‘“Maastricht terror cell claims responsibility for suicide bomb”,’ she read.

‘What about De Telegraaf?’ Jan asked.

Her fingers sped over the keyboard until the monitor revealed: ‘Jihad waged on Amsterdam.’

Scanning the text, there, within the third paragraph, she spied Senior Inspector van den Bergen’s name. She tapped the screen.

‘I saw this guy. He says the blast victim toll stands at twelve injured, two critically. One set of human remains has been found in amongst the wreckage.’

Jan tutted. ‘Do they know who it is?’ he asked.

‘The dead body?’ George read on, then shook her head. ‘He doesn’t say. Nobody saw anything suspicious. The cops are on the trail of a prime suspect.’

‘“It’s a miracle more weren’t killed”,’ Jan read. ‘Understatement of the bloody year. Hey, shall I roll you a joint?’

‘At eleven am?’ she said. ‘Seriously? Is this so you can bump up my rent?’

Jan hooked his long, fuse wire hair behind his ear and wheezed with wry laughter. He turned to the murals painted in neon oranges, pinks, yellows and greens on the walls. Jimi Hendrix, a VW Camper van, Bob Marley, Jim Morrison and the peace sign. They were lit by a UV lamp that gave all the customers a Hollywood smile as a no-extra-cost bonus.

‘I’m going to paint a new one in your honour,’ he said. ‘Our Georgina. An English hottie, smoking a joint and wearing nothing but hotpants and an afro. They’ll come all the way from Brabant to buy my skunk and look at you.’

‘Go and make some fresh coffee, you old pervert,’ George said.

Jan was still laughing as he disappeared between the giant cannabis plants into the back office.

George frowned at the screen. She punched ‘Amsterdam suicide bomb’ into the search engines, draining the dregs of her coffee as she scanned the results: student discussion forums, more newspaper articles, some left-wing, some right-wing. She found scores of jihadist blogs listed, showing pictures of young men, holding replica guns with their heads wrapped in black fabric or Arabic shemagh scarves so that only their angry eyes were visible. The same name appeared on all of them, claiming responsibility for the Bushuis library explosion in bold type and large font.

‘Abdul Youssuf al Badaar,’ George said aloud. ‘You don’t look much.’

His photograph showed that he was an ordinary middle-aged Muslim man with the obligatory beard and mosque hat. He looked benign.

‘Why in God’s name would you organise a suicide bombing outside an almost empty student library on a Saturday morning?’ she asked al Badaar’s photograph.

She stared at the laptop screen for too long.

‘I’m going to be late,’ she said, glancing at her watch.

In a city full of architectural romance and finery, the faculty in Nieuwe Prinsengracht sat like an ungainly, stout Aunt by the canalside. Inside, Ad was alone at a cafeteria table for four.

‘George!’ Ad shouted. ‘Over here!’

George could see the other students’ heads bob up like curious meerkats as she approached. Joachim Guttentag said something to Klaus Biedermeier about her – she could tell – and started laughing too loudly. Dumkopf bastards, she thought. Of all the Erasmus placements I could have picked, I had to get lumped in with those two German jerks.

‘Hasn’t Fennemans started yet?’ she asked.

Ad shook his head. ‘There’s a delay. He wants to see you,’ he said. ‘Urgently.’

George’s heartbeat sped up. ‘Me?’

‘In his office.’ Ad rubbed his shorn head and grinned. ‘Don’t flirt with him now, will you? You know you’re his favourite girl.’

George made a retching noise and made for the stairs, remembering how only last week she had been subjected to yet another of Fennemans’ punishing bouts of public ridicule. He had whipped her term-end essay from the top of the pile with a flourish and held it in the air for all to see.

‘Behold, class,’ he had shouted, like a lesser Caligula, felling her in public for sport, with the glimmer of an erection in his depressingly tight trousers. ‘This is what happens when you think too highly of yourself and show little regard for rules. I gave McKenzie here a FAIL. A big, fat FAIL. In red pen. See? And why?’ The dramatic pause of a deluded despot, of course. ‘Because this little lady here thinks she can hand in essays late.’

Eleven minutes late. But too late for him.

George climbed the stairs with deliberate sluggishness. Sighed resignedly when she reached the door that bore the sign, ‘Dr Vim Fennemans, Head of Faculty’. Knocked twice and walked in.

Fennemans was sitting bolt upright behind his desk, a peculiar shade of grey. George realised why.

Senior Inspector Paul van den Bergen was wedged into an armchair just behind the open door. His long grey-trousered legs stuck out; George narrowly missed tripping over his brogue shoes in the small office. Jesus, he must have size thirteen feet.

‘Ah, Little Miss McKenzie,’ Fennemans said. He looked at his watch pointedly. ‘So glad you could join us today.’

She watched van den Bergen closely to see what those sharp grey eyes told her. Did he see Fennemans for what he was?

Van den Bergen cleared his throat. He stood up and held out his hand to George. She shook it. Warm, dry palms. A firm grasp. He looked at her directly.

‘Ms McKenzie,’ he said. ‘I saw you on the morning of the explosion. I gave you my card. Thanks for coming.’

Why had this man sought her out? How had he managed to trace her after the most fleeting of exchanges in the midst of mayhem? George’s racing mind was stalled by the sound of Fennemans scraping his chair on the linoleum floor.

‘Sit down, girl!’ Fennemans said.

He had put on his smart shiny jacket, George observed. He looked like he had had a blow-dry.

‘Your hair’s looking positively bouffant today, Dr Fennemans,’ George said.

Fennemans thumbed the flaking skin on his earlobe. A smile formed a thin, translucent veneer over a thick layer of venom. ‘Mr van den Bergen here thinks you may be able to help his investigation into the explosion. He thinks you—’

Van den Bergen leaned forward. ‘Do you mind if I explain what I think, Dr Fennemans?’ he asked.

He stared at Fennemans until the faculty head folded his hands over his belly in a gesture of temporary defeat.

‘How can I help?’ George asked. Excitement started to fizz in her empty stomach. She hoped van den Bergen couldn’t detect the stale smell of marijuana clinging to her coat.

‘You’re top of your class,’ van den Bergen stated. He pulled out a notebook. ‘In your third year of a Social and Political Science degree at St John’s College, Cambridge University, England,’ he read. ‘A prized exchange student on a scholarship. Outstanding results, excellent languages: English, Spanish, some Arabic – you know, I like your English accent when you speak Dutch – special knowledge of the politics of Muslim unrest in the Middle East and terrorist factions in the West. Your Cambridge supervisor says you have the finest analytical mind she’s seen in years. Not a bad track record for someone who’s only twenty.’

My Cambridge supervisor? George swallowed hard, desperate to know exactly how much he had found out about her in the space of two days. She tried to regulate her ragged breathing.

‘Detective,’ Fennemans said, standing up. He started to leaf through some periodicals stacked on a shelf. ‘You may have read the highly regarded article I recently had published in The Volkskrant Magazine about tensions between Israel and Palestine. There’s nothing McKenzie here can offer you that I, as Head—’

‘I’m a senior inspector. Sit down, please.’ Van den Bergen crossed his legs and flung an arm loosely over the side of his armchair, as though he were making himself feel right at home in Fennemans’ space.

George did her best to hide a nervous smile.

Van den Bergen flipped over the page on his pad and fixed George with a steely gaze. ‘You’re a blogger,’ he said.

‘Yes. I’m just writing a guest post for The Moment.’

‘A student rag,’ Fennemans interrupted. His voice sounded strained. ‘In my opinion, Inspector, you should know McKenzie lacks the experience and discipline to—’

Van den Bergen held a hand up to Fennemans. Leaned in towards George. She felt like Fennemans had been shut off behind soundproof glass.

‘Listen, Ms McKenzie, I have to catch a Muslim cleric, allegedly operating a terrorist cell out of a mosque in Maastricht a.s.a.p.’

‘Abdul Youssuf al Badaar,’ George said. ‘Yeah, I read the news.’

Van den Bergen nodded. ‘Problem is, he’s not a Dutch citizen, so we can’t trace him easily. No tax or social security records connected to him. No address. No Europol or Interpol information. Nothing but a name, an online confession and a photo. And the fundamentalist websites where he’s posted his claim to fame are all hosted in the Middle East, so there’s a mountain of red tape for us to cut through to get the identities of web authors.’ Van den Bergen stared down at his broad, square palms as though he were looking for clues there. He looked up and locked eyes with George. ‘But personally, I’m wondering why a terrorist has targeted a student library in Amsterdam of all places. Does al Badaar have an inside contact or followers within the student population? Who was the suicide bomber?’

George absentmindedly reached for a cigarette and poked it into her mouth. Fennemans clapped his hands together and pointed to a ‘No Smoking’ sign on the door.

‘Are you stupid, McKenzie?’ he shouted.

George clenched her fist until her knuckles were pale. She slowly took the cigarette out of her mouth, toying with the idea of lighting it as some small act of defiance. But no. Sally had expressly told her to keep out of trouble. To keep a low profile. And there was something about van den Bergen that intrigued her. She didn’t want him to think her an idiot. Reluctantly, she put the cigarette away.

‘So, where do I come in?’ George asked.

‘Maybe you could make your article for The Moment about the bombing,’ van den Bergen said. ‘See if you can reel al Badaar in with a provocative piece. The Moment has an impressive international readership, and these clerics and their disciples like mouthing off on the internet. If you get comments on your post, we can hopefully trace those. It’s a long shot. But it’s a shot worth taking.’

‘What? You want me to spy? To be bait?’ That fizz of anticipation in George’s stomach had really started to bite now.

‘Let’s say you’d be our student intelligence source,’ van den Bergen said, smiling. ‘Obviously, we’ll give you full protection if we think you’re in any danger.’

The last thing George wanted was a babysitter with a police badge. She looked hard at van den Bergen. Today he hadn’t missed a patch while shaving. He had the good, lightly tanned complexion of somebody who spent time in the outdoors. The expressive lines around his eyes and mouth said he was close to forty, but a head full of prematurely white hair made him look nearer fifty if you didn’t look too carefully. Beneath the tailored raincoat that he wore, the slightly frayed collar of his shirt was open slightly. She could imagine the wiry musculature of a man who was still in good shape. She pouted as she made these mental notes.

‘I’ll do what I can,’ she said, already imagining the dressing down she would get from Sally. ‘Do you think he’ll strike again?’

Van den Bergen stood up and stretched out his hand towards her. The conversation was at an end. He was already at the door.

‘I hope not,’ he said. ‘But with the person or people behind this attack at large, who knows?’

Joachim Guttentag returned to his room that afternoon in good spirits. He had scored some whizz and coke from his usual man in the morning, knowing it would make him the most popular boy at the party.

Smuggling illegal drugs over the border into Germany was never a problem for Joachim. Apart from a change at Utrecht, the Nederlandse Spoorwegen train journey from Amsterdam to Cologne was short and completely unremarkable. By the time Joachim changed to a train bound for Heidelberg, the danger of discovery would be long gone.

He dialled Klaus’ number on his mobile phone. After three rings Klaus picked up.

‘Are you packed?’ he asked his more popular friend.

‘Nearly,’ Klaus said. ‘Are we good now?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry about what happened. I didn’t mean to …’ Klaus’ voice was thick with contrition.

‘Forget it. We’ll work it out. Where are you? You sound like you’re on a busy street.’

‘Did you score?’

Joachim wondered why Klaus had ignored his question. There was definitely still unease between them after the argument. He could feel it. Perhaps the journey south would smooth things over. ‘Yeah. Enough to last over Christmas, if need be. So, tonight at Maike’s place in Utrecht?’

‘Yes.’

‘And then home by tomorrow lunchtime. A meal with my folks. See the boys in the evening.’

‘Damn right. I’ve been sharpening my blade just for Gunter in Ghilbellinia, the fat bastard.’ Klaus chuckled at the other end of the phone.

‘The train leaves Amsterdam Central Station at 16.48,’ Joachim said. ‘I’ll meet you at quarter past under the departures board, just to be on the safe side. Okay?’

The phone call ended. Joachim checked his reflection. He looked as well as could be expected for someone who would always be underwhelming. His mousy hair flopped onto his forehead as though it had given up. His skin had an unhealthy yellow tinge to it from too many late nights and cigarettes. He had still failed to put on weight despite eating an extra portion of frites with mayo every day. But his scars looked good. He fingered the one that ran from his left eyebrow to his jawline. It was the deepest. He had packed it to make sure it wouldn’t heal without leaving a good deep schmiss – a scar. It was the one that made girls want to find out more about this mysterious German stranger. Duellers nowadays were supposed to be discreet about their fraternity exploits; their obsession with sharp swords; their ostentatious wearing of the sash and cap. But if it made him more interesting to women …

Joachim picked up his list from the neat, dust-free desk in his uncluttered room.

‘Cola and snacks,’ he said, flicking his finger at the paper.

He collected his wallet from his desk and shoved his feet hastily into his trainers. He had just enough time to run to the Albert Heijn on the corner before he left. Kiosks in the train station were so much more expensive and Joachim was a careful sort. Klaus was right. Why should he put his father’s money in the pockets of the Blacks and Arabs?

As he slammed his door shut, he realised he had left his jacket on the end of the bed. It didn’t matter, though. He would be back within ten minutes, tops.

It was an ordinary beginning to what would almost certainly be an ordinary journey home at the end of the semester except that, under the bright lights of his local Albert Heijn supermarket, Joachim felt like he was being watched.

As he gathered his shopping and entered the alley that led back home, he just had time to register a stinging sensation in his neck before everything went black.