The Girl Who Got Revenge: The addictive new crime thriller of 2018. Marnie Riches
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den Bosch himself.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean—’
Van den Bergen merely pulled on his raincoat. ‘De Pijp.’
‘Den Bosch’s home turf? Nothing came of the door to doors,’ Elvis said, buttoning his leather jacket. ‘Me and Marie knocked every single neighbour up within a quarter of a mile radius. Most weren’t even keen to open the door to us, let alone say anything about the man down the street.’
Tossing the key to his Mercedes into Elvis’s hands, Van den Bergen took a final slurp of his now-cold coffee. ‘Wait for me in the car. Anyone who seemed overly reluctant to talk about their charming tattooed neighbour…they’re the ones who will have the most interesting tales to tell. You mark my words.’
Striding with apparent purpose down the corridor, though everything was still tender from the gastroscopy, he entered the fug of Marie’s dedicated IT suite. She was sitting with her back to him, sucking on the ends of her fingers, an empty packet of paprika-flavoured Bugles on the desk by her keyboard.
‘I’m going to tell George to stop bringing you those from England,’ he said. ‘She’s enabling you and it’s wrong. Too much salt in the diet can lead—’
‘I’m a big girl, boss.’ Marie gave him a watery smile, watching as the gust of wind that Van den Bergen had brought in with him wafted the crisp packet into the air. It drifted to the floor like a misshapen parachute, landing softly amid the flotsam and jetsam of Marie’s previous snack attacks. She regarded it impassively, scratching at the new spot that had appeared on her cheekbone – the same size and milky hue as the cultured pearls in her ears. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’
‘Did you find anything at all from Den Bosch’s CCTV footage?’
‘No. I’ve gone through backups from the last three weeks and there’s nothing that could disprove what he’s said. The heavy goods vehicle in question shows up several times per week, gets loaded up, heads off with the produce. Then, after the theft is reported, you don’t see it again.’
‘And the driver?’
‘Definitely not the same man the port police arrested. The usual driver is a young guy in his early thirties, blond and overweight.’
Van den Bergen scratched at his stubble. ‘The bastard with the anthrax was in his fifties and dark-haired. If Den Bosch is somehow in the frame, maybe he’s not mixing his legitimate staff with his dodgy hired help.’ He closed the door to her room quietly. Approached her desk. ‘Listen, there’s something else I want you to look into.’
Marie hooked her red hair behind her ear and smiled knowingly. ‘Oh, here we go. Are you trying to get something below Minks’s radar?’
Grimacing, Van den Bergen reached into his trouser pocket and took out a USB stick. ‘Check out the photos on here.’ He cleared his throat, desperately trying to shake off the sensation that something was blocking his airway. ‘Two old guys, dead, with identical tattoos on their necks.’
Plugging the USB stick into her PC, Marie uploaded the files. Morgue photos of Arnold van Blanken and Brechtus Bruin filled the monitor screen. With a flurry of mouse clicks in rapid succession, she zoomed in to reveal the crowned lions, flanked by the S and 5. ‘Never seen that design before.’
‘Neither have I,’ Van den Bergen said. ‘That’s why I want you to look into it. We’ve got two guys – both ninety-five and both registered to the same doctors’ surgery – who have died within days of one another.’
‘Coincidence? Serendipity?’ she asked. Opening her desk drawer, she pulled out a bar of chocolate. ‘At ninety-five, I bet they were feeling bloody smug that they’d made it to such old bones or else just waiting for God.’ She peered thoughtfully at the photo of the smiling baby boy by her keyboard. ‘Not everyone’s lucky enough to make it to such old bones.’
Had a glassy film suddenly appeared on her eyes? Van den Bergen couldn’t be sure. He lifted his hand, ready to pat her supportively on the shoulder, but realised that perhaps she didn’t want to dredge up the subject of cot death and loss over a bar of Verkade creamy milk.
‘Both had been prescribed wrong doses of medication by their doctor, leading to death from heart failure. Same GP. Do me a favour, will you? Can you also do a little digging into Dr Saif Abadi’s patient list and see who’s died recently – elderly people and those suffering cardiac arrest or sudden death. In fact, pull the register of deaths and make a list of everyone who’s keeled over in similar circumstances. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s decided to start bumping off the old and vulnerable.’
‘If that’s what’s happened,’ Marie added.
‘Yes. If. Oh, and don’t breathe a word about this to anyone until I know more. Okay? Minks is giving me heat about the refugee case.’
‘Has anyone even reported suspected foul play with these old men?’
He shook his head. ‘George is going to help me make discreet enquiries. I have a hunch…and I can’t let it go.’
Snapping her chocolate in two, Marie treated him to a yellow-toothed smile. ‘Leave it with me, boss.’
Amsterdam, the home of Kaars Verhagen, 10 October
‘You know…’ The old bastard wheezed fitfully, collapsing back into his wheelchair by the kitchen window. The timorous morning sun shone on his face, making the papery crumple of skin look almost translucent.
He imagined he could see through the network of blue veins to the bones beneath. Not long now till the blood would slow to a standstill, thickening and turning black.
‘The problem with life is you’ve got to die sometime.’ There was a volley of barking coughs. He sat in silence while the filthy old liar coughed up gobs of blood-streaked phlegm into a handkerchief. ‘Even at my age, you’re never ready for death.’ More wheezing, as if the speech had sucked all the air out of those decayed lungs, leaving nothing but the vacuum of thwarted instinct behind.
‘That’s why it’s important you take your medication, Kaars. Come on.’ He moved over towards the wheelchair and took the prongs from the oxygen tubing out of the old man’s nose. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll hook you back up in a second. Take the pills.’ The hiss and grind of the oxygen machine droned on in the background: the monotonous soundtrack to the quiet drama that was about to unfold. He dropped the tablets into that shaking, liver-spotted hand – the hairs on the back of it the only indication that this ancient man had ever enjoyed a prime.
Kaars Verhagen struggled to swallow down the medicine with the tepid water. Perhaps he’d choke to death! That wouldn’t do.
‘Come on now, Kaars,’ he said, banging the old man on the back. ‘Don’t choke. That defeats the object!’ He grabbed the glass of water impatiently from Kaars’s trembling hand and forced the pathetic old fart to sip again. ‘That’s right!’ he said, keeping his voice concerned and calm. ‘Just swallow.’
Finally, with the pills safely in his stomach, Kaars turned to him. Rail-thin now, even his appreciative smile looked like an effort. ‘I know I’m a goner,’ he said. ‘But I appreciate the treatment on the side. They’d written me off at the hospital. Too frail for experimental trials or extra chemo, they said.’ His words were swallowed by another big choking bout of coughing. His milky eyes looked fit to burst from his skull. ‘When you get to my grand age, they think you’ve had more than your three score and ten. Way more. They won’t fight for you. But you’ve fought for me.’ Tears came, then. He held his scrawny arms out, expecting a hug. It was only fair to reciprocate.
‘There,