The Girl Who Wouldn’t Die: The first book in an addictive crime series that will have you gripped. Marnie Riches
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on the screen.
She pulled her mobile phone out from under her duvet and punched van den Bergen’s number into it. After three rings he answered.
‘What?’ he barked.
‘Have you read my blog?’
There was a brief pause the other end. ‘Yes.’
‘So? Did I do well?’ George smiled and kicked the duvet off.
‘Great. Thanks. Look, I’m busy with forensics. I’ll be in touch.’
The phone went dead.
‘He put the phone down on me. The cheek of it!’ George stared at the mouthpiece of her mobile.
George stood under a hot shower, watching the tiny beads of water clinging to the glass like glittering strings of binary code. Van den Bergen’s rejection and the prospect of spending another Christmas accompanied only by a bottle of wine and a large bar of chocolate held her spirits down. And Ad would be tucked up with the Milkmaid by now.
‘Goddammit. I hate Christmas!’ she shouted at the mildewed shower tray sealant.
When she returned to her room, she flung her heavy wash bag onto the bed, accidentally knocking her pillow off. Groaning, she picked up the pillow and noticed a greyish stain on the burgundy fabric.
‘That’s odd. This was clean on after Filip,’ she said, frowning.
She scratched at the stain and gave it a tentative sniff. Dried though it was, the smell of semen was still instantly recognisable.
En route to his destination, he had a little extra job to do.
From his vantage point, parked right outside, he could see the jaunty fairy lights twinkling on a Christmas tree within. An advent candle shone on the windowsill. Merry Christmas, cheating bitch.
He looked back at Joachim’s box. No sound. No movement. He had five minutes. That was all he needed.
Wearing black overalls and with blue plastic overshoes stuffed into his pocket, he opened the glove compartment to the van and pulled out the hunting knife and clipboard.
His tread on the block paving was so light that nothing heralded his approach. Pulling on his overshoes. Rapping on the door’s flimsy woodwork with a sure fist. Clipboard in hand. ID at the ready.
When the door was opened, her eyes flicked absently over the ID card in his hand.
‘There’s a possible gas leak?’ she asked.
Still, she had not looked at him properly. She seemed distracted. Her scrutiny finally turned to his face. She balked.
He left her no time to react further or speak. Pushed her inside, spun her round and dragged her along the hall into the house with a strong arm around her neck. Knife at the throat.
‘Make a sound and I’ll puncture your carotid artery. I want the money. Take me immediately to the money. Don’t try anything heroic. I want all of it. If you try to fight, I’ll kill you. Understand?’
She nodded. He held her tightly to him in this tango of terror. Then he noticed from the sudden warm feeling against his leg that she had urinated. Stupid cow.
The tip of his blade had pushed its way into her throat enough for a bead of blood to have appeared.
‘Count it,’ he said as she waved the wad at him. He didn’t look at her face. Only at the money.
‘Please don’t kill me,’ she said in a whimpering, simpering girl voice.
Ordinarily, of course, he loved being begged by a woman but he didn’t have time for that sort of nonsense today.
‘What did I say about making a sound?’ he asked.
With the envelope full of money in his top pocket and his overshoes stuffed back into his overalls, he was back in the van and pulling out of the drive before the girl had bled to death.
Van den Bergen took off his glasses, rubbed his tired eyes and stared blankly at the screen. Cardboard shreds. Clear evidence of plastic explosive and a mobile phone detonator having been used. Several molars containing fillings that weren’t from Europe. And a body part.
He started to chew on his Biro thoughtfully. De Koninck, the forensic pathologist, might eventually be able to track the dental work down to a specific country. Shreds of card intermingled with the human remains meant nothing to him though. Not yet, anyway.
In his peripheral vision, he could see Chief Inspector Olaf Kamphuis pulling on his coat and waving to one of the secretaries. He started to lumber over towards him. Van den Bergen could not stifle a groan.
‘I’m leaving,’ Kamphuis said, chins wobbling. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow evening to see how things are going.’ He ran a finger around his shirt collar and gave van den Bergen’s feet a venomous stare. ‘Am I going to have the pleasure of firing you for incompetence, Paul? Remember, I have the full weight of the Minister of the Interior and Kingdom Relations behind me. It would be quite a Christmas present.’
Van den Bergen gnashed his molars together and considered a response. Kamphuis did love his games.
‘I think the payout for constructive dismissal is quite hefty these days, isn’t it? That’s a very generous Christmas present you have in mind, Olaf. Too kind. Don’t choke on the ginger biscuits, now, will you?’
Kamphuis laughed wryly. ‘Very good, Paul. Touché, you big, lanky arsehole. See you tomorrow.’
With Elvis out for burgers and IT Marie gone for the evening, van den Bergen found himself alone in the office. Alone, baffled yet again by his job and utterly hacked off. His phone rang. It was his counterpart in Utrecht, Teun van der Putte.
‘Yes,’ he snapped.
‘Paul? Get your ass over here immediately. There’s been another bomb.’
‘Jesus. I wonder where that is,’ Ad said.
George felt his heavy breath on her hand. He smelled of deodorant and warm skin. When his knock came at her door, she had been poised to hit this unexpected visitor, thinking it might be her ejaculating intruder. The Stalker. She turned the words over in her mind, sampling how they felt, buckling under their ominous weight. But it had just been Ad, abandoning his early train back into the fluffy, baby pink arms of the Milkmaid. He had come bearing yuletide pity and a gift in a small, carefully wrapped package.
Happiness burned inside her with the white hot brilliance of magnesium held over a flame. Ad had a gift for her. He had delayed his return to Groningen. For her. She untied the blue ribbon and peeled back the expensive paper with trembling fingers.
‘Tea bags?’
George had not been able to contain the look of horror. She knew it had usurped the delighted smile and planted a flag of bitter indignation on her face. What had she been thinking anyway? Jewellery and perfume were things a man bought his girlfriend. The Milkmaid got those. She got fucking tea bags.
Ad had looked instantly wounded. ‘Sorry, I thought …’
Forcing her teeth to show in an encouraging fashion, she had hugged him quickly and assembled the words of gratitude in the right order before speaking them. ‘That’s the perfect present for me! Very sweet.’
He looked relieved. ‘You’re always out of tea.’ His face flushed. ‘Listen, can I check the train times?’
George had nodded and passed him the laptop. It was then that they had seen the headline on de Volkskrant’s home page.
‘Second suicide blast hits Utrecht. Live footage.’
Now, she focussed her attention on the YouTube video, posted only moments after the explosion. The amateur cameraman was talking fast as he shot the bedlam. He sounded frightened; exhilarated.
Springweg, Utrecht.
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