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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share them. But he had no intention of getting them out in front of this nagging toe rag. And where was that girl?
‘Look, I was feeling ill. It came down suddenly. You know how flu is. One minute you’re shivering a bit, the next you’re on your back. I went out for paracetamol. Ask the shop owner on the corner. He’ll corroborate what I’m telling you. And then I was in for the rest of the night with the stereo on. The walls are thin here. Ask my neighbour. I bet he heard my every cough and fart.’
The detective looked at him with suspicious eyes like black marbles. ‘Woah! We’re a bit defensive, aren’t we? Nobody’s accusing you of anything, Klaus.’
Just as Klaus began to feel sweat bead under his arms, the girl finally emerged from the bathroom. She had bad skin that clashed with her red hair, Klaus noted. But she had an excellent figure. She was a three out of ten head with a seven-and-a-half body. Maybe even an eight. He would probably fuck her if he had met her somewhere dark, like a nightclub and if he had had enough to drink.
She hooked the red hair behind her ear to reveal small pearl earrings, which Klaus liked.
‘We’re very, very busy with the investigation into the bombing, as you can imagine,’ she said, perching on a chrome kitchen barstool. ‘But obviously, Joachim is a student of the department connected to the Bushuis attack and we can’t afford to ignore an exchange student going missing over the holiday period. We need your help, Klaus. Where could Joachim be? What other friends might he be visiting?’
She was looking at him with inquisitive eyes. He tried to select a label for the particular shade of blue that her irises were.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m as stumped as you are. I cried off sick. That’s the last I heard of him. I can’t think where he could be. I hope you find the poor guy soon. He owes me a round of drinks and thirty euros.’
As the detectives stood to leave, Klaus was quick to show them out, deftly pushing the door to his bedroom shut en route.
Breakfast à trois felt distinctly awkward to George. Together, they sat at the kitchen table in silence. Ad stared at the screen of his laptop, intently reading the responses to George’s blogpost. Jasper sat playing with his balls through his pyjama bottoms and slurping his coffee loudly.
‘Do you have to do that?’ she asked him.
Jasper shrugged, stretched out his legs and farted loudly. He laughed heartily at himself. George wished he would go back into his room or go out. Men like Jasper were deliberately provocative. Looking for a reaction. She knew she was an easy target for a wind-up.
Ad looked up from the laptop. ‘You’re a pig, Jas. You’re making the milk in my coffee curdle.’
‘What is all this anyway?’ he asked.
George told him about her blogpost and al Badaar’s response.
Jasper gave a low whistle. ‘You shouldn’t be running the gauntlet with such a psycho,’ he said, slamming his coffee cup down onto the table. He didn’t use a coaster.
George’s eyes locked on the cup like a heat-seeking missile. ‘Use a bloody coaster, Jasper!’ she said. ‘Anyway, this matters. Some lunatic is out there, co-ordinating a bunch of suicide bombers. We’re all in danger.’
Jasper stood up suddenly. George wondered if he was going to poke fun at her in some way but instead, he left the kitchen. Moments later, he reappeared, clutching a piece of paper.
‘Look,’ he said, placing the paper on the table.
It was a computer print-out of a photo. The colour photo was of a severed foot.
‘What’s that?’ Ad asked, grimacing and putting his half-eaten sandwich on his plate.
George snatched up the print-out. The foot was large and veined. The toenails were neatly trimmed. The owner was clearly brown-skinned. There was an ornate tattoo around the ankle that looked like a pattern drawn by a henna artist.
‘It’s gone viral among the med students this morning,’ Jasper boasted.
‘Whose foot is this?’ George asked.
Jasper flung himself back onto his chair and rocked backwards. ‘It’s a photo of the only intact body part recovered from the Bushuis library bombing. They call the tattoo an anatomic variation. Somebody somewhere did that tattoo or has seen that tattoo. The police wanted to keep the foot under wraps until they had identified the bomber. But apparently some old detective pissed off someone in the forensics team. So someone leaked it and it’s doing the rounds on email.’
George’s heart started to beat wildly. ‘How much do you know about what forensics have found out?’ she asked. Jasper had a propensity to show off. She looked into his bright blue eyes and wondered how well her bullshit detector was working after such a late night, surfing the web for mad Mujahidin, self-defence tactics and celebrity stalkers.
Jasper shrugged. ‘Apparently the human remains had to be scooped up into bags. Apart from some teeth and this foot. They’ve not found a DNA match on the national criminal database but they’ve narrowed it down to an Asian man.’
‘No surprise there if it’s fundamentalist Muslims,’ Ad said. ‘That tattoo looks familiar though. Maybe it’s common.’
‘I think they’re going to try to place the fillings in a couple of the molars. Pinpoint the country where they were originally put in the bomber’s mouth. They can tell the bomber’s age from the teeth and ossification of the bones in the foot. They can start to build a bit of a profile from there.’
Yes, he was showing off now. George could tell. But it didn’t have the feel of bullshit.
‘How do you know all this, Jasper?’ George asked, sniffing hard.
Ad chuckled and pushed Jasper in the elbow. ‘He’s shagging none other than Doctor Marianne de Koninck, head honcho on the forensics team!’ he said. ‘Sender of terrible Santa cards, lonely divorcee and—’
‘She’s in great shape for an older woman,’ Jasper said, grinning at Ad.
‘So, have they found anything else interesting?’ George asked. She wanted to press hard for information. She could feel the burn of curiosity inside. She needed facts like a fix. She realised, suddenly, this was more for her than just idle interest or the novelty and flattery of being needed as an informant by the police.
Jasper picked up the cafetiere of coffee and poured himself a fresh cup. ‘Only thing I know is they found shreds of cardboard at the scene,’ he said. ‘Nobody can work out why. They thought maybe it was debris from the offices but Marianne was working in Utrecht and apparently it’s the same score there. Cardboard. Weird eh?’
George looked at Ad’s furrowed brow as he listened to his flatmate. Cardboard. A placard? A box? Detritus from the bomb site?
‘Did they find any human remains there? In Utrecht?’ she asked. She didn’t think for a moment that Jasper would know any more at such an early stage.
‘A head,’ he said.
Ad spurted his mouthful of coffee all over his plate. George snatched up some kitchen roll and started to dab at the coffee-splashed tabletop with it. She stared at Jasper, open-mouthed. Dumbfounded.
‘They’ve found an almost unscathed head,’ Jasper said as though it was the most ordinary observation in the world. ‘Must have been blown clean off like the foot in Bushuis. Blunt trauma. But everything else was incinerated or just blown to smithereens by the blast and fire.’
George winced and put her kitchen roll down. She tried to imagine the force that was strong enough to rip a man’s head from his body.
Jasper leaned forward. His face was bright pink with what she presumed was excitement. His breath smelled of coffee and sore throat. Clearly, there was more …
‘And get this,’ he said. ‘The Utrecht bomber