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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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.
‘The Executive Board of the university wants a head on a platter,’ Kamphuis said. He rubbed his naked lady statue and rocked back on his chair. ‘I’m going to give them yours, Paul.’
Van den Bergen sat in the too-low visitor’s chair in front of Kamphuis’ desk and felt a stabbing, grinding sensation in his hip. With a surreptitious glance at his watch, he worked out that he had about an hour before the last lot of painkillers wore off. Then he would be in trouble.
‘So tell me. Why are you harassing Fennemans?’
Van den Bergen sighed. ‘Questioning. Not harassing. Janneke Polman was a lodger of Fennemans and overnight went from top-drawer student to dropout. I bumped into Fennemans at Central Station when me and Dirk were heading off to Maastricht to interview the imam.’
Kamphuis set the metal balls clicking on his retro desk-toy. But he was still staring at van den Bergen with obvious contempt. ‘And?