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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double doors flapped open. Van den Bergen emerged.
‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘We’re ready.’
George fell into step with Ad behind the inspector. Had she bitten off more than she could chew? Ad took her hand. It felt warm and comforting. She felt like they were children venturing together into a dark forest full of ill intent and misadventure.
They entered a cluttered lab, where serious-looking people busied themselves over tiny test-tubes, pipettes and microscopes. Their heads were covered by white mop caps, they wore surgical masks over their mouths, white coats over their clothes.
Van den Bergen led them to a windowless office where a woman was already seated. She was dressed in green scrubs. Her caramel-coloured hair was cut short into the nape of her long neck, which suited her sharp features. Though she was relatively youthful-looking, she exuded cold authority which betrayed her age. George calculated that she was probably about forty years old.
‘These are the kids for the ID,’ van den Bergen said simply.
The woman rose and held her hand out to greet George first and then Ad. George was sure she could see a flicker of recognition pass between Ad and the woman.
‘I’m Dr Marianne de Koninck,’ she said. ‘I’m the head of the forensic pathology team.’
Van den Bergen pulled two bent wood chairs out for George and Ad. He indicated that they should sit.
‘Dr de Koninck here has just come up from the autopsy on the only deceased victim from the Utrecht blast,’ he said. ‘We believe it’s the bomber.’
George sniffed and took a deep breath. The contents of the office were unremarkable: filing cabinets, a light box for viewing x-rays, desk, lamp, chairs. She realised that they weren’t going to be shown a cadaver after all. She exhaled heavily with relief.
‘Dr de Koninck. If you will,’ van den Bergen said.
The pathologist took some large photographs out of a brown envelope. She laid them on the table. George looked down at them and gasped. The photographs showed only a head, covered at the neck with green gauze. It was not apparent that the head had been decapitated but from what Jasper had said, she knew that only the head had been found severed and intact.
George gulped down bile and a late breakfast of stale pain au chocolat. She clutched her hand to her chest. ‘Joachim.’
Ad coughed.
‘Bin?’ was all he said.
Van den Bergen whipped a wastepaper basket out of nowhere just in time for Ad to vomit into it. George wrinkled her nose as the acidic smell stung in her nostrils. She rubbed Ad’s back, pulling some tissues out of her jeans pocket. The pathologist walked to the water cooler in the corner of the room and came back to the desk, proffering a plastic cup to Ad.
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