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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She could imagine the wiry musculature of a man who was still in good shape. She pouted as she made these mental notes.
‘I’ll do what I can,’ she said, already imagining the dressing down she would get from Sally. ‘Do you think he’ll strike again?’
Van den Bergen stood up and stretched out his hand towards her. The conversation was at an end. He was already at the door.
‘I hope not,’ he said. ‘But with the person or people behind this attack at large, who knows?’
Joachim Guttentag returned to his room that afternoon in good spirits. He had scored some whizz and coke from his usual man in the morning, knowing it would make him the most popular boy at the party.
Smuggling illegal drugs over the border into Germany was never a problem for Joachim. Apart from a change at Utrecht, the Nederlandse Spoorwegen train journey from Amsterdam to Cologne was short and completely unremarkable. By the time Joachim changed to a train bound for Heidelberg, the danger of discovery would be long gone.
He dialled Klaus’ number on his mobile phone. After three rings Klaus picked up.
‘Are you packed?’ he asked his more popular friend.
‘Nearly,’ Klaus said. ‘Are we good now?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry about what happened. I didn’t mean to …’ Klaus’ voice was thick with contrition.
‘Forget it. We’ll work it out. Where are you? You sound like you’re on a busy street.’
‘Did you score?’
Joachim wondered why Klaus had ignored his question. There was definitely still unease between them after the argument. He could feel it. Perhaps the journey south would smooth things over. ‘Yeah. Enough to last over Christmas, if need be. So, tonight at Maike’s place in Utrecht?’
‘Yes.’
‘And then home by tomorrow lunchtime. A meal with my folks. See the boys in the evening.’
‘Damn right. I’ve been sharpening my blade just for Gunter in Ghilbellinia, the fat bastard.’ Klaus chuckled at the other end of the phone.
‘The train leaves Amsterdam Central Station at 16.48,’ Joachim said. ‘I’ll meet you at quarter past under the departures board, just to be on the safe side. Okay?’
The phone call ended. Joachim checked his reflection. He looked as well as could be expected for someone who would always be underwhelming. His mousy hair flopped onto his forehead as though it had given up. His skin had an unhealthy yellow tinge to it from too many late nights and cigarettes. He had still failed to put on weight despite eating an extra portion of frites with mayo every day. But his scars looked good. He fingered the one that ran from his left eyebrow to his jawline. It was the deepest. He had packed it to make sure it wouldn’t heal without leaving a good deep schmiss – a scar. It was the one that made girls want to find out more about this mysterious German stranger. Duellers nowadays were supposed to be discreet about their fraternity exploits; their obsession with sharp swords; their ostentatious wearing of the sash and cap. But if it made him more interesting to women …
Joachim picked up his list from the neat, dust-free desk in his uncluttered room.
‘Cola and snacks,’ he said, flicking his finger at the paper.
He collected his wallet from his desk and shoved his feet hastily into his trainers. He had just enough time to run to the Albert Heijn on the corner before he left. Kiosks in the train station were so much more expensive and Joachim was a careful sort. Klaus was right. Why should he put his father’s money in the pockets of the Blacks and Arabs?
As he slammed his door shut, he realised he had left his jacket on the end of the bed. It didn’t matter, though. He would be back within ten minutes, tops.
It was an ordinary beginning to what would almost certainly be an ordinary journey home at the end of the semester except that, under the bright lights of his local Albert Heijn supermarket, Joachim felt like he was being watched.
As he gathered his shopping and entered the alley that led back home, he just had time to register a stinging sensation in his neck before everything went black.
Ella Williams-May stared intently at the flickering old TV set, willing the night to pass without incident. A dark-haired actress was bouncing up and down on naked actor, Richard Gere’s lap. Officer and a Gentleman. The movie was so old that the quality of the picture would have been fuzzy even on a top of the range HDTV. But her mother liked Richard Gere and late-night pre-Christmas television was all about the repeats.
‘Turn it up,’ her mother said. ‘I can’t hear it.’
Ella tutted and turned the volume up a fraction.
‘More,’ her mother said.
‘But we won’t be able to hear if they come,’ she said.
‘Like I’m bothered tonight?’ her mother said. ‘I should be out partying, not babysitting you. It’s nearly Christmas, anyway. Can’t see anything happening tonight.’
Her mother dragged hard on her cigarette and exhaled through her nostrils. Ella thought she looked like a dragon when she did that. Letitia the dragon. With her shining long claws painted in rainbow colours; studded with diamanté; always fake.
Letitia the dragon took a swig from her glass of vodka and orange, rose from her sagging armchair and snatched the remote control from Ella.
‘Louder, I said,’ she barked. ‘Who’s the bloody parent in this house?’
Ella said nothing. Ella knew they should keep it low. Ella knew there could still be trouble.
Richard Gere’s friend had just hanged himself when trouble started.
Low voices out back. Dark shapes moving beyond the fence. Then, a broken bottle on the back path. Smash. Footsteps running away quickly. Whistles.
Ella grabbed her hockey stick.
‘Kill the lights,’ Letitia shouted, her cigarette twitching between her shaky fingers.
Loud knocking at the front door, then …
‘Don’t go,’ Ella said. ‘It’ll be—’
Letitia slid silently into the kitchen at the front. Ella followed, keeping low; creeping stealthily. She raised her head above the windowsill but Letitia was already standing tall, flailing her arms around, shouting.
‘Those bastards set fire to my house!’
Ella rushed to the front door ahead of Letitia. The door was open now, flames bubbling up the council’s standard-issue red paint, quickly extinguished with a pot full of liquid flung by Letitia. Letitia always had something fun in the pot standing by the door, ready to throw when the occasion demanded. Now the door reeked of petrol and piss. Glass on the floor out front. And, by the gate, an intact Coke bottle with a singed rag stuffed in the neck that had failed to ignite properly.
‘Petrol bomb! They petrol bombed us!’ Ella said, transfixed by the tableau before her.
She ran inside, heart thudding. She picked up the phone.
‘Don’t call the police!’ Letitia shouted. ‘Are you mad? Think I wanna be labelled as a grass?’
Ella ignored her and dialled 999. She held the receiver to her ear and squatted in the lounge where the flickering screen of the TV was the only source of light. Richard Gere was smiling now. Talking without sound. Lips moving. Carefree. Smart in his uniform. In the seconds she waited to be connected,