The Girl Who Got Revenge: The addictive new crime thriller of 2018. Marnie Riches

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       CHAPTER 11

       Amsterdam, Oud Zuid, Kaars Verhagen’s house, 12 October

      Staring up at the brass plate on the door of the elegant townhouse in Oud Zuid, watching her breath steam on the air, George thought wistfully about her family, who were undoubtedly now all sprawled by the pool in Torremolinos.

      ‘I could be swigging rum and Coke in the sun, you know,’ she said, glancing up at Van den Bergen. But he wasn’t listening. He was burping quietly and rehearsing his opening gambit. ‘And bouncing some young Spanish waiter off the walls of my hotel room,’ she added. No reaction.

      Footsteps, behind the door, click-clacking on wooden flooring, by the sounds. Van den Bergen cleared his throat, fixing what approximated to a friendly, open smile on his face. All the anxiety surrounding his health and the candle perpetually burned at both ends, thanks to his job and his new grandfatherly responsibilities, seemed to have etched their way into his skin as permanent souvenirs of a life hard-led. In spite of her frustrations, George found she felt some sympathy for the contrary old fart. As the multiple locks on the other side of the door were undone, she squeezed his hand fleetingly. Planted a kiss on his knuckles, then faced forward, releasing him and shoving her hands in her pockets.

      ‘Can I help you?’ the woman said. She had only opened the door a fraction. Her voice was hoarse and timorous, her eyes red-rimmed. Her hair was dishevelled and greasy. George had her pegged as the grieving daughter.

      Van den Bergen showed his ID. ‘Chief Inspector Paul van den Bergen. This is my colleague, Dr Georgina McKenzie. We’re here about Mr Kaars Verhagen. And you are?’

      ‘Cornelia. Cornelia Verhagen. This is my father’s house. Was.’ Tears welled in her eyes and her lower lip began to tremble. ‘You’d better come in.’

      Inside, the double-fronted house smelled of plaster dust and new timber. But George caught a whiff of a medicinal top note and stale urine coming from the downstairs toilet as they passed from the hallway to a study that faced onto the quiet street. Packing boxes were strewn about, half-filled with books. Here, the air was mustier, heavy with decades of memories. Cornelia Verhagen gestured for them to sit on the old leather sofa, which squeaked beneath their weight.

      ‘Sorry for your loss,’ George said.

      Cornelia blew her nose loudly, nodding as if quiet acceptance was all that was left. ‘Thank you. My father was very old and very ill. I knew he had to go someday, but it still came as a shock.’ Her voice started to break. She tapped her chest as if trying to encourage a breaking heart to keep beating. ‘Silly, really. Sorry.’