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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      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 was white.’

       Chapter 8

       3 January

      ‘A dead white bomber changes everything,’ George said. ‘I want to get in touch with Marianne de Koninck. Ask her about the head … Do you think Jasper will give me her number?’

      ‘I think you should bow out gracefully from this thing,’ Ad said. ‘Van den Bergen’s been using you. Let him choose somebody else to spy for him.’

      It had been Ad’s idea to cycle down to de hortus – the botanical gardens. He thought she was looking overwrought. Thought the change of scenery would do her good. His treat. Now they stood side by side in the butterfly greenhouse. George breathed in deeply, wondering if this was the sort of private place where he might cross the line and kiss her again. She stared at a giant blue butterfly sitting on a glossy fat leaf of a breadfruit tree. It flapped its shimmering wings and she entertained the notion that the tiny disturbances it created in the humid air were somehow responsible for the chaotic whirl of thoughts and emotions that churned inside her; in equal parts intrigued by violent death; consumed by desire for Ad; in fear of her stalker.

      Ad kicked at the ground. ‘You’re not listening, are you?’

      George looked at him. Imagined his delicate-featured head detached from his shoulders. She pushed the ugly thought away.

      ‘Come on. I’ll buy you cake at the orangery,’ Ad said.

      Arm in arm, they brushed past the oversized leaves of a Chilean giant rhubarb, stretched out towards them in supplication like a beggar’s hands. Past the man who had been standing in the plant’s shadow, observing them for the last fifteen minutes. As George followed Ad back outside from the warm and tropical damp into the cold January air, in the furthest reaches of her peripheral vision, she thought she saw someone staring straight at СКАЧАТЬ