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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СКАЧАТЬ year for Fennemans. But George wasn’t listening. She was transfixed by one of the full-height windows. It reflected what was going on behind her, and in the glass, she thought she saw someone familiar. Was it Filip? She dropped her fork onto her plate with a clatter and turned around. Nobody there.

      ‘You’re acting really strangely, you know,’ Ad said.

      I’m smoking too much weed, George decided. I’m getting a paranoid head on. That’s all.

      ‘I had a late night,’ she said. ‘You know. Research.’

      ‘Come over to Ratan’s with me. I promised Rani I’d drop by. She’s been driving me nuts, asking where he is. Has he been to football? Did he change his mind after the party? Like I’d know! Nobody’s heard from him since before Christmas.’

      Ad’s mobile phone suddenly pinged. He picked it up and frowned at the screen. Then he smiled.

      ‘Anything interesting?’ George asked.

      ‘It’s Astrid. She’s coming down this weekend.’ He tapped away at his keypad with his thumb. He was smiling but George could see his demeanour was stiff. Maybe he felt on show; exposed with a cynical audience watching and judging his every move.

      George delved into her coat pocket and pulled out a ten-euro note.

      ‘Look,’ she said. ‘It’s all I’ve got. I’m going. Thanks for this. I’ll see you later. I’ve got Cambridge stuff to do.’

      Ad looked up at her with eyes that seemed to betray both relief and disappointment. Or maybe he just looked up at her and felt nothing. George couldn’t tell.

      ‘It was my treat,’ he said. ‘I don’t want your money. One friend to another. You needed a break.’

      He held the bank note up to her. One friend to another. George swung her bag onto her shoulder and walked away, leaving Ad clutching her money. When he didn’t run after her, she felt like somebody had put a hand inside her chest and squeezed her heart hard.

      ‘Hey, honey,’ Katja shouted as George entered the coffee shop. ‘Come and join us.’

      Katja and Jan were sitting together at a table by the till. Katja was wearing her pre-shift clothes: jeans and a pink, baggy sweater. They were drinking coffee. Jan was smoking the largest joint she had ever seen. It looked like a Cuban cigar.

      ‘What’s up with you, little Georgina?’ Jan asked in English. ‘You look like somebody took a piss in your vla.’

      George threw her bag onto the floor and shrugged. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,’ she said. She looked at Katja’s backstreet Botox trout pout and forced herself to smile. ‘Have either of you seen anyone hanging around my flat?’ she asked.

      Jan dragged hard on his spliff. ‘You mean the spotty boy?’

      ‘Ah, Mr Lover Man from before Christmas,’ Katja nodded, knowingly.

      George groaned and grabbed the joint from Jan. When she was satisfied that the tip was still dry and spit-free, she inhaled the pungent smoke and felt instantly as though somebody had pushed down hard on her head.

      ‘His name’s Filip.’ she said. ‘He’s not that spotty.’

      ‘Honey, you can do so much better,’ Katja said. ‘And I thought you had it going on with the other one. The pretty boy with glasses.’

      George looked at her short fingernails. She looked anywhere but at Katja. Katja leaned forward and held her gently by the chin. George reluctantly met her neighbour’s ice-blue eyes.

      ‘There’s nothing going on between me and Ad,’ George said. ‘He’s a friend. The other one was just … just a booty call.’

      Katja let her chin go and clapped her hands. ‘If you’re going to have such low standards, darling, you should sell it. Men would pay through the nose for a piece of that perfect round ass. You can sublet my room when I’m off shift.’

      ‘No thanks,’ George said, feeling the corners of her mouth jerk upwards into a smile. ‘But cheers for the offer.’

      ‘Any time, honey.’ Katja drained the contents of her coffee cup and wrapped a piece of her blood-red hair around her index finger. ‘Any time. It’s just supply and demand.’

      James Brown suddenly shrieked inside George’s pocket, making her jump. She held her phone to her ear. It was Ad.

      ‘Can you come over to Ratan’s?’ he said. ‘I need your help.’

      He needed her. Trying to make nice after de hortus? A mischievous glimmer of glee sparked within her, lighting up the dark places.

      ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘I’m busy.’

      ‘The landlady hasn’t seen him either but she won’t let me in his room. He could be ill in there or dead or anything, I suppose.’

      ‘You think I can charm the landlady?’ she asked.

      There was a pause. ‘The landlady’s Black,’ Ad said.

      George sucked her teeth. This wasn’t quite the show of contrition she was hoping for but it was something. ‘He’s just off Herengracht, isn’t he? Hartenstraat. I’ll see you in about ten. Wait outside.’

      ‘Had you received any threats prior to the bombing?’ van den Bergen asked Fennemans.

      Fennemans sat behind his desk, running his fingers along the wooden tabletop. Van den Bergen felt like the academic had cultivated the wide-eyed, questioning appearance of a bewildered child. He had not worn that face when he had given George McKenzie a hard time and called her ‘Little Miss’.

      ‘None whatsoever, Detective,’ Fennemans said.

      ‘It’s Inspector.’

      ‘So sorry. As I’ve already told you, I can only assume that the Bushuis bombing is unrelated to the faculty. That the terrorists just selected a university building at random.’

      ‘And do you have any connections 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 СКАЧАТЬ