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 terror cell claims responsibility for suicide bomb”,’ she read.

      ‘What about De Telegraaf?’ Jan asked.

      Her fingers sped over the keyboard until the monitor revealed: ‘Jihad waged on Amsterdam.’

      Scanning the text, there, within the third paragraph, she spied Senior Inspector van den Bergen’s name. She tapped the screen.

      ‘I saw this guy. He says the blast victim toll stands at twelve injured, two critically. One set of human remains has been found in amongst the wreckage.’

      Jan tutted. ‘Do they know who it is?’ he asked.

      ‘The dead body?’ George read on, then shook her head. ‘He doesn’t say. Nobody saw anything suspicious. The cops are on the trail of a prime suspect.’

      ‘“It’s a miracle more weren’t killed”,’ Jan read. ‘Understatement of the bloody year. Hey, shall I roll you a joint?’

      ‘At eleven am?’ she said. ‘Seriously? Is this so you can bump up my rent?’

      Jan hooked his long, fuse wire hair behind his ear and wheezed with wry laughter. He turned to the murals painted in neon oranges, pinks, yellows and greens on the walls. Jimi Hendrix, a VW Camper van, Bob Marley, Jim Morrison and the peace sign. They were lit by a UV lamp that gave all the customers a Hollywood smile as a no-extra-cost bonus.

      ‘I’m going to paint a new one in your honour,’ he said. ‘Our Georgina. An English hottie, smoking a joint and wearing nothing but hotpants and an afro. They’ll come all the way from Brabant to buy my skunk and look at you.’

      ‘Go and make some fresh coffee, you old pervert,’ George said.

      Jan was still laughing as he disappeared between the giant cannabis plants into the back office.

      George frowned at the screen. She punched ‘Amsterdam suicide bomb’ into the search engines, draining the dregs of her coffee as she scanned the results: student discussion forums, more newspaper articles, some left-wing, some right-wing. She found scores of jihadist blogs listed, showing pictures of young men, holding replica guns with their heads wrapped in black fabric or Arabic shemagh scarves so that only their angry eyes were visible. The same name appeared on all of them, claiming responsibility for the Bushuis library explosion in bold type and large font.

      ‘Abdul Youssuf al Badaar,’ George said aloud. ‘You don’t look much.’

      His photograph showed that he was an ordinary middle-aged Muslim man with the obligatory beard and mosque hat. He looked benign.

      ‘Why in God’s name would you organise a suicide bombing outside an almost empty student library on a Saturday morning?’ she asked al Badaar’s photograph.

      She stared at the laptop screen for too long.

      ‘I’m going to be late,’ she said, glancing at her watch.

      In a city full of architectural romance and finery, the faculty in Nieuwe Prinsengracht sat like an ungainly, stout Aunt by the canalside. Inside, Ad was alone at a cafeteria table for four.

      ‘George!’ Ad shouted. ‘Over here!’

      George could see the other students’ heads bob up like curious meerkats as she approached. Joachim Guttentag said something to Klaus Biedermeier about her – she could tell – and started laughing too loudly. Dumkopf bastards, she thought. Of all the Erasmus placements I could have picked, I had to get lumped in with those two German jerks.

      ‘Hasn’t Fennemans started yet?’ she asked.

      Ad shook his head. ‘There’s a delay. He wants to see you,’ he said. ‘Urgently.’

      George’s heartbeat sped up. ‘Me?’

      ‘In his office.’ Ad rubbed his shorn head and grinned. ‘Don’t flirt with him now, will you? You know you’re his favourite girl.’

      George made a retching noise and made for the stairs, remembering how only last week she had been subjected to yet another of Fennemans’ punishing bouts of public ridicule. He had whipped her term-end essay from the top of the pile with a flourish and held it in the air for all to see.

      ‘Behold, class,’ he had shouted, like a lesser Caligula, felling her in public for sport, with the glimmer of an erection in his depressingly tight trousers. ‘This is what happens when you think too highly of yourself and show little regard for rules. I gave McKenzie here a FAIL. A big, fat FAIL. In red pen. See? And why?’ The dramatic pause of a deluded despot, of course. ‘Because this little lady here thinks she can hand in essays late.’

      Eleven minutes late. But too late for him.

      George climbed the stairs with deliberate sluggishness. Sighed resignedly when she reached the door that bore the sign, ‘Dr Vim Fennemans, Head of Faculty’. Knocked twice and walked in.

      Fennemans was sitting bolt upright behind his desk, a peculiar shade of grey. George realised why.

      Senior Inspector Paul van den Bergen was wedged into an armchair just behind the open door. His long grey-trousered legs stuck out; George narrowly missed tripping over his brogue shoes in the small office. Jesus, he must have size thirteen feet.

      ‘Ah, Little Miss McKenzie,’ Fennemans said. He looked at his watch pointedly. ‘So glad you could join us today.’

      She watched van den Bergen closely to see what those sharp grey eyes told her. Did he see Fennemans for what he was?

      Van den Bergen cleared his throat. He stood up and held out his hand to George. She shook it. Warm, dry palms. A firm grasp. He looked at her directly.

      ‘Ms McKenzie,’ he said. ‘I saw you on the morning of the explosion. I gave you my card. Thanks for coming.’

      Why had this man sought her out? How had he managed to trace her after the most fleeting of exchanges in the midst of mayhem? George’s racing mind was stalled by the sound of Fennemans scraping his chair on the linoleum floor.

      ‘Sit down, girl!’ Fennemans said.

      He had put on his smart shiny jacket, George observed. He looked like he had had a blow-dry.

      ‘Your hair’s looking positively bouffant today, Dr Fennemans,’ George said.

      Fennemans thumbed the flaking skin on his earlobe. A smile formed a thin, translucent veneer over a thick layer of venom. ‘Mr van den Bergen here thinks you may be able to help his investigation into the explosion. He thinks you—’

      Van den Bergen leaned forward. ‘Do you mind if I explain what I think, Dr Fennemans?’ he asked.

      He stared at Fennemans until the faculty head folded his hands over his belly in a gesture of temporary defeat.

      ‘How can I help?’ George asked. Excitement started to fizz in her empty stomach. She hoped van den Bergen couldn’t detect the stale smell of marijuana clinging to her coat.

      ‘You’re top of your class,’ van den Bergen stated. He pulled СКАЧАТЬ