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 English, Spanish, some Arabic – you know, I like your English accent when you speak Dutch – special knowledge of the politics of Muslim unrest in the Middle East and terrorist factions in the West. Your Cambridge supervisor says you have the finest analytical mind she’s seen in years. Not a bad track record for someone who’s only twenty.’

      My Cambridge supervisor? George swallowed hard, desperate to know exactly how much he had found out about her in the space of two days. She tried to regulate her ragged breathing.

      ‘Detective,’ Fennemans said, standing up. He started to leaf through some periodicals stacked on a shelf. ‘You may have read the highly regarded article I recently had published in The Volkskrant Magazine about tensions between Israel and Palestine. There’s nothing McKenzie here can offer you that I, as Head—’

      ‘I’m a senior inspector. Sit down, please.’ Van den Bergen crossed his legs and flung an arm loosely over the side of his armchair, as though he were making himself feel right at home in Fennemans’ space.

      George did her best to hide a nervous smile.

      Van den Bergen flipped over the page on his pad and fixed George with a steely gaze. ‘You’re a blogger,’ he said.

      ‘Yes. I’m just writing a guest post for The Moment.’

      ‘A student rag,’ Fennemans interrupted. His voice sounded strained. ‘In my opinion, Inspector, you should know McKenzie lacks the experience and discipline to—’

      Van den Bergen held a hand up to Fennemans. Leaned in towards George. She felt like Fennemans had been shut off behind soundproof glass.

      ‘Listen, Ms McKenzie, I have to catch a Muslim cleric, allegedly operating a terrorist cell out of a mosque in Maastricht a.s.a.p.’

      ‘Abdul Youssuf al Badaar,’ George said. ‘Yeah, I read the news.’

      Van den Bergen nodded. ‘Problem is, he’s not a Dutch citizen, so we can’t trace him easily. No tax or social security records connected to him. No address. No Europol or Interpol information. Nothing but a name, an online confession and a photo. And the fundamentalist websites where he’s posted his claim to fame are all hosted in the Middle East, so there’s a mountain of red tape for us to cut through to get the identities of web authors.’ Van den Bergen stared down at his broad, square palms as though he were looking for clues there. He looked up and locked eyes with George. ‘But personally, I’m wondering why a terrorist has targeted a student library in Amsterdam of all places. Does al Badaar have an inside contact or followers within the student population? Who was the suicide bomber?’

      George absentmindedly reached for a cigarette and poked it into her mouth. Fennemans clapped his hands together and pointed to a ‘No Smoking’ sign on the door.

      ‘Are you stupid, McKenzie?’ he shouted.

      George clenched her fist until her knuckles were pale. She slowly took the cigarette out of her mouth, toying with the idea of lighting it as some small act of defiance. But no. Sally had expressly told her to keep out of trouble. To keep a low profile. And there was something about van den Bergen that intrigued her. She didn’t want him to think her an idiot. Reluctantly, she put the cigarette away.

      ‘So, where do I come in?’ George asked.

      ‘Maybe you could make your article for The Moment about the bombing,’ van den Bergen said. ‘See if you can reel al Badaar in with a provocative piece. The Moment has an impressive international readership, and these clerics and their disciples like mouthing off on the internet. If you get comments on your post, we can hopefully trace those. It’s a long shot. But it’s a shot worth taking.’

      ‘What? You want me to spy? To be bait?’ That fizz of anticipation in George’s stomach had really started to bite now.

      ‘Let’s say you’d be our student intelligence source,’ van den Bergen said, smiling. ‘Obviously, we’ll give you full protection if we think you’re in any danger.’

      The last thing George wanted was a babysitter with a police badge. She looked hard at van den Bergen. Today he hadn’t missed a patch while shaving. He had the good, lightly tanned complexion of somebody who spent time in the outdoors. The expressive lines around his eyes and mouth said he was close to forty, but a head full of prematurely white hair made him look nearer fifty if you didn’t look too carefully. Beneath the tailored raincoat that he wore, the slightly frayed collar of his shirt was open slightly. 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. СКАЧАТЬ