The Girl Who Wouldn't Die Part 1

The Girl Who Wouldn't Die.

Marnie Riches.

Dedication.

To Mum, who teaches me strength and perseverance.

Acknowledgements.

Novels are not developed in a petri-dish, and I'm glad they're not. Writing is perhaps the most fun I could ever have with my clothes on. But it's arduous graft too. In fact, the path to publication can be so fraught with travails and disappointment, at times, that this author would not have travelled far down it without the help of the following people: I owe an enormous debt of grat.i.tude to my family for their love, unflagging moral support and encouragement, so thanks to Christian, Natalie and Adam, always.

For his loyalty, patience and friends.h.i.+p, I would like to thank my partner-in-crime special agent, Caspian Dennis. Had he not championed my writing so valiantly, The Girl Who Wouldn't Die would still be just another file on my laptop.

Thanks are due, of course, to my editor, Katy Loftus and the team at Maze/HarperCollins for their energy and professionalism in publis.h.i.+ng and marketing the series, enabling me to push George and van den Bergen out into the big, wide world, where they belong.

Two people whose help was invaluable during the research phase for this novel are Sebastian Tredinnick and my bez, Louise Owen. What they don't know about Heidelberg ain't worth knowing. Cheers, guys!

Huge thanks are due to these fine people: To fellow writers, Steph Williams and Wendy Storer for listening to my almost constant fretting, griping and melodramatic nonsense. They kept telling me I could do this, so I did. To Ann Giles, aka Bookwitch, who persuaded me I have something to offer the crime genre. And to poet, Martin de Mello for his sage-like p.r.o.nouncements on the other bits of my life.

The idea for The Girl Who Wouldn't Die took shape during a dinner I had with author, Melvin Burgess, where I realised I could draw inspiration from my own youthful experiences and turn them into the sort of thriller I'd always aspired to write. Ta, Melvin!

Author, Anthony McGowan persuaded me to keep going with the ma.n.u.script, even in the face of a difficult birth, so thanks, Tony. The literary stretch marks and knackered pelvic floor have been worth it.

Font of publis.h.i.+ng wisdom and excellent mate, Shannon Cullen has spurred me on every step of the way. She told me that I had a voice that people would want to read and steered me in the direction of the Abner Stein Literary Agency, which led me to the esteemed Mr. Dennis. Her encouragement has been vital in my getting to this point. Thanks, Shannon.

Finally, thanks to the charismatic and strong women I met through Commonword/ Cultureword in Manchester. George is for you, ladies! I hope I've done her justice.

Prologue.

Amsterdam, 20 December.

Ratan Patil became aware of the noise before he had even opened his eyes. The drumming of shoes on hard ground. Was he in the middle of the flea-market on Waterlooplein? No, not a marketplace. He could hear sporadic traffic as well as people scurrying past him with purpose; not browsing. Young voices. Laughter. a.s.sailing him in a dizzying typhoon of sound.

Then sensation crept back into his body. He was stiff, cramped up like a foetus, freezing cold. His right hand throbbed as though it had been crushed under the weight of a mountain. Pain diced up the inside of his head in a violent frenzy. The intensity of it forced his eyes open.

It was dark, save for some light that found its way to him in thin perpendicular seams. He tried to stretch out his fingers to feel the s.p.a.ce that contained him, but his hands were pinioned to his sides. He could make out his knees. He was kneeling and yet he could feel nothing below his aching hips. His mouth was held firmly shut, lips pushed together by something unforgiving on the outside, swollen tongue wedged up against his teeth by the dryness of the inside. But he was too tired to speak anyway.

Breathing in slowly through his nose, he could smell something musty, like old paper. He stretched his neck, hoping his nose would hit something solid within the strange prison. If he could just touch it, maybe he'd understand.

Cardboard? Yes, a large cardboard box.

Ratan's heartbeat sped adrenalin around his body until he was suddenly drowning in fear and confusion. The scream was trapped inside, unable to escape the duct tape across his mouth. Frustrated, realising his limitations, he forced himself to breathe deeply and let calm in.

He started to remember.

The party had been the best ever. He had finally spoken to Rani. And boy, was she beautiful up close. More beautiful than she had ever looked across the lecture theatre. They had shared a joint that the English girl had rolled with Californian gra.s.s. It had made him feel brave, and he had shared a kiss with Rani that had been languorous and full of promise.

That one evening felt like the start of everything he had longed for.

The biting pain inside his skull had come from the walk home. Weaving his rebellious body, heavy with hash, hope and Grolsch, along the inky waters of the Herengracht towards home was heavy work. His ca.n.a.lside slalom was punctuated only by vomiting once and taking a pee against the wall on a bridge.

When he was coshed over the head, Ratan had been completely taken by surprise. The shadow of his attacker was all that he had seen; a silhouette sprawled across the cobbled pavement, stretched and distorted with an arm raised in readiness for a second blow. The attacker held something long in his hand. A stick? A baseball bat? A hammer? Who knew? Ratan felt the weight of the weapon push his head forward at an awkward angle. His vision had pixelated to nothing, like a screensaver switching off.

Now, Ratan found himself kneeling and bound inside a cardboard box. He blinked in the semi-darkness, trying to fathom his fate. Then he felt buzzing against his belly, and a dim, phosph.o.r.escent light came on inside the box. A phone on vibrate? But not his phone. His phone didn't make that noise. Then, in the fraction of his last bittersweet second, he remembered the rest: Waking after the blow to his head, he'd known he'd been drugged. He'd expected the room to spin after so much beer and dope but here, everything had looked wrong. Blurred around the edges. He was lying on something hard and flat in a room with a strip light glaring at him from behind his attacker's head. The shadowy stranger bent over him, working carefully at arranging something on Ratan's chest. Furrows of concentration in the man's brow. Fastidious fingers working quickly but not poking or probing his flesh. Then the grinding sound of duct tape being unfurled and pressing down on his ribcage until Ratan moaned.

The a.s.sailant realised his victim was awake. A syringe full of liquid soon pumped sleep and forgetfulness back around Ratan's body.

And now, inside the cardboard box, a phone had vibrated once, vibrated twice. Its phosph.o.r.escent light was not the s.h.i.+mmer of hope at the end of a tunnel. It was a dim torch lighting the way to death; guiding his Jiva towards the path of his ancestors. Ratan had seen enough films to make an educated guess at what might have been strapped to his chest. It was too late for fear. He regretted not having taken Rani up on her offer of going back to hers for coffee. Now he would never- Ratan's exploding body ripped a hole in the front of the Bushuis library on Kloveniersburgwal that was twenty feet high and seventeen feet and three inches across.

Chapter 1.

Amsterdam, 20 December.

'George! Wake up! It's me,' came a man's voice in the hallway.

Georgina McKenzie, called George by the select few she chose to count as friends, slept deeply on the lumpy old mattress on her bed. The insistent rapping on her door took more than a minute to register with her still drunk ears.

'George! Are you in there?'

She felt the morning trying to claim her from her stupor. She recognised the Groningen accent that wrapped itself thickly around her English name. Adria.n.u.s Karelse. Ad.

More knocking. 'Come to the door! I know you're in there. Come on. It's urgent!' Ad shouted.

Weak morning sunlight streamed through a c.h.i.n.k in the blackout curtains, jabbing at George's left eye until it opened. She saw dust motes dancing in a shaft of light that illuminated her twenty square metres of crumbling splendour like a strong torch.

'Go away, Ad,' George said under her breath.

She hoisted herself to sitting position and looked around through sticky eyes. She was naked. There was a dark-haired man lying next to her. She yanked back the duvet and gave him a quick, appraising once over, shuddering with distaste at the sight of his anaemic pallor next to the latte warmth of her own skin. She groaned.

'Filip? Aw, not Filip, man,' she muttered under her breath. 'I'm never drinking again.'

'George!' Ad sounded agitated. His voice was squeezed tight. He knocked again.

'Coming,' George answered.

She swung her legs out of the bed, knocking over an empty Heineken bottle. It spilled flat, stale beer onto yesterday's underwear. The sight of the mess made her heartbeat accelerate.

Panic. What could she use to cover herself? She grabbed at a tea towel hanging off a straight-backed antique Dutch dining chair, shoved underneath a scratched Formica table for two. Covering as much of herself as she could, she undid the two locks on the door.

'At last,' came Ad's voice through the wood.

George opened the door five inches and shoved her face up to the gap, hiding her nakedness.

'What's wrong?' she asked. She squinted at her friend in the murk of the hallway. He was shaking like he had drunk too much coffee.

'There's been a ma.s.sive explosion at the faculty library,' he said. 'Didn't you hear it?'

'What?'

'Bushuis library. I was on my way there. It's been wiped out.'

'What time is it?' George smacked her dry lips together and felt a draught on her back coming from the window. She wanted Ad to go away. She wanted her guest to get the h.e.l.l out as well.

'Gone nine,' Ad said. 'Come on. You've got to see this. Let's go.'

Ad pushed the door open, taking George by surprise. He peered into her room and she knew then he had seen everything.

'Filip?' he said.

She could hear the ridicule in his voice. She flushed hot with embarra.s.sment.

'Don't,' she said. 'Meet me downstairs in two.'

As she closed the door on Ad, she was sure she could see hurt in the intelligent brown eyes that hid behind his steel-framed gla.s.ses. She drew back the brocade curtains in sharp, angry movements, annoyed with herself for letting Ad see what she had done. Whom she had done. Why did he care so much anyway? He already had his blonde, Milkmaid childhood sweetheart back home. What was she called? Astrid or Margo or something like that. Screw him.

Feeling like her brain was packed with cotton wool, George peered out over the steep rooftops of Amsterdam's red light district. It had rained in the night, and now the roof tiles glittered in the morning sun.

She had the best view in the world; an exclusive view, hidden from those below. The judgemental. The respectable. The petty-minded. The paying punters who had eyes only for red-lit booths and the bongs in coffee shop windows.

Yes, it was a lovely morning. But then, on the horizon to her far right, George spotted a plume of black smoke. Thick and acrid, it curled up into the delicate blue of the morning sky like an angry fist. The explosion.

'My G.o.d!' she said. 'He's right. That's some fire.'

Wis.h.i.+ng she had the time to scrub away the blunted memory of her conquest in a hot shower, she hastily sprayed deodorant over her body. She threw on freshly ironed jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt, quietly chiding herself for putting clean clothes on a dirty body. She dragged her fingers roughly through her curly black hair.

'Lock up on the way out,' she said to a stirring Filip. 'Drop the keys in the coffee shop downstairs. Ask for Jan. Only give them to Jan, okay?'

'Are you leaving?' Filip asked, s.h.i.+elding his eyes from the glare of the day.

George answered him by closing the door behind her, relieved that she did not have to have the stilted 'let's just be friends' conversation over coffee made with almost sour milk.

Perhaps her imagination had been over-stimulated by the violent events that were unfolding just down the road. Or possibly it was just a paranoia hangover from the previous night's revelry. George was not entirely sure why, but as she undid the clanking, rusted U-lock that fastened her bike to the bike-rack, she felt inclined to look up.

She saw nothing but the unremarkable scene of dark, still water, the gnarled limbs of winter-bare trees, pointing to tempting shop windows that would later be crammed with sickly eye candy, dressed only in thongs and bras to satisfy the sweet, rotten tooth of the common, kerb-crawling h.o.m.o sapiens.

Flanked by Ad, George rattled on her old Dutch bike along the ca.n.a.ls and through the slowly waking streets. Suddenly the awkward silence between them was punctured by the wail of sirens; the sound of screaming. Her heartbeat quickened. She felt the heat; smelled diesel.

'We've got to stay together, okay?' Ad said, looking back at her with watery eyes and a red, pinched nose. 'It's like h.e.l.l on earth,' he said. 'You'll see.'

They rounded the corner of Bethanienstraat onto Kloveniersburgwal. Not yet cordoned off, the scene was spread before George like a poisoned feast.

Where the elegant period facade of the old library should have been was now a ragged, gaping mouth, belching fire and fume over the ca.n.a.l. Masonry and gla.s.s had been spat out into the street and into the oily water. Between the flas.h.i.+ng lights of the emergency services, queuing like impatient customers along the narrow stretch of road, George glimpsed a blackened crater in the pavement the size of a bus. It looked as though demons had tried to swallow the place whole.

'Stand back! Move back!' Policemen shouted, waving away the crowd that had started to gather and gawp.

'Nightmare,' George said.

Two paramedics hurtled towards her, pus.h.i.+ng an ambulance gurney with somebody strapped to it.

'Get out of the way!' one of them shouted at her.

Dumbfounded, she stepped up to the ca.n.a.l's edge to let the trolley through, hardly daring to look at its charred and screaming cargo.

The upper storey of the building exploded suddenly, hurling masonry and roof tiles into the sky. Screaming. Running. Horns honking.

'Get behind the fire truck,' Ad yelled, pulling her by her upper arm as brick rained down, bounced off the road and into the water.

She jumped over the fat fire hoses that snaked along the ground. Together, they squatted beside giant wheel arches of the red Brandweer fire service shelter.

'Jesus,' George said. 'What the f.u.c.k happened here?'

She peered out at the flaming building as it coughed up more and more of the injured on stretchers, some walking, clutching bloodied faces with lacerated hands.

Ad shook his head. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down. 'Gas pipe, maybe?'

George felt questions bubbling up inside her. She had been in Amsterdam for only five months but the library was an old friend to her now. A place where she could stroll through the halls of her mind in its book-clad gallery; a place where she could sit on the grand stone staircase and be reminded of Cambridge. The eastern wing of East India House Bushuis library to the students had stood on the ca.n.a.lside for over a hundred years and had never before, to George's knowledge, spontaneously combusted.

'Gas leak? I don't buy it,' she said.

Her eye was caught by pieces of A4 paper as they fluttered down from an office on the third floor. This solitary office had been left almost intact, as though somebody had just opened the doors of a doll's house to reveal what went on inside. George followed the paper's trajectory downwards until her gaze fell on a middle-aged man in a beige woollen coat with overstuffed shoulder pads that said 1990s Vroom & Dreesman: department store to the middle aged and woefully unimaginative. He looked grimly on the scene and spoke to a uniformed policeman. He made notes in a small pad.

'Come on,' she said, pulling Ad from their hiding place by his hand.