The Girl Who Wouldn't Die Part 21

Ella was forced to kick Tonya under the table. 'You're carrying weight under this s.h.i.+t and so am I,' she said. 'If we're rumbled, we're gonna get nicked. Now stop acting like you're cussing in Catford and be nice, yeah?'

Tonya tutted. 'Where's Big Mich.e.l.le at? She's been gone forever.'

Ella pointed at the toilet door on the other side of the lounge. At that moment, Big Mich.e.l.le wobbled out, pulling up tights through the habit's thick fabric. She made the sign of the cross at Ella and started to laugh raucously.

Inside, Ella felt stretched tight like an over-wound clock. Any minute now, and the whole thing would be blown apart. She wiped her mouth repeatedly with a hot hand until her grin disappeared; perused the menu in morose silence, taking care not to touch the microphone and small recording device strapped to her torso along with the bags of ecstasy. It was not going as she and the Gargoyle had hoped.

The Gargoyle. She thought about him; pictured him the last time they had met before this final Sister Act.

'Are you sure you're up to this?' the Gargoyle had asked her.

'Ready as I'll ever be,' she said, gripping the car's pa.s.senger seat as though it was going to save her from what was to come.

The Gargoyle had smiled sympathetically at her. His whisky drinker's nose was even more veined than before. He was red in the face and breathless. He looked old.

'You okay?' Ella had asked, offering him a piece of gum.

The Gargoyle nodded. 'It's giving up smoking. b.l.o.o.d.y stressful after forty years. I'm not sure I've got the moral fibre. But the old ticker, you know ...' He had patted his chest and given a hollow chuckle. 'This is a young man's profession.'

'So, can we run through the plans again?' Ella had asked, polis.h.i.+ng his dashboard with her sleeve.

The Gargoyle had taken out his pad and read his notes back to her.

'You're sailing to the Hook of Holland on the Stena Hollandica with Danny, Jez, Tonya and Big Mich.e.l.le. You're wearing a microphone. The mic will record up to one hundred and four hours of material but it's saved onto a memory stick which will be on your person. You give that to us when you finish. Now, you've got six and a half hours there and back on the ferry to talk. Make sure you get Danny to sing like a bird about his networks, the nutter Jez and all the heavy stuff he does on Danny's say so, the lot. The Dutch police are aware of the situation. They'll be watching.'

'They won't jump the gun, will they?' Ella had asked, feeling her fingers go cold with nerves.

'No. Don't worry about them. My opposite number there is a man who really knows his onions. He's after the Dutch supplier but he's playing the long game. There'll be no jumping the gun.' The Gargoyle had closed his eyes as though he was trying to marshal his interrupted thoughts. 'So, you get to Amsterdam. Danny makes the connect.'

'He won't see the mic, will he?'

'No. Just don't let him grope you and make sure you change into whatever fancy dress he's got planned in a toilet. Now, stop b.u.t.ting in and listen.'

Ella breathed in too deeply and felt lightheaded. She looked at the Gargoyle's s.h.i.+rt collar and spied a line of grey grime inside. She knew he was divorced. Men never looked after themselves properly once they'd got used to a woman doing everything. That was his excuse. But the grime still made her cringe slightly. Lately, things like that had been really bothering her. She had been was.h.i.+ng her hands. A lot.

'You divvy up the gear and bring it back on the ferry as planned,' he said. 'If you have any doubts at all, dump the mic behind the counter in the Riva Bar. Got it? We've got someone there. Last thing we want is you blowing your cover.'

'He's going to find the mic, I just know it.' Ella could hear in her voice the judder of her heart against the inside of her chest.

The Gargoyle patted her hand. It was a fatherly pat. It felt rea.s.suring. 'Stop worrying. You'll be fine.' He inclined his head towards her, frowning. 'Look, you're sure you can do this? I mean, it's been a long time now. You haven't got ... attached, have you?'

Ella shook her head but in the private s.p.a.ce of her thoughts, she nodded, just slightly. It had been the best time of her life, gift-wrapped in s.h.i.+t. 'Don't worry about me,' she told the Gargoyle. 'This isn't just about saving my mother's a.r.s.e any more.'

The Gargoyle nodded, smiling in a kindly way. 'You're a clever young woman. And a sticker too. I admire you for that, Ella. And I'm personally grateful for everything you've sacrificed. I can't begin to imagine how horrible it must have been.'

Ella walled the violent memories, the dirty feelings and the guilt up inside her head. This was always about me and the Gargoyle and doing the right thing in the end.

'I knew what I was getting into,' she said. 'You mustn't feel bad. You've been okay. Just make sure you deliver your side of the bargain and I'll deliver mine.'

The Gargoyle smiled. His relief was almost tangible. She knew he was a man of principles. An old-fas.h.i.+oned straight cop. 'Good,' he said, patting her hand again. 'And I want you to know, if you want, there's a future for you in the police. You could be an undercover detective any day of the week.'

Respect. The Gargoyle was the first person ever to show her respect, and she liked that. Better than a hit from a bong. Better than a line of c.o.ke. It was as though the clouds had parted and the sun had shone through warm and bright, just for her. The feeling quelled some of her fear.

'Cheers,' she said simply. 'Go on. Plans.'

'Right. You all get nabbed by our fellas. We bang you up like the others. Don't want to blow your cover, do we? Not yet. But I'll be there at the port. I'll get you out, of course, and then we've got all the evidence. We sort it out from there. Simple.'

'And then, new life, here I come?' Ella had said. It was the fourth time she had asked the Gargoyle this since she got in the car.

'Yes. New life, here you come. After you've testified, obviously.'

It had all seemed so simple in the car, talking in confidence with the Gargoyle. And it had all gone according to plan up to a point.

Danny, Jez, Tonya, Big Mich.e.l.le and Ella had boarded the Hollandica wearing respectable business suits, carrying accountants' briefcases full of nothing much and small weekend suitcases containing wads of notes wrapped up in towels.

They whiled away the journey there talking about the deal; gossiping about Danny's contact.

'He's called Stijn, man. And it's p.r.o.nounced like stain!' Danny said.

Jez spat beer all over the floor of the bar. 'No way.'

'Way. How can people take him f.u.c.king seriously with a name like that? His nickname's the Rotterdam Silencer. I wish I had a nickname like that. These Dutch are off the hook. But they're good for the gear and no messing around. And they're opening doors to new business. This, my friends, is just the beginning.' He rubbed his hands together and grinned a handsome, professionally whitened grin.

Ella could see genuine enthusiasm in Danny's eyes. The thrill of the chase. A challenge. He was visualising piles of cash and a Bentley, she knew. Over the last twelve months, he had risen from council estate nail in everyone's tyre to serious contender. No wonder the Gargoyle was so keen to put a stop to him. Danny was a man with a plan.

The Hook of Holland was windy and drab. But Amsterdam ...

When Ella emerged from Amsterdam Central Station, she fell immediately in love. Exhilarated by the mix of romance and history and beauty and sleaze, she imagined herself an enraptured, drown-proof Ophelia, drifting willingly down the ca.n.a.ls in diaphanous flowing dress with tulips entangled in her hair.

'This is well smart, man. I am so coming back here one time,' she told Tonya, keeping the Ophelia reference locked inside her secret box of better quality thoughts.

Tonya looked at her askance. 'But it's full of f.u.c.king foreigners. These is weirdo Europeans, innit? They is well naff. It's like twenty years behind the times here.'

'But you can still get burgers, man,' Big Mich.e.l.le said. 'And smoke dope in public!'

The meet was in a warehouse on a faceless business park, some miles out of town. But even on the tram, until the old part of town gave way to the inevitable modern ugliness of urban sprawl, Ella soaked up every last visual detail she could and savoured the flavour of somewhere new.

Tall, thin buildings with facades that were topped with rooflines like step pyramid peaks or clock faces. Houses listing inwards, outwards, to the side, sometimes propped but always buckling in improbable ways, threatening to dive into the ca.n.a.ls. It was green. Tree-lined streets and small parks. Like London but so much nicer. She smiled at pa.s.sersby through the windows of the tram. They looked well-heeled, carefree, clean. Exotic to her tired eyes.

Exchange of goods was easy. Inside the empty factory, which looked like it was ordinarily used for labelling and packaging up deodorants, judging by the workstations and conveyor belts full of lidless, half-a.s.sembled products, Danny handed over the money to Stijn. He was a middle-aged man who looked like an insurance broker. Smart, pale grey, double-breasted suit. Very s.h.i.+ny shoes. Conservative blue tie and white s.h.i.+rt combo. Nothing too flashy. He was flanked by two younger men in casual clothes who could have been bank tellers on their day off. Stijn handed over bags and bags of pills. Ella and the other girls were shown to the toilets and given outfits to put on.

'f.u.c.king nuns?' Tonya shouted.

Stijn threw her a roll of surgical tape. 'Strap the bags close to your body. Under your t.i.ts, where they'll be easily covered. Around your waist. Take your makeup off.'

With a dry mouth and a frenzied heartbeat, Ella had fumbled around in the toilet with dithering fingers. Her aluminium microphone was the size of a matchstick. Its single battery and flash stick took up little s.p.a.ce. The equipment was taped just below her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, where the bags of pills were also supposed to be concealed. Don't damage the mic. Don't let anyone see. Once you're on the ferry, you're home and dry.

The three emerged in full habit and wimple, complete with heavy swinging rosary at the waist.

'You look gorgeous, girls,' Danny said. Laughter all round. Witty Danny. Low-rent charmer.

But something was wrong with this picture. 'Hang on,' Ella said, frowning. 'Why aren't you and Jez dressed up?'

'I ain't putting on no dog collar, man!' Jez said.

Danny folded his arms, played with his earlobe. 'Me and Jez are making our own way back. Got some other things to discuss, yeah? We'll meet you back home. You'll be fine.'

'Home?' Tonya said, hand on hip. 'We're going to f.u.c.king Harwich. How we gonna get home from there without yous? What if we get nicked?'

'You won't get nicked. You don't need me to hold your hand to catch a train, do you, girl?' Danny held Tonya's face in his hands and looked into her eyes. Danny the manipulator and his subtle art of persuasion. What Jez achieved with a crowbar or baseball bat, Danny achieved with the right words, the right tone, a rea.s.suring look from those seemingly sensitive eyes.

Tonya looked at the floor at the same time that Ella's hopes and expectations. .h.i.t the floor. No Danny. No Jez. And this mic isn't feeding into a laptop. I've no way of telling the Gargoyle. s.h.i.+t. This thing could go belly up.

'Just keep cool, right?' Tonya said to Ella and Big Mich.e.l.le as they walked towards pa.s.sport control. 'And try to hide your nails. Nuns don't wear extensions.'

Ella had already tripped up over her habit twice. She was hot and sticky. Wiping her face on her sleeve, she wondered if the recording equipment was sweatproof.

'Eyes front,' Big Mich.e.l.le said. 'Don't make no f.u.c.king eye contact.'

Please let it be over with. Ella clutched her falsified pa.s.sport in a shaking hand. Sister Aquinata, Sister of Mercy, Hail Mary, full of grace, Deus ex machina be mine.

Customs officials, police, pa.s.sport control, immigration officers, snuffling German shepherds, all seemed to swoop at once. Ella was cuffed, read her rights, taken away. But during the elaborately staged Euripidean drama, she didn't spy her Heracles, the Gargoyle. Where the h.e.l.l are you, Gordon? This is the bit where you swing in on a crane and carry me off to safety.

Chapter 22.

Amsterdam, 18 January

George scrubbed briskly at the gas rings from her cooker with wire wool. The water in the sink was scaldingly hot. The corrosive, soapy scouring pad nibbled away at her fingers, but she didn't care because she felt she deserved it. It was 11am. She had not slept.

Never before had she managed to trash her room with such abandon in such a short s.p.a.ce of time. But on returning to her own place, she had received the news from van den Bergen that the bin man had been identified as Remko. She felt certain she had sent Ad reeling into the arms of a murderer.

Now, three hours and forty minutes into her cleaning penance, remaking that which she had unmade in a bid to snuff out her anguish and anaesthetise her grief, she felt idiotic and weak. And though Jan would probably not charge her for the smashed lamp and the broken vacuum cleaner, she would still feel obliged to replace them. She made a mental note to herself never to vacuum cigarette b.u.t.ts or broken gla.s.s again.

She said a silent prayer for Ad's safety.

'Jesus. Why hasn't he got his phone switched on?' she asked the gardenia on her windowsill.

George flung the iron gas rings into the sink, splas.h.i.+ng her top with hot, pink soap sc.u.m. She thumped the draining board in frustration, dried her hands on her tea towel and retreated to her living area. She punched Ad's number into her phone. It went straight to voicemail.

'b.a.l.l.s. Let's try van den Bergen,' she muttered. She called van den Bergen's number for the fifth time. This time, it rang.

'Van den Bergen. Speak.' His voice was gruff. Burdened.

'At last. It's me. We need to talk. I want to hear what the pathologist said and I've got some ideas ...' George's tired mind tried to a.s.sess her options at high speed. Should she tell him about Klaus' apartment? Should she speak to him before Ad had had chance to debrief her? Should she tell van den Bergen about her stalker?

But George had no input. Her option was selected for her.

'Listen, I've not got time for your thoughts right now. I'm busy solving four murders.'

'Four murders? I thought you said-'

'One of the critically injured victims of Bushuis died in the night. A librarian. Fifty-four-year-old mother of two. Oh, and I've asked my German counterpart to bring Biedermeier in for questioning again. I'll call you.' The line went dead. Van den Bergen had gone.

George clutched the phone to her chest and marched to the window. She opened the heavy curtains, flung the window open and growled aloud at the rooftops.

'For G.o.d's sake. This is killing me!' she shouted.

Suddenly she heard footsteps stomping up the uncarpeted stairs to her landing. Shuffling outside her door. Someone knocked three times. Impatient knocking. Jan didn't open up until one on a Sunday. Inneke and Katja wouldn't be in work until around two. She was not expecting anybody at that time.

George grabbed her broom which had been propped against the wall. She carefully turned the mortise key and released the Yale with her left hand, while gripping the broom handle in the right.

As the Heidelberg police descended on the frat house where Klaus was staying, Klaus strolled along the Philosopher's Walk, high in the hills above the town. The air was sharp. Clear as a bell. His hangover had gone now and he had every intention of climbing to the cafe at the summit which served most excellent hot chocolate and cake.

He was wearing borrowed technical outdoor clothes and st.u.r.dy hiking boots. But even in Carsten's thick red fleece and heavy parka, Klaus felt the cold shroud of winter still clinging to the hillside.

Further down, closer to the sparkling Neckar, the pathways were full of strolling families, walking off their rich lunches. But now, climbing steeper and steeper, weaving among the trees, Klaus had not pa.s.sed a single soul for over twenty minutes. It was a pure, poetic kind of solitude. Solitude that he found most acceptable.

Yes, it had been an enjoyable weekend. He reflected that, despite the need for his hasty departure, Ad had been a game individual for whom he had a new measure of respect. Perhaps the Dutch weren't so bad after all.

The trees rising up towards the summit carried an inch-thick layer of virgin-white h.o.a.r on their branches. The dry brown leaves that carpeted the ground beneath were frosted with glittering ice. He observed that they looked like the topping on a sparkling Streuselkuchen. Klaus loved the Philosopher's Walk; loved revelling in the thought that he was treading paths worn smooth in the hillside, generation after generation, by owners of the finest German academic minds. This idea appealed to Klaus' love of continuity. He liked to fantasise that he was a big political thinker, if nothing else.

He came out of the forest into a clearing which held a stone amphitheatre built during Hitler's reign. Klaus breathed in deeply and smiled at his surroundings. To him, it was a perfect fusion of what man had fas.h.i.+oned and what nature had provided.

For a few minutes, he sat in the weak suns.h.i.+ne and let the warmth bathe the healing cuts on his face.

When he heard a twig snap some way off, he looked around to see what Sunday adventurers were heading his way. He prepared to greet them with a nod and perhaps even a formal, 'Good day'. n.o.body came. Then a twig snapped closer by. Was it a deer? Probably.

George flung the door wide and pounced, treating her visitor to a face full of bristles.

'Ad!' George shrieked, dropping the broom.

'Ow.' Ad rubbed his jaw. 'Nice to see you too.'

She pulled him inside and flung her arms around him. 'Oh, my G.o.d! You're safe. Thank Christ.' She ushered him to the sofa. 'Sit! Sit! I'll make you a ... hot water?'

Ad gave her a lopsided smile. At that point, she looked at him properly for the first time. He was wearing a suit that looked as though it had been in a fight with the jaws of a refuse truck. The side of his face was bruised. He sported a fat lip. His eyebrow was cut up and missing ... well, his eyebrow. He stank of lager and stale cigarettes.