The Girl Who Wouldn't Die Part 3

'No. I'm finis.h.i.+ng up. Them toilets was a disgrace after the Christmas party ...', tutting, '... but they're clean now. See you on the second anyway.'

Ella could hear that old Fred had bought it. She swallowed hard, looking at the drop into the loading bay. It was a good eight or nine feet. Ten even. She knew her knees would jar even if she bent them.

'Just grit your teeth.' She jumped to the concrete below and bit her tongue as her legs screamed in complaint. She grabbed the bin liners. They were fat and unwieldy. The booty inside weighed like dead bodies. She prayed they wouldn't split.

When Ella reached the rendezvous point around the corner, she dumped the bin liners on the ground. Her arms would ache for a week. The icy chill bit into her face and hands but the sweat poured down her back and under her b.r.e.a.s.t.s on the inside of her anorak. She took a packet of Marlboro Lights out of her pocket and tapped a cigarette on the side of the pack. Flick flick. She tried to get the weak flame of her disposable lighter to stay for long enough to light up but it was no match for the gusting December wind.

'I am some Olympic-sized idiot,' she said, finally getting the cigarette to light. She inhaled deeply and felt lightheaded from the nicotine rush. Fatigue pressed down on her fifteen-year-old body like super-strong gravity. Pulling her down, down, down.

Let.i.tia appeared from around the corner, grinning like she had just won the lottery.

'Good girl,' she said, looking at the bin liners.

'Did he suspect?' Ella asked.

'No way. Let's get these bags home. Check out our haul.'

Ella picked one of the bin liners up and started to walk towards the bus stop.

'Oi!' Let.i.tia shouted. 'Get back here and take the other one. I ain't gonna lose another nail.'

Ella stopped in her tracks. b.i.t.c.h, b.i.t.c.h, b.i.t.c.h, you're a b.i.t.c.h all day long. She quickly weighed up the odds. Start a thing in the street and attract attention to bags full of hooky gear? No. She was smarter than that.

Ella listened to the hiss of the kettle while she watched Let.i.tia in the reflection of the cooker splashback. Bags were scattered all around. Counting. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty ...

'I reckon there's a couple of hundred quid's worth here. Maybe more,' Let.i.tia said. 'I am so going dancing on New Year's Eve.'

Going out. Leaving Ella alone. Oh, Danny Boy ...

'Can I stay at Aunty Sharon's?' Ella asked.

Let.i.tia sat up. 'Who's going to look after the f.u.c.king house?' She looked indignant. Hurt even.

Ella felt anger seething beneath the surface raw, negative energy. 'If they come back and you're out, how the h.e.l.l am I going to cope on my own?' she asked.

Let.i.tia was on her feet now, gesticulating wildly, horrible words rattling out of her mouth like carriages on a runaway train.

'I ain't asking you much, you ungrateful little cow. I've got to flog these down the pub. How else am I supposed to put food on the table? Cleaning? You think that pays enough? You thought of getting a bit of cash in hand yourself instead of keeping on at me with this bulls.h.i.+t about school and scholars.h.i.+ps?'

Ella turned her back on Let.i.tia. She squeezed the tea bags out of the cup and opened the fridge.

'We're out of milk,' she said, sighing.

Let.i.tia fell silent. And as though her bitter words had never been spoken, she reached into the back pocket of her jeans. 'I got two quid here. Get a pint of semi-skimmed at the shop and some chocolate for yourself.' She smiled at Ella.

Mad cow.

Ella walked quickly through the back streets. She scanned the streets for Them. Daylight didn't guarantee anything. There was an older guy up ahead dressed in expensive designer gear. He was being taken for a walk by a Doberman and a Staffords.h.i.+re bull terrier. Instinctively, Ella folded her arms and quickened her pace. Don't make eye contact. Keep away from the dogs.

As she neared the man, she allowed herself quick scrutiny of his face. n.o.body she knew but almost certainly a dealer. Gold teeth. Diamond studded watch. Patterns shaved into his hair. The dogs started to bark and rear up on their stubby hind legs.

'Get down!' the man shouted. He looked her up and down. He winked. 'Don't worry, love. They're harmless.'

Shying away from the trio, Ella broke into a run. The shop was near. The shutters were down over the window. A c.o.c.k and b.a.l.l.s spray-painted on them. But the open sign hung in the shatterproof gla.s.s of the door. Through bulletproof Perspex, she exchanged cash for milk and a Mars bar.

Voices outside. She peered nervously over to the seating area. Tonya and Jez: two of Danny's 'boys'.

'There she is,' she heard the girl say.

'Oi, sweetheart!' the boy shouted to her.

Ella looked round. Jez held a flaming branch in his hand. He threw it towards her like the devil's javelin. It landed a few feet away, still burning. 'See you later, gorgeous!'

Ella sprinted back to the house. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the key in the lock. She flung the boarded door wide and slammed it shut. Lock. Bolts. Safe. For now.

In the lounge she heard a man's voice. Older by the sounds. She walked through to the kitchen, still shaking and put down the milk.

'Miss Williams-May, Let.i.tia, can I call you that? We've been watching you for weeks. We've got it all on camera.'

Another voice spoke. Younger this time. 'You're going down, love.'

Then the first one again. 'Unless ...'

There was m.u.f.fled, clandestine conversation between the three that smacked of tacit agreement.

Ella walked into the lounge. Two large men in plain clothes sat on the sagging sofa. She could tell instantly that they were some kind of police. You just knew, didn't you? They seemed to fill the room, and her mother seemed to have shrunk.

Let.i.tia looked over at Ella. Tears were standing in her eyes. She wiped them away hastily and lit a cigarette.

'Ella, make these nice detectives a cuppa, love,' she said. 'They need a favour from you.'

Chapter 4.

Amsterdam, 23 December

He had watched her leave.

The skeleton keys in his possession made light work of the locks. Inside her bedsit, her well-scrubbed lair, he took his time. Touching her things. Licking her toothbrush. Smelling her clothes. Holding her satin knickers like a glove while he pleasured himself onto her pillowcase, imagining her still lying on the bed.

Finally, he left her a souvenir from his visit. A symbol of his potency and poetry. A courts.h.i.+p ritual signifying that he was coming closer to the time when he would take her. He placed a match in the middle of the floor. From the door, there was no way she could miss it.

'So he wants you to spy? Like a cyber special agent?' Ad asked, flushed and wide-eyed behind his gla.s.ses.

'Sort of,' George said, pus.h.i.+ng through the drizzle and hoping it wouldn't put her cigarette out. This cycle back to town after the second lot of end of semester exams was beginning to feel like an interrogation.

'Are you going to do it? Sounds dangerous to me.'

'How's it dangerous?'

'Luring b.l.o.o.d.y terrorists to your door.'

'It's just online, Ad. They can't find me.'

'Don't be so sure. These Al Qaeda type guys aren't stupid. Your name will be all over that blog.'

George fell silent. Even if Amsterdam was full of overseas kids, dipping their toes in louche Dutch waters, finding an Englishwoman amongst the students wouldn't be that hard. She'd told van den Bergen yes. She'd been lured by the thrill of being needed. How had she been so stupid? Daft tart.

They were past Roeterseiland now, back in the centre where Christmas trees stood in every shop window, festooned with tinsel and fairy lights. Closer to home, the narrow old buildings leaned inwards as though they were trying to get a better look at one another. On the ca.n.a.l, a gla.s.s-roofed barge full of tourists chuntered past. George could hear the monotone of the guide speaking over the PA. She felt certain they would be freezing their t.i.ts off.

Ad broke the silence.

'How come you're not going home for Christmas?' he asked.

'My folks are dead,' George said.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the look of surprise on Ad's face. He opened and closed his mouth. 'I'm so ... sorry. You never told me,' he said.

George swallowed hard. She reminded herself that she was under no obligation to tell him anything. It had only been one kiss and he'd regretted it afterwards. He had the Milkmaid.

'You never asked,' she said.

George locked her bike against the railings and looked up. Inneke's curtain was closed. Katja was standing topless at the adjacent first-floor window. Her red light was on, giving her a slightly demonic glow. George waved at her. Katja grinned back, pushed her b.o.o.bs together and pouted in Ad's direction. She pulled a strap of her thong up and down on her tanned hip. George shared a silent guffaw with her Polish neighbour as she took in Ad's crimson-faced look of horror.

'She's only winding you up,' she said. 'Come on up.'

Inneke's departing punter pushed past them on the stairs as George led the way to the top.

'Can't you get a different room?' Ad asked. 'It's not right, living here.'

'What's not right about it?' George asked as she pushed her key into her door. 'It's a decent size, it's dirt cheap and it's central.'

'But strange men, coming and going at all hours. Your neighbours ...'

'Are brilliant,' George said.

She walked inside. That morning, she had cracked open the bleach; expunging the nasty taste of a heavy weekend by scrubbing at non-existent dirt with a toothbrush. The tight deadline for The Moment had driven her to the launderette with her dirty clothes and soiled bedding. Now her room was tidy. It smelled strongly of lemons.

So, when she caught sight of an unstruck match in the middle of her dark grey carpet, she frowned. It had not been there before. Definitely not. She picked it up and examined it. Large-sized cook's match. Pink head.

'What's that?' Ad asked.

'Nothing,' she said. She scanned the room quickly and thoroughly. The locks hadn't been forced. Nothing had been stolen. Maybe Filip had dropped it in the bed and it had fallen from the duvet cover. Maybe.

And yet, hadn't she looked at her carpet before she had closed her door, congratulating herself on finally getting a stubborn wine stain out? Had there been more oversized matches in the overflowing ashtray? Check the trash later. She pushed the mystery aside and shut it inside her paranoia box.

'You bring me the money, you lump of s.h.i.+t!' the girl shouted down the phone.

Her voice was hard and sour. She sounded older. Two years older now, he could hear how experience and too many cigarettes had stripped the alluring freshness from her voice.

'I know you can get it, Fennemans. I know all about your seedy social life and the sc.u.mbags you hang out with. I want it in that f.u.c.king left luggage locker at two pm.'

'That's a ridiculous demand. I can't get it that quickly,' Fennemans said, almost choking on his words.

'I'll call the police. I'll get off this phone right now and call-'

'Okay. Okay! But make it three.'

'Two thirty.'

'Fine.'

After his morning const.i.tutional, Fennemans had opened his front door to find post on the mat. He had bent to gather up the mixture of brown and white envelopes. Some junk mail. Bills mostly. But what was this? A personal letter. Handwritten on good stationery. No postmark. He had presumed it had been hand-delivered.

Dear Dr b.a.s.t.a.r.d, If you don't give me 10,000, I am going to tell the police about what you made me do. Call me immediately to arrange a meet.

Janneke A sweat had broken out on his top lip. He re-read the words. 10,000? That kind of money wasn't easily come by. What he did have spare, he spent on his ... hobbies.

He had fixed himself a double gin and tonic to steady his nerves. Downed it in three gulps. Felt the alcohol spark warmth in his stomach. But it still hadn't taken the edge off his anxiety. This was unexpected. The matter of Janneke had been dropped as it had been with Rosa Bianco; silence supported by those he could rely on within the university. Blind eyes duly turned. He had started to feel untouchable. And now this ...

'b.i.t.c.h!' Fennemans shouted at the wall. 'I'm going to nail you to the wall. n.o.body crosses Vim Fennemans and gets away with it.'

His fine mind had whirred into action. Reluctantly, he had pulled his mobile phone from his coat pocket and made the call to the only person he knew who would have that amount of cash knocking about at short notice. A person who would not take kindly to him forfeiting the repayment.

With his soul remortgaged yet again to the devil and the loan agreed, Fennemans had remembered how Janneke was in her freshman year. A slip of a thing in hotpants with bare legs and pumps, looking all of fifteen despite being a voting adult. She'd come to him for advice on accommodation. Worried that she had moved in with hard-drug users who had stolen her stereo to pay for their next hit.

It had been so easy.

'Oh, poor Janneke. Don't think twice about it.' There, there. A friendly pat on the shapely knee. 'I'm looking for a tenant. The girl I had before has dropped out of college unexpectedly. Why! I'd charge you much lower rent than you're paying now and I'm hardly ever at home. You'll have the run of the place.'

At first, he had engineered chance collisions as she came out of the bathroom wearing only a towel.

'Ha! Silly me. I should have known you were in there.' The thrill of planning his seduction was almost as satisfying as the act itself.

Then, making sure she saw him naked. By accident, of course.

'Oh, I didn't realise you were home. I didn't mean to embarra.s.s you.'