The Girl Who Wouldn't Die Part 6

Quietly, at the back of his mind, van den Bergen acknowledged that she had been a Social and Behavioural Science student. Like Joachim Guttentag, who had just been reported missing by his parents. Both belonging to the same faculty that had been targeted by a suicide bomber. He made a mental note to get Elvis and Marie to look into Guttentag's disappearance if he still hadn't showed by the New Year.

He looked through her books. There were no academic texts. Nothing to indicate that she had been a studious girl. There was no makeup. No posters of bands on the walls. No photographs of boyfriends. The room had an impersonal feel to it and yet he could tell from the slept-in bedding and the drawers full of clothes that this was indeed her main abode. He decided that she had stripped from it any trace of femininity or her previous life as a student. Why? What had happened to Janneke Polman?

'I brought you a coffee anyway,' her mother said.

Van den Bergen jumped and turned around to see the weary woman standing against the architrave of the door. He smiled at her. 'Thanks,' he said. The coffee was black. He hated black coffee but he drank it anyway and steeled himself not to pull a face. 'It's good coffee. Listen, Mrs Polman.'

'Call me Lydia.'

'Lydia. Why did Janneke drop out of college?'

Lydia pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. 'She was struggling with her studies. Weird really. She'd done so well in her first two years. Then suddenly, she starts doing really badly in cla.s.s. Had trouble with her accommodation too.'

'Didn't she live here with you?'

'We're too far out here, really. She wanted to be in the centre, near all her friends. Wanted to be independent, you know. They fly the nest and you never expect to get them back.'

Lydia sighed and wiped a stray tear with shaking, work-worn fingers.

'I thought she'd do okay when she moved in with Dr Fennemans.'

Van den Bergen c.o.c.ked his head to the side and held up his enormous hand. 'Wait. What did you say?'

Lydia was still wringing her hands, except this time, van den Bergen noticed that she was toying with something purple and woollen. A purple bobble hat that he had last seen in Central Station.

'You?' George said, trying not to let the alarm show in her face. Despite the calming effects of the beer flowing through her veins, her heart was thumping hard against her ribcage. 'What do you want?'

She had only just got to the communal door and put her key in the lock. The whole of the red light district was almost empty of punters, neighbours and pa.s.sersby. Now that the early evening darkness and cold had cloaked everything in semi-silence and shadow, the ca.n.a.l was a black, stagnant blood vessel bisecting a dead street. So, the tap on her shoulder was wholly unexpected. Inexplicably, here was Fennemans, standing two feet away from her, smiling like a creepy f.u.c.king idiot beneath the streetlight. His nose seemed more bulbous than usual. Though his bouffant hair had lost some of its va va voom, she noted. And the shaft of yellow light from above revealed the dusting of dandruff on the collar of his overcoat. He smelled of rotten meat and cheese beneath an old fas.h.i.+oned fug of what George recognised as Paco Rabanne.

'I was pa.s.sing this way,' he said, still smiling. 'You Brits make a big deal out of Christmas Day, don't you? So, I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas.'

George took her key out of the lock and stood perfectly still. She stared at him, willing him to go away.

'Can I come up for a drink?' he asked.

George's mind was racing. This was wrong in so many ways. Fennemans hated her. She hated him. This was her personal s.p.a.ce. Her turf. He was encroaching.

'How do you know where I live?' she asked, taking a step towards to him so that the gap between them had closed uncomfortably. She was mindful of her body language. Careful to thrust her shoulders forwards and make herself look as threatening and large as possible. This a.r.s.ehole was not to get any wrong messages. Happily, he took a step backwards.

'I'm your tutor. I just ...' The childish smile had started to fall from his face.

'Don't come to my home,' George said. She felt bolstered by the 8.5 percent alcohol content in not one, but six Duvel beers. Ordinarily, she knew she would have skirted around the issue and tried to politely brush Fennemans off. But now ...

'This is inappropriate. You're not welcome here. It's my s.p.a.ce. Do you understand, Dr Fennemans?'

George stood her ground, balled fists on hips. His expression changed. The smile was suddenly replaced by something else. George couldn't tell if it was weary resignation or annoyance. It was difficult to a.s.sess under the streetlight. But all the while she stood there, willing him to walk away without a confrontation, she was seized and held captive by a paralysing anxiety that she didn't want him to know about. Then, with silence hanging opaquely between them, Fennemans dug one of his gloved hands into the pocket of his overcoat as though he was reaching for something.

Chapter 7.

2 January

When Ad opened the door to his Museum Quarter apartment in Sluitstraat, George pushed pa.s.sed him.

'Do you know Fennemans showed up at my place over Christmas? Offered me a half-smoked packet of cigarettes as a peace offering. I told him to f.u.c.k right off. Got any of that nice Leerdammer?' she asked.

'Oh, Happy New Year to you too,' Ad said, clearly bemused.

George's brain was whirring today, processing all the information that had come her way in the last week. Al Badaar's still-untraceable comments. The Moment being denounced as a pro-terror virtual rag, thanks to her blogpost. The Jewish community in Utrecht, publicly decrying the local police's inability to arrest a perpetrator. She felt like she was riding the rollercoaster right up to the top. It was a good feeling.

She heard Ad close the door behind her. Casting a glance around the anonymous-looking boys' living room, her gaze rested momentarily on a card which sat coyly on a bookshelf by the flatscreen TV. It had Santa Claus on the front, blus.h.i.+ng and receiving a heart from Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer. It said, 'Happy Christmas, Boyfriend' in green, s.h.i.+ny lettering. Her rollercoaster became stuck half way up and she didn't like the look of the drop to the ground.

George tried to marshal her thoughts. An empty food cupboard and hunger to see her friend had driven her here. Ask him about a sandwich. Ad always has food. Focus.

Ad reached out to take her coat.

'Coffee?' he asked.

'Is that card from your girlfriend?' she heard herself say before she could claw the words back. d.a.m.n.

Ad frowned incredulously as his flatmate, Jasper, shuffled out of his room. Jasper, normally so preppy and clean-cut, was wearing pyjamas and scratching himself. His blond mop of hair was dishevelled. He sported a day's worth of stubble.

'Happy New Year, guys,' he said in English with a thick Dutch accent. He picked up the disgusting Santa card and waved it at her. 'Mine,' he said. He winked at Ad.

'You came back yesterday?' Ad asked him.

'Never went home. I've been at Marianne's until last night. House-sitting while she's working round the clock on the bombings. The stuff she's been telling me would give you b.l.o.o.d.y nightmares.'

'Aren't you supposed to be at lectures?'

'Med students don't start 'til tomorrow. Anyway, I've got man-flu. It's going round.'

'What do you mean you don't believe in sudden flu?' Klaus said to the detective.

He watched the ratty little man with a quiff and leather jacket looking around his apartment. Joachim had been reported missing, and now the police had eyes for everything. Especially this fool. And the girl. Where had she gone? She said she needed to use the toilet but she had been five minutes and counting. Even women didn't take that long to pee. He hoped she wasn't snooping around his medicine cabinet. And f.u.c.k it if he hadn't left his bedroom door ajar.

'I mean, you two had arranged to travel to Heidelberg together,' the detective said. 'Via Utrecht. That's what Guttentag's mother told our colleagues in the Baden-Wrttemberg police.'

'Yes, I've already answered their questions. At length.'

'Imagine how Joachim's parents feel. You're supposed to be his friend, aren't you?'

Klaus rolled his eyes and strode over to his Gaggia coffee machine. 'I'm not going to grace that with a response.' He started to grind some beans and then fixed himself an espresso. He didn't bother to offer one to quiff boy in his ill-fitting Elvis get-up.

'We've checked his phone records,' the detective said. 'You called him only an hour or so before you were due to meet, didn't you? You were possibly the last person to speak to Joachim before he disappeared. What did you say to him?'

Klaus wracked his brains for the right thing to say. What would get this idiot to leave him in peace so that he could unpack and get on with the new term? He had some nice pralines in his case that would go well with the coffee. If it was an invited visitor that was sprawled all over his elegant leather sofa, Klaus would have been only too happy to share them. But he had no intention of getting them out in front of this nagging toe rag. And where was that girl?

'Look, I was feeling ill. It came down suddenly. You know how flu is. One minute you're s.h.i.+vering a bit, the next you're on your back. I went out for paracetamol. Ask the shop owner on the corner. He'll corroborate what I'm telling you. And then I was in for the rest of the night with the stereo on. The walls are thin here. Ask my neighbour. I bet he heard my every cough and fart.'

The detective looked at him with suspicious eyes like black marbles. 'Woah! We're a bit defensive, aren't we? n.o.body's accusing you of anything, Klaus.'

Just as Klaus began to feel sweat bead under his arms, the girl finally emerged from the bathroom. She had bad skin that clashed with her red hair, Klaus noted. But she had an excellent figure. She was a three out of ten head with a seven-and-a-half body. Maybe even an eight. He would probably f.u.c.k her if he had met her somewhere dark, like a nightclub and if he had had enough to drink.

She hooked the red hair behind her ear to reveal small pearl earrings, which Klaus liked.

'We're very, very busy with the investigation into the bombing, as you can imagine,' she said, perching on a chrome kitchen barstool. 'But obviously, Joachim is a student of the department connected to the Bushuis attack and we can't afford to ignore an exchange student going missing over the holiday period. We need your help, Klaus. Where could Joachim be? What other friends might he be visiting?'

She was looking at him with inquisitive eyes. He tried to select a label for the particular shade of blue that her irises were.

'Look,' he said. 'I'm as stumped as you are. I cried off sick. That's the last I heard of him. I can't think where he could be. I hope you find the poor guy soon. He owes me a round of drinks and thirty euros.'

As the detectives stood to leave, Klaus was quick to show them out, deftly pus.h.i.+ng the door to his bedroom shut en route.

Breakfast trois felt distinctly awkward to George. Together, they sat at the kitchen table in silence. Ad stared at the screen of his laptop, intently reading the responses to George's blogpost. Jasper sat playing with his b.a.l.l.s through his pyjama bottoms and slurping his coffee loudly.

'Do you have to do that?' she asked him.

Jasper shrugged, stretched out his legs and farted loudly. He laughed heartily at himself. George wished he would go back into his room or go out. Men like Jasper were deliberately provocative. Looking for a reaction. She knew she was an easy target for a wind-up.

Ad looked up from the laptop. 'You're a pig, Jas. You're making the milk in my coffee curdle.'

'What is all this anyway?' he asked.

George told him about her blogpost and al Badaar's response.

Jasper gave a low whistle. 'You shouldn't be running the gauntlet with such a psycho,' he said, slamming his coffee cup down onto the table. He didn't use a coaster.

George's eyes locked on the cup like a heat-seeking missile. 'Use a b.l.o.o.d.y coaster, Jasper!' she said. 'Anyway, this matters. Some lunatic is out there, co-ordinating a bunch of suicide bombers. We're all in danger.'

Jasper stood up suddenly. George wondered if he was going to poke fun at her in some way but instead, he left the kitchen. Moments later, he reappeared, clutching a piece of paper.

'Look,' he said, placing the paper on the table.

It was a computer print-out of a photo. The colour photo was of a severed foot.

'What's that?' Ad asked, grimacing and putting his half-eaten sandwich on his plate.

George s.n.a.t.c.hed up the print-out. The foot was large and veined. The toenails were neatly trimmed. The owner was clearly brown-skinned. There was an ornate tattoo around the ankle that looked like a pattern drawn by a henna artist.

'It's gone viral among the med students this morning,' Jasper boasted.

'Whose foot is this?' George asked.

Jasper flung himself back onto his chair and rocked backwards. 'It's a photo of the only intact body part recovered from the Bushuis library bombing. They call the tattoo an anatomic variation. Somebody somewhere did that tattoo or has seen that tattoo. The police wanted to keep the foot under wraps until they had identified the bomber. But apparently some old detective p.i.s.sed off someone in the forensics team. So someone leaked it and it's doing the rounds on email.'

George's heart started to beat wildly. 'How much do you know about what forensics have found out?' she asked. Jasper had a propensity to show off. She looked into his bright blue eyes and wondered how well her bulls.h.i.+t detector was working after such a late night, surfing the web for mad Mujahidin, self-defence tactics and celebrity stalkers.

Jasper shrugged. 'Apparently the human remains had to be scooped up into bags. Apart from some teeth and this foot. They've not found a DNA match on the national criminal database but they've narrowed it down to an Asian man.'

'No surprise there if it's fundamentalist Muslims,' Ad said. 'That tattoo looks familiar though. Maybe it's common.'

'I think they're going to try to place the fillings in a couple of the molars. Pinpoint the country where they were originally put in the bomber's mouth. They can tell the bomber's age from the teeth and ossification of the bones in the foot. They can start to build a bit of a profile from there.'

Yes, he was showing off now. George could tell. But it didn't have the feel of bulls.h.i.+t.

'How do you know all this, Jasper?' George asked, sniffing hard.

Ad chuckled and pushed Jasper in the elbow. 'He's s.h.a.gging none other than Doctor Marianne de Koninck, head honcho on the forensics team!' he said. 'Sender of terrible Santa cards, lonely divorcee and-'

'She's in great shape for an older woman,' Jasper said, grinning at Ad.

'So, have they found anything else interesting?' George asked. She wanted to press hard for information. She could feel the burn of curiosity inside. She needed facts like a fix. She realised, suddenly, this was more for her than just idle interest or the novelty and flattery of being needed as an informant by the police.

Jasper picked up the cafetiere of coffee and poured himself a fresh cup. 'Only thing I know is they found shreds of cardboard at the scene,' he said. 'n.o.body can work out why. They thought maybe it was debris from the offices but Marianne was working in Utrecht and apparently it's the same score there. Cardboard. Weird eh?'

George looked at Ad's furrowed brow as he listened to his flatmate. Cardboard. A placard? A box? Detritus from the bomb site?

'Did they find any human remains there? In Utrecht?' she asked. She didn't think for a moment that Jasper would know any more at such an early stage.

'A head,' he said.

Ad spurted his mouthful of coffee all over his plate. George s.n.a.t.c.hed up some kitchen roll and started to dab at the coffee-splashed tabletop with it. She stared at Jasper, open-mouthed. Dumbfounded.

'They've found an almost unscathed head,' Jasper said as though it was the most ordinary observation in the world. 'Must have been blown clean off like the foot in Bushuis. Blunt trauma. But everything else was incinerated or just blown to smithereens by the blast and fire.'

George winced and put her kitchen roll down. She tried to imagine the force that was strong enough to rip a man's head from his body.

Jasper leaned forward. His face was bright pink with what she presumed was excitement. His breath smelled of coffee and sore throat. Clearly, there was more ...

'And get this,' he said. 'The Utrecht bomber was white.'

Chapter 8.