The Girl Who Wouldn’t Die (26 page)

Ad pointed to a photograph of a dark corner of the pub. He and Friedrich, the skinhead, were posing in the foreground. ‘See this guy in the background with the disfigured face?’ Ad asked. ‘I’ve worked out that he was the one doling out the coke to everyone. The skinhead took money from the Mohican, wandered over here. This guy’s sitting all on his own, nursing a beer. I think Klaus maybe knew him too. He nodded at him but they never spoke.’

George ran her finger over the smooth screen of the laptop and looked at the photo. The man was blurred but she could still see that he was scarred. Badly scarred. But she had the strange sensation of a memory tapping at her brain, asking to be let out. ‘I recognise this guy,’ she said. ‘I can’t think where from, but I recognise him. At least I think so.’

‘He walked with a limp.’

George could feel Ad staring at the side of her face. She was distracted from the photograph, unable to place the disfigured dealer immediately. She turned to Ad. Her eyes locked with his. ‘You’re a genius,’ she said. ‘Taking these photos …’

‘The murderer could be in that bar,’ he said.

George frowned. ‘But Klaus is the murderer.’

Ad stroked her cheek. She could feel the heat of his fingers on her skin and felt her heartbeat start to pick up pace.

‘I think he’s maybe involved,’ Ad said, stroking her eyebrow. ‘But …’ He leaned in towards her. ‘I was so desperate to talk to you.’

George reached up and touched the sensitive swelling on his bottom lip. ‘I could have lost you.’

‘You didn’t.’

Ad started to kiss her on the mouth gently. George put her arms on his shoulders and responded, feeling need sear through her tired body, burning all the panic and frustration away. She felt his tongue against hers, felt his stubble burn the skin around her lips. His hair was soft and smelled of her shower gel. Warm skin beneath the borrowed T-shirt. If she could have been wired up to the Dutch national grid at that moment, she could have powered the whole of the Netherlands with her sexual energy.

He pushed her steadily down onto the chaise longue. She let the laptop slide from her knees to the floor; felt his weight on her, felt his hands exploring her skin beneath her top. He kissed her more urgently now. Hands moving down. Massaging the hot, glistening bud of her arousal. Bodies fusing.

‘Oh, I’ve waited for this,’ he said.

Then her phone rang.

‘Shit,’ she said.

‘Ignore it.’

She wrapped her legs around his back. But the phone persisted. It was lying on top of the bedside cabinet, in George’s eye-line. She knew she shouldn’t look. She knew she should let it go to voicemail.

‘Ignore it,’ Ad gasped, eyes tight shut and a look of rapture on his face.

She looked at the display and squinted. ‘It’s van den Bergen.’

‘What? Come on, George!’

‘I’ve got to—’

The same impulse that made George scrub the toilet in a certain sequence; that need to order and categorise made her unable to continue. The phone was ringing, so Ad had to stop. The two things were simply mutually exclusive.

George pushed at Ad’s shoulders and he withdrew.

‘Fuck!’ he shouted.

Heart and groin pounding, she lunged for the phone and answered it.

Minutes later, she hung up on van den Bergen. Ad’s ardour had visibly waned. She summoned the most apologetic face she could muster.

‘What did he say, then?’ Ad asked, gently pushing her away.

‘Klaus is going to be brought back to the Netherlands for questioning. The German police are apparently raiding the frat house where you were staying right now. Van den Bergen’s just waiting on a warrant to search his apartment in Vondelstraat. He wants you to meet up with him at the station later. Tell him what you saw and overheard. Downside is, I can’t say a single word about his laptop or the crazy stuff in his wardrobe. I’ll just have to leave it all for van den Bergen to find for himself.’

Ad propped himself on his elbow. George could see that the glorious lust in his eyes had fizzled.
Why can’t we go back ten minutes and do it all differently? I’d turn my phone off this time. Shit.

‘I’m not sure,’ Ad said quietly.

George looked at him and frowned. ‘Not sure about what?’

Ad put his arms behind his head and stared up at George’s ceiling. ‘I had eight hours of travelling to really chew this over. Klaus. You know, he’s a dick but I don’t think he’s a murderer.’

George sat bolt upright and hid her nakedness with a cushion. ‘What? But he’s already got a record for GBH. He’s violent and coked off his head most of the time. He’s linked to all three victims.’

Ad shuffled onto his side so he was facing her now. He stretched out his arm to caress her shoulder but, this time, George was the one to push him away.

‘He’s stalking me!’ she said.

‘Is he though? This weekend, I learned a few things about Klaus,’ Ad said. ‘He’s a shocking fascist and an extraordinary turd. But he’s generous to a fault. Paid for everything despite my protests. He’s lonely as hell because he’s unpopular as hell. Screwed-up little rich kid.’

‘Oh, diddums. Poor baby.’

‘Wait, George. Let me finish. He’s childish. I thought he was allowing me to see his weird world so he could … I don’t know … ensnare me or something. Do me in. But he was just showing off like a little boy. Trying to curry favour. Belong to something where he’s accepted. Now, these thugs in the bar …’

The fact that Ad was defending Klaus irritated George like a tick that had got under her skin. She was torn. She needed him. But on the other hand, his support of Klaus felt like a betrayal. Something snapped inside her.

‘Look, what is this shit?’ She glared at him, openly hostile now.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You and me. Here. Now. Are you going to fuck me or what?’

Ad opened and closed his mouth. He seemed to avoid looking directly into her eyes. ‘I … er … the moment’s passed right now. I told you not to answer the phone.’

‘Oh, so it’s my fault.’

‘Well, yes. And the other thing is Astrid.’

George shot off the chaise, and stood bolt upright. She instinctively shoved her right hand on her naked hip and started to waggle her head from side to side, left hand raised, eloquently helping to spell out her displeasure.

‘Oh, so the Milkmaid’s in bed with us now, is she?’

Ad pulled his knees into his chest and curled himself up into a ball. ‘If me and you are going to be lovers, I owe it to her to break up with her first.’

George felt red mist blowing out of her ears like a child’s cartoon character. ‘It’s a bit late for that, Ad. You should have thought of your gentlemanly principles
earlier
.’

You’re sabotaging it, goddammit. Shut your trap. Take a step back. You’re going to screw it all up for yourself.
But George’s unbridled temper thundered away. She gathered his clothes into a bundle and opened the door. She tossed the bundle onto the landing and held the door open for Ad.

‘Get out,’ she said.

Ad’s eyes darkened, emanating almost tangible hurt and naked fury. George the romantic hadn’t thought Ad had much anger in him. George the cynic was not surprised at all.
Ah, now we see it. Not just a sensitive flower.
Passive aggressive arsehole. Festering away on the sly. Typical. Just what I don’t need.

‘Come back when you’ve grown a pair, Ad. I need a real man.’

Klaus sensed that somebody was approaching from his right. He peered ahead into the trees but spied nothing. He heard the tinkle of metal as something fell behind him onto the stony ground. A hard, small object landed heavily and squarely in the hood of his parka.

He turned around and spied a man lumbering off awkwardly towards the trees on his left. A stumbling man.

‘Hey!’ Klaus shouted. He could not see the man’s face but he recognised his gait from somewhere.

Klaus rummaged in the hood of the parka; grasped the thing that had been tossed into it by the stranger. It was a hand grenade, the kind of Second World War relic found in army surplus stores. Klaus wondered if it was still live. Then he noticed the pin was missing.

‘Where the hell is Gordon Thomson?’ Ella asked the anorexically thin psychologist, who was sitting opposite her in a dismal day room with screwed-down tables and chairs.

She could see the woman was only in her late twenties. She guessed she was a recently qualified quacktitioner, tasked with observing and labelling the off-cuts of society that were stuffed all day long into seven foot by ten foot cells like dysfunctional lab rats. ‘Detective Gordon Thomson. I had a deal with him. Where is he?’

Under the psychologist’s trousers, she wore pink heart socks; one sock pulled much higher than the other. This bothered Ella. But Ella was now beyond being capable of cool, objective judgement. She decided that because the woman was not answering her question and because she wore terrible, uneven socks, she was a loser.

The psychologist smiled at Ella and scribbled something into her pad.

‘So tell me, Ella. How would you describe your homelife? Do you get on with your mother?’

Ella thumped the table. ‘Listen, Dr Whateveryournameis. I was an informant in a drugs bust. I had been working with Detective Thomson for over a year to gather evidence for the case against Daniel Spencer, Jeremy Saddiq, Tonya Perkins and Michelle Ogumbe. I wore a wire to a drugs pick-up in Amsterdam. I was supposed to be put into a safe house awaiting their trial. And now I’ve been in here for a month waiting for a trial date! On remand, like a common fucking criminal.’

The psychologist nodded and began to write in her pad. She took a dainty sip from a cardboard cup of coffee and continued. She said nothing.

‘Well?’ Ella shouted.

She squinted at the psychologist’s pad and tried to read the notes upside down. It took her a moment to decipher the scribbled handwriting.

‘Delusional? Possibly suffering oppositional defiant disorder? You cheeky bitch!’

Ella stood up and regretted the chair being bolted to the floor. She understood perfectly why the other inmates liked to throw furniture around whenever the opportunity presented itself.

‘Sit down, please, Ella.’ The psychologist spoke with a calm, almost impassive tone.

Ella threw herself heavily back onto the chair and played with the ribbed hem of her too-tight, standard-issue tracksuit top. She wore no bra because they had provided her with no bra. ‘Why was I refused bail even?’

The psychologist smiled sweetly. ‘Speak to your legal representative.’

‘He’s trekking in the fucking Andes for charity. I can’t get hold of him.’

‘Well, that’s not my area. Now, do you ever feel like you want to hurt yourself, Ella? Do you get sad or angry?’

‘What?’

‘It’s common for girls withdrawing from alcohol or substance misuse to have negative feelings …’

‘You think I’m a user? And a suicide risk? A cutter?’ Ella sucked her teeth, knew she was throwing a surly teen pose but couldn’t help herself. ‘I’m not a bloody addict! I’m an in-for-mant! Now where’s Gordon?’ She folded her arms and stared at the avidly scribbling psychologist until their eyes met. ‘Well?’

The psychologist flicked through the pages of her pad and skimmed what appeared to be an earlier entry from Ella’s induction week. ‘Detective Thomson’s had a heart attack. He collapsed the morning that you were arrested. He’s in intensive care.’ Her tone was flat, devoid of any sympathy or even feigned surprise.

Panic. Ella was gripped by panic now, although it made sense. That’s why she hadn’t heard from him.

‘He must have left instructions about me,’ Ella said, trying to be as non-threatening as possible. She realised she had to play up to the quack. Let her see she was educated and sane. Try to find common ground and stop cussing her out like a mouthy ghetto bad ass.

‘Look, Ella, I know this must be frustrating for you. You think Detective Thomson had cleared the way for your release.’

‘I don’t think it.’

‘Unfortunately, CID haven’t found any paperwork to back your claims up. And Detective Thomson is not well enough to be contacted right now.’

Damn, damn, damn. You’ve hung me out to dry, Gordon the Gargoyle.

‘But the recording equipment I was wearing?’

‘I’m not the person to speak to really. Like I said, you should speak to your solicitor. Have him liaise with the police. I’m here to assess your well-being. Now, how would you describe your sexual orientation?’

Ella said nothing. She clenched her hands into tight little fists, stood in silence and walked to the door. The psychologist made no attempt to encourage her to sit back down. Willing herself to keep a lid on her simmering frustration, Ella banged on the glass until one of the screws appeared and showed her back to her cell.

Her cell was a dreary, godforsaken place. The only window was barred – of course. One solitary, small pane opened to let in fresh air; the tantalising, heartbreaking whiff of freedom.

When she had first arrived, after she had endured the indignity of sitting on BOSS – the grey plastic Body Orifice Security Scanner – to see if she had wedged anything useful, dangerous or narcotic up her hoopla, she had been greeted with a risible welcome pack of toothpaste, shampoo, soap, sweets and orange squash. Now her little juvie luxuries, shopped for by Her Majesty at her leisure, were gone. All she was left with were walls full of smelly brown stains where the other inmates had spat on the drab paint in an attempt to stick up posters of their favourite pin-ups and bands or photographs of the children they weren’t allowed to see regularly. Shop-soiled, unmade bedding and a toilet without a seat. That was Ella’s cold comfort now.

At five thirty sharp, she was let out of her cell. Happy hour and a half. A chance to have a fight with one of the other lovely ladies. Or play cards. Perhaps she would peruse the erudite pages of the women’s prison periodical,
Do What?

Ella made her way down to the association area, rubbed shoulders with the mad, the butch, the pregnant, the young, the old, the mainly black, the always angry other women. She stood in line for the telephone, drinking in the smell of chips, tobacco and sweat. She tried not to make eye contact with the others. Tonya and Big Michelle were a lifetime ago now – sent to another facility in another part of the country. Ella was a battered, broken satellite lost in the vacuum of deep space.