The Girl Who Walked in the Shadows: A gripping thriller that keeps you on the edge of your seat. Marnie Riches
woman?’ Sally asked.
George blew a dragon’s plume of smoke out of her nostrils onto the sub-zero air. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s nothing to do with our work here. Just some other bullshit I’ve got going on. Nothing to do with skeletons in the closet or anything. Don’t worry. I’m cool on that front. I’m not stupid.’
‘Far from it, Dr McKenzie,’ Sally said, flicking her ash onto the sill. ‘Now, I clobbered that benefactor during lunch. Flashed him my wrinkly, ageing senior tutor knees and offered him an honorary doctorate in Criminology in return for some funding to keep us afloat.’
George allowed herself a tired smile. ‘Please god, yes! I’m so skint.’
‘Not for you, smart arse. We need money for the library and to fund your little field trips to interview survivors. Where are you with our research?’
‘I’ve got qualitative stuff from at least twenty people – about twelve are women who were trafficked domestically as young girls in the 1970s and 1980s. Some are participating witnesses in the Operation Oak Tree case. Paedophiles in the media, obviously. The rest were boys in the 1960s and 1970s who were pimped out to some very prominent men in society. Runaways from children’s homes. Abductees. There was a boarding house in Sussex where the boys were taken to be abused. If I could only get that fucking idiot at UCL off my back, once I’ve finished the Home Office shit we’ll have a ground-breaking study on our hands in about a year’s time.’
‘Bugger a ground-breaking study,’ Sally said. ‘We’ll have a non-fiction hardback that tops the Sunday Times bestseller list. Mine and your name on the front.’ She grinned a piranha grin, which George did not entirely like, especially since she was doing all the actual work. Sally just opened the doors.
‘How are you coping?’ Sally asked, breaking into a coughing fit that made her sound as though she was a consumptive war-veteran from the trenches of the First World War. ‘Emotionally, I mean.’
Focusing on the Persian rug in the room, George shrugged. ‘It’s horrific, but then, I’m used to distancing myself from pain. I’m fine.’ Lies. She wasn’t fine. But George knew she had chosen to pursue criminology as a career so that she could give the silenced a voice, as she had been given a voice.
She was just becoming irritated by the fact that the rug was not in perfect alignment with the skirting boards, when a woman – roughly the same age as George – entered the room, wearing a gown that was still deepest black, denoting her newness, though the gown was stained with what appeared to be gravy. She flicked long, unkempt brown hair out of her well-scrubbed face. Dangling earrings with feathers attached told George much of what she needed to know.
‘Can I join you for a smoke, guys?’ she said. A heavy West Country accent. She pulled out a tightly rolled joint.
Sally winked at the woman. ‘Of course, dear.’ Turned to George. ‘This is your new partner in trafficking crime, Georgina. I wanted you to get here on time so I could make the introduction. Meet the new Fellow in Social Anthropology and expert in all matters regarding Roma child abduction.’
The newcomer stuck out her hand; her fingernails painted gaily in rainbow-coloured nail varnish belied a grip like an arm-wrestler who hustled and won. ‘Wotcha, George. I’m Sophie Bartek.’
Amsterdam, Vinkeles restaurant, 2 March
‘What have you got for me?’ Kamphuis asked, shovelling a piece of steak into his mouth that was far too large, even for him.
The exclusive eatery, Vinkeles was rammed with the great, the good and the possibly criminal underbelly of Amsterdam’s high society. Dressed to kill, as though they were impervious to the weather. Understated ritzy decor. Wide armchairs, serving to accommodate even Kamphuis’ fat arse, as he enjoyed his Michelin starred lunch. Chewing with his mouth open, like the moron he was, Van den Bergen mused. Staring out at the Keizersgracht, as though the Chief Inspector sitting to his right was not even worth a cursory glance.
‘You summoned me here, Olaf,’ Van den Bergen said, stomach growling at the sight of the beautifully arranged food. Snatching a bun from a passing waiter bearing a bowl heaped with golden brown orbs – doling them out with metal tongues to those who were still doing carbs. Half the bun gone, in one bite. The morgue always made him hungry. It was something to do with the formalin, Marianne reckoned.
Finally the Commissioner deigned to turn to him. A half-sneer on his face. Sauce hanging in a blob on the side of his mouth. Threatening to besmirch the pristine white tablecloth, or else the jacket he insisted wearing, even in the overheated salon, because brass buttons on top screamed to the other diners that he was top brass. Fucking idiot.
‘It’s Commissioner Kamphuis to you,’ Kamphuis said.
Van den Bergen defiantly chewed his bun in silence for long enough to be irritating. Kamphuis’ trigger-points were big-chested new admin girls, Van den Bergen’s silent treatment and inappropriately stylish shoes on older men – all elicited responses of extreme ardour or intense dislike.
‘Been stood up on a date?’ Van den Bergen asked, bouncing his size thirteen boot on top of his bony knee. Ugg Adirondacks. A birthday present from George before they had had The Argument. Far cooler than anything he ever would have bought for himself. Certainly enough to drive Kamphuis wild with annoyance.
Slamming his cutlery down noisily, Kamphuis’ eye started to twitch. Sure enough, he grimaced at Van den Bergen’s bouncing foot. Took a swig of his sparkling mineral water. ‘I’m a busy man. And a regular here. I don’t need an excuse to have a quick bite in an establishment where I don’t have to look at ugly bastards like you all day. Now, I asked you here to debrief me on the autopsy of that John Doe.’ Shovelled in another oversized medallion of rare flesh. Spoke with his mouth full, of course. ‘Well?’
Van den Bergen helped himself to a glass of water. Swallowed down an extra strong iron tablet. ‘Don’t know why you’ve got your elasticated pants in a twist over some dead junkie.’
‘My city. My reputation. Murder rate’s right down, thanks to my vigilance.’
‘Except it’s not your city, is it? It’s Hasselblad’s. He’s the Chief of Police, not you.’ Van den Bergen could see the colour rising in Kamphuis’ face. Quickly turning florid. Telltale sweat breaking out.
‘We’re a team, me and Jaap. And I don’t need lessons on leadership from you. Facts, please!’
‘Suffocated by snow. Stabbed in the neck. Wallet gone. Looks like a mugging by a mugger who missed the drugs on him. Maybe our killer panicked and ran off. It’s a very public spot.’
‘ID?’
‘Nothing yet. Nothing’s come in from missing persons.’ Van den Bergen peered over the table and through the multi-paned, tall window to the snowy scene beyond. The canals were all completely frozen solid – now thronging with residents who had bunked the day off to ice-skate along the city’s waterways. Wrapped up against the blistering cold, he could even see three women skating along, pushing pushchairs that contained grinning toddlers. A modern day Breughel painting, where wool and fur had been replaced by Goretex.
He imagined for the briefest of moments, skating along the Keizersgracht with George, hand in hand. Losing himself in her soft brown eyes. Skating away from his cares and responsibilities. Just for an hour or so. Remembered doing that with Tamara, when she had been a little girl. One, two, three, wee, suspended between him and Andrea, his ex. Swinging the little four-year-old into the air. Tiny gloved hands. Knitted animals on the end of each finger. Fine times long gone, until George had come into his life and set his heart to thaw.
‘Are you smirking at me?’ Kamphuis asked, snapping Van den Bergen