The Girl Who Wouldn't Die Part 15

'I know. I'm sorry. I've got stuff going on,' George said, flinging her bag to the floor and pulling out her essay.

Fennemans stroked his paunch and smirked. 'I'm not interested in your personal traumas. Don't come to my supervision late again.'

George looked at his bouffant hair and willed it to flop or part in the middle something which might puncture the overblown, overstuffed w.a.n.ker and let a little of his air out. The hair stayed put. She kept her cool. The telescope and the bin man had damped down her red mist. Thankfully.

'Read out your essay and we'll discuss it,' he said, waving his hand with a circular motion like a king greeting his minions.

'When can I start going to lectures again?'

'Read!'

As George read what she had written, the optimist in her felt hopeful that Fennemans would be impressed. Despite the tumult amongst the students generally and the nightmarish half-life she had been leading since identifying Ratan and Joachim, she had managed to read long extracts from over ten academic texts on the subject matter. Tracking them down without the Bushuis library collection at her disposal had not been easy, but George was nothing if not resourceful. She had bought the necessary texts at the VU academic bookshop in De Boelelaan and had photocopied the sections in the faculty, being careful not to open the books so wide as to crease up the spines. Then she had returned the books to the shop along with her receipts and got a refund. George thought that, under the circ.u.mstances, that displayed ingenuity and commitment.

Fennemans groaned. 'Is this confrontational style of argument what they teach you at Cambridge? Because I'm afraid it doesn't cut the mustard with me or the syllabus here.'

George looked at him, dumbfounded. The optimist inside her quickly keeled over and died.

He rubbed his blobby nose and gave her a nasty smile. When he moved his hand away from his face, her eye followed it and rested on a bottle on a low cabinet behind him. Gin. Was he drunk at 1.45pm? She looked back at his face. He was staring at her cleavage, which was barely on show.

'You're going to have to try harder than this, Little Missy.'

George dug as deep as she possibly could to mine the last seam of patience at the very core of her being.

'I'm sorry you feel that way. I gave that essay my best shot, Dr Fennemans,' she said. 'I researched-'

'You lack self-discipline. You clearly haven't read the texts on the reading list. You've gone off syllabus. Do you think you can make up your own degree course, my dear? Do you think special allowances are made for you? Is that what Cambridge produces? Slackers who think they're ent.i.tled to it all without putting the effort in. Without having natural intelligence. Your att.i.tude stinks and frankly, Little Miss McKenzie, I think you're lazy.'

Jesus! What is this?! George knew that Fennemans was one of those petty-minded, insecure men who felt threatened by intelligent, a.s.sertive women. From digging around on the internet and eavesdropping on gossip, she had ascertained that Fennemans had climbed through the ranks of the university's hierarchy quicker than his age and experience would normally dictate; a sycophantic Robin who had s.n.a.t.c.hed Batman's cloak and mask undeservingly and by nefarious means. So, shaky self-esteem is at the root of this bullying? That don't make it right, a.r.s.ehole.

When her mobile phone pinged in her bag, George ignored his sarcastic comments and read the text despite Fennemans' obvious exasperation. She had hoped it was from Ad, but it was, in fact, from van den Bergen.

Come and see me for chat. Get cab to allotments at Sloterdijkermeer. I'll reimburse. Call me when you get there.

Fennemans' irritating voice buzzed on like a September wasp, drunk on its own potency and venom.

Without saying a word or explaining where she was going, George put her essay carefully into her bag, put on her coat, rose from her chair and left Fennemans on his own in the office. It wasn't until she unlocked her bicycle outside that she realised she was still wearing her slippers.

Klaus took his sword out of its case and examined it.

'Beautiful,' he said.

He pressed the pad of his finger gently against the cold, hard tip. It was a little blunt but still sharp enough to take a man's finger clean off. It had been too long since he had last used it in a duel. He placed the sword ceremoniously on his Danish teak coffee table, careful not to make a dint with the heavy hilt on the table's oiled finish.

'Now, where did I put it?' he said. He went over to the kitchen area in his apartment and rummaged through the nick-nacks drawer for his whetstone. It was a matter of pride to Klaus that he kept all of his knives sharpened. Using a whetstone made him feel like a real craftsman.

Flinging himself onto his leather sofa, he started to sharpen the last twelve inches of the sword. The repet.i.tive action relaxed him, and for the first time, he was able to chew over for a prolonged period the imminent memorial service for Joachim.

'I will be gracious. I will shake his family's hands. I will look them in the eye. I will not say anything stupid,' he told himself.

Klaus knew his own shortcomings. He was an excellent orator. The ability to charm strangers was always instantly available to him on demand, like ordering room service in a fine hotel. But he was not a truly emotional person, unlike every other gushing idiot in his family, who hugged and wept and declared true love, as though they were auditioning for a part in ZDF's B-Movie of the Week. That was one effect that he could not conjure at will. The more he was expected to show emotion, the more anxious he became until, suddenly, he found he could not focus on people's faces but had to look at their chests or feet instead. Once upon a time, his mother had suggested he was tested for borderline autism but Klaus remembered overhearing his father saying, 'Klaus is just a spoiled, wilful little s.h.i.t. He'll grow out of it.'

'f.u.c.k you very much, Papi,' Klaus said, thrusting his newly sharpened sword into the gut of his imaginary father.

Klaus' phone rang, shattering the illusion. Staring at his phone display, he didn't recognise the number. When he answered, it was some second-year law student he had met at a party before Christmas. Walter something or other. Desperate for a walk on the wild side.

'You told me you knew where I could score some quality gear and a little wh.o.r.e,' Walter said.

Klaus swallowed hard. 'Did I give you this number?'

'Yes.'

He must have been out of his head at that party. 'I'm busy right now, I'm afraid.'

'Come on, mate. You promised. You said you knew a club where the girls were really special.' Walter's voice was infused with sickly pleading.

The irresponsibility of pa.s.sing the club's details on to yet another student with a flapping mouth was buried by the joy at bestowing hedonistic largesse upon a new member of the Biedermeier fanbase. Klaus gave him the number of Aunty Fadilla.

'Have fun!' he said to a now jubilant Walter.

His dealings at the club required no grand shows of affection. Thankfully.

'Don't worry, Klaus. Joachim's memorial service will be fine.' He looked at his reflection in his laptop lid. 'Just go through the motions.'

Klaus rearranged his lips and teeth into a satisfactory grin. But still, nagging at the back of his mind was the ultimatum from the Lusatian at the National Democratic Party of Germany headquarters. He had taken a pile of cash and he was expected to deliver something special for the cause. Springing from his sofa, he swung his sword around and lopped the top six inches cleanly from his parlour palm. He would deliver Ad, of course.

Chapter 16.

Later still

'Know anything about gardening?' van den Bergen asked George.

George nodded. 'I was plant monitor at school when I was ten. I grow things on my windowsill from seed. Does that count?'

Van den Bergen's knees cracked as he lowered himself onto a foam kneeling pad, resting on top of some mosaic paving that looked newly laid. He was wearing baggy old denim dungarees with a dirty grey sweatshirt underneath. On his feet, he wore the largest pair of wellington boots George had ever seen.

'Not really,' he said. 'But you can still pitch in. Pa.s.s me the box of tubers.' He nodded towards a cardboard box sitting just inside what George could only describe as a self-contained summerhouse. Thrashing rock music blared out from a battered-looking portable stereo, sitting on top of a wooden orange box just inside the door.

'What the h.e.l.l is that angry c.r.a.p?' George asked.

'"Territorial p.i.s.sings",' he said, smiling.

'What?'

'Nirvana. Makes me feel energised. I'll turn it off if you like.'

She looked around at the dense evergreen backdrop to the allotments. The air smelled of damp earth and wet pine trees. A rash of daffodils and early tulips had flared up almost everywhere.

George now realised why van den Bergen's fingernails had been grubby when he had been interviewing students in Fennemans' office after the Utrecht bombing. They had been ingrained with good, honest, clean dirt from the ground. George didn't mind that dirt.

'Aren't you meant to be solving a spate of terror attacks and a murder?' she asked.

'Even senior inspectors take time out.'

'Is this your special place, then?' George carried a box of what looked like a.s.sorted t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es covered in dust over to van den Bergen and placed them on the paving in front of him.

Van den Bergen teased a tower of large, black plastic pots apart and delved into a rubber trug full of compost. He put a handful of the crumbly black matter into the pot.

'Yes,' he said. 'I come here to think.' He wiped his face with a muddy hand and smeared two brown stripes across his cheek. 'And to get away from things.'

'Let me guess. You like plants better than people,' George said, squatting beside the detective.

Van den Bergen chuckled and placed a fistful of tubers on top of the compost. 'Infinitely more so.' He pushed a black pot towards George. 'Here, you do some and I'll share my flask of coffee with you.'

George felt a burning itch to wipe van den Bergen's muddy face. Instead, she knelt down on a roll of horticultural fleece that van den Bergen pa.s.sed to her.

'Why did you ask me here?'

Van den Bergen cleared his throat. 'When I got back to file my report at the station, I pulled what I could find on Biedermeier.'

George stopped what she was doing momentarily, stared at van den Bergen, trying to second guess what he would say. 'Oh?'

'You're very persuasive, Georgina. I think the technical term is nagging.'

'And?'

'Biedermeier sort of has a criminal record back in his hometown.'

George put her pot carefully onto the paving. 'Sort of? Go on.'

'Grievous bodily harm on an old Turkish guy. High jinks gone wrong after a heavy drinking session when Biedermeier's final term of senior school was over. The old guy makes his way home from visiting his daughter and her family, gets some racial abuse from a couple of the lads in the group. Next thing, Biedermeier smashes a heavy bottle of white beer over the guy's head.'

George knew from van den Bergen's crinkled-up eyes that he was studying her face for a reaction. Was he quietly irritated that he had not checked up on Klaus before a twenty-year-old girl had pointed the finger of suspicion towards him? No, van den Bergen wasn't compet.i.tive like Fennemans. He bore none of the sickly, cloying stink of the insecure.

She kneeled up, being careful not to grin or show any kind of 'told you so' smugness.

'Anything else?' she asked.

'Cla.s.s A drugs. Cocaine. In Biedermeier's first year at university.'

'No!'

'Yes.' Van den Bergen treated her to a smile. 'Biedermeier and Joachim belong to the duelling fraternity but duelling fraternities, aside from being a little odd and archaic, aren't full of violent criminals and potential terrorists. No, those two idiots flirted out of school with a group of genuine, grown-up and reasonably well-organised fascists. Skinheads, heavy metal-heads, wearing big boots and military surplus. Lots of swastika tattoos. Lots of aggressive-looking piercings. You know the stereotype, right? It's a stereotype for a reason. Anyway, the local German police knew all about the alliance as they had been watching these thugs for a while.'

'Had Klaus and Joachim actually signed up to-'

'They were just buying drugs from one of the gang members. Deals out of a heavy metal pub. The Graf, Klaus' father, got wind of his son's unsavoury extra-curricular activities. He's a well-connected man. Asked the police to step in and nick Klaus with a couple of grams on him.'

'Tough love?'

'Precisely. But Big Daddy gets his legal representation to squash the charges. His sole aim was to put the frighteners on his errant son.'

George smoothed compost over the top of her tubers and patted the surface perfectly flat. 'And what happened with the GBH charge?'

'Thrown out. The judge decided the evidence was circ.u.mstantial because it was dark, and now the old man wasn't sure about the ID. The arresting officer hears from an informant that Big Daddy has paid the victim to change his testimony. So, the old Turkish guy lost his hearing in one ear thanks to the blow, but Biedermeier senior has a lot of clout and a lot of money. Now, technically-'

'Technically, Klaus hasn't really got a criminal record, then,' she said. 'He beat the system.'

'But he's still guilty as h.e.l.l. It's on file. The boy's bad news. Tell me, is it the latest fashion to wear carpet slippers outside? I've got a daughter just a bit older than you but I haven't seen her about town in her slippers.'

'You've got a grown-up daughter?' George could see hurt momentarily flicker over van den Bergen's eyes. He said nothing. Back to the slippers. 'A footwear oversight. So what are you going to do about Klaus?'

Van den Bergen stood up with a slight groan, knees and hip cracking. She felt the muscles in her neck contract as she looked up at him. They were almost too close to one another. He took a step backwards in his enormous boots and disappeared inside the summerhouse.

'Well?' George said. She pulled her mobile phone out of her pocket and glanced at the screen. Nothing from Ad.

Van den Bergen emerged from the threshold carrying two fold-down chairs and a large, old-fashioned, tartan Thermos. He shoved the flask into George's hands and set the chairs up. Gestured to George that she should sit and then carefully unscrewed the lids of the Thermos to reveal steam that curled upwards like a fragrant, ghostly snake being charmed from its two-ply gla.s.s basket.

'Watch yourself. It's hot.' He handed George the smaller cup full of black coffee and poured one for himself into the larger cup.

George felt frustrated by his silence as he sat and sipped his drink, staring into nothingness.

Presently, van den Bergen sniffed. 'I can't see it being just Klaus. A lone wolf? A serial killer?' Van den Bergen sampled the words on his tongue. 'Never heard of a serial killer that blew people up. As far as I know, human bombs are strictly terrorist group activity. Organised.'

George looked at van den Bergen's ears in thought. They were almost perfect.

Focus, you dozy cow. Two pieces of jigsaw puzzle on opposite sides of her imaginary games table moved towards each other and clicked together.

'Cardboard at the scene of both bombings, wasn't there?' she asked. 'Perfect crime for a serial killer. Stuff your victim in a box and leave them outside the target. Boom. Maximum impact. No evidence left.'

Van den Bergen nodded slowly. 'It's an interesting theory, Detective Cagney. But our Klaus hasn't even got a car. Who could carry a body in a box without a car? That sounds like the work of more than one person. And there would be witnesses. Plus, most serial killers hunt on their own or in one consistent ethnic group, which isn't the case in this situation. No, I'm still liking the organised terrorism angle with Biedermeier in the picture somehow. My idiot boss still likes al Badaar and his Maastricht brothers. He doesn't give a s.h.i.t about stomping all over the Muslim community's sensibilities. He just wants congratulatory headlines. All we can do is keep an eye on Biedermeier from a distance and rely on informants to report back if he gets up to something obviously suspicious.'

'Like what?'

'Like threats. Publicly made. Boasting about stuff connected to the bombing. Anything like that.'

Threats. George thought briefly of the matches on her carpet, the s.e.m.e.n stain, the sense that she was being followed and the lens staring into her room. Was that a threat from a homicidal psychopath or some neo-n.a.z.i headcase that didn't like her kind?