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Authors: Marnie Riches
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like a coffee?’
‘No thanks. Can I see Janneke’s room please?’
‘But the police have already been.’ She looked helplessly towards the stairs. ‘I suppose you’re just doing your job. You’ll find him, right?’
Van den Bergen watched as Janneke’s mother’s chin dimpled up and her eyes filled with glassy tears.
‘I’ll be in the kitchen,’ she said.
In the dusty silence of the dead girl’s room, he looked around at her things and tried to get a feel for who the girl had been. Who did she know that wanted her dead? Why would somebody want to cut her throat? And what the hell was he doing here, snooping into another detective’s case when he should have been concentrating on al Badaar?
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 class. 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 cocked 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 passersby. Now that the early evening darkness and cold had cloaked everything in semi-silence and shadow, the canal 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 fucking 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 fashioned fug of what George recognised as
‘No thanks. Can I see Janneke’s room please?’
‘But the police have already been.’ She looked helplessly towards the stairs. ‘I suppose you’re just doing your job. You’ll find him, right?’
Van den Bergen watched as Janneke’s mother’s chin dimpled up and her eyes filled with glassy tears.
‘I’ll be in the kitchen,’ she said.
In the dusty silence of the dead girl’s room, he looked around at her things and tried to get a feel for who the girl had been. Who did she know that wanted her dead? Why would somebody want to cut her throat? And what the hell was he doing here, snooping into another detective’s case when he should have been concentrating on al Badaar?
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 class. 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 cocked 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 passersby. Now that the early evening darkness and cold had cloaked everything in semi-silence and shadow, the canal 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 fucking 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 fashioned fug of what George recognised as
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