Marnie Riches - The Girl Who Got Revenge - The addictive new crime thriller of 2018

‘Coffee?’ he shouted. ‘Biscuits?’

George’s stomach rumbled.

‘Milk, no sugar,’ she said.

‘Not for me.’ Van den Bergen glowered at her and started to flick through his notepad, perching his glasses on the end of his nose. ‘Let’s get to the point, Mr Den Bosch. One of your trucks was pulled over this morning at the Port of Amsterdam.’ He read out the number plate, watching as Den Bosch’s eyes narrowed. ‘It was found to contain just over fifty trafficked Syrians, all suffering from dysentery and on the brink of suffocation. Several are now critically ill in hospital from oxygen deprivation and dehydration. One – a girl of twelve – died. The driver tried to escape by pretending to throw anthrax in my face. What do you have to say about that?’

As Van den Bergen sat back in a saggy old armchair that was positioned by the beat-up horseshoe of a reception desk – almost certainly a relic from the 1980s – George walked over to the sink. Den Bosch was stirring the instant coffees too quickly, sloshing dark brown liquid onto the yellow Formica worktop. He plopped in thick evaporated milk from a bottle that looked like it had seen fresher days.

Turning to face Van den Bergen, Den Bosch shrugged. ‘I reported that truck as stolen the other day. Didn’t you know?’ He treated them yet again to that bullion smile, eyebrows framing an expression of apparent confusion. ‘Jesus. I can’t believe some scumbag was using it to smuggle Arabs. But at least they were smuggling them out of the country, eh?’

‘Come again?’ George said, snatching up her coffee and eyeing the chip in the mug with distaste. She threw the coffee down the sink. Stood too close to Den Bosch. ‘Sorry. Just remembered I’m allergic to coffee.’

Her gaze travelled down his tracksuit top to his forearms. She caught a glimpse of colour on his skin, though he yanked the fabric over his wrists so quickly that she wondered if she had imagined it.

‘Arabs,’ he said. ‘ISIS and all that. They come over here but all they want to do is blow innocent Dutch citizens up and contaminate our fair northern land with their Muslim bullshit. Knocking up our women to make brown babies.’ Pointedly looking George up and down, he thrust a packet of biscuits towards her. ‘Chocky bicky?’

Taking several steps backwards, she sucked her teeth at him. Decided to spare him the insults in her mother’s patois. An ignorant shitehawk like that wouldn’t understand it anyway.

‘Dr McKenzie,’ Van den Bergen said. ‘Why don’t you go and wait for me in the car?’

George nodded. But as she left the down-at-heel offices, she heard Den Bosch reiterate that the truck had been stolen.

‘The Netherlands is a world gone mad,’ Den Bosch said. ‘There’s so many foreigners running round, making tons of cash from criminal activities and not paying taxes… They come over here and bleed us dry. You want to think twice before you come and interrogate a legitimate businessman like me over my truck and a bunch of illegals, Mr Van den Bergen. Why don’t you save your police harassment for those terrorist bastards?’

In the luxurious cocoon of Van den Bergen’s car, George got the special cloth and the antibacterial spray from the glove compartment and started to wipe down the dashboard and polish the dial display and gearstick with a fervour bordering on frenzy. Cheeky chocky bicky bastard.

‘What do you think of him?’ Van den Bergen asked some ten minutes later as he lowered himself into the driver’s seat and slammed the door with a thunk.

‘Scumbag, of course,’ she said.

‘Do you think he’s a people trafficker? God knows you’ve met enough of them in your line of work.’

She eyed the deepening creases on either side of Van den Bergen’s mouth and traced the lines gently with her little finger. ‘You tell me, Paul. What do people traffickers look like? The Duke? The Rotterdam Silencer? Or a sprout-growing lout?’

As they pulled out of the courtyard, she glanced back to the reception building. Den Bosch was standing in the doorway, staring straight at her. He pulled up his sleeves, and George was certain she glimpsed a swastika among the complicated designs that covered his forearms in sleeves of ink.

The display beeped, flashing up the name of the next patient in red digital letters. But it wasn’t ‘Paul v. d. Bergen’. Instead, an Indonesian woman snatched up her bag with a harried look on her face and marched briskly from the waiting room to the doctors’ surgeries beyond. She certainly didn’t look that bloody ill.

Van den Bergen clutched at his throat as a hot jet of acid spurted upwards into his gullet. He exhaled heavily, all thoughts of the Syrian refugees and the racist produce farmer pushed to the back of his mind while the prospect of throat cancer took precedence. Yet again. Rising from his uncomfortable chair, he approached the reception desk.

‘Am I next?’ he asked the bouffant-haired woman behind the counter. He spoke mainly to the wart on her chin – though he tried not to.

She checked her computer screen. ‘Sorry. Doctor’s running late this morning. There’s two in first and then you.’

Leaning forward, he tried to invoke an air of secrecy between them. ‘I might have…throat cancer.’

He expected her to rearrange her disappointing features into a look of sympathy or horror, but the receptionist’s impassive expression didn’t alter.

‘Two more and then you’re in.’ She smiled, revealing teeth like a horse. ‘There’s a new magazine about cars knocking around on one of the tables.’ As if that was any compensation for being made to wait when he was almost certain that his slow, painful demise had already begun inside his burning throat. Just because the gastroscopy hadn’t found cancer yesterday didn’t mean it hadn’t conquered his healthy cells today.

Sitting back down, Van den Bergen folded his long right leg over his left. Thought about deep-vein thrombosis and uncrossed them swiftly. Sitting opposite him was a beautiful blonde young mother, wrestling with a yowling and stout-looking toddler, whose chubby little fists, when he wasn’t clutching his ear, pounded her repeatedly on the shoulder. The fraught scene put him in mind of his own daughter, Tamara, and his granddaughter, Eva. Ah, parenthood. All the joys of making another human being with your own DNA, but the crippling burden of worrying if they’ll make it to adulthood and fearing what kind of person they might become. He was silently thankful that Tamara hadn’t turned out a nagging, self-obsessed harridan like her mother, Andrea. His daughter had inherited his quiet stoicism, but had he passed on his weak genes? Would she too possibly be prone to the Big C that had taken his father; definitely destined for digestive rebellion and constant anxiety?

Batting the thought away, he turned his attention to an old, old man two seats along, who was gazing blankly ahead. Though the man was smartly dressed in a tailored dark jacket that didn’t quite match his navy gabardine trousers, the ring of unkempt white hair around his bald head lent him an air of institutional neglect. Given the rash of freckles on his hairless pate and the translucence of his deeply furrowed skin that revealed the blue web of veins beneath, he couldn’t have been far off a century. The old guy didn’t look too good. He lolled in his chair, his pale face sweaty under the unforgiving strip light of the waiting room. Van den Bergen watched with growing concern as saliva started to spool out of his mouth onto his smart trousers. The angry toddler had fallen silent and suddenly all that was audible above the thrum of electricity from the lights was the man’s rapid, shallow breathing. His colour changed to a sickly grey.