The Girl Who Got Revenge

by Marnie Riches

  ‘Where is he now? I presume he’s not there.’

  Tamara moved through to the living room at the front of the house, peering through the Venetian blinds at the quiet scene of the suburban street. The rest of the neighbourhood was oblivious to her strife. Apart from that bitch a few doors down who had facilitated all this. ‘God knows. He took his guitar and stormed out, saying I’d driven him to it.’ She gulped down a mixture of rage and disappointment. ‘I’m so worried about him, Dad. What if he’s thrown himself in the canal?’

  On the other end of the phone, her father’s hollow laugh said it all. ‘That bastard is too self-interested to do us all that particular favour. Don’t you worry about him. I bet he’s already playing poker in some other old crone’s house, or throwing your hard-earned euros into a slot machine at the casino to cheer himself up. He’s an addict, Tamara. Get rid of the cheating bastard.’

  A small part of her brain registered the man who was standing on the opposite side of the road, staring straight into the living room. But the greater portion was too overwhelmed by the realisation that her marriage might be at an end. She backed away from the window.

  ‘He’s never cheated on me,’ she sobbed. Her wedding photo caught her eye. She strode over to the sideboard and picked up the heavy frame. Willem looked so handsome, wearing an embroidered kaftan with garlands of flowers around his neck. It hadn’t been her idea to have a faux Hindu-style ceremony after their sober civil union. She’d have preferred a traditional party. But still, the sari had suited her, though she’d felt a fraud and a little stupid in front of all those conservative bores on her mother’s side of the family. Nobody but George on her dad’s. And now… ‘I’m going to lose him, aren’t I?’

  ‘Good riddance! The sooner he’s out the door, the better, darling. I’ll help you. We can do this together. I’m sure your mother will give her support, too. You’re far better off on your own. You’re young enough to start again. Let’s face it, you’re the breadwinner! You’ve always been the one to do all the hard graft of putting a home together and looking after the baby. What in God’s name has he ever done apart from chip away at your confidence and spend all your cash?’

  The doorbell rang. Should she answer it in this state?

  ‘Dad, there’s somebody at the—’

  ‘And if he’s lied about the gambling, what else has he lied about, eh? How do you know he’s not been unfaithful? I’m sorry to say it, Tamara. I know it must hurt like hell. But you need to wake up! Don’t let this using bastard take you for a fool any longer. If you’re going to live a pauper’s life, make sure you’re saving the money for Eva, not letting that wanker fritter it away on illegal games of bridge. Bridge! Who the hell gets hooked on bloody bridge!’

  Again, the doorbell rang. Upstairs, the baby started to stir. Damn it.

  ‘Dad, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘No! Wait!’ he said. ‘Didn’t I tell you about that guy in the green—?’

  ‘Dad, I’m going. Come over when your shift ends.’

  Ending the call, Tamara wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her blouse and opened the door to this unexpected and insistent visitor.

  CHAPTER 20

  Police headquarters, later still

  ‘Get in here, both of you! And close the door.’

  With a growling stomach, George reluctantly followed Van den Bergen into Minks’s office. It was the first time she’d ever been roped into one of Van den Bergen’s bollockings, and she didn’t like it one bit. Minks wasn’t even her boss, for God’s sake!

  ‘Can we do this after lunch?’ she offered, treating the commissioner to a winning smile. ‘Only, I could eat a scabby horse on toast and I can barely hear you for my—’

  ‘Sit down, McKenzie!’ Minks barked. ‘This involves you too. And for the record, scabby horse on toast is not a phrase in Dutch.’

  George sucked her teeth at Minks. Cheeky. Fucking. Arsehole. So tempted was she to give him a dressing-down – her hand on her hip, getting right up in his grill and giving him some proper South East London attitude, complete with pointing and a well-placed snap of the fingers in his doughy face – that she realised she was mouthing the words, her head sliding indignantly from side to side as, in her imagination, she told him how linguistic humour works, and how her Dutch is spot on, thank you, and how he might be a pissy graduate but she was a fucking doctor and research fellow of St John’s College, Cambridge (ex-research fellow, now that Sally Wright had had her tenure rescinded, but still…). Massive wanker.

  At her side, Van den Bergen folded himself into a chair and folded his arms across his body – bracing himself for impact. It was strange to see her lover in this subordinate position. So, this was what happened to the outspoken, the honest, the borderline antisocial. They thought they had reached the peaks of their careers, only to discover they were still only halfway up the mountain because they’d not been allocated a seat on the gravy train by the slick-veneered and honey-mouthed who were destined for the top. This was her future. Of that, she had no doubt.

  ‘Maarten,’ Van den Bergen began. ‘I really don’t see why Georgina—’

  ‘Can it, Van den Bergen.’ Minks ran his fingers up and down his silk tie. Up and down. Up and down. Struggling to deal with Van den Bergen, a loose cannon with far more experience than him, George assessed. ‘You’re in deep shit – and she’s been dragging you deeper.’

  Leaning back in her chair, as if she were merely waiting for a bus, George raised an eyebrow. ‘How do you work that one out? I’m a freelance specialist consultant, working on a trafficking case. And Van den Bergen’s doing his job. Do you know what time he gets up in the morning to start work?’

  Smiling at her with a piranha grin, Minks carefully lifted a printout from his in-tray. Laid it in front of him on the table and started to toy with his mother-of-pearl cufflinks. A frat boy drunk on his own political potency. ‘Does he work at his daughter’s house in Amstelveen? Because the tracker on his vehicle…’ He leaned towards Van den Bergen, fixing him with a hard stare. ‘Need I remind you that your very nice Mercedes is owned by the police force and intended for police business use only? The tracker says you were there for most of this morning.’

  ‘I thought you approved of me taking time out to reflect on cases,’ Van den Bergen said. ‘I’ve got the best clearance rate of any senior officer in the building. And it’s because of my methods.’

  Minks laced his fingers together and nodded, a beatified grin on his face now. What was this Jekyll and Hyde nonsense? ‘It’s true. I admire your legendary trips to the allotment for thinking time enormously. It was genius management on Kamphuis’s part to allow you to do that. But I think you and I know that’s not what you’ve been doing recently. Now that you’re a grandfather. What with your daughter living in Amstelveen and all.’ Wink, wink. Chummy tosser.

  ‘Kamphuis was corrupt. He’s also dead. I wouldn’t use him as a shining example of how to be a commissioner, Commissioner Minks.’ George took out some dental floss and pulled out a long piece. Started to give her molars a thorough going over, enjoying the look of consternation on Minks’s face. She wondered how much force and skill it would take to flick her excavations onto that silk tie of his.

  ‘Stop that, please.’

  ‘Nah,’ she answered in English. She needed the work, but she didn’t need to take Minks’s crap. ‘Dental hygiene’s very important, innit? And I’m preparing for my scabby horse.’ Back to Dutch. ‘Why are we here?’

  He pointed at Van den Bergen. ‘You’re slacking. And when you are working, you’re agitating notorious troublemaking imams who threaten to go to the papers, and you’re harassing respectable businessmen who pay their taxes. You may catch the bad guys, Paul, but you’ve got as much subtlety as a bucket of sick. These are tricky times. The Ministry of Justice and Security is caught between a rock and a hard place.’ He held his palms wide, like some wannabe Jesus in a Hugo Boss suit. ‘The immigrant community on one side and the conservative
majority on the other. We have to tread carefully.’

  Van den Bergen’s face crumpled into a glare that could strip the finish from Minks’s gleaming desk. ‘How am I supposed to do my job properly if I can’t interrogate suspects, for Christ’s sake? You want me to solve the trafficking case, so I’m working the case! Dirk followed Den Bosch to the mosque. There’s collusion between a neo-Nazi and an imam who’s reputed to be less than above board. Remember when he was accused by de Volkskrant for allowing Daesh recruiters and extremist clerics into the mosque? The guy’s dirty.’

  ‘Well, if you’re so diligently going about the trafficking case, why the hell have you got her’ – he flicked his thumb dismissively in George’s direction – ‘and Marie haranguing a respected physician over some Syrian family doctor you’ve got in custody? It’s not even in connection with the Den Bosch case. Marie told me you’re investigating the deaths of four old men. I mean, what the hell, Paul?’

  ‘It became apparent—’

  ‘Became apparent nothing.’ Minks held his hands up as if in surrender. ‘You’re off the trafficking case as of today.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Van den Bergen’s lightly tanned complexion paled to a sickly grey.

  George saw her bank balance winding back from sweet FA to absolute zero and then into the red. No case meant no freelance work. No money coming in meant she was doomed to a life in the UK spent sleeping cheek-by-jowl with her cousins in Aunty Sharon’s cramped council house, having to intervene in the ferocious arguments between Letitia the Dragon and whoever was within shrieking distance. If her Cambridge career somehow recovered from Sally Wright’s machinations, her life would be spent forevermore renting low-grade college accommodation with a bunch of idiot undergraduates who smoked weed and drank until the early hours, audible through the thin walls as they crapped on loudly about Nietzsche. The bastards never cleaned the shower and inevitable hairy plughole either. And if Van den Bergen ever committed to her properly and agreed to get their own place together…

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked Minks. ‘Paul’s a brilliant investigator and team manager. His staff adore him. He gets the job done. He should have had your job, if we’re being honest.’

  Minks’s glower soured yet further. ‘Your boyfriend doesn’t have the diplomatic skills required of a commissioner. That’s why he’s been overlooked for the post twice.’

  Van den Bergen placed a hand on George’s shoulder. She was so agitated on his behalf, and panicked at the prospect of unemployment, that she wasn’t sure whether she was comforted by his touch or annoyed by it. Her default reaction was to shrug him off.

  ‘You’re making a big mistake,’ she told Minks. ‘We’re making excellent inroads into—’

  ‘Who are you bringing in?’ Van den Bergen asked.

  ‘Roel de Vries.’ Minks pursed his lips, clearly expecting a reaction.

  ‘That prick? Seriously? He’s such a bad detective, they had to move him to head up traffic.’ Van den Bergen shook his head. ‘You’re making a big mistake. Den Bosch and the imam are in cahoots. A lot of the city’s Muslim illegals will belong to that mosque. Den Bosch is a slum landlord, housing recent immigrants – that’s a fact. And a pile of trafficked Syrians were found in his truck. A little more digging, and I’m fairly certain I’ll be able to see the full picture. We’re onto something with those two. I can feel it.’

  ‘Then you can hand over what you’ve got and let Roel and his team get on with the matter of finding the trafficker behind that girl’s death. He’s a good guy. I went to school with him. An old friend of the family. You are on the brink of burnout, Van den Bergen.’ He was pointing – a slender finger on a manicured hand, complete with some kind of chunky gold fraternity ring on his pinkie. ‘And I, as your caring superior officer, am going to give you the respite you need. You’ll thank me for it.’

  George was poised to protest, but then came a knock at the door. A grinning face peered through the window into the office. Nose pressed against the glass like a kid. A thumbs up to Minks. George got a glimpse of Roel de Vries’ Homer Simpson tie and had the measure of him immediately.

  ‘Jesus,’ Van den Bergen said, exchanging a desperate glance with George. He lowered his voice to speak in English, talking quickly while Minks and de Vries exchanged overly friendly backslaps and a fist bump. ‘This guy can’t find his ass with both hands. We need to get out of here. I can’t take it anymore.’

  Van den Bergen stood, towering some ten inches above the interloper. They shook hands formally. Absolutely no fist bumps.

  ‘Hey, big man!’ Roel enthused, patting Van den Bergen’s forearm. ‘You look knackered. Grandfatherhood taking its toll? I hear you’re being put on my traffic detail. Sometimes it’s good to change things up. Recharges the batteries.’

  What a patronising tosspot, George thought, biting her tongue. Shiny arse on those trousers, too. Bet he gets his shitty clobber from C&A. How old is this numpty? Thirty? Fifty? I can’t even tell. Dick.

  Minks sat back down in his captain’s chair, showing de Vries into George’s now vacated seat. In less than six months, the new commissioner had changed from an ever-impressed Van den Bergen fanboy to this point-scoring autocrat who only wanted to fill the spaces around his table with sycophants.

  ‘I know you’re going to bring a fresh perspective to this terrible case, Roel. Any resources you need will be at your disposal. I’m sure Van den Bergen won’t mind you making use of Marie and Elvis, either.’

  ‘Oh, brilliant.’ Roel beamed. ‘More hands on deck. We’re going to grill the hell out of the refugees from the truck. See if we can put pressure on them to blab.’

  ‘A good chunk of them are still critically ill in hospital,’ Van den Bergen said, closing his eyes. ‘And the ones who aren’t are refusing to speak. George had an excellent idea to use Abadi—’

  But Minks wasn’t listening. He rubbed his hands together and leaned back, stretching towards the small desk that contained his printer and a coffee maker, which he switched on. ‘Don’t let me and Roel keep you, Paul. You can wheel your desk chair down to traffic if the one there doesn’t suit your height. I know you’re funny about that and I take staff welfare very seriously, as you know.’

  Biting back barbed sentiments, George gathered up her bag and duffel coat. She was almost doubled up, thanks to the sucker punch Minks had given them both. Another black mark on her CV. At her side, the tendons in Van den Bergen’s lean face flinched. His grey, hooded eyes were charged with ferocity. But he said nothing. Merely ground his molars.

  In the doorway, poised to make their getaway, Van den Bergen turned back to Minks. ‘One thing, Roel. You’re not having Marie or Dirk. If either of you have a problem with that, take it up with the chief of police, because I intend to.’

  He strode so quickly away from Minks’s office that George had to jog alongside him to keep up. She needed a cigarette – and fast.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘To the allotment. I need time out before I burst into flames.’ He rubbed his stomach and winced.

  ‘Great. Can I come with you? Shall we grab something to eat on the way?’

  Van den Bergen stopped dead outside the photocopier room. He appeared to be contemplating something; sizing her proposition up, perhaps. George searched his inscrutable expression for a sign of how he might be feeling. Was he angry? Bereft? Glad she was there?

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I need to speak to Elvis and Marie, but before I do that, I’ve got to nip over to Tamara’s. Check on her and the baby.’

  Check on Tamara. Of course he needed to check on fucking Tamara.

  As her ageing lover stalked hastily away from her, disappearing off towards the lifts, George balled her fists tightly, reluctantly allowing tears of frustration to leak onto her cheeks. The pain of rejection and disappointment seared inside her, far worse than her griping hunger pangs. Almost on a par with grief. It bit deeply, opening old wounds. Memories resurfacing of
the times in her life when she had been jettisoned, used, considered insignificant in the minds of those she’d loved deeply.

  ‘Cunt,’ she said, almost inaudibly. ‘You and me are so over.’

  CHAPTER 21

  Hoek van Holland, Stena Line ferry, that evening

  ‘Boarding pass and passports open at the photo page, please,’ the steward on the Stena Line ferry said in a monotonous voice, wearing a fixed smile on her face.

  George shuffled forward with the other plebs on the dreaded overnighter to Harwich. The weather reports had predicted they’d be sailing in the tail end of some hurricane that had hit the East Coast of America and the Caribbean a few days ago. This is gonna be a bloody riot, she thought as she handed her documentation over, elbowing out of the way the backpack of some rainbow-jumper-clad travelling wanker who reeked of weed.

  Relieved and outraged in equal measure that she was ushered through a damn sight quicker than the young Asian lads in front of her, who were siphoned to the side for questioning, George followed the herd of passengers to the upper decks, feeling like she was involved in some disappointing gold rush where the only land she’d be able to claim would be an uncomfortable seat for those who couldn’t afford cabins. Already, the ferry was surging from side to side, heralding the bumpy ride back to the UK.

  ‘Story of my life,’ she said, counting her euros to see if she could afford a gin and tonic from the bar.

  As the ferry chugged out into the North Sea, George watched the passengers who rolled into the duty-free shop, already half pissed. They rolled out again carrying clanking bags of spirits and packets of ciggies. She already had a 200-box of Silk Cut, which Van den Bergen would certainly disapprove of. Well, fuck him.