The Girl Who Wouldn’t Die (35 page)

‘That’s St John’s through there, mate,’ he said, pointing to a grand stone building behind high railings. ‘You wanna go to Porters’ Lodge on the right, see? Big medieval-looking place with a wooden door.’

Van den Bergen struggled to understand the man’s accent but nodded. Who the hell knew what a Porters’ Lodge was?

He ran to the college entrance as the cab driver had indicated, narrowly missing being mown down by several students on bicycles.

‘I am looking for Georgina McKenzie,’ he told the balding, middle-aged man behind the polished wood counter.

He showed his police identification card. The man took the card and fished around in the top pocket of his black suit jacket for a pair of spectacles.

‘Let’s see who we’ve got here,’ he said, eyeing van den Bergen and then studying the ID card with almost melodramatic disinterest.

Van den Bergen drummed his fingers impatiently on the counter. ‘This is a matter of great urgency, connected to a criminal case in the Netherlands.’ Why would this pot-bellied idiot not just let him through?

‘Here, Alf. Look at this,’ the man said to another, older, balding man who wore a sweater beneath his black jacket. ‘What do you think of this then? Dutch police. Wants to speak to an undergrad who’s visiting Dr Wright.’

The first man seemed to defer to Alf. Pretty soon, not one, but three identically dressed men were studying van den Bergen’s identity card. Van den Bergen realised that these were porters. He was surprised that they seemed to have the elevated status of official gatekeepers, rather than being men who simply carry heavy luggage around, like train station porters.

‘Fancy that, eh?’ the third porter said.

Alf took the card from the first porter and gave it back to van den Bergen. ‘Leave a note,’ he said, pointing to row upon row of pigeonholes behind him. ‘She’ll get it later.’ Alf’s teeth were tea-stained. He looked the sort of old-fashioned man who set a lot of store by knowing the extent of his own authority and obeying orders only from his superior.

Van den Bergen felt his eye start to tic. He wanted to grab Alf and his suited collaborators by the scruffs of their necks and see if they felt more co-operative with their jowly faces ground into the counter. Instead, he took a deep breath and smoothed down his raincoat.

‘This is a police matter. It’s urgent that I speak to Ms McKenzie. She may be in grave danger.’ He gave the men his sternest look that he normally reserved for instilling the fear of God into low-life perpetrators.

The first porter he had spoken to turned his back on van den Bergen, picked up a ledger and started to leaf through its pages. He said nothing. The third proceeded to ignore him as soon as a man with wild grey eyebrows, clutching a battered leather briefcase, entered the Lodge. The porter addressed this man deferentially as Doctor Somethingorother and talked about a Fellows’ Drawing Room, so van den Bergen assumed this was an academic affiliated to the college. Perhaps a little light manipulation was his only way of gaining entry to this seemingly closed world.

‘Excuse me,’ van den Bergen said to the academic. ‘I am a friend of Dr Sally Wright. I need to speak urgently with an exchange student who is a guest of hers at the moment, but these fine gentlemen won’t let me into the college.’

The academic looked suspiciously up at van den Bergen through tortoiseshell-rimmed designer glasses. He smoothed one of the leather elbow patches on his tweed jacket defensively.

‘A friend of the senior tutor? What kind of friend?’

Van den Bergen brandished his ID card for the second time. ‘An inspector of the Dutch police kind of friend. I’m hunting a serial killer who might be on your premises.’

The academic studied the identification and seemed to blanch. ‘Amsterdam?’

Van den Bergen nodded.

‘I’ve read about a serial killer there. The same one as in the papers?’

Van den Bergen nodded stoically, wanting to push the man aside and barge through unhindered to whatever lay beyond. He felt like he was dealing with suspicious, stalling pensioners from Breda.

The academic’s eyebrows bunched together. He turned to Alf. ‘Call the police, Alf,’ he said.

‘Are you going to let me through?’ van den Bergen asked.

Alf leaned forward, supporting his upper body on the counter with folded arms, as though protecting his turf. ‘This is St John’s College, sir. We’ve got hundreds of students and Fellows living behind this Lodge. You could be anybody. We get all sorts of crackpots trying to get inside but you’re not
British
police and you’re not a member of college. Sightseeing’s restricted to just a couple of courtyards. You’re too early for that an’ all.’

Van den Bergen had never come across such obstinacy before. He felt tightness across his chest as though somebody had strapped him up with elastic baggage ties.

‘Do you want to be responsible for the death of a student and the escape of an internationally wanted criminal?’ he asked the self-satisfied-looking porter.

‘Look, this chap seems to be genuine,’ the academic suddenly said. ‘Kindly accompany him to the student’s guest room. But do call the police in the meantime. We can’t have mad men wandering round, threatening our students, can we, Inspector?’

Begrudgingly, Alf shoved a guest book under van den Bergen’s nose.

‘Sign in,’ he said, tapping his finger on an empty line.

Then he nodded to van den Bergen and, jangling an enormous set of keys, indicated that he should follow.

George hopped into the shower, which was deliciously hot and refreshing, despite the hard water which refused to foam up no matter how much soap she used. Steam billowed all around her, obscuring the mirror. She dried off with the fluffy, oversized towel, leaned over the sink to brush her teeth and failed to see the disfigured man as he stood behind her not three feet away. When she wiped the mirror with her hand, there was nothing but her own reflection staring back at her.

‘Oh, my days. You look like a wreck, girl. You need some early nights and a new liver.’

She was careful to apply plenty of moisturiser and deodorant, in case Ad came to find her. She wanted to be fresh and fragrant for the big seduction. She felt hot anticipation between her legs and had to take a deep breath to calm herself down.

‘Emails. Focus.’

She sat on the bed and checked her Hotmail account. Unusually there was an email from van den Bergen.

‘Jesus. He’s persistent. What does he want?’

From: Paul van den Bergen 02.10

To:
[email protected]

Subject: Karelse has disappeared

Karelse is missing. Brandon Köhler is Jeremy Saddiq. Have tracked him to university. He has been sniffing around your neighbour, Katja, asking about you. Be extra vigilant.

Paul

George frowned at the screen. Van den Bergen had still been trying to get in touch with her at two in the morning.

He must be agitated. Ad’s missing
.

‘Well, of course he’s missing!’ she proclaimed after some thought. ‘He’s on the road, coming to see me, me, little me.’ It did occur to George at that moment that, although she was likely to flout a police curfew, Ad was not. She opted to ignore the nagging little doubt.

George was just about to call van den Bergen when she altered the angle of her laptop screen to deflect the early morning sunlight. What was this smudge on her screen? She tried to wipe it away. When the pale shape remained, her senses sharpened, and then she realised. She was staring at a reflection of a scarred face. Everything seemed to stop. Breath. Sound. Light. The world froze; a split-second calm prelude to that horrifying moment.

‘Hello, Ella,’ Jez said.

They set off at a snail’s pace through a warren of courtyards and medieval gateways, each one revealing something more beautiful, antiquated and foreign to van den Bergen.

‘We don’t get no serial killers here,’ Alf said to him. The porter chuckled and poked at his comb-over hair.

Van den Bergen remained silent, ensuring his face was still set in his favourite grim-reaper expression. This place was too big. This walk was taking too long for his liking. Irritation had a vice-like grip around his chest.

George did not look behind. She lurched across the bed and made for the door. But Jez was too quick. She felt herself snatched up in strong arms like small bush meat being felled by a leopard. Thrown on the bed. Pinned to the mattress. She screamed out, but a hot hand covered her mouth. He was on top of her now.

She looked into his face. He was completely unrecognisable. Horrifying. Melted skin just about covered his flesh and bones like a bad paper towel wrapping around a barbecued chicken drumstick. He was wearing a dark blond wig. No black hair. No dark eyebrows any more. Only his eyes were recognisable. Black, piercing, wild. Utterly frightening. George could see the absence of remorse in them.

‘I’ve dreamed of this moment for four years,’ he hissed in her ear. ‘Just me and you. Alone together.’

He pinned her down with the length of his body, rummaged in a pocket. Deftly silenced her screams with hard, unyielding duct tape.

George tried to kick out, to punch him, but he was so incredibly strong. Unnaturally strong, as though he had boosted his average frame with steroids. In a blur of practised movement, he flipped her over like a rag doll and taped her wrists together behind her back. She felt him caress her hips, the naked cheeks of her backside. He groaned.

‘Oh, you’re beautiful.’ His speech sounded laboured and impaired like Saeng’s had.

George felt him press against her, excited. She whimpered, face down in the pillow.
‘You were a very bad girl to lie to me and Danny all that time. I found out, you know. I know you testified against us. I was looking for you. But I never stopped loving you, Ella. And now I’m the boss, not Danny. I’m not like I was. I changed. I’m an educated man now. Well read, just like you.’

She could feel his breath against her cheek. Smelled powdery airline coffee and cheese buns. There was still the cloth of his trousers between them. He rubbed himself against her rhythmically. Started to explore her with insistent fingers. She wanted to stab him in the head.

‘You got caught right in my little web in Amsterdam,’ he said. ‘Out of the blue, along you came, like a beautiful, stupid fly and got yourself all tangled up.’

George squeezed her eyes shut. Prayed she would pass out and be spared this agony. His touch made her flesh crawl. She thought of her dead, mutilated friends and Saeng’s sad, once beautiful face.

Without warning, Jez flipped her onto her back so that she could see him. She was certain he was going to rape her. Could she knee him in the balls?

She breathed fast and hard through her nose. Her arms stung with the agonising pain of being pinioned behind her at an awkward angle, with both his and her own weight on top of them. Without warning, George tried to buck him off with her hips but he was too heavy. Clenching her stomach muscles, she brought the upper half of her body up fast and nutted Jez squarely in the nose. Blood spattered down over his too-tight mouth. But he seemed unfazed. He merely pushed her back down onto the bed. Wiped his bloody nose on his hand and his bloody hand on the bed.

‘I’m going to make you happier than Danny did because I’m a better man. I want you to want me.’

He prised her legs apart under his weight. Started to kiss the insides of her thighs.

Oh, my God. I don’t want that face down there.
George thought quickly. He was vulnerable. She could do some damage with her cyclist’s legs. Hadn’t Jan told her that she could crush a man between those thighs? Yes. It was worth a shot.

She clamped her strong thighs against the sides of his head and squeezed with every last ounce of strength she had. He started to shake as her flesh suffocated and her muscle constricted his airways.

He’s really dying. Is he?
No
. He was digging his nails into her delicate skin. Biting her inner thigh. Agony. He gained the upper hand once again and levered her legs apart.

‘Bitch!’ He was panting hard, gasping for breath. Clearly enjoying her challenges.

George shook her head from side to side like a rabid dog.

‘You’re gonna love this. All the girls do, and I’ve got plenty of girls now. You can be my best girl.’

George tried to shriek, begged God, if he was listening, to allow a neighbouring student to hear her cries for help. She forced herself to look at his nightmarish face and gave him the most venomous stare she could muster. Tears of hot defiance started to seep out of the corners of her eyes. Shook her head again. Enough to make the bed shake this time.

Jez frowned. ‘No? Are you telling me no?’ His ruined face twisted into a mask of pure hatred and aggression. He thumped her once on the side of her head. Twice. Started to grin as she tried to scream.

Three times. Four times. She was out cold.

Ad’s eyes opened. His head throbbed. His whole body screamed with stiffness. Pain. There was a strip light above him. It wasn’t switched on. He was in semi-darkness. Had he been asleep? This wasn’t his room.

He felt nauseous. He started to vomit but couldn’t move his head. For a second, he was paralysed by fear that the vomit would catch in the back of his throat and choke him. With great effort, he turned his befuddled, slow head to the side. The sick made a splattering noise as it hit solid ground beneath him.

The sound forced his stodgy brain to make sense of things. He was raised up on something. What was he lying on? A stone slab of some sort. It felt unforgiving under his almost numb body. Numb but for the agony in his head and his hand.

Then he spotted a large, fat needle protruding from beneath the skin in the crook of his right arm. There was a tube coming out it. His eyes followed the tube up to a connector from which several other tubes flowed, leading to bags of clear fluid hooked on a stand. One bag was empty. Another was almost empty. Instinctively, Ad pulled the needle out of his arm. It was a struggle. His left hand felt sluggish and just beyond his control. But he did it. He knew enough about needles to put pressure on the hole with his clumsy fingers. But where was the index finger on his right hand? He pulled his hand up towards his face and stared in open-mouthed horror at the tourniquet that was wrapped tightly around the bloody dark red stump. He tried to scream but could only whimper.