The Girl Who Walked in the Shadows: A gripping thriller that keeps you on the edge of your seat

George allowed herself a tired smile. ‘Please god, yes! I’m so skint.’

‘Not for you, smart arse. We need money for the library and to fund your little field trips to interview survivors. Where are you with our research?’

‘I’ve got qualitative stuff from at least twenty people – about twelve are women who were trafficked domestically as young girls in the 1970s and 1980s. Some are participating witnesses in the Operation Oak Tree case. Paedophiles in the media, obviously. The rest were boys in the 1960s and 1970s who were pimped out to some very prominent men in society. Runaways from children’s homes. Abductees. There was a boarding house in Sussex where the boys were taken to be abused. If I could only get that fucking idiot at UCL off my back, once I’ve finished the Home Office shit we’ll have a ground-breaking study on our hands in about a year’s time.’

‘Bugger a ground-breaking study,’ Sally said. ‘We’ll have a non-fiction hardback that tops the Sunday Times bestseller list. Mine and your name on the front.’ She grinned a piranha grin, which George did not entirely like, especially since she was doing all the actual work. Sally just opened the doors.

‘How are you coping?’ Sally asked, breaking into a coughing fit that made her sound as though she was a consumptive war-veteran from the trenches of the First World War. ‘Emotionally, I mean.’

Focusing on the Persian rug in the room, George shrugged. ‘It’s horrific, but then, I’m used to distancing myself from pain. I’m fine.’ Lies. She wasn’t fine. But George knew she had chosen to pursue criminology as a career so that she could give the silenced a voice, as she had been given a voice.

She was just becoming irritated by the fact that the rug was not in perfect alignment with the skirting boards, when a woman – roughly the same age as George – entered the room, wearing a gown that was still deepest black, denoting her newness, though the gown was stained with what appeared to be gravy. She flicked long, unkempt brown hair out of her well-scrubbed face. Dangling earrings with feathers attached told George much of what she needed to know.

‘Can I join you for a smoke, guys?’ she said. A heavy West Country accent. She pulled out a tightly rolled joint.

Sally winked at the woman. ‘Of course, dear.’ Turned to George. ‘This is your new partner in trafficking crime, Georgina. I wanted you to get here on time so I could make the introduction. Meet the new Fellow in Social Anthropology and expert in all matters regarding Roma child abduction.’

The newcomer stuck out her hand; her fingernails painted gaily in rainbow-coloured nail varnish belied a grip like an arm-wrestler who hustled and won. ‘Wotcha, George. I’m Sophie Bartek.’

CHAPTER 7 (#ulink_923a58d9-0fb0-5624-89c3-45b4c0cb6073)

Amsterdam, Vinkeles restaurant, 2 March (#ulink_923a58d9-0fb0-5624-89c3-45b4c0cb6073)

‘What have you got for me?’ Kamphuis asked, shovelling a piece of steak into his mouth that was far too large, even for him.

The exclusive eatery, Vinkeles was rammed with the great, the good and the possibly criminal underbelly of Amsterdam’s high society. Dressed to kill, as though they were impervious to the weather. Understated ritzy decor. Wide armchairs, serving to accommodate even Kamphuis’ fat arse, as he enjoyed his Michelin starred lunch. Chewing with his mouth open, like the moron he was, Van den Bergen mused. Staring out at the Keizersgracht, as though the Chief Inspector sitting to his right was not even worth a cursory glance.

‘You summoned me here, Olaf,’ Van den Bergen said, stomach growling at the sight of the beautifully arranged food. Snatching a bun from a passing waiter bearing a bowl heaped with golden brown orbs – doling them out with metal tongues to those who were still doing carbs. Half the bun gone, in one bite. The morgue always made him hungry. It was something to do with the formalin, Marianne reckoned.

Finally the Commissioner deigned to turn to him. A half-sneer on his face. Sauce hanging in a blob on the side of his mouth. Threatening to besmirch the pristine white tablecloth, or else the jacket he insisted wearing, even in the overheated salon, because brass buttons on top screamed to the other diners that he was top brass. Fucking idiot.

‘It’s Commissioner Kamphuis to you,’ Kamphuis said.

Van den Bergen defiantly chewed his bun in silence for long enough to be irritating. Kamphuis’ trigger-points were big-chested new admin girls, Van den Bergen’s silent treatment and inappropriately stylish shoes on older men – all elicited responses of extreme ardour or intense dislike.

‘Been stood up on a date?’ Van den Bergen asked, bouncing his size thirteen boot on top of his bony knee. Ugg Adirondacks. A birthday present from George before they had had The Argument. Far cooler than anything he ever would have bought for himself. Certainly enough to drive Kamphuis wild with annoyance.

Slamming his cutlery down noisily, Kamphuis’ eye started to twitch. Sure enough, he grimaced at Van den Bergen’s bouncing foot. Took a swig of his sparkling mineral water. ‘I’m a busy man. And a regular here. I don’t need an excuse to have a quick bite in an establishment where I don’t have to look at ugly bastards like you all day. Now, I asked you here to debrief me on the autopsy of that John Doe.’ Shovelled in another oversized medallion of rare flesh. Spoke with his mouth full, of course. ‘Well?’

Van den Bergen helped himself to a glass of water. Swallowed down an extra strong iron tablet. ‘Don’t know why you’ve got your elasticated pants in a twist over some dead junkie.’

‘My city. My reputation. Murder rate’s right down, thanks to my vigilance.’

‘Except it’s not your city, is it? It’s Hasselblad’s. He’s the Chief of Police, not you.’ Van den Bergen could see the colour rising in Kamphuis’ face. Quickly turning florid. Telltale sweat breaking out.

‘We’re a team, me and Jaap. And I don’t need lessons on leadership from you. Facts, please!’

‘Suffocated by snow. Stabbed in the neck. Wallet gone. Looks like a mugging by a mugger who missed the drugs on him. Maybe our killer panicked and ran off. It’s a very public spot.’

‘ID?’

‘Nothing yet. Nothing’s come in from missing persons.’ Van den Bergen peered over the table and through the multi-paned, tall window to the snowy scene beyond. The canals were all completely frozen solid – now thronging with residents who had bunked the day off to ice-skate along the city’s waterways. Wrapped up against the blistering cold, he could even see three women skating along, pushing pushchairs that contained grinning toddlers. A modern day Breughel painting, where wool and fur had been replaced by Goretex.

He imagined for the briefest of moments, skating along the Keizersgracht with George, hand in hand. Losing himself in her soft brown eyes. Skating away from his cares and responsibilities. Just for an hour or so. Remembered doing that with Tamara, when she had been a little girl. One, two, three, wee, suspended between him and Andrea, his ex. Swinging the little four-year-old into the air. Tiny gloved hands. Knitted animals on the end of each finger. Fine times long gone, until George had come into his life and set his heart to thaw.

‘Are you smirking at me?’ Kamphuis asked, snapping Van den Bergen out of his reverie.

‘No.’ A silent beat. ‘It’s a waste of my team’s time. They’re too experienced. We do the serial killers and criminal networks and high-profile cases. You’ve got plenty of junior detectives who could be looking into the dead junkie. I want to keep working on the missing persons’ operation. We’ve spent so long looking for—’

‘Forget it,’ Kamphuis said, belching. ‘I’m the boss now. My priority is the murder rate. You tow my line, you streak of piss, or I’ll put you out to pasture quicker than you can say, “pensioner discount”. Right?’

Early retirement. Arrogant turd. Kamphuis’ words resounded like a bad bout of tinnitus, as Van den Bergen stood on the steps of the restaurant, watching the skaters. Retirement. Consigned to the scrap heap. Nice. And Kamphuis had grounds. Everyone knew Van den Bergen had been struggling since the Butcher. He touched his scar tissue beneath his coat, poking where it ached in the cold.

The windows of the beautiful, four-storey townhouses that leaned in on him felt suddenly oppressive. Spying on him. Marking him out as a failure. A man who should have died. A Chief Inspector who had not succeeded in solving his most recent case. An ageing idiot who had pushed his young lover away. He felt utterly alone.

Opting to walk through the streets back to the police HQ, instead of driving in the shitty, slippery conditions, he hammered out a text to George. Intended it to be conciliatory. Wanted to tell her that he loved her and was sorry. That he could commit, after all. That he would go for more therapy.

Despite his best intentions, he found he had sent:

Assigned to murder case. Suffocation with snow. Strange neck wounds. What do you think, Detective Lacey? P.

Shit. Why was he such an emotional cripple?

Feeling the lead-weight of disappointment snuff out any lightness of step, he trudged back towards police headquarters. Passed some makeshift stalls that had sprung up on the icy Prinsengracht, selling mulled wine, stroopwafels and greasy doughnut-like ollieballen to tourists and ice-skaters who had overestimated the length of time they could bear in the cold without libation. The sweet cinnamon smell was intoxicating, but he had no appetite. This lingering smell of Christmas was a false God. It was early March now, and only the remaining dead weeks of winter stretched and stretched ahead of him.

He stood in the glazed portico of the police headquarters when a text pinged back. It was from George.

Is that an attempt at romance, arsehole?

She had attached to the text a jpeg of an article from The Times newspaper. The headline made Van den Bergen draw a sharp breath: An icy end for entrepreneur. Who is Jack Frost?

CHAPTER 8 (#ulink_ee1788da-7cb4-5cbb-8a7f-19d6d3465112)

A village South of Amsterdam, 25 May, the previous year (#ulink_ee1788da-7cb4-5cbb-8a7f-19d6d3465112)

A glance into the garden confirmed that the children were both playing happily. Clambering onto the small plastic climbing frame. Josh was even helping Lucy to get up the three steps. There they both were, squealing as they slid down the Day-Glo pink slide, then crawled into the space beneath the platform, poking their little heads out of the ‘window’. Good. And the play area was still in shadow, as the morning sun had not yet moved round from the front. No need to apply sunscreen just yet. They were safe. Perfectly safe. He could concentrate. Even if it was only for twenty minutes or so, that would be enough.

Peering down at the architectural drawing of the Wagenaar family’s poky three-bedroomed house, Piet Deenen could see how he could utilise the dead space to the side. Where a washing line currently hung forlornly, he could create an open plan living area. Bring more light into that horrible galley kitchen. Theirs was another poorly designed boxy house on the outermost fringes of Amsterdam. A garden suburb. A post-war poor-man’s utopia, thrown together by shortsighted town-planners in response to a burgeoning population and the need for slum clearance. The Netherlands was now crying out for men like Piet: architects with modest ambitions, an easy-going nature and an affordable rate. Gabi had been so wrong about his earning potential. Fuck London with its cut-throat property- and job-market.

A few clicks on the mouse, and he manipulated his design software to create an extra five feet of usable floor space for Mr and Mrs Wagenaar and their three children. Better.

He drank from his coffee. Scattered crumbs onto his jeans from the appeltaart he had knocked up for him and the kids. Gabi wouldn’t touch anything containing carbs, of course. She was still on the corporate treadmill in her head. Sharp-dressing. 8 a.m. starts, though she no longer needed to keep those ridiculous hours. An hour of exercise every day: disciplined body, disciplined mind. Old habits weren’t dying hard.

Leaning forward, knocking his coffee all over the plans of the existing front elevation, he opened the window.

‘Kids!’ he shouted in his native Dutch. ‘Ten minutes and I’ll bring you out some cake and milk. Okay?’

Delighted squeals from outside. Josh jumping up and down, Lucy not really understanding much beyond cake and milk, no doubt. They waved up at him. All, ‘love you, Paps!’ Sticky juice hands. Dirty knees. Both with flaxen hair just like he had had as a child. But their curls had come from Gabi’s side of the family.