Chapters (50)
- Cover
- About the Author
- Dedication
- Prologue
- FOUR DAYS BEFORE
- Sour Hound
- Sucked Back In
- Lucie Muller
- White Wolf, Black Wolf
- THREE DAYS BEFORE
- Crumbled Away
- Bit of a Punk
- Disturbance in the Force
- Knocking the Walls Off
- Don’t Call Me, I’ll Call You
- Appropriately Medicated
- Friends in Common
- Lifestyle
- Who?
- Oscar
- Police Brutality
- TWO DAYS BEFORE
- Sorry
- Client Confidentiality
- Glass
- Chateau Lafite 2000
- There’s a Man With a Gun
- For Your Own Safety
- Fire
- Stark Night
- ONE DAY BEFORE
- Green
- It’s Not The World – It’s How You Look At It
- Familiar
- Volunteer Number Six
- A Very Dangerous Game
- DAY ZERO
- Junk
- Just Like the Others
- Burn
- Is This a Joke?
- Schizo
- Sour Hound II
- Moonlight
- Make Them Pay
- Bite
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgements
- WELCOME TO AMSTERDAM
- THE BEGINNING
‘What now?’ he snaps. He finds himself massaging his temple with his finger. Got to get a painkiller, he thinks. The headaches have been getting worse, and if he doesn’t get the drug in his system soon it’ll blow up into a migraine, which will most likely leave him incapacitated for several days. And he can’t afford that. Not in his position. Not now.
‘Thought you should know Rykel visited the house of one of the cops on the original investigation. I saw him leave with what looked like a file or folder. I’m guessing they’re notes to do with Muller’s case. He’s also just visited the prison.’
He stares out of the window across the car park to the motorway beyond. Dear God, he thinks. How much more of this can I take? For a moment he feels as if things are spiralling out of control. There’s also, and he doesn’t want to admit it to himself but it’s there nonetheless, a snaking, twisting surge of fear.
‘I’m going to have to talk to someone, work out what our next step is. Meantime you just keep on him, understood?’
He kills the call, puts the phone back in the drawer, locks it, retapes the key, and heads out of the door, ignoring his PA again. The pain in his temple’s gone. Or not gone, but no longer relevant.
He’s got a much bigger problem now. One which, if not sorted out, is going to make a migraine look like a fleabite at Chernobyl.
Don’t Call Me, I’ll Call You
Roemers gets me just as I arrive back at the houseboat. I’m attempting to parallel park into a space I’m not entirely convinced is actually big enough. My hand hesitates over the phone, the panic which had engulfed me at the prison now largely gone, but the memory of it a warning nonetheless. A warning I should probably heed. Then again, if there’s even a chance that what I fear might be going on here is true, I can’t just walk away.
‘Got what you wanted,’ Roemers says. ‘Payment was made to a charitable foundation.’
‘Not a holiday company?’
‘No.’
‘So what sort of charity is Huisman giving two thousand euros to, then disappearing?’
‘That is exactly the question you should be asking, because I’ve got some other stuff to do which has been deemed urgent.’
‘Can you send me what details you’ve got?’
‘When I get a minute.’