isn’t it? That’s a very generous Christmas present you have in mind, Olaf. Too kind. Don’t choke on the ginger biscuits, now, will you?’
Kamphuis laughed wryly. ‘Very good, Paul. Touché, you big, lanky arsehole. See you tomorrow.’
With Elvis out for burgers and IT Marie gone for the evening, van den Bergen found himself alone in the office. Alone, baffled yet again by his job and utterly hacked off. His phone rang. It was his counterpart in Utrecht, Teun van der Putte.
‘Yes,’ he snapped.
‘Paul? Get your ass over here immediately. There’s been another bomb.’
‘Jesus. I wonder where that is,’ Ad said.
George felt his heavy breath on her hand. He smelled of deodorant and warm skin. When his knock came at her door, she had been poised to hit this unexpected visitor, thinking it might be her ejaculating intruder. The Stalker. She turned the words over in her mind, sampling how they felt, buckling under their ominous weight. But it had just been Ad, abandoning his early train back into the fluffy, baby pink arms of the Milkmaid. He had come bearing yuletide pity and a gift in a small, carefully wrapped package.
Happiness burned inside her with the white hot brilliance of magnesium held over a flame. Ad had a gift for her. He had delayed his return to Groningen. For her. She untied the blue ribbon and peeled back the expensive paper with trembling fingers.
‘
Tea bags?
’
George had not been able to contain the look of horror. She knew it had usurped the delighted smile and planted a flag of bitter indignation on her face. What had she been thinking anyway? Jewellery and perfume were things a man bought his girlfriend. The Milkmaid got those. She got fucking tea bags.
Ad had looked instantly wounded. ‘Sorry, I thought …’
Forcing her teeth to show in an encouraging fashion, she had hugged him quickly and assembled the words of gratitude in the right order before speaking them. ‘That’s the perfect present for me! Very sweet.’
He looked relieved. ‘You’re always out of tea.’ His face flushed. ‘Listen, can I check the train times?’
George had nodded and passed him the laptop. It was then that they had seen the headline on
de Volkskrant
’s home page.
‘ Second suicide blast hits Utrecht. Live footage. ’
Now, she focussed her attention on the YouTube video, posted only moments after the explosion. The amateur cameraman was talking fast as he shot the bedlam. He sounded frightened; exhilarated.
Springweg, Utrecht.
As soon as he gave the location, George scrutinised what she could see of the building behind the flames in the early evening twilight. What kind of a place was it? Was it another library? It was too far away from the camera phone for her to see any detail but she was curious.
‘It looks central. Let’s see,’ she said.
She punched up Google Streetview and found the building when it had still been whole – crisp in the daylight and discreet. Hebrew writing was just visible on the portico above the door but otherwise there were no discernible religious markings on the facade. No Star of David. But with its high-pitched roof and adjacent tower, it was unmistakeably a place of worship.
‘This is it,’ she said to Ad, tapping a fingernail on the screen.
‘A synagogue,’ he said. ‘These bastards are making a statement.’
George frowned. She made a rasping noise as she sucked her teeth. ‘This isn’t connected to the university, though. There’s no logic to any of it.’
Van den Bergen drove well in excess of 100mph to bridge the distance between Amsterdam and Utrecht. His tired body was suffused with adrenalin and a grim euphoria of sorts.
Emergency vehicles with their strobing lights beckoned him towards the mayhem.
Teun van der Putte was standing at the scene, backlit by the blaze.
‘Paul. Good,’ he said, slapping van den Bergen on the upper arm. He proceeded to fill van den Bergen in on what had happened, wincing visibly every time a
Kamphuis laughed wryly. ‘Very good, Paul. Touché, you big, lanky arsehole. See you tomorrow.’
With Elvis out for burgers and IT Marie gone for the evening, van den Bergen found himself alone in the office. Alone, baffled yet again by his job and utterly hacked off. His phone rang. It was his counterpart in Utrecht, Teun van der Putte.
‘Yes,’ he snapped.
‘Paul? Get your ass over here immediately. There’s been another bomb.’
‘Jesus. I wonder where that is,’ Ad said.
George felt his heavy breath on her hand. He smelled of deodorant and warm skin. When his knock came at her door, she had been poised to hit this unexpected visitor, thinking it might be her ejaculating intruder. The Stalker. She turned the words over in her mind, sampling how they felt, buckling under their ominous weight. But it had just been Ad, abandoning his early train back into the fluffy, baby pink arms of the Milkmaid. He had come bearing yuletide pity and a gift in a small, carefully wrapped package.
Happiness burned inside her with the white hot brilliance of magnesium held over a flame. Ad had a gift for her. He had delayed his return to Groningen. For her. She untied the blue ribbon and peeled back the expensive paper with trembling fingers.
‘
Tea bags?
’
George had not been able to contain the look of horror. She knew it had usurped the delighted smile and planted a flag of bitter indignation on her face. What had she been thinking anyway? Jewellery and perfume were things a man bought his girlfriend. The Milkmaid got those. She got fucking tea bags.
Ad had looked instantly wounded. ‘Sorry, I thought …’
Forcing her teeth to show in an encouraging fashion, she had hugged him quickly and assembled the words of gratitude in the right order before speaking them. ‘That’s the perfect present for me! Very sweet.’
He looked relieved. ‘You’re always out of tea.’ His face flushed. ‘Listen, can I check the train times?’
George had nodded and passed him the laptop. It was then that they had seen the headline on
de Volkskrant
’s home page.
‘ Second suicide blast hits Utrecht. Live footage. ’
Now, she focussed her attention on the YouTube video, posted only moments after the explosion. The amateur cameraman was talking fast as he shot the bedlam. He sounded frightened; exhilarated.
Springweg, Utrecht.
As soon as he gave the location, George scrutinised what she could see of the building behind the flames in the early evening twilight. What kind of a place was it? Was it another library? It was too far away from the camera phone for her to see any detail but she was curious.
‘It looks central. Let’s see,’ she said.
She punched up Google Streetview and found the building when it had still been whole – crisp in the daylight and discreet. Hebrew writing was just visible on the portico above the door but otherwise there were no discernible religious markings on the facade. No Star of David. But with its high-pitched roof and adjacent tower, it was unmistakeably a place of worship.
‘This is it,’ she said to Ad, tapping a fingernail on the screen.
‘A synagogue,’ he said. ‘These bastards are making a statement.’
George frowned. She made a rasping noise as she sucked her teeth. ‘This isn’t connected to the university, though. There’s no logic to any of it.’
Van den Bergen drove well in excess of 100mph to bridge the distance between Amsterdam and Utrecht. His tired body was suffused with adrenalin and a grim euphoria of sorts.
Emergency vehicles with their strobing lights beckoned him towards the mayhem.
Teun van der Putte was standing at the scene, backlit by the blaze.
‘Paul. Good,’ he said, slapping van den Bergen on the upper arm. He proceeded to fill van den Bergen in on what had happened, wincing visibly every time a
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