artfully out of the corner of his mouth.
‘It’s sausage surprise,’ he said in an exasperated tone.
‘But I thought you were a veggie,’ George said.
‘Vegan.’
‘Vegan?’ shrieked Katja. ‘That’s a crime against nature, you hippy.’
George could see a hurt expression on Jan’s face. He pushed his glasses up to his forehead, revealing large, puffy eyebags beneath red-rimmed, small blue eyes. He spoke with his cigarette still in his mouth.
‘I’m cooking pork sausages just for you, you judgemental Polish tart. I knew you wouldn’t understand the finer philosophical points of veganism.’
George felt frivolity wash over her as she watched her landlord threaten Katja with a drippy spoon. He was wearing a batik kaftan today with his stick-thin hairy ankles clearly on view. The fact that he was cooking in bare feet made George feel slightly itchy. The fact that the kitchen floor was strewn with lentils, what appeared to be Rice Krispies and garlic peelings made her positively twitchy. But Jan in his own natural habitat full of ethnic handicrafts, burnt-down candle stubs and second-hand pockmarked furniture was still a comical sight.
‘How can a vegan cook meat in his own pots, Jan? Let alone eat it,’ George said.
Jan was still stirring conscientiously. ‘I’m a practising hypocrite. Now go and fetch me my packet of Drum from the sideboard.’
As George returned to the cooker with Jan’s pouch full of tobacco, she noticed the inch of ash from Jan’s cigarette fall into the stew. For a split second, he looked blankly at the ash, sitting on top of the sauce. Before she could comment, he sniffed and stirred it in.
George opened a bottle of strong Duvel for herself. The only way she was going to survive the food hygiene non-standards of Jan’s Christmas dinner would be to down as much beer as possible. She reasoned that the alcohol would kill off any germs in her stomach.
When George’s phone pinged with a text from van den Bergen, Katja was busy explaining how a woman could still breastfeed if silicone implants were inserted through the nipple. Jan was assembling pudding. George was busy chasing the last of the surprisingly tasty sausages around her plate, more than half way on her journey towards being medicinally drunk.
‘What do you want, Senior Inspector?’ George asked her phone’s display.
What do you know about this girl?
Van den Bergen had sent an accompanying attachment, which was a photo of a blonde woman. George did indeed recognise her face. She was a drop-out politics student in the year above. George had met her once briefly in a bar where some of the other students hung out. Joachim and Klaus had been all over her like a rash. The evening was memorable because the woman had thrown a glass of beer all over Joachim but had left with Klaus.
She texted van den Bergen back.
She’s called Janneke something or other. She’s one of Fennemans’ old students. Why?
The answer came back as George was enjoying her pudding of hash-cakes and ice cream.
She has been murdered.
‘Cheers,’ Fennemans said to his mother.
They clinked glasses together. He watched as the elegant matriarch of the family sniffed the contents of her champagne flute.
‘Asti spumante?’ his sister asked, staring at the rising bubbles. ‘At Christmas?’
‘It’s prosecco. And a good one at that,’ Fennemans said.
His mother swept her carefully coiffed white hair to the side, sipped the sparkling wine cautiously and swallowed in what appeared to be a reluctant manner.‘Oh, Vim. I wish you’d let me open the Laurent Perrier. The Italians are far better left to their chiantis and barolos. Did you buy this at the supermarket?’
His mother turned to his sister. ‘Vim has never had much of a nose for wine, has he? Not like us, darling. You get your palate from me.’ She patted his sister’s manicured hand. The two of them exchanged self-satisfied smiles.
Fennemans had been feeling celebratory when
‘It’s sausage surprise,’ he said in an exasperated tone.
‘But I thought you were a veggie,’ George said.
‘Vegan.’
‘Vegan?’ shrieked Katja. ‘That’s a crime against nature, you hippy.’
George could see a hurt expression on Jan’s face. He pushed his glasses up to his forehead, revealing large, puffy eyebags beneath red-rimmed, small blue eyes. He spoke with his cigarette still in his mouth.
‘I’m cooking pork sausages just for you, you judgemental Polish tart. I knew you wouldn’t understand the finer philosophical points of veganism.’
George felt frivolity wash over her as she watched her landlord threaten Katja with a drippy spoon. He was wearing a batik kaftan today with his stick-thin hairy ankles clearly on view. The fact that he was cooking in bare feet made George feel slightly itchy. The fact that the kitchen floor was strewn with lentils, what appeared to be Rice Krispies and garlic peelings made her positively twitchy. But Jan in his own natural habitat full of ethnic handicrafts, burnt-down candle stubs and second-hand pockmarked furniture was still a comical sight.
‘How can a vegan cook meat in his own pots, Jan? Let alone eat it,’ George said.
Jan was still stirring conscientiously. ‘I’m a practising hypocrite. Now go and fetch me my packet of Drum from the sideboard.’
As George returned to the cooker with Jan’s pouch full of tobacco, she noticed the inch of ash from Jan’s cigarette fall into the stew. For a split second, he looked blankly at the ash, sitting on top of the sauce. Before she could comment, he sniffed and stirred it in.
George opened a bottle of strong Duvel for herself. The only way she was going to survive the food hygiene non-standards of Jan’s Christmas dinner would be to down as much beer as possible. She reasoned that the alcohol would kill off any germs in her stomach.
When George’s phone pinged with a text from van den Bergen, Katja was busy explaining how a woman could still breastfeed if silicone implants were inserted through the nipple. Jan was assembling pudding. George was busy chasing the last of the surprisingly tasty sausages around her plate, more than half way on her journey towards being medicinally drunk.
‘What do you want, Senior Inspector?’ George asked her phone’s display.
What do you know about this girl?
Van den Bergen had sent an accompanying attachment, which was a photo of a blonde woman. George did indeed recognise her face. She was a drop-out politics student in the year above. George had met her once briefly in a bar where some of the other students hung out. Joachim and Klaus had been all over her like a rash. The evening was memorable because the woman had thrown a glass of beer all over Joachim but had left with Klaus.
She texted van den Bergen back.
She’s called Janneke something or other. She’s one of Fennemans’ old students. Why?
The answer came back as George was enjoying her pudding of hash-cakes and ice cream.
She has been murdered.
‘Cheers,’ Fennemans said to his mother.
They clinked glasses together. He watched as the elegant matriarch of the family sniffed the contents of her champagne flute.
‘Asti spumante?’ his sister asked, staring at the rising bubbles. ‘At Christmas?’
‘It’s prosecco. And a good one at that,’ Fennemans said.
His mother swept her carefully coiffed white hair to the side, sipped the sparkling wine cautiously and swallowed in what appeared to be a reluctant manner.‘Oh, Vim. I wish you’d let me open the Laurent Perrier. The Italians are far better left to their chiantis and barolos. Did you buy this at the supermarket?’
His mother turned to his sister. ‘Vim has never had much of a nose for wine, has he? Not like us, darling. You get your palate from me.’ She patted his sister’s manicured hand. The two of them exchanged self-satisfied smiles.
Fennemans had been feeling celebratory when
Similar Books
