Wolf Angel by Mark Hobson (best e reader for manga .TXT) 📕

not a single microscopic drop of blood anywhere. The same with the clothes he had been wearing at the time, all of which had immediately been seized and bagged-up. Considering how blood-splattered Mila’s killer would be – “literally dripping in it” as Beumers had put it – it was impossible to escape the conclusion that the pimp may have been telling the truth for possibly the first time in his life.

There was also the inescapable fact that Mila’s pimp had been in his cell under lock and key at the time that Oliver Monroe was getting himself murdered, assuming the two deaths were linked of course.

Frustratingly there were still no witnesses coming forward from the other girls working in the window brothels, and also no luck from the CCTV control booth behind Durty Nellies Pub. The people there were not exactly feeling particularly helpful in that regards, and Pieter was just considering whether to apply for a search warrant to allow a more thorough search, when he felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket.

Taking it out he looked at the screen.

It read: Lotte

They had an agreement never to bother each other or to have any contact outside of his visits to the Newcastle Bar. Both had preferred it that way, not wanting to become too much a part of each other’s lives. It was less hassle and felt better. But they had exchanged numbers fairly early on in their friendship, just in case. And now Lotte was calling him, breaking their little rule.

Something was up.

CHAPTER 6

CONFRONTATIONS AND DREAMS

Pieter didn’t put the lights or the siren on as it wasn’t that kind of emergency, but the call from Lotte had alarmed him enough to make him drive with a certain aggression through the busy afternoon traffic, weaving around the other cars and bicycles and trams.

It was obvious from the shaky voice and breathy words that she was very upset, and although she tried well to mask the fact, Pieter knew she had been crying. Without elaborating on what was the matter, she made it clear in her trembling voice that she really needed to see him.

Where are you? he had asked.

At the small café in The American Book Centre on Spui Square, she told him.

He’d be there in ten minutes.

Even though part of it was supposed to be for trams only, Pieter went by the most direct route from the Police HQ on Elandsgracht to Spui, heading straight along to Leidseplein and then turning left to zip by the pavement cafes, to pick up the wide thoroughfare of Rokin at the bottom.

It was as he was honking his way through the traffic near the Bulldog Coffeeshop that he caught sight of them both, sitting on a bench side by side, with about half a dozen cans of cheap cider lined up on the pavement before them and a pile of empty ones in the trash can close by. The two of them quite obviously much the worse for wear.

Dad and his boozy lady friend Famke.

Pieter swore out loud, the implications immediately clear to him, and he swerved hard across the path of an oncoming tram, and pulled in at the side of the roadway. From where they were sitting across Leidseplein they would not see him, and anyway they were pretty much too lost in their drunkenness to even notice the world around them, laughing and fooling around.

Pieter moved as if to jump out of the car, but then paused, thinking about Lotte waiting for him. He looked again at his dad, his mind torn, a huge welter of anger and frustration and disappointment filling him. He slammed at the steering wheel, fuck, fuck, fuck! And then he sat back in his seat, and shifted the car into automatic, and drove away with his tyres spinning and scrapping against the kerb. He took one final look at them both in his rear view mirror before he lost sight of them amidst the hustle and bustle.

As soon as he arrived, Lotte, who was sitting waiting for him in one of the window seats, jumped to her feet and flung her arms around him, and the sobbing burst forth. She clung to him tightly, her body quivering and shaking against his, and Pieter hugged her back.

After a minute or so he gently steered her back to her seat and he sat on the cushioned wooden bench next to her with his arm still around her shoulder. With her head tilted against his shoulder, Lotte quietly dabbed her tears away.

The café was a small place that he popped into occasionally, and it was never very busy, most times with perhaps just one or two customers sitting quietly in the peaceful atmosphere of the bookshop. The owner – a bit-part TV actress from Spain – waited until Lotte had settled, before she came across and asked politely if she could get them anything. Pieter ordered two cappuccinos. After bringing them over, the owner settled back behind her counter and went back to reading a paperback.

Pieter and Lotte talked for around an hour, during which time the whole sad story slowly and painfully came out.

Lotte was from a non EU nation, and upon deciding she wished to stay and work in Amsterdam she had applied for her GVVA work permit. However, these were only intended for short three month periods, and like so many young people doing casual work for cash, she had neglected to renew it or to apply for a residency visa. It had expired a long time ago, but she had continued working as before without informing her boss at The Newcastle Bar.

Everything had been fine. She enjoyed her job, liked the city, and had a nice rented flat that she had recently re-decorated at her own expense. She was actually starting to think of Amsterdam as her home. But then Bart, her boss, had found out about the expired permit. And instead of reporting her to the city council