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

was just reaching out for his glass once more when he felt his mobile vibrate against his thigh, and so he reached into his trouser pocket, seeing he had a text message from Daan Beumers.

INITIAL ID ON THE GIRL – WORKING NAME OF MILA. REAL IDENTITY NEVER ESTABLISHED BY HER PIMP. HE THINKS SHE COMES FROM ESTONIA, BUT NOT 100% SURE. CLAIMS NOT TO HAVE HER PASSPORT. NOW HE IS OVER THE SHOCK HE’S COMING OVER AS A MOUTHY CUNT, BUT MY GUT FEELING IS THAT HE’S IN THE CLEAR. EVEN THE BEST ACTOR IN THE WORLD CAN’T THROW UP ON DEMAND THE WAY HE WAS. ENJOY YOUR BEER BOSS.

Pieter put the phone away and finished his drink.

CHAPTER 3

DAD

On sunny days during the spring or at weekends, Pieter liked to walk along De Ruijterkade by the side of the river Ij, to visit his dad. The stroll took him by the large and luxurious riverboat cruises moored to the west of Centraal Station, and then on beyond the up-market yacht marina, before he came to the old decrepit boathouses moored at the riverside. Most were unseaworthy with leaking old hulls, their sides lined with old tyres to prevent them bumping and rubbing against one another, but a few of the nicer ones had been turned into cute little floating cafes permanently moored up alongside the railings.

His dad lived in one of the smaller ones right at the end of the line, the one with the blackened chimney on its flat roof, with smudges of wood smoke drifting out. Despite Pieter’s protestations, his dad still enjoyed taking his floating home out onto the river to do a spot of fishing from time to time, even though Pieter was convinced that one day the thing would end up at the bottom of the riverbed, the two old wrecks sharing a watery grave.

                                                               Houseboat

On occasion the two of them would head for the Western Islands for an amble around the old boatyards and wooden bridges which was fast becoming one of the up-and-coming parts of Amsterdam to live in. Or perhaps they would go down Singel to pop into Greenwoods English Café close to where Pieter lived.

But today, even though it looked like it was set to be a nice and warm morning, Pieter was in a hurry and so had to call around on a flying visit by car, before doubling back to Police HQ over on Elandsgracht. On his way over he hurried into Albert Heijn, the small spar shop on the corner, to grab a few essentials for his dad.

Parking his car in the parking bay on the far side of the road, Pieter skipped across, avoiding the cyclists scooting by, and bounced his way down the narrow gangplank. He let himself in with his own set of keys, hearing the morning news on the TV before he passed through into the boat’s living area.

Dad was up – still in his pyjamas, but at least awake and in the land of the living, which these days was a bonus. He was slouched on the old couch, eating a slice of toasted French bread and drinking coffee.

“Hi pops,” Pieter said with a slightly exaggerated gaiety (it was important always to appear positive with dad these days)

“Son,” dad mumbled between bites, nodding at the TV. “How much do you reckon her teeth cost her?”

Pieter glanced at the glamourous female news-anchor on the TV set, the one his dad had a crush on, the few perks that the randy old goat had. “More than my retirement fund probably,” he replied, stepping across to the kitchen area and taking the eggs, milk and croissants out of the carrier bag, noticing when he opened the fridge that dad was low on appelstroop. As he unpacked, he glanced down the narrow corridor towards the small bedroom at the end, seeing that the door was open. It seemed that Famke, dad’s lady friend, wasn’t around, which was always a relief. Famke, who was around about sixty he thought, although her wrinkled and haggard face made her appear much, much older, was a bad influence. Like his dad, she was an alcoholic, and although his dad was currently on the wagon having her about the place regularly was sometimes too much of a temptation for his old man. Their friendship was a sore point between father and son, and had resulted in too many blazing rows, but dad insisted on letting her pop over and occasionally staying the night. But thankfully there was no sign of her today.

Pieter went back into the living area and handed the morning paper to his dad. Hansje turned straight to the sports page, a lit cigarette now in his mouth, checking the soccer results and grumbling, ash spilling down his pyjama top. Pieter noted the ashtray, which was one of those cheap plastic ones that his dad had stolen from a pub years ago, was filled to overflowing.

Standing there and looking around at the mess, the threadbare rug and the dying plants, the plate of half-eaten supper from the night before on the coffee table, the grimy windows and so on, his dad looking all bony and shrivelled up with his grey hair and stubbly, unshaved chin, Pieter felt an almost overwhelming feeling of sadness. He sagged inside, and a bone-deep weariness of the soul gripped him.

He glanced across to the wall by the small, round porthole, and at the framed photo there. It was a group shot of dad and his army buddies, all proud and healthy men in their uniforms with their blue UN Peacekeeping berets on. The photo had been taken at a Dutch base near the town of Potocari in Bosnia Herzegovina sometime in early 1995.

Just a few months before