Wolf Angel, Mark Hobson [best free ebook reader for pc .txt] 📗

wooden joist and winch sticking out from the gable above his head.

Twisting awkwardly about, Pieter looked across the steep rooftop towards the next house over. The black-clad figure was scrambling up and over the roof tiles like some frightful phantom of the night, coat tail flapping in the breeze. Reaching the apex of the roof, they paused and looked back at Pieter once more.

Their eyes met briefly, those twin black pits seeming to bore straight through to Pieter’s brain.

Still clinging on to the wooden joist, he watched as the figure disappeared into the night.

CHAPTER 7

FAMKE AND THE STUPID OLD FOOL

Dropping back down to the floor inside the attic room, Pieter could feel himself starting to shake from the after effects of the terrifying incident, and so he paused to allow his nerves time to settle.

The room was in darkness but with a mixture of moonlight and orange streetlight filtering through from outside, his eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom. Looking about, he was able to see that everything was as it should be: nothing had been disturbed or moved, the room wasn’t ransacked.

Shaking his head in confusion Pieter drew a deep breath and turned and pulled down the window sash. Then, picking up the cricket bat once again, he crossed back over the room, heading for the staircase.

He paused halfway as he again felt his naked feet crunch over something on the floor rug. Looking down he strained his eyes and tried to make out what it was, and then stepping carefully around, he quickly moved down the stairs, flicked on the light switch, and hurried back up.

Standing beneath the bare light bulb Pieter searched the floor. He saw the brown powder scattered over the rug, and his own footprints where he had stepped through. Kneeling down, he scooped some up on his fingertips and examined it closer. Soil. It was soil.

Unable to work out what the hell was going on, Pieter went back down to the landing below. Putting on all of the upstairs lights he went from room to room, checking to see if anything was missing or disturbed, and also to make sure nobody was still lurking about. He looked in all of the wardrobes and cupboards, beneath the beds, in the shower cubicle, tried all of the windows to see if any had been forced open (unlikely this high up, but he did it just the same) and then moved down to the floor below which he hardly used really, and repeated the process. Finally he found himself on the ground floor. The front door was still bolted on the inside. He opened it and looked up and down the street, feeling the night time chill as he was only wearing boxers, went back inside, and then passed through the door into the ground floor garage. His car was still there and untampered with and the automatic garage door securely shut with the alarm still activated.

There was nothing amiss anywhere. Nothing seemed to have been stolen or even so much as moved. No doors or windows were damaged. All apart from the window right at the very top of the house.

The least likely scenario seemed to be the only plausible one: that the intruder had entered the house the same way in which he had left. And that was just too crazy to think about.

Pieter trudged back up to the third floor. He should call this in, have the place dusted and swiped for fingerprints.

He walked into his bedroom and was reaching out to pick his mobile up off the nightstand when it rang, the vibration making it dance across the surface.

Scooping it up he checked the display – UnknownNumber – and the time, which was shortly after 4.30am. Nobody called at that time unless it was bad news. He swiped the green answer button.

Before he even brought the phone to his ear he heard the hysterical screaming, which chilled him to the bone. There was then some incoherent shouting, then more screams, and at last a woman’s voice, repeating over and over, “Your dad, your dad, Hansje! Hansje!!”

“Famke?”

More screaming, louder and louder.

◆◆◆

When Pieter pulled up at the Westerdock ten minutes later the police divers were just hauling his dad’s body from the river.

In the pre-dawn greyness the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles cast an eerie glow across the scene, and he stayed sitting in the car, watching as they heaved and manoeuvred the corpse up the high river wall and onto the pathway. Using ropes and pulleys attached to a fire-engine, the knot of men and women laid his dad prostrate and then covered him with a white sheet.

Further along the roadway was an ambulance with its back doors open. Inside he could see Famke sitting with a red blanket around her shoulders and talking with a paramedic. Her long grey hair was soaked and her lined face was a mask of pain and grief. Pieter felt nothing for her. His mind was blank.

After a few minutes he noticed the distinctive figure of Daan Beumers break away from the cluster of figures and head his way. Pieter had no idea how the sergeant had heard about the incident, but he was here.

Opening the front passenger door his friend climbed in next to him. They sat in silence for a minute.

Finally, just to break the silence, Beumers said, “It’s a fucked up world.”

Pieter nodded. “Full of stupid people.”

Out on the river was his dad’s houseboat, anchored mid-stream. Two figures wearing bright orange life-preservers moved about on the wooden deck. Alongside it was a police launch.

“I warned him, a thousand times. Not to go out there.”

“Well it seems they’d been drinking,” the police sergeant told him. “All day long, according to his friend.”

“I know,” Pieter responded simply.

Beumers turned to look at him closely, perhaps to gauge how he was handling the situation. But Pieter kept his face blank, unwilling to give anything away, instead choosing to keep his own counsel.

“We’re still putting the