After the Silence: Inspector Rykel Book 1 (Amsterdam Quartet)

BOOK: After the Silence: Inspector Rykel Book 1 (Amsterdam Quartet)
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Jake Woodhouse
AFTER THE SILENCE
 
Contents
 

Prologue

 

Day One

 

Chapter 1

 

Chapter 2

 

Chapter 3

 

Chapter 4

 

Chapter 5

 

Chapter 6

 

Chapter 7

 

Chapter 8

 

Chapter 9

 

Chapter 10

 

Chapter 11

 

Chapter 12

 

Chapter 13

 

Chapter 14

 

Chapter 15

 

Chapter 16

 

Chapter 17

 

Day Two

 

Chapter 18

 

Chapter 19

 

Chapter 20

 

Chapter 21

 

Chapter 22

 

Chapter 23

 

Chapter 24

 

Chapter 25

 

Chapter 26

 

Chapter 27

 

Chapter 28

 

Chapter 29

 

Chapter 30

 

Chapter 31

 

Chapter 32

 

Chapter 33

 

Chapter 34

 

Day Three

 

Chapter 35

 

Chapter 36

 

Chapter 37

 

Chapter 38

 

Chapter 39

 

Chapter 40

 

Chapter 41

 

Chapter 42

 

Chapter 43

 

Chapter 44

 

Chapter 45

 

Chapter 46

 

Chapter 47

 

Chapter 48

 

Chapter 49

 

Chapter 50

 

Chapter 51

 

Chapter 52

 

Chapter 53

 

Chapter 54

 

Chapter 55

 

Chapter 56

 

Chapter 57

 

Chapter 58

 

Chapter 59

 

Day Four

 

Chapter 60

 

Chapter 61

 

Chapter 62

 

Chapter 63

 

Chapter 64

 

Chapter 65

 

Chapter 66

 

Chapter 67

 

Chapter 68

 

Chapter 69

 

Chapter 70

 

Chapter 71

 

Chapter 72

 

Chapter 73

 

Chapter 74

 

Chapter 75

 

Chapter 76

 

Chapter 77

 

Chapter 78

 

Day Five

 

Chapter 79

 

Chapter 80

 

Chapter 81

 

Chapter 82

 

Chapter 83

 

Chapter 84

 

Chapter 85

 

Chapter 86

 

Chapter 87

 

Chapter 88

 

Chapter 89

 

Chapter 90

 

Chapter 91

 

Chapter 92

 

Chapter 93

 

Chapter 94

 

Chapter 95

 

Chapter 96

 

Chapter 97

 

Chapter 98

 

Chapter 99

 

Chapter 100

 

Chapter 101

 

Chapter 102

 

Chapter 103

 

Chapter 104

 

Chapter 105

 

Chapter 106

 

Chapter 107

 

Chapter 108

 

Chapter 109

 

Chapter 110

 

Chapter 111

 

Chapter 112

 

Chapter 113

 

Chapter 114

 

Chapter 115

 

Epilogue

 

Follow Penguin

 

PENGUIN BOOKS

AFTER THE SILENCE
 

Jake Woodhouse has worked as a musician, winemaker and entrepreneur. He now lives in London with his wife and their young gundog.

For Zara, and my parents

Prologue
 

‘Move.’

The voice shot out from behind him in the dark, and the cold touch of a gun, his own gun, jammed into the back of his neck.

This was not how he imagined it would be.

He’d been shoved to the hard, freezing ground, where something –
a stone, a shard of glass?
– had jabbed into his right kneecap, a trickle of blood cooling fast. He twisted his head up towards the sky, his breath rising plumes, stars piercing the dark, and somehow the pain made it all seem more beautiful, more precious, more real.

He had to play it cool, had to make sure he didn’t give in to the fear wrenching his gut, pulsing right through him. But, he thought as he fought down the rising panic, he wasn’t a soldier, a commando trained to kill with his bare hands, or a martial arts expert who could whirl around, kick the gun away and deliver a fatal blow to a secret place on the side of the neck.

No, he was just a police officer, an Inspector, specializing in homicide, dealing with crime after the fact, after murder had been committed.

His work began where someone’s life ended. And he’d seen enough of those to know he wasn’t yet ready to be a mere job for someone else, for some other Inspector to
arrive at the crime scene, piece together his life, and the events which had led to its close.

How could I have been so stupid
, he thought,
letting them catch me?

The people he was supposed to be chasing, bringing to justice. Who’d tied up the old couple and let them burn alive in their own home …

‘I said
move
.’

Increasing pressure from the gun barrel, pushing on the spot – the same spot as the earlier impact just on the back of his skull – made him rise up, both knees cracking like pistols.

‘Take it easy,’ he said, and couldn’t believe how scared his voice sounded.

He moved forward, step by step, the odd patch of ice shooting his feet away until he learnt to just shuffle along. Steel from the cuffs cut into his wrists.

He pictured the man behind him, the leather face mask with the zip where the mouth should be.

Is this it, am I going to die now?

Part of his mind screamed at him to engage his captor, he seemed to remember that was the key to surviving these situations, making them see you as a human being, not just a target, a kill – and where exactly did he know that from, a film? He was pretty sure he’d never received any such training from the Amsterdam Police Force – but he didn’t know what to say.

‘Stop.’

That voice. Harsher now, more guttural, as if the freezing air was corroding his vocal cords.

He thought of his wife, at home, her belly swollen
with the life he wasn’t going to see. Doubling up, he vomited bile.

A kick to the back of his legs made him fall to his knees again. The feeling of being trapped rushed over him, crushing the air from his lungs, and making his head spin so badly he jerked sideways before managing to right himself.

It was then he heard the car, moving slowly, behind him off to the left. The sound grew, headlights streamed out of the darkness and his elongated shadow spilled forward on to the ground, a monk kneeling at prayer.

Prayer
, he thought,
the last resort.

He took a moment to scan his surroundings; it was a concrete drainage ditch – he’d thought as much – the shallow, sloped sides leading up to the trees which he knew must be all around.

The car stopped, engine turned off and ticking gently, but the headlights stayed, blue-white lasers slicing the dark. Doors opened then closed with soft thuds. Footsteps from the road, difficult to tell how many people, soles grinding grit against concrete, then quieter steps on grass, before more hesitant footfalls on the ditch’s sides, each one carefully placed to avoid slipping.

Voices, in a language he didn’t understand, grating, sinister.

He was shivering now, his whole body shaking as if every muscle had simultaneously gone haywire, but he didn’t know if that was the cold or the sheer terror, or maybe both.

Someone walked round his left side and flicked a torch directly in his eyes, dazzling him. Instinctively his eyelids
closed tight, protecting, even though part of him wanted to see who it was. He squinted them open just in time to see a figure in silhouette, wearing some kind of trench coat. The man’s arm moved, checking the time on a large wristwatch.

Then the light was off, one word uttered behind him and the footsteps retreated, doors opened and closed again, and the car, its engine roar splitting open the silence of the night, reversed away.

He listened until he could no longer hear it.

Was that it? Was this just a warning?

He couldn’t be sure but he felt he was totally alone now, the man who’d brought him here had departed as well. Relief surged through him, but then … if they’d found out about him …

I’ve got to warn Jaap
, he thought, his knees aching, stomach loose. He forced himself up and started to turn around.

A shot rang out, and faded into the darkness.

BOOK: After the Silence: Inspector Rykel Book 1 (Amsterdam Quartet)
9.6Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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