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Copyright
Published by Avon
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2016
Copyright © Marnie Riches 2016
Marnie Riches asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © March 2016 ISBN: 9780008138356
Version 2019-03-01
Dedication
For Weez Maria Owenen, who has grown up to be one of the kickest-assest women I know.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part 1
Chapter 1: London, Belgravia, 16 February
Chapter 2: North West England, Women’s Prison, 27 February
Chapter 3: Amsterdam, Bijlmer District, Later
Chapter 4: South East London, 28 February
Chapter 5: Amsterdam, Mortuary, 28 February
Chapter 6: St. John’s College, Cambridge, Later
Chapter 7: Amsterdam, Vinkeles Restaurant, 2 March
Chapter 8: A Village South of Amsterdam, 25 May, the Previous Year
Chapter 9: St. John’s College, Then, The Bun Shop Pub, Cambridge, 3 March, Present
Chapter 10: Amsterdam, Sloterdijkermeer Allotments, Then, an Apartment Block in Bijlmer, 4 March
Chapter 11: Amsterdam, Apartment in Bijlmer, Then, Police Headquarters, Later
Chapter 12: A Village South of Amsterdam, 25 May, the Previous Year
Chapter 13: The City of London, 5 March, Present, Mid-Morning
Chapter 14: London, Westminster, Later
Chapter 15: Amsterdam, Police Headquarters, 5 March
Chapter 16: South East London and Amsterdam, 6 March
Chapter 17: Amsterdam, Police Headquarters, 30 May, the Previous Year
Chapter 18: Berlin, Zoological Gardens, 9 March, Present
Chapter 19: Berlin, a Hotel in Potsdamer Platz, Later
Chapter 20: Berlin, Neukölln District, 10 March
Chapter 21: Amsterdam, Police Headquarters, 11 March
Chapter 22: Amsterdam, Marie’s Apartment, Later
Chapter 23: A Village South of Amsterdam, 8 June, the Previous Year
Chapter 24: South East London, 15 March
Chapter 25: Amsterdam, Police Headquarters, 16 March
Chapter 26: The City of London, 16 March
Chapter 27: City of London, Then, Aunty Sharon’s House, South East London, Later
Chapter 28: A Village South of Amsterdam, 4 August, the Previous Year
Chapter 29: Amsterdam, Oud West District, 12 August, the Previous Year
Chapter 30: Amsterdam, Police Headquarters, Later
Chapter 31: London, Westminster, 17 March, Present
Chapter 32: St. John’s College, Cambridge, Then, Cambridge Train Station, 18 March
Chapter 33: Doubletree Hilton Hotel in Cambridge, Later
Chapter 34: South East London, Later
Chapter 35: London, the West End, Later
Part 2
Chapter 36: A Village South of Amsterdam, 16 January, Earlier That Year
Chapter 37: London, South Docklands, 17 January
Chapter 38: South East London, Later, Then 21 January
Chapter 39: South East London, Later
Chapter 40: South East London, Aunty Sharon’s House, 22 January
Part 3
Chapter 41: London, Liverpool Street Station, 19 March
Chapter 42: London, South Bank, at the Same Time
Chapter 43: London, Later
Chapter 44: A Railway Arch in South East London, at the Same Time, and Flashbacks to Early February
Chapter 45: South East London, at the Same Time
Chapter 46: South East London, Aunty Sharon’s House, Later
Chapter 47: Amsterdam, Above The Cracked Pot Coffee Shop, Much Later, Then Sloterdijkermeer Allotments, Then, Even Later, Van Den Bergen’s Apartment
Chapter 48: Amsterdam, Van Den Bergen’s Apartment, Later Still
Chapter 49: Amsterdam, Bijlmerbajes Prison Complex, Then, Marie’s Apartment, Then, Sloterdijkermeer Allotments, 20 March
Chapter 50: Amsterdam, Police Headquarters, Then the Deenen’s House in a Village South of Amsterdam, 23 March
Chapter 51: Amsterdam, The Cracked Pot Coffee Shop, Then, Consulting Rooms, Then, Kamphuis’ Home Near Vondelpark, Later
Chapter 52: Amsterdam, Outside Kamphuis’ Home, Much Later
Chapter 53: Amsterdam, Van Den Bergen’s Apartment, 24 March
Chapter 54: Amsterdam, Police Headquarters, Then, Carlien Dekker’s House, Later Still
Chapter 55: A Village South of Amsterdam, Carlien Dekker’s House
Chapter 56: Zandvoort, Kennemer Golf & Country Club, Later
Chapter 57: Maldives, North Male Atol, Four Hours Ahead
Chapter 58: Amsterdam, Police Headquarters, Later
Chapter 59: A Village South of Amsterdam, Carlien Dekker’s House, Then, Marie’s Office, Police Headquarters, Later
Chapter 60: Amsterdam, Sloterdijkermeer Allotments, Later
Chapter 61: Amsterdam, Bijlmerbajes Prison Complex, 30 March
Chapter 62: Amsterdam, Mortuary, 31 March
Chapter 63: Amsterdam, The Cracked Pot Coffee Shop, at the Same Time, Then, Police Headquarters, Later
Chapter 64: Amsterdam, Prison Services’ Family Centre, 1 April
Chapter 65: Amsterdam, Hasselblad’s House, 2 April
Chapter 66: Amsterdam, Van Den Bergen’s Apartment, Then, Vinkeles Restaurant, Later, 4 April
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
CHAPTER 1
London, Belgravia, 16 February
Cold jabbed his raw skin where it was exposed. Hands, wrapped in torn, woollen gloves; the filthy threads had come loose, long ago. Blackened nails, blue fingers, toes on the cusp of being devoured by greedy frostbite. Vulnerable. But his discomfort mattered no longer. Only watching these two men, as he crouched behind a Range Rover, out of view. On this grand Belgravia street in London, double yellow lines – hidden beneath thick, shovelled banks of snow, but there nonetheless – ensured a clear line of sight.
Problem was, a man like him stood out, here. An imperfect grey figure, juxtaposed against flawless white stone; perfectly white snow, too deep to clear with grit, even in the city; icicles hanging from every portico and window frame – deadly diamond daggers.
Move along, sir. Sorry, no spare change. Shift, or I’ll call the police.
Always looks of utter disdain, as these wealthy denizens of SW1X picked up the scent of urine and stale alcohol. Especially the women. Clad in real fur, now. Since the Siberian winter of discontent …
Fuck them.
He had eyes only for these two men, standing outside Mosimann’s private restaurant. A picture of establishment respectability, posed in their cashmere outer layers before ecclesiastical built-beauty, where now only millionaires could afford to dine. Worshipping at the altar of fine food and business transactions, sealed over bottles of wine that cost thousands. Scum of the earth, these two. Black hearts so easily hidden beneath bespoke Jermyn Street clothing. Lies. Corruption. Evil.
His heart was pounding, as he rehearsed in his mind what he intended to do. Steeling himself, though a man could have no better motivation. Would he miss his chance?
Across the road, the men laughed. Easy in each other’s company. Moving aside, to let a blonde beauty pass. Some Russian oligarch’s squeeze, walking her lapdog. Trot, trot, trot. Firm buttocks clad in baby-pink Lycra. A show-pony, even in harsh conditions, drawing the men’s gaze. Now, he had a good look at them, as they turned to follow the blonde’s progress.
His quarry was neither tall nor fat. An average man in physical respects. Forty something. Dark-haired. Ordinary looks compensated for with immaculate grooming and a physique that had been created in an expensive gym. He knew this much. He also knew that this man lived in a mansion block with Chelsea views of the river. Too much security round there. So, the backstreets of Knightsbridge would suffice, providing things went according to plan.
The other – Mephistopheles with a paunch – would wait. Somewhat older. Fifty-two, in fact. That his chicanery had gone undiscovered for decades was barely credible. But different rules applied to the super-rich. Not today, though. Not today. A day of reckoning was nigh.
Pushing thoughts of the pain in his joints out of his mind, he crossed the road in haste. Dodged a black cab, skidding along on the ineffectually gritted asphalt. Slush, seeping through the holes in boots lined with newspaper.
The men were on the move. Ambling along. The older man even made a snowball and hurled it against the wall, just beyond the frontage of Waitrose supermarket. Ha ha. Playful and lighthearted. Apologising, like some charming billionaire bastard who fits right in, here, to the elderly woman it had almost taken out, before it had plopped harmlessly onto the brickwork. Chatting amiably, unhurried, like men who had the entire week diarised satisfactorily by their P.A.s. No unwelcome surprises for these masters of the universe.
Well, that was about to change, just as he had changed.
Crippling fear had turned to adrenalin. A rush. A hunger. His bloodlust was rising, fending off the chill of a Wednesday afternoon. -17°C and falling. Light already failing. He had to act fast.
At the head of the junction with the neighbouring Lowndes Street, the considerable bulk of a brown and cream Rolls Royce Phantom was waiting as close to the snow-bound kerb as was possible. A billionaire’s car, heated to perfection, its door held open by a liveried chauffeur for the older of the two men. Designed to ferry him to the next Big Meeting. Mephisto with the paunch bade his companion farewell.
Now, it was time.
His quarry started to walk briskly up through Knightsbridge, towards Harrods. Coat hem spattered with icy mess. Head bent forwards, advancing into the jaws of the Arctic wind.
Take a turn into one of the backstreets, goddamn it!
He had anticipated where this man was going. Had studied his movements well enough. But the idiot was staying on the main drag. Too many people, here. Police, cruising by slowly in a patrol car.
Shit. Turn down an alley! Turn!
Except there were no alleys. The man progressed through Lowdnes Square. A green strip in the middle, covered in thick snow; a picture postcard straight from Narnia. Fringed by cars, covered in forgetful white blankets. Here. Maybe he could do it here. The snow sucked the sound out of everything. Except, this spot was completely overlooked by townhouses and mansion blocks. Every window, a potential set of prying eyes.
Not here.
The man hastened along the pavement at a brisk pace, given conditions underfoot. Already some way ahead. The distance between them widening fast. But then, his belly was full. His body had been warmed by fine wine and brandy. His energy hadn’t been sapped by biting hunger, sucked dry by spending the harshest winter since records began on the streets. Robbed for breakfast. Moved along at lunch. Beaten up for dinner. Pissed on by other homeless, too drunk to realise what they were doing - the only midnight snack on offer.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself, you piece of shit. Remember why you are here.
He kept going. The moment would present itself. He had faith.
Two women, moving towards him now. Bulked up with Puffa jackets and ridiculous furry hats. Blocking his view. Talking, talking. Espanol. Muy pericoloso. Muy dramatico. Hands beating the freezing air in telenovela-exaggerated movements, breath steaming like two pressure cookers on the boil. Tourists, no doubt.
Get out of the way, you fat Spanish cows.
Heart thudding, as they crowded his vision, snuffing out the sight of his target entirely.
They passed him by. Grimacing at the sight and smell of a vagrant.
The target was out of sight. Gone.
Shit.
His face prickled with anxiety. Panic rendered him almost breathless. Peering ahead. No sign of the rich, gutless fucker. Glancing in the doorways of the surrounding buildings. Not there. Glancing in the park. Not there either. Was this all in vain? He should have planned better. Had a plan B. All was lost. But then …
Harriet Street. A sharp left, leading to Sloane Street. There he was. Pausing beneath the Victorian lamppost by the cast iron railings that fringed a 1930s block. An unwitting child, stumbled through the wardrobe wearing seasonal finery into a hard, white world. Waiting to be lured into the shadows by a ragged, destitute Tumnus.
The man struggled to light a cigarette in the wind. Sputter, sputter, the flame died. He advanced to the doorway of this white stone and brick mansion block. Unobservant, as he finally lit his smoke. Opposite, every window had been obscured behind some kind of green builder’s gauze, stretched tight over scaffolding. Hiding the view below entirely. It was a gift from an otherwise vengeful and unforgiving god.
Heart fluttering. Determination stiffening his aching spine. From the railing, he snapped one of those giant icicles that hung everywhere since the freak cold spell had descended on Europe. Ten inches. Sharpened by nature to a point. Galvanised by weeks of sub-zero temperatures.
Five paces. Four. Three. Clutching the icy shiv in his frostbitten hand.
The man was facing the other way.
Jab, jab, jab in the sweet spot in his neck before the weapon could melt or weaken. The man’s blood gushed, hissing hot on the frozen ground, spattering against the wall. Screams coming out as gurgling. But he was the only human being within earshot.
‘That’s for Amsterdam, you piece of shit,’ he said, as the man bled out, staring glassy-eyed and disbelieving into the abyss.
Running away, now, he tossed the icicle down a storm drain that had been cleared of snow. By the time the police found the body, all traces of the weapon would have been washed away in the dirt-splattered slush of the road. Melted by grit-residue. The only clue left at the scene would be the watery holes in the dead man’s neck: the calling card of Jack Frost.
CHAPTER 2
North West England, women’s prison, 27 February
‘Put a bag over my head, didn’t I?’ the woman said, biting nails that were already at the quick.
Couldn’t have been more than twenty, this one. Looked nearer to forty with a complexion the colour of porridge. Overweight and swollen-faced, George guessed anti-depressants were at work. Dull blue eyes, as though the medication had caused a film to form over her sclera, preventing her from seeing the world in its grim true colours. Another poor cow in a pen full of poor cows.
‘What do you mean, you put a bag over your head?’ she asked the woman. She was poised to write. Steeling her hand to stop shaking. Unnerving to be back inside the very same prison she had spent three unforgettable months in – now a long time ago. A one-star vacation at Her Majesty’s leisure. All meals provided. The beatings had come for free. She had not known then that she would swap these Victorian red-brick walls of a one-time Barnardo’s home for the ivory tower of St. John’s College, Cambridge. No, she had been a poor cow in a stall full of crap, same as the others.
Her interviewee leaned forward. Cocked her head to one side. Grimaced.
‘Are you fucking thick or what?’ A spray of spittle accompanied ‘thick’.
Issued forth with venom, George knew. Tap, tap on her temple with her chewed index finger.
‘Donna.’ The prison officer’s tone issued warning enough for Donna to back up.
‘I said, I put the bag on my head. They didn’t know I had it. Tied it tight.’ Donna folded her arms. Smiling now. Satisfied. ‘It was Sainsbury’s. It had fucking holes in the bottom, didn’t it?’
‘Did you intend to kill yourself?’ George asked, a rash unexpectedly starting to itch its way up her neck. She knew Donna wouldn’t catch sight of it so easily because darker skin hid a multitude. She disciplined herself not to scratch.
‘Yeah. Course I bleedin’ did.’
The prison officer, a heavy-set woman in her thirties, by the looks, laughed. ‘Come on, Donna. We all know you were doing a Michael Hutchence, weren’t you?’
‘What?’
Donna was almost certainly too young to have heard of him, George thought.
‘Feller from INXS. Offed himself by accident, doing an asphyxi-wank or something.’
Donna tugged at the collar of her standard-issue tracksuit – too tight over her low-hanging, braless breasts. ‘You taking the piss?’
‘Yes.’
Insane laughter from both of them then. A camaraderie that George was used to seeing, along with the gallows humour. When the mirth subsided, Donna confessed the real reason for her grand polyethylene gesture.
‘I had bedbugs, didn’t I? They were biting like bastards.’ She started to rub her forearms through the jersey material. ‘I asked for a new mattress but they wouldn’t bloody listen. So, I puts the bag on my head, cos if they think you’re going to top yourself in here, you stand a better chance of them actually listening to what you’re on about.’ She glowered at the prison officer, seated beside her. Switched the glare for a grin like a deft pickpocket. ‘I been in here two years, right? Got another six to go.’
George scratched at her scalp with the end of her pen. Got the cap entangled in one of her corkscrew curls. Unrelentingly itchy. Was it the nervous rash? Was this her body telling her brain that she was losing her shit? She couldn’t possibly be freaked out, though. Definitely not. Not after all this time. Not a pro, like her.
She shuffled her sheaf of paper straight, as if to demonstrate to herself that she had mastery over everything. In control of herself and her environment at all times. Now that she was qualified, she spent more time inside prisons than out. Except when she was in Amsterdam with Paul. Bastard. Oh, well. Not everything was within her control.
‘What did you do, Donna?’
‘I didn’t do it.’
‘No? Okay. But what were you convicted for?’
‘GBH. I got my son taken off me, didn’t I?’ Tears welled in Donna’s eyes, replacing the Valium film with something more organic. Sleeve pulled down over her fist, she wiped the burgeoning tears away. ‘They said, social services said, that I’d battered him. And I hadn’t. They said I was unfit, the fucking lying do-gooding bastards. Just because that old bitch next door grassed me for smoking weed and that. And the dead rabbits in the yard. Wasn’t my frigging fault. They shat everywhere. Then, I gets social services and the environmental health come knocking. And school gets involved, saying my Thom was truanting and had bruises and that.’
She pursed her lips. Hers was suddenly a mean face that looked as though its owner could inflict pain happily. George had grown up with the likes of Donna. Not so different from Tonya. A hard-faced calamity queen.
‘My Thomas was not fucking abused.’ Poked herself in the chest, hard, so that George could hear the drumming on her sternum. ‘I was fucking abused. I could tell them how I was bounced round Rochdale. Me an’ about ten other girls off the estate in the back of a van. Thirteen-year-old rent-a-slags for all the dirty bastards in the area. Two pimping wankers raking in it like we was stock in a cash and carry. Working for some warped bastard called the Hawk or some shit like that. Our mams didn’t give a fuck. They was too busy getting pissed down the pub.’
George nodded. Showed no emotion. Dr McKenzie was a criminologist. Professional detachment was the only way to endure these heart-breaking stories. But it was the same story over and over, told by different women. Abuse, leading to abuse. Young girls playing chicken through the fast lanes of traffick. They never made it to the other side intact.
‘So why the GBH?’
Donna snorted noisily. ‘Day our Thom was put in care. Went out, didn’t I? Got mashed up. Beat some slag to a pulp with a snooker cue. She’d been looking at my fella, so …’ She looked up at George. No longer morose but suddenly hopeful, as if a timid sun was trying to push its way through the storm clouds. ‘I’m going to get him back. Our Thomas. When I get out of here. He’s coming home to his mam.’ A gingivitis grin. Radiant with rotten teeth. Thin hair scraped too high on her head into a tight ponytail made her look like a ruined child.