The Girl Who Broke the Rules Page 39

  At first mention of Silas’ name, her heart had leaped, she admitted. The thought that he had been thinking about her during her predicament was cheering. Gave her hope. But then, she read the letter. It wasn’t even addressed to her! It was a photocopy of an outpouring he had written to that slut, McKenzie. An accusation of treachery. Talk of bringing things full circle. She felt like she had been little more than a pawn in the chess game that was Silas Holm’s miserable, corrupt, stunted life. The love she had been denied by her parents had left an aching, gaping chasm inside her. He had always known that. She had thought Silas Holm’s love would fill that hole. He had promised her it would, and it hadn’t. Now, he talked of her victims as empty vessels. But it was he who had stripped her clean. She was the empty vessel now.

  Checkmate, you bastard. Checkmate.

  CHAPTER 95

  Amsterdam, the Cracked Pot Coffee Shop, then, the hospital, later

  ‘It’s so spartan,’ Sally said, peering into the kitchenette, which had been emptied out of George’s bits and scrubbed until it was clinically clean. ‘How have you managed, living here?’ She wrinkled her nose at the sun-bleached, old-fashioned curtains.

  ‘I lived here for a full year, remember?’ George said, zipping up the suitcase that lay on the bed, stripped of its bedding. ‘It’s fine. It’s just been a temporary measure since me and Ad…’

  She sighed. Felt a pang of regret in her heart. It was the end of a long, hard journey. The end of the road for so many things. And here she was. In a bedsit above the Cracked Pot Coffee Shop. Back to the beginning.

  ‘Check that view, though,’ she said, advancing to the window and peering out so that Sally could not see her tears. ‘I always loved those rooftops.’

  She felt Sally’s hand on her shoulder. Her bony fingers massaging her through her jumper as a gesture of solidarity.

  ‘Got a ciggy?’ George asked, sniffing. Wiping her eyes furtively. Staring into the spring sunshine, hoping Sally wouldn’t judge her.

  They lit up together and hung out of the open window, blowing their smoke into the crisp morning sunshine. Watching the flow of tourists beneath them, filing to and fro alongside the canal. Prostitutes perched on their bar stools in the red-lit booths opposite. Bored-looking women who switched on their dazzling smiles like UV lights every time a man walked past, snatching a glance at this forbidden fruit.

  ‘I love this crazy place,’ George said. ‘Pity I have to leave. But I’ve nothing to stay for, now.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Sally said, flicking her ash into the moss-blocked gutter. ‘You’ve been through so much. For all you’re an utter pain in the arse, dear, you’ve been fiendishly brave. It must be very hard.’

  Tears started to trickle in determined rivulets down the sides of George’s face. She could feel her mouth buckle. Felt embarrassed by the show of weakness. Wiped hard at the snot with her sleeve, as though she resented it. Not caring about the mess. She mustn’t cry.

  ‘I wanted to stay. Until they decide to switch the machines off. But Tamara won’t let them. It could go on indefinitely.’

  Sally inhaled deeply. Toyed with her red beads, as though she was saying a rosary silently to herself. ‘Poor, poor man.’

  George’s bullet wound ached. Pricking inside her chest. She felt guilty and resentful that she should still be standing, while van den Bergen lay in his impenetrable dreamworld. She hoped that his dreams were, at least, good ones.

  ‘Come on,’ Sally said, checking her watch. ‘We’ll miss our flight.’

  Taking her leave from Jan, Katja and Inneke, George promised to visit. There would always be a piece of her in this building, after all. On the journey to Schiphol airport, she wondered if her heart would ever mend. At the check-in desk, she felt certain she would never laugh again. That she would carry the heavy millstone of her misery for the rest of her life.

  And then, her phone rang. It was Tamara. Crying almost to the point of being unintelligible.

  ‘Oh, George. I’m so sorry. You’ve got to come to the hospital straight away. It’s Dad.’

  Leaving Sally standing with their baggage, George ran straight back to the train station. Headed for the hospital. No time to spare. Tamara hadn’t elaborated, but George was certain from the tears that they were switching her friend’s life support off. It would be her last chance to say goodbye. She couldn’t bear it, but she would regret it for the rest of her life if she didn’t see that misanthropic, cantankerous, wonderful fool one last time.

  Running down corridors, through automatic doors. She had to get to him. Had to see this through.

  Hesitated at the entrance to intensive care. Fuck it. Do this. She rubbed alcohol gel into her hands and pushed her way inside. There, in the middle bed, was van den Bergen. Still wires going in. Wires coming out of his skin. But no mask over his face. They had already stopped his oxygen. No Tamara. Only an austere-looking doctor in a three piece suit, reading the clipboard from the end of his bed.

  George threw herself into the seat at the side of van den Bergen. Her face, cold with fear. His large hand in her small hand, feverishly warm.

  ‘Oh, Paul,’ she said. ‘Don’t leave me, you big lanky arsehole.’ Her voice wavered, burdened by the grief of letting go. ‘Please God, don’t let this be the end.’

  And though the doctor was standing there, perhaps judging her frailty, eavesdropping on her supplication to a God she had long since parted company with, George wept openly. She wanted to be punished. She deserved to suffer. She had walked this man whom she loved so dearly straight into the valley of the shadow of death. And she had left him there. Alone.

  Now, George offered her tears heaven-wards as a show of remorse. Willing her rotten, broken heart to stop beating. An eye for an eye. Perhaps, then, a life for a life. Praying that her star-crossed lover would wake, for never was a story more of woe, than this of Juliet and her ageing Romeo.

  Wishing she had never ruined this man.

  Wishing he had more to show from half a lifetime lived hard than shattered dreams and a dying body.

  Wishing she had never broken the rules.

  Winner of the 2015 DEAD GOOD READER Award for Most Exotic Location

  HE’S WATCHING HER. SHE DOESN’T KNOW IT…YET

  Get book 1 in the George McKenzie series

  The final edge-of-your-seat thriller in the George McKenzie trilogy

  First came The Girl Who Wouldn’t Die

  Then came The Girl Who Broke the Rules

  OCTOBER 2015

  THE GIRL WHO WALKED IN THE SHADOWS

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  Acknowledgements

  The response to The Girl Who Wouldn’t Die has been wonderful. When the e-book hit the virtual shelves in April 2015, I had no idea that George McKenzie’s and Paul van den Bergen’s adventures would be so popular with readers and critically so well-received, let alone that they would go on to win a Dead Good Reader Award and feature in Amazon’s top 100 bestseller list for weeks! So I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the readers, my friends, my fellow crime authors, supporters in the children’s writing world – especially Carnegie Medal Winner, Tanya Landman, who let me take her name in vain - the tremendous book-bloggers, reviewers – a special thanks to Euro-noir critic, Barry Forshaw, who provided me with a glowing quote for my debut at short notice - and members of book clubs – particularly THE Book Club on Facebook - who have all got behind both George and me.

  While I was in the midst of debut-launch mayhem, however, I was penning The Girl Who Broke the Rules. The book is a complex one and wouldn’t have come together without the help of the following people:

  Christian, Natalie, Adam and my Mum, who put up with my glazed looks, as I ruminated over plot, tricky extended metaphors and dialogue. They listened to my constant noise about rankings, reviews and deadlines. My mother-in-law, Svea, who has been a fabulous advocate of my writing amongst the seriously savvy Scandi ladies. Thanks always to you all!

  My agent, C
aspian Dennis at Abner Stein, who has provided cast-iron professional support and a great deal of pastoral care and friendship at a very difficult time in my life. Special thanks to him and to his brilliant Abner Stein team.

  My Avon publisher, Eli Dryden who has got behind me and the series. I’m hugely grateful for her belief in me, so thanks! Thanks too to Helen Huthwaite, who was my interim editor, and to my new editor, Kate Ellis for managing the launch of this second novel. The Avon backroom staff members who do marketing and computering acts of strange genius are fab, as is the Lightbrigade PR gang, and though she’s jumped ship, that Katy Loftus did a cracking job on editing The Girl Who Broke the Rules, so thanks to those wonderful folks too.

  Kirstine Szifris at Cambridge University’s Institute of Criminology and Dr. Hannah Quirk at Manchester University’s School of Law, who gave me all the wonderful details I needed to bring George to life as a criminologist. Thanks, you fab women! And a big ta to my mate, Dr. Martin Pool who put me in touch with Hannah.

  Dr. Zoe Adams-Strump for shooting the breeze with me over all sorts of medical matters, for trying to arrange a viewing of an autopsy and for giving me the confidence to stick with my idea for an endocrinology sub-plot – not everyone’s idea of scintillating, maybe, but that’s how I roll. Thanks, Zoe! You’re a brill neighbour. One day I will get to observe that post-mortem!

  To my word-posse, Steph Williams, Wendy Storer, Ann Giles and The Cockblankets (you know who you are) – thanks for keeping my head reasonably straight! And finally, a big whoop for Helen Smith who masterminded the BritCrime festival, of which I am immensely proud to have been a part.

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