Born Bad
MARNIE RICHES
Copyright
Published by Avon an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017
Copyright © Marnie Riches 2017
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.
Source ISBN: 9780008203931
Ebook Edition © December 2016 ISBN: 9780008203948
Version 2017-01-20
Praise for Marnie Riches:
‘Fast-paced, enthralling and heartrending; I couldn’t put it down’
C. L. Taylor
‘A strong, edgy debut that deserves to do well’
Clare Mackintosh
‘Fast, furious, fantastic…One killer thriller!’
Mark Edwards
What the reviewers said:
‘A truly exciting new arrival in the world of Euro Crime!’
‘I bit my nails all the way to the end!’
‘Breathtakingly brilliant’
‘Reminds me of the best Scandinavian crime writers like Jo Nesbo and Stieg Larsson’
‘Truly outstanding’
‘An intricate, fast-paced and utterly compelling thriller’
‘Without a doubt a true 5 star read!’
‘Work of art’
‘Intelligent, moving, filled with tension and entertaining’
Dedication
For Caspian
If my name is on the spine, and the story comes from my heart, then you are surely the lungs of this book, since you have breathed life into all of my words. In a world full of bollocks, you’re the dog’s, Mr Dennis. Never forget it.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Marnie Riches:
What the Reviewers Said:
Dedication
Chapter 1: Sheila
Chapter 2: Conky
Chapter 3: Paddy
Chapter 4: Jonny
Chapter 5: Irina
Chapter 6: Lev
Chapter 7: Gloria
Chapter 8: Paddy
Chapter 9: Sheila
Chapter 10: Lev
Chapter 11: Conky
Chapter 12: Lev
Chapter 13: Jonny
Chapter 14: Jack
Chapter 15: Paddy
Chapter 16: Lev
Chapter 17: Conky
Chapter 18: Lev
Chapter 19: Irina
Chapter 20: Lev
Chapter 21: Sheila
Chapter 22: Lev
Chapter 23: Sheila
Chapter 24: Gloria
Chapter 25: Lev
Chapter 26: Conky
Chapter 27: Sheila
Chapter 28: Lev
Chapter 29: Paddy
Chapter 30: Frank
Chapter 31: Tariq
Chapter 32: Gloria
Chapter 33: Jonny
Chapter 34: Asaf
Chapter 35: Frank
Chapter 36: Asaf
Chapter 37: Conky
Chapter 38: Jonny
Chapter 39: Sheila
Chapter 40: Lev
Chapter 41: Lev
Chapter 42: Frank
Chapter 43: Sheila
Chapter 44: Conky
Chapter 45: Conky
Chapter 46: Sheila
Chapter 47: Frank, Then Katrina
Chapter 48: Conky
Chapter 49: Conky
Chapter 50: Sheila
Chapter 51: Conky
Chapter 52: Conky
Chapter 53: Lev
Chapter 54: Tariq
Chapter 55: Sheila
Chapter 56: Katrina, Then Paddy
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
By the Same Author:
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Sheila
The leather case containing the guns was cumbersome and heavy, making her shoulder muscles scream with the effort of pulling it towards her. Looking around to check that she wasn’t being watched, she tried to drag it out of the boot of her Porsche Panamera. Dead weight. Looked around again towards the garaging. The doors were closed. No sign of his car, thankfully.
‘Come on, Sheila,’ she counselled herself. ‘Grit your teeth, girl.’
With a grunt, she heaved the case out. Dropped it heavily onto the gravel, narrowly missing the peep toes of her purple suede Louboutins. Slammed the boot shut, chipping a nail in the process.
‘Bastard thing,’ she said, lugging the guns awkwardly across the courtyard and up the steps to the front door. She would definitely have a couple of bruises on her shins by tomorrow. Shit. But at least the determined Mancunian rain wasn’t falling on her freshly blow-dried hair.
Inside, her house was silent and pristine. The wooden floors shone. The smell of furniture wax was pungent in the air. The cleaners had gone for the day and the gardener wasn’t due until Friday.
‘Anybody home?’ she called out. Her voice bounced off the hard surfaces of the glazed banister and naked oak of the staircase. No response, though she hadn’t expected one.
Flinging her keys onto the sideboard, Sheila kicked off her heels, carrying the guns to the lower level of the house. She bypassed the spa area and pool to enter the cinema room. It smelled of stale cigar smoke and the dregs at the bottom of Paddy’s empty single malt bottle and dirty tumbler. She made a mental note to chastise the cleaners for having missed it. Wrinkled her nose at the manly stink that reminded her too much of the Green Room in her brother-in-law’s club.
‘Hide it with the other guns and surprise him with it after tea, or leave it out for him to find?’ Sheila contemplated aloud, setting the leather case on the coffee table and clicking open the antique silver locks. She appraised the delicate metalwork of the shotguns, studded with semi-precious stones. Both guns were safely ensconced in their own blue velvet bed. Not her cup of tea, but she knew Paddy would appreciate these Ottoman flintlock rifles. Seventeenth century, the dealer had said. They’d go with his collection of swords, pistols and other shit, he had assured her. It was a perfect apology. She’d forked over a pile of her own cash for them, hoping they would be the ultimate oil to pour on troubled waters after Paddy had ‘discovered’ the email she had sent to Mam and Dad.
All those years she’d fantasised about reforging the bond with her parents that Paddy had insisted she jettison. Decades of being desperate to tell her folks about the girls; about her life; about how much she missed them every single day. Bloody typical that Paddy had gone snooping through her email account when she’d finally had the balls to contact them on the quiet. She made a mental note to change her email password. Couldn’t hide anything from that nosey old bast
ard. Still, he had her best interests at heart, didn’t he?
‘Paddy, Paddy O’Brien,’ she intoned, looking over at the oil painting of her imperious husband that made him look a good deal less hatchet-faced and more sanguine than he really was. ‘You difficult, moody sod.’ She snapped the gun case shut. ‘I hope to God these cheer you up.’
The sound of a door slamming against a wall and a trill of what she was sure was a woman’s laughter made her freeze. Sheila stood tall. Breathing in shallow gasps, she strained to work out where the sound had come from. The spa, perhaps? There was certainly somebody in the house with her. Snatching one of the antique long-barrelled flintlocks, she held the gun out ahead of her and stalked towards the spa. Heart thudding. Forcing herself to be brave. No way of creeping back upstairs to see from the alarm keypad if there had been an intrusion via another zone in the sprawling Bramshott mansion.
To speak, or not to speak. That was the question.
‘Who’s there?’ she said quietly. Unconvincingly.
The thick grey carpet swallowed the sound of her shoeless footfalls. Just ahead loomed the glazed door that separated the cinema room from the spa area and pool. A glimpse of the turquoise glittering pool, its spot-lit ripples dancing white and silver on the vaulted brick ceiling. There was the laughter again.
‘Oh, Paddy!’ shouted a woman’s voice.
Paddy’s low voice, rumbling. Saying something indistinct. More laughter.
Sheila edged open the spa door, shaking with adrenalin, poised for fight or flight. Her sharp eyes darted to the left. To the right. Scanning the tranquil scene. Clean, pale grey tiles. Perfect azure water, still but for the gush of the filtration jets set into the sides of the pool. Teak loungers, arranged at an artful angle. There was nothing to see. And yet, she had not imagined the voices.
Her heartbeat bounced her forwards, almost audible in a lofty space where only the air-conditioning unit buzzed quietly in the background.
‘Come here, you dirty girl. Come to Paddy.’
And there it was. No doubt in her mind. Paddy’s voice, thick with the lustful intent that she recognised immediately. Blatant, inconsiderate bastard. Shitting on his own doorstep. This was a new low.
Though she knew the flintlock was not loaded, she kept the heavy gun hoisted high on her shoulder. Deciding how to tackle this situation. Her options were: walk away and pretend she had not happened upon what was almost certainly a clandestine coupling; shout, ‘Hello!’ announcing her presence, giving them time to make themselves respectable and fashion some bullshit excuse; or creep up on the bastards and give them the fright of their lives.
Padding towards the sound of heavy breathing and the rustle of fabric, Sheila realised the sauna held her husband and his extra-marital mate. The door was standing open. The sound of giggling and Paddy’s lascivious groaning slid out on the steamy, seamy air.
Following the gun’s line of sight, Sheila held her breath. Anger grabbing her natural reticence by the throat and squeezing the apologetic life out of it. She took a noiseless step into the cedar-clad cabana and hefted the gun up to Paddy’s head. His eyes were shut. A beatified smile was plastered across his lying, scheming face. At his feet, a naked young blonde was crouched, gobbling his cock with some enthusiasm. The soles of her feet were dirty, the heels crusty with dried skin.
‘Surprise!’ Sheila said, savouring the sight of her sexually incontinent husband grabbing at his heart and almost leaping clear of the cabana bench.
With a yelp, the young woman – no more than a girl – jumped to her feet, covering her silicone breasts with splayed fingers. Bitten fingernails. Not a mark on her belly, though. This one had certainly not borne children. But then, Paddy always liked them young.
‘Who are you?’ the girl shouted.
‘I’m his damned wife,’ Sheila said, intoxicated by the heady bloodlust. She swung the barrel of the flintlock towards the girl and dug it into her right breast. ‘That’s who I am. Mrs Bleeding O’Brien. And you’re trespassing in my house and on my husband.’
The girl’s face wrinkled up into an expression that threatened tears or a bout of hysteria. But there was something familiar about her.
‘Sheila. You’re out of fucking line!’ Paddy said. ‘It’s not what you think. You’re frightening her, you bullying bitch. She’s only a kid.’
Only a kid. Only a kid. That’s where she knew the girl from. She scrutinised the line of the girl’s eyebrows beneath the heavy, dark eyebrow pencil. Noticed the shape of her lips beneath the now-smudged Ronald McDonald red lipstick.
‘Didn’t you go to school with my Dahlia?’ she asked, pushing the barrel hard into the girl’s breast bone. ‘Stacey Wheelan.’
‘Tracy Wheelan,’ the girl said. A meek, almost infantile voice, as her false lashes flickered shamefully down towards her vajazzle and back up towards Paddy. Pleading eyes, clearly wishing her sugar daddy would sweeten this bitter confrontation and make Sheila somehow dissolve clean away.
‘Get out,’ Sheila simply said. ‘Go on. Sling your hook, you little slag.’
‘Go on, love,’ Paddy told the girl. His voice was soft, but Sheila could see from the hard set of his mouth that he was seething. And his livid gaze was trained directly on Sheila, scorching its way through her skin.
The storm was coming. Sheila felt suddenly far less brave. Knew instinctively that the unloaded flintlock would be her undoing.
‘I’m sorry,’ Tracy Wheelan said to neither of them in particular. She grabbed her cheap clothes and scuffed stilettos and shuffled over to the subterranean spa exit. Clattered up the stone steps to ground level. Was gone.
Paddy grabbed the barrel of the gun and wrenched it out of Sheila’s hands.
‘You bitch,’ he said. On his feet now, his nakedness in that enclosed space felt suddenly oppressive. The roundness of his belly pinned her up against the sweaty wall. His erect penis stuck into her navel like an angry thorn. She could smell beer and cigarettes on his breath. He had spent lunchtime in the pub, clearly. Probably some shithole in Parson’s Croft, where he and Conky had swung by to collect protection subs.
‘I was only doing her a favour. Giving her a bit of a shoulder to cry on. Her mam’s just died, for Christ’s sake. She was cut up. I was tense. I’ve been working all the hours God sends and getting no comfort off you. I was giving you space, She.’ Paddy’s eyebrows knitted together. His nostrils flared as he breathed rapidly. In, out, in, out, like a panther waiting to pounce. ‘There was no harm in it. But you’ve just scarred a young girl for life, you jealous, snooping cow.’
Realising she could not easily make a bolt for freedom now that she was pinned against the wall, Sheila whispered, ‘Sorry, Pad.’ Defensively, she raised her hands to her face.
Paddy rammed the butt of the flintlock into her ribs. The air escaped her lungs in a hiss. The pain was intense.
‘Nasty, bullying bitch.’ Spittle flew from Paddy’s mouth as he brought the flat of the stock down onto her cheekbone.
‘Stop, Paddy!’ Sheila cried, clasping at the side of her face. ‘That’s going to bruise, for Christ’s sake! I bought you the guns to say sorry. I’m sorry, Pad!’ Tears streamed from her eyes, though she struggled hard to hold them inside. Didn’t want to show him how much she was hurting or how frightened and vulnerable she suddenly felt.
He stopped abruptly. Stared down at the gun, as if only noticing it then for the first time. Turned the weapon over in his hands, running stubby fingers over the filigree metalwork.
‘Ottoman?’ he said, raising an eyebrow. He raised the flintlock to his shoulder and stared down the barrel at Sheila. Pulled the trigger. ‘Bang.’
Sheila winced.
Paddy winked.
‘Nice gun,’ he said. Then, he hit her over the head hard with the barrel.
Chapter 2
Conky
‘I’ll be down in a tick,’ Paddy shouted to Conky McFadden, poking his head out from one of the doors on the galleried landing. Fastening
the cuffs of his shirt. On his bottom half, he wore only his pants. Hairy, freckled red legs on show. ‘I’m just going for a shit.’
‘You take your time, boss …’ Conky said, peering down at the shine on his new shoes. ‘… While I hang around like a fart in a trance,’ he added, lowering his voice to a half-whisper. ‘Sure, I’ve got nothing better to do at eleven pm on a Friday night.’
Conky stood at the bottom of the stairs, hands folded behind him, sighing. Remembering how Paddy had stunk their cell out when they’d done time together, all those years ago. He had always laughed that it was the evil coming out. Bloody hell. Nothing changed, did it?
Glancing into the oversized mirror by the cloakroom, he double-checked that his trusty hair-piece was still reliably fixed into place, with his own dwindling hair successfully combed over the artful construction. He poked at it gently. It was robust, with no visible bald bits. Excellent. He must pay that bean-counting eejit, David Goodman, a little intelligence-sourcing visit soon, while his hair was looking quite so regal as to be almost intimidating. Maureen Kaplan’s son-in-law always blabbed a little louder with proper use of The Eyes, the power of The Hair and, of course, a pistol in his flapping mouth.
Conky tried to lessen his frustration by focusing on his thoughts about A Brief History of Seven Killings – the Man Booker Prize winner he was meant to finish in time for his book club. Which he had missed tonight because of Paddy. He checked his watch. There was a Dutchman waiting at the club to discuss the supply of mephedrone in the northwest. A big meeting, called at short notice at Paddy’s behest. But Paddy loved to keep people waiting. Conky, however, liked to be on time. Trapped in the punctuality paradox of being Paddy O’Brien’s muscle, Conky scratched at the nervous rash that started to itch up his neck beneath his best shirt.
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