This was it. Her chance to start living her own life, back in London. Not Sally Wright’s. Not Letitia the Dragon’s. Not Van den Bergen’s. The post carried with it a salary decent enough to raise something of a mortgage. She had a good chunk of cash already saved towards a deposit. Her father was suing the Rotterdam Silencer for damages with marvellous prospects, according to his solicitor. He had promised to help financially if he got a decent payout. But even if that never came to fruition, in accepting this post, there would be fresh opportunity to attract funding for her research projects. And on top of that, her failed book deal was seemingly back on.
‘Messages from the universe, George. Messages from the universe.’
Closing the suitcase, she felt like she had ended the final chapter of a long story and was finally closing the book. Her heart weighed a little more inside her recovered body, but she forced a smile onto her face as Van den Bergen cleared his throat behind her. His eyes were red from late nights of talking and regretful tears.
‘It doesn’t have to be this way, you know.’
She turned around to face him. Free of the casts on his legs now, he looked almost back to normal but for the few extra pounds he carried thanks to weeks of being almost immobile. ‘No, you’re right. It doesn’t. I’ve told you. You can come to England and start a life with me. We put down roots together. Or I can try to get a job here and we get a place.’
He sighed deeply. Groaned. ‘I can’t just walk away from my family, George.’
Bastard. George yanked the zip closed and fastened her padlock. ‘I’m asking you to commit to putting your name next to mine on a mortgage deed. I wasn’t even asking you to leave Amsterdam. Just to start again properly with me. A little permanence. And I’m not asking you to walk away from anything. But if I stayed, it would be with the understanding that you stop putting our life together as a couple on the backburner so you can go running to Tamara every time she farts wrong. You’ve changed, Paul.’
‘I’m trying to be a good grandfather.’ He folded his arms tightly, his handsome face set into a frown.
‘No. You’re overcompensating for the absent father that you were to Tamara by usurping Numb-Nuts’s role with Eva. It’s not on. You were the one who told me expressly that you didn’t want more children, but now, here you are parenting someone else’s. Between the job and the baby, there’s nothing left of you for me.’
‘Jesus. That’s selfish.’
‘Is it? You’re asking me to stay here in this flat in this stasis; to join you in your line of work now you’re finally back in Minks’s good books and the funds are flowing to the department again. What about my family? My family is in London, not Amsterdam. I’ve got a couple of years left with my mother, maybe, and a father I’ve still got to get to know. And my job isn’t in the police. I’m a criminologist. Remember? An academic and a specialist in trafficking. You brought me in on the Den Bosch case because of that, not because I needed to be thrown a charitable bone. Fuck it, Paul. I don’t want to be a spare punctuation mark at the end of somebody else’s sentence. Don’t do that to me. Don’t treat me as an afterthought. I won’t let you.’
She’d forced herself to be as calm – as reasoned and articulate as possible. She’d focused on her breathing throughout the speech she’d rehearsed over and over. Tried not to ball her fists and thump the stubborn bastard in the chest.
‘Don’t you love me anymore?’ He took a step towards her. Held out his hand.
‘Don’t insult my intelligence.’ She ignored his placatory gesture. Looked away to check her baggage tag. ‘You can keep that guilt-tripping shit for Tamara and Numb-Nuts when they decide they’re getting bored of Opa and give you the order of the boot.’
‘I don’t know why you’re breaking us up like this, George. I don’t know why what we have isn’t enough anymore.’ He tried to wrestle the case from her. ‘Stay, for Christ’s sake.’
She slapped him away. ‘What we have isn’t what we had, Paul. Can’t you see that? Get off my fucking bag. I’m going. I’ve got a future to pursue where that poor little girl from the back of the Den Bosch truck had hers stolen from her.’
He grabbed her and pulled her to him, planting a hard kiss on her mouth. ‘I love you, you bloody woman. Stop using the case as an excuse for leaving me. You’re all I want.’ He kissed her again.
Against her better judgement, she reciprocated, savouring the feel of his tongue entwined with hers and his torso pressed against her breasts. Freshly showered, he smelled of that sport deodorant she loved and hot, clean skin. But this was not the time for resentful sex and a half-arsed reunion that would disintegrate within days.
She broke free, panting. Pushed him away, stifling the mischievous grin that was trying desperately to displace her ‘I mean business’ face.
‘The ball’s in your court, Chief Inspector,’ she said, waving her University of London offer letter in his face. ‘You can come to London and start fresh. It’s hardly expensive to shuttle back and forth on a budget airline to see Eva, is it? And Tamara can bring her over to visit you. You’d find a job in five minutes in the UK with your languages and skill set.’
‘What? As a security guard at Tesco?’
‘Don’t give me that bullshit.’ Her arms betrayed her mind and wrapped themselves around his middle. She found herself stroking the line of his triangular nose, his lips, his freshly shaven chin. She poked him in the slight dimple. ‘This doesn’t have to be the end, Paul. But it’s your call. You know where I am if you think what we have is worth building something solid on.’
Outside, a horn beeped. Her taxi.
Extracting herself from her obstinate lover’s embrace, George lifted the small case from the bed, stuffed her job offer letter, e-ticket and passport into her bag and headed for the door.
‘Don’t go,’ he said, his sorrowful voice sounding uncharacteristically thin in the hallway. ‘I don’t want to be without you.’
George turned back to Van den Bergen, aware that her heart was thudding fast enough to break, sapping her resolve. ‘Then grow some balls and make a choice, for God’s sake. Come on, Paul. Does our story end here, or do you want it continue?’
He opened and closed his mouth, his eyebrows bunching together quizzically.
‘Oh, bloody forget it,’ George said as she opened the front door and stepped out into a world that was all her own.
Acknowledgements
This series has been going for five books, now. George McKenzie has a wonderfully loyal following, which I’m exceedingly proud of and grateful for. So far, though, George and Van den Bergen’s adventures have only been available digitally, despite being award-winning best-sellers. As all five books are finally becoming published in paperback to celebrate the publication of The Girl Who Got Revenge, my thankyous feel even more important than ever, so please do take the time to read them. If nothing else, it gives you a little insight into how many other people work hard behind the scenes to bring you books like this.
As always, my heartfelt thanks go first and foremost to my children, Natalie and Adam, who make me want to be a better woman and to write better stories that they will eventually be old enough to read!
Thanks to Christian, for his unfaltering child-wrangling skills and encouraging words. He’s always the first to read the finished, published article and I can’t wait to see what he makes of this!
All of the thanks to Special Agent, Caspian Dennis, without whom none of my words would be words you could read in a book or on kindle. Not only is he the best partner in crime-fiction I could ask for, but his lustrous beard has magical power. Fact.
Thanks to the rest of the team at Abner Stein, whose professional shit-hotness make me proud and relieved to be among the agency’s stable of stellar names – especially Sandy, Ben, Ray and Felicity.
Many many thanks to the brilliant team at Avon for their unfaltering support of the George McKenzie series and my writing. They are dynamism personified. Special thanks to Vict
oria Oundjian and Phoebe Morgan for their excellent editorial support…also to Sabah Khan for her PR wizardry, Elke Desanghere for her marketing nouse and to all on the fabulous sales team.
A huge thanks to the Cockblankets for services to humanity, to my many other close friends who lend me a sympathetic ear when I’m stressed off my tits and a MASSIVE thanks to those who put me up when I’m down in London doing bookish shit! I’ll name and shame them: Wendy Storer, Steph Williams, Martin de Mello, Ed James, Paulette Geelan, Sarah Stephens-Smith, Steph Broadribb, Louise Voss, Alex Watson and of course, Doris’ human, the amazing Tammy Cohen.
Enormous thanks to the many, many bloggers who read tirelessly and give their support to my writing, never asking for anything in return. You guys share the title of Heroes of the Book World only with my readers! My readers really are my diamonds and rubies in this publishing world of ever-shifting fortunes.
Last but certainly not least, I owe the inspiration for this book, yet again, to Louise Owen. Thanks, Weez, for giving me that old Dutch memoir. Without it, The Girl Who Got Revenge would have been an entirely different story. I owe you a massive booze on our next lady-date-night.
Winner of the 2015 DEAD GOOD READER Award
for Most Exotic Location
HE’S WATCHING HER. SHE DOESN’T KNOW IT…YET
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About the Author
MARNIE RICHES grew up on a rough estate in Manchester, within sight of the dreaming spires of Strangeways prison. Able to speak five different languages, she gained a Master’s degree in Modern & Medieval Dutch and German from Cambridge University. She has been a punk, a trainee rock star, a pretend artist, a property developer and professional fundraiser. In her spare time, she likes to run, mainly to offset the wine and fine food she consumes with great enthusiasm.
Having authored the first six books of HarperCollins Children’s Time-Hunters series, she now writes crime thrillers for adults.
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