Extract: The Girl Who Broke the Rules by Marnie Riches

The Girl Who Broke The Rules by Marnie Riches 

Series: The Girl Who Wouldn't #2

Release Date:20th August 2015
Publisher: Maze

Genres: Crime / Thriller / Mystery / Suspense

The pulse-pounding new thriller from Marnie Riches. For anyone who loves Jo Nesbo and Stieg Larsson, this book is for you!

When the mutilated bodies of two sex-workers are found in Amsterdam, Chief Inspector van den Bergen must find a brutal murderer before the red-light-district erupts into panic. Georgina McKenzie is conducting research into pornography among the UK’s most violent sex-offenders but once van den Bergen calls on her criminology expertise, she is only too happy to come running. The rising death toll forces George and van den Bergen to navigate the labyrinthine worlds of Soho strip-club sleaze and trans-national human trafficking. And with the case growing ever more complicated, George must walk the halls of Broadmoor psychiatric hospital, seeking advice from the brilliant serial murderer, Dr. Silas Holm…

Marnie Riches arrives with a fully formed narrative skill that suggests decades of experience; she’s created a wonderfully idiosyncratic heroine, prone to bad judgement, and placed her in an artfully constructed novel that even incorporates cogent discussions of sexuality and gender. Ms Riches is clearly a name to watch!’ BARRY FORSHAW - author of Euro Noir and The Rough Guide to Crime Fiction.

   

Extract

The jagged pain between her shoulder blades was fleeting. Magool flinched. Breathed in sharply at the unpleasant sensation. She loosened her seatbelt. Wriggled in the passenger seat to look behind her.

In the dark, there was nothing to see.

Then, she tried to reach behind to feel the leather. But her hands would not move. She stared down at them, bemused. They felt neither leaden nor numb. It was simply as if they no longer existed. And y­et, there they sat, chapped from the cold, bitten nails, primly folded over her wringing-wet, jeans-clad thighs.

Frowning, aware of her accelerated heartbeat, she tried to lift her legs, move her feet, wiggle her toes. Nothing. Why was her body not obeying her brain? She looked askance at the driver.

‘I can’t move,’ she said in Dutch. ‘What’s going on?’

The driver stared resolutely ahead. Peering through the windscreen of the car as hail rattled onto the glass, accompanied by fat snowflakes. Swept by the wiper-blades into thin white columns on the windscreen’s periphery that grew thicker and thicker with every second that passed; white screens closing slowly on the real world.

‘Hey! Stop the car! Something’s wrong, I’m telling you. I can’t feel a thing.’ With difficulty, Magool could still turn her head – enough to see the side of her driver’s face. ‘Did you hear me?’

Silence enveloped her, and she realised her words had not sounded at all except inside her head. Through the windscreen, she could just about make out the white-dusted cobbles of the road. The snow, illuminated by the bright, triangular shafts of the streetlights, came down like yellow-gold icing sugar, falling through a sieve. But where the hell were they going on this beautiful, foul night? Not towards her apartment, she was certain. And what was happening to her?

She started to loll forward, held in her seat only by the belt. The driver reached out and with a large, strong hand, pushed her up against the window.

‘Don’t want you to hit your head, do we? Try to relax, Noor. It won’t hurt.’ Her captor had finally spoken in a kindly voice. ‘I’ve given you a very strong spinal block. The syringe was rigged in your seat. But try not to worry. I promise you, I know what I’m doing.’

Magool wanted to scream. Her brain shrieked for help; phantom hands hammered on the window each time they passed a figure on the street, huddled in dark winter clothes, braving the blizzard. Unaware of the young girl who was imprisoned in the same vehicle that had just splattered their work trousers with virgin slush.

With only her mind unfettered, she considered the sequence of events that had brought her to this terrible place.

Standing in her booth, she had watched with fascination when the flakes began to waft down from the heavens. Pink sky overhead, as though the very neon lights of Amsterdam’s red light district were reflected in the snow clouds hanging above her in the night sky. It was the first time she remembered ever having seen snow. The mangroves that clung to the coastline like grasping old men’s hands; the turquoise splendour of the Indian Ocean; the baking heat of her homeland – they were all half a world away. Now, the hail came down among the snow, making the same musical rattling noise against the glass door of her booth that the tropical rains of the Gu and Dayr wet seasons had made on the corrugated iron roof of her family’s shack.

ABOUT MARNIE RICHES

 

Marnie Riches grew up on a rough estate in Manchester. She learned her way out of the ghetto, all the way to Cambridge University, where she gained a Masters degree in German & Dutch. She has been a punk, a trainee rock star, a pretend artist, a property developer and professional fundraiser. Previously a children's author, now, she writes crime and contemporary women's fiction.

Marnie Riches is the author of The Girl Who Wouldn't Die - the first installment of the George McKenzie crime thriller series, published by Maze and Avon at Harper Collins.

In her spare time, Marnie likes to run (more of a long distance shuffle, really) travel, drink and eat all the things (especially if combined with travel) paint portraits, sniff expensive leather shoes (what woman doesn't?) and renovate old houses. She also adores flowers.

 

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