The Girl Who Broke the Rules
The Girl Who Broke the Rules
MARNIE RICHES
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Copyright
AVON
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015
Copyright © Marnie Riches 2015
Cover design © Lizzie Gardner
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Marnie Riches asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record 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.
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Ebook Edition © August 2015 ISBN: 9780008138349
Version: 2018-01-24
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
PROLOGUE: Amsterdam, red light district, 16–17 January
CHAPTER 1: Broadmoor Psychiatric Hospital, UK, 17 January
CHAPTER 2: Amsterdam, the set of a porn film, then, Sloterdijkermeer allotments, later
CHAPTER 3: Soho, London, later
CHAPTER 4: Amsterdam, mortuary, later
CHAPTER 5: Soho, London, later
CHAPTER 6: Amsterdam, mortuary, later
CHAPTER 7: Amsterdam, private medical surgery, much later
CHAPTER 8: Amsterdam, police headquarters, 18 January
CHAPTER 9: Soho, London, Skin Flicks Media Group, later
CHAPTER 10: Amsterdam, Norderkerk, later, then, van den Bergen’s apartment
CHAPTER 11: South East London, very late
CHAPTER 12: Manhattan, New York, 1981
CHAPTER 13: Amsterdam, police headquarters, then, a building site, 19 January
CHAPTER 14: Amsterdam, police headquarters, later
CHAPTER 15: Amsterdam, Valeriusstraat building site, later
CHAPTER 16: Stansted Express, East London, later
CHAPTER 17: Amsterdam, Valeriusstraat building site, later
CHAPTER 18: Cambridge, St John’s College, later
CHAPTER 19: Amsterdam, police headquarters, later
CHAPTER 20: Amsterdam, 20 January
CHAPTER 21: Cambridge, Mill Road, later
CHAPTER 22: Amsterdam, police headquarters, later
CHAPTER 23: Broadmoor Psychiatric Hospital, later
CHAPTER 24: Amsterdam, police headquarters, later
CHAPTER 25: Broadmoor Psychiatric Hospital, later
CHAPTER 26: Amsterdam, police headquarters, later
CHAPTER 27: Amsterdam, mortuary, 21 January
CHAPTER 28: Amsterdam, red light district, later
CHAPTER 29: Amsterdam, van den Bergen’s car, later
CHAPTER 30: Amsterdam, later
CHAPTER 31: Amsterdam, mortuary, later
CHAPTER 32: Amsterdam, Ruud Ahlers’ apartment, later
CHAPTER 33: Amsterdam, van den Bergen’s car, then Ahlers’ apartment, moments later
CHAPTER 34: London, 1985
CHAPTER 35: Amsterdam, police headquarters, 22 January
CHAPTER 36: South East London, Aunty Sharon’s house, later
CHAPTER 37: Amsterdam, the Quick Bite Café, later
CHAPTER 38: Amsterdam, police headquarters, later
CHAPTER 39: Amsterdam, Ahlers’ private surgery, later
CHAPTER 40: Amsterdam, the Cracked Pot Coffee Shop, red light district, later
CHAPTER 41: Over the North Sea, 23 January
CHAPTER 42: Amsterdam, police headquarters, later
CHAPTER 43: Amsterdam, van den Bergen’s car, en route to Rotterdam, later
CHAPTER 44: Amsterdam, Ad’s apartment, later
CHAPTER 45: Rotterdam Port, later
CHAPTER 46: Amsterdam, police headquarters, 24 January
CHAPTER 47: Amsterdam, mortuary, later
CHAPTER 48: Amsterdam, van den Bergen’s apartment, 25 January
CHAPTER 49: Amsterdam, police headquarters, later
CHAPTER 50: Hamburg, Germany, 26 January
CHAPTER 51: Katwijk asylum seekers’ centre, Netherlands, later
CHAPTER 52: Rotterdam, Port Authority, later
CHAPTER 53: Amsterdam, Ad’s apartment, later still
CHAPTER 54: Berlin, Germany, 1989
CHAPTER 55: Over the North Sea, then, Ramsgate, England, 27 January
CHAPTER 56: Soho, London, later
CHAPTER 57: Ramsgate, later
CHAPTER 58: Soho, London, later
CHAPTER 59: Somewhere in Kent, an industrial estate, later
CHAPTER 60: Ramsgate, seafront B&B, 28 January
CHAPTER 61: Somewhere in Kent, a field, later
CHAPTER 62: Kent, on a train, then Amsterdam, mortuary, later
CHAPTER 63: South East London, later
CHAPTER 64: Amsterdam, police headquarters holding cell, later
CHAPTER 65: Ashford, Kent, later
CHAPTER 66: Cambodia, 1992
CHAPTER 67: Amsterdam, mortuary, 29 January
CHAPTER 68: South East London, mortuary, later
CHAPTER 69: Amsterdam, later
CHAPTER 70: Amsterdam, Nieuw West area, then, police headquarters, later
CHAPTER 71: Amsterdam, Ad’s apartment, then NOS TV studios, then police headquarters, 30 January
CHAPTER 72: Amsterdam, police headquarters, later
CHAPTER 73: Amsterdam, hospital, 31 January
CHAPTER 74: Amsterdam, police headquarters
CHAPTER 75: South East London, 14 February
CHAPTER 76: Amsterdam, hospital, later
CHAPTER 77: Soho, London, later
CHAPTER 78: Laren, the Netherlands, 15 February
CHAPTER 79: Cambridge, St John’s College, later
CHAPTER 80: Laren, the Netherlands, 16 February
CHAPTER 81: Broadmoor Psychiatric Hospital, later
CHAPTER 82: A secret location near Laren, later
CHAPTER 83: Stansted airport, Essex, later
CHAPTER 84: Amsterdam, then Laren, later
CHAPTER 85: A secret location near Laren, later
CHAPTER 86: A secret location near Laren, moments later, then, the Laren house
CHAPTER 87: A secret location near Laren, later
CHAPTER 88: Amsterdam, hospital, 18 February
CHAPTER 89: Broadmoor Psychiatric Hospital, later
CHAPTER 90: Amsterdam, hospital, later
CHAPTER 91: Soho, London, later
CHAPTER 92: Berlin, Germany, 23 February
CHAPTER 93: Amsterdam, hospital, later
CHAPTER 94: Amsterdam, women’s prison, 28 February
CHAPTER 95: Amsterdam, the Cracked Pot Coffee Shop, then, the hospital, later
Keep Reading …
Acknowledgements
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
Amsterdam, red light district, 16–17 January
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.
Just hours earlier, watching that snow, Magool had felt something bordering on elation. She was finally safe. On these crimson-lit streets, she was Noor. Different girl. Different continent. Different life. Magool resolved, there and then, as the hail pounded against the glass door to her booth, to look upon her parents’ selling her and her infant brother to the al Shabaab militia men as an act driven by desperation, not greed. They had thought, perhaps, that she and little Ashkir would both have a good life in that exotic, far-off place they called Italy. Hadn’t the soldiers promised?
When she had arrived in the arid, rubble wasteland of Mogadishu, clutching the squalling infant, her hope had faded quickly. Tears had pricked the backs of her eyes as she remembered Ashkir being plucked from her bosom by those corrupt African Union troops. Burundian men, who had laughed heartily and exchanged easy greetings with her couriers.
She had overheard them saying that her brother was destined for adoption in Milan. But, at thirteen, she had been too old to be adopted.
Magool had cursed the name that marked her out as the early flowering girl. Had cursed her parents, each time the men forced themselves on her. Her own kind, amid the diesel-stink and filth of the ramshackle Somali ship. Then, white men when she reached Rome. There was no distinction to be made between them. By the time she had escaped the cocaine fug of nightly abuse and arrived in Amsterdam on the train, she was already five months pregnant. Not showing yet.
Two full years later, now. Watching the snow and feeling hopeful, just as that charlatan showed up, knocking on her window. She should have known better than to let him in.
He had caressed the jagged, lumpy line of her caesarean scar before putting his hand between her legs.
‘You healed well,’ he said, kissing her neck.
She bit her tongue. Swallowed the retort. Money was money and he’d paid up front.
He lay down on the narrow bed and pulled her on top. Guiding her onto him. Hands on her small breasts. ‘Tell me I’m the best,’ he said, closing his eyes. ‘Faster.’ His voice was high. His breath came short. ‘Tell me again how I saved your life.’
As she stared down at his corpulent pink body with its nauseating smattering of fluffy blond chest hair that crawled from one flabby tit to another, she fantasised about strangling him with her bare hands. Her small slender fingers would never stretch around that red bull neck. He was twice her size.
‘I saved you, Noor,’ he said, thrusting himself upwards into her.
Her words slipped out, unchecked.
‘You’re a butcher,’ she said. ‘I have to charge less because of you.’
The fat pig showed no remorse. He did not even open his eyes to look at her. Merely smiled, gripped her tightly by the hips and ground her pelvis harder towards him. ‘Nonsense. I’m a master craftsman. Black skin just scars more.’
Afterwards, they had squabbled over the fee. He snatched up the euros he had given her at the start and stuffed them under the bulk of his body.
‘Come and get it, little Noor!’ he said, starting to laugh. Glee in his eyes.
What was this? Some kind of perverse game? Wasn’t it enough that he had cut her baby out of her in that cold, damp back room he called a surgery and stitched her back up like an old sack? Fury flared within her.
‘Give me my money back!’ she said, trying to roll him over to reach the notes.
He grabbed her by the wrists and pushed her away so that she fell against the wall. Suddenly, fear snuffed out the flames of her anger.
‘What made you think I would pay, you dumb bitch?’ He pulled the foreskin back down on his flaccid, spent manhood. A sea slug stuck to his thigh. ‘You owe me. You’ll always owe me.’
She rose to her feet. Backed into the corner, folding her arms over her naked chest. ‘I already paid through the nose!’ she said, wanting to show this beast that she wouldn’t be trifled with. Wanting him to see that she wasn’t a defenceless little girl. But she knew her body language betrayed her and she was annoyed by the waver in her voice. ‘Give me the cash or I’ll report you to the authorities!’
He smiled brightly. ‘An underage, illegal Somali immigrant, working as a whore? Report me, a pillar of the community? I don’t think I’ll be losing any sleep on that front, little Noor. Do you?’
He was already dressed. Stuffing the notes back into his wallet, now. Magool steeled herself to step forward and snatch it from him. But the doctor sensed her intentions, leaned in and punched her hard in the face.
Her cheek stung. Tears sprang from her eyes against her will. She failed to swallow them back.
‘Get out, then! Go on! Fuck off and don’t come round here again. Ever.’
But as he opened the door, he looked back at her. A pause that perhaps betrayed the flicker of remorse in those bloodshot blue eyes. He reached inside the breast pocket of his overcoat and retrieved the leather wallet. Pulled out a twenty. Threw it at her.
‘No hard feelings?’ he said.
She picked up the money from the threadbare brown carpet. Pushed it back into his hand.
‘Stick your money up your ass, sharmuutaa ku dhashay! You need this more than me,’ she said, bundling him out the door and locking it behind him.
Waiting until the clatter on the stairs and the glazed door slamming marked his departure, she crouched in her small room and clutched her knees. Allowed herself to weep, but not for long. Cursed him and vowed she would get even one day. Somehow.
Her thoughts turned to her shared bedsit.
Enough for one night. It was time to shut up shop and go home. Get her shit together so that, tomorrow, she could face a new day. Hell, the weather was terrible anyway.
Outside, the mixture of hail and snow bit into her flesh. Her jeans and even her padded coat seemed to provide no protection from the unforgiving elements. Peering ahead down the street, it was as though she were watching whiteout static on the old black and white TV her parents had in their shack back home. And it had looked so picturesque from inside her booth. It would be an arduous walk back.
At first, she had not noticed the dark Lexus sliding slowly alongside her. She walked ahead of the car, pulling her hood further down over her eyes; following what she saw at her feet as a guide to which direction home lay in. But when the car edged forward and remained at her side, she lifted her hood to see if it was a familiar punter, hoping she might reconsider, retreat and reopen the shop.
The Lexus stopped. The driver’s window opened just enough for her to see who was behind the wheel.
‘You?’ she said. Hard to keep the incredulity out of her voice.
‘Get in!’ the driver said.
Magool clutched her shoulder bag across her chest defensively. ‘I said I never wanted to see you again.’
‘Look, it’s a storm out there. It’s warm in here. I’ll drive you home. You’re wringing wet.’
‘No thanks. I’ll walk it.’
‘Come on! Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve got heated seats.’ Placatory tone. Friendly eyes. The driver’s face and body language were benign. ‘Get in, for God’s sake!’
By now, she was quaking with the cold. Beyond uncomfortable. Despite sensing that the driver’s concerned gesture was off key, Magool walked round to the passenger side. Opened the car’s heavy door and registered the sting between her shoulder blades, as she sank back into the luxurious, leather heated seat…
The snow had stopped falling by the time Magool Osman returned to the red light district. Her makeshift bed was a bench beneath the windows of the Old Sailor Café Bar at the junction of Oudezijds Achterburgwal and the cobbled alley of Molensteen. Fittingly opposite the Erotic Museum, and ironically within spitting distance of her compatriots in their relatively safe, red-lit booths. But she had been dropped off after her final ordeal in the small hours, when only the water rats and the ghosts of Amsterdam’s Golden Age roamed those streets. The darkest hours before an unforgiving, wintry dawn.
Just after 6.30am, Magool’s empty eye sockets stared blankly up at Chief Inspector Paul van den Bergen. With a cracking hip, wishing he had had time for breakfast and a coffee before leaving home, he crouched to get a better look at this young woman:
Dark skin. Diminutive stature. Completely naked. Frozen solid, with a dusting of ice that still sparkled like fake diamond dust beneath the harsh light in the makeshift forensic tent.
He thumbed his white stubble in contemplation of her corpse; once a thing of beauty, now defiled and incomplete. It was as though the girl had been unzipped from her throat to her pubic area, revealing all the fragile matter that lay beneath. Chest framed by the white stripes of her ribs, which had been split down the sternum and levered apart. Where once her lungs must have breathed in this sharp, Amsterdam air; where once her stomach might have digested a moreish meal; where once her kidneys and liver might have filtered celebratory wine…now, there were but gaping holes, frozen blood and a mere suggestion of the life and hope that had once inhabited such a young body.
Elvis, one of van den Bergen’s two most loyal protégés, moved the flap of the tent aside. He entered the scene, wearing white plastic overshoes.
Van den Bergen rose to his full height. Noticed the alarmed grimace on his subordinate’s face.
‘Stop gawping, Elvis,’ he said. ‘Show some fucking respect for the dead.’
‘Sorry, boss.’ Elvis covered his nose, though the icy conditions meant there was nothing unpleasant to smell. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Is Marianne de Koninck and her team on their way?’
‘Yep. Due any minute now.’
Van den Bergen nodded. Sniffed. Acknowledged the black dog lurking inside the tent, outside the tent, in the warmth of his car. Bearing down on him. Casting a long shadow over everything. He swallowed painfully, prodding at the swollen glands beneath his ears. ‘My throat’s on fire. Think I’m coming down with something. Just my luck, it will be Ebola. Grab me a coffee, will you?’