The Girl Who Broke the Rules

by Marnie Riches

  As she padded noiselessly through the house with the stealth of a panther, she realised nobody was home. When she switched on the light to the panic room, she knew van den Bergen had been there. A roll of duct tape sitting on a console that held three computer keypads. A used syringe next to it. On the floor, an overturned chair with traces of the sticky silver tape still on it. A small pool of blood on the carpet. And there was the real giveaway: van den Bergen’s glasses. The chain that he wore around his neck broken. The lenses smashed where they had been trodden underfoot perhaps during a struggle.

  George felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. Read a text from Marie.

  He’s not at Valeriusstraat.

  Wracking her brains, she considered what she would do if she were a surgeon, harvesting the organs of abducted victims in secret. She would need somewhere quiet. An operating theatre where no prying eyes would reach.

  ‘Try the garage,’ she whispered, remembering how Ad had been held captive in the garage of a country house. Hooked up to a drip for days, awaiting his turn as the Firestarter’s next human bomb in a cardboard box.

  She found the door through the utility room. Could this be where van den Bergen lay, at the mercy of a psychopathic surgeon? Adrenalin coursing through her veins, she shook as she took out the can of hairspray. Held it in her left hand as she opened it with the right. But there was only darkness on the other side of that door. Breathing out heavily with relief, she switched on the light. A large black Lexus, the red light of its immobiliser flashing lazily on and off. So, something else had made those deep indentations in the gravel outside. A van.

  ‘But if he’s not here, where the hell is he?’ George said, scanning the contents of the garage, as she combed her brain for salient thought. Time was running out. In the corner of the garage, next to the draining board of a sink, she spotted an old filing cabinet. Broke into it with practised ease. Started to rifle through the folders until she found what she was looking for.

  ‘Bingo!’ It was the lease on an industrial unit, some five miles away.

  CHAPTER 85

  A secret location near Laren, later

  ‘What do you mean, I’m not delivering my side of the bargain?’ Veronica had screamed down the phone. ‘I’ve got the chief inspector heading up the investigation on my operating table right this minute. If it wasn’t for constant interruption by that jumped-up little prick, Gera— Who the fuck does he think he is to talk to me like that, by the way?’

  The Duke went quiet on the other end of the phone. ‘Have you finished?’ he had asked.

  She had been seething at his arrogance. Have you finished? As though she were still a child to be silenced. Gagged by her mother’s ridicule. Censored by her father’s disapproval. Have you finished?

  ‘No. And if you don’t like hearing what I’ve got to say, find yourself another stooge who’ll keep you in black market organs and stolen babies.’

  His voice had been placatory on the other end. ‘There’s no need to be like that, Roni. Nobody could replace you.’ Beautifully spoken English that got her every time. Reminded her of Silas in the beginning, except this was a real alpha male.

  Outside, she heard a car pull up. Held her breath. Looked down at the sleeping van den Bergen. Still intact, but fully prepped for surgery. Not long now.

  ‘I’ve got a surprise,’ he said down the phone.

  ‘I think there’s someone here.’

  ‘I know there’s someone there.’

  The visitor had a key. Footsteps in the reception area. She held the scalpel high ready to strike.

  ‘Guess who!’ on the other side of the door. That English accent. Public-school breeding.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. It was him.

  ‘You bastard! I thought it might have been the police.’

  They kissed passionately, as she dragged him inside by the collar of his cashmere coat. He eyed the tall chief inspector on the table.

  ‘That’s van den Bergen?’ he asked, staring at the policeman’s penis. ‘He’s thinner than I expected.’

  The Duke had grabbed Sabine from behind and slid his hand into her loose-fitting green trousers. Smelled of L’Egoiste aftershave and cigars. ‘Gera and his boys have got to lie low. I’ve come instead.’

  Veronica had laughed. Turned around and started to undo his belt; unzipping his trousers. ‘As if you’d run your own errands. Admit it. You missed me.’ Encased his erect penis in her latex-gloved hand and started to masturbate him slowly.

  He had produced a baggie of white powder from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. Waved it in the air. ‘Can’t hurt to mix a little pleasure with business.’ Looked over at van den Bergen. ‘He can wait a while, can’t he?’

  It had never been her intention to get waylaid like this, but she was already so wired at the prospect of opening van den Bergen up. The temptation of doing a little marching powder and letting The Duke fuck her hard up against the wall had been too great to resist. Though he was a good four inches shorter than she, his muscular legs were strong enough to bear her weight. And she was lithe enough to wrap her long legs around him; her arousal intensified at the sight of van den Bergen, out for the count on the operating table. Yet, time was ticking by. She didn’t want to have the chief inspector under for too long, lest it put an unnecessary strain on his heart.

  The Duke had come too early with a grunt. Withdrew. Let her legs fall to the ground and yanked up his trousers quickly.

  ‘You selfish jerk,’ she had said. ‘What about me?’

  He laughed, revealing the diamond stud in his tooth that was totally at odds with his upper-class persona. Good boy gone bad. Took out a gun from his coat pocket. A long-barrelled AMT Hardballer. Pointed it at her vagina. ‘This is always hard,’ he said.

  ‘That loaded?’ She had bitten her lip and narrowed her eyes at him. Thrilled by the prospect of something new. A risk. An erotic gesture masquerading as an act of violence.

  Backing to the operating table, she had pushed van den Bergen’s legs out of the way; opened her own to receive the cold barrel of the gun.

  ‘Oh, you’re a very naughty girl, Roni.’

  ‘I’ve always been one to break the rules.’

  Sore but satisfied now, enjoying the prospect of having an appreciative audience for a change during the harvest, instead of being on her own or having that seedy little lowlife who masqueraded as her assistant in Kent, she turned her attention back to van den Bergen.

  ‘I’m going to perform what’s called a midline laparotomy now,’ she told The Duke. ‘Know what that is? That’s where I cut him open from his ninth thoracic vertebra down to his umbilicus. Then I cut from his umbilicus to his pubic symphysis. Hold your nose. It always stinks to high heaven. And no passing out!’

  She pressed the number 22 scalpel into van den Bergen’s skin and began to cut.

  CHAPTER 86

  A secret location near Laren, moments later, then, the Laren house

  Killing the lights of the Z4, George coasted into the industrial estate using momentum, rather than gas. Wanting to make as little noise as possible. Apprehension was lodged high in her throat, a precarious stopper holding all the grief inside at the prospect of being too late to save her friend; her lover. Images of van den Bergen opened up and emptied out like the other victims flickered in her imagination like an uncensored, unwanted slide show of the macabre. His expressive grey eyes, so large and full of melancholy or else mischief, packed in ice inside a cool box.

  George admonished herself for allowing such notions into her head.

  ‘Can that crap, you wimp. Paul needs you to be strong. You can take this stuck-up streak of piss.’ Psyching herself up for a confrontation with a killer who was a good seven or eight inches taller than her. But she had stood up to the Firestarter, hadn’t she? And if Sabine had been her backstreet attacker in London, she had been made short shrift of by none other than Letitia. ‘I ain’t so fucking vulnerable, Veronica Schwartz or whatever your name i
s. I come from a long line of ferocious bitches.’ Puffing air hard out of her cheeks. Checking she had her discreet makeshift weapons on her person.

  This Veronica hadn’t come from the street. This Veronica had never had to defend herself in a women’s prison full of desperate inmates. This Veronica had never peddled drugs in a high rise and got up after a kicking, giving back as good as she got. George did. George had. George always would.

  ‘Time to teach you a lesson in manners, man-tiefing bastard.’

  The van came into view as George rounded the corner in an otherwise deserted industrial estate. These places all look the same, wherever they may be in the world, George knew. Hastily built breeze-block units with brick fascias. Steel shutters on the plate glass shop fronts and doors at night. No security roaming this one, though George didn’t give a shit. She had the law on her side and van den Bergen’s life to fight for.

  He’s still alive. I know it. But what if I’m too late? What do your guts tell you, George? They tell you he’s still breathing.

  A long-wheel-based Mercedes Sprinter. Shaft of light shining beneath the largest of the shutters. Shutter up over the door. But what was this? As she crept forwards, George spotted something unanticipated. Plumes of smoke rising on the far side of the van. Making as little noise as possible, she slid up to the vehicle and peered beneath the undercarriage. Spotted a pair of men’s shoes and trouser legs. The wheels of a car, out of sight where she crouched. The distinctive fat, white B in the middle of shining alloys. A Bentley. She held her breath, close enough to be heard by the man, should he have been paying attention to the noises in that deserted place.

  No way in through the front door. Retreating with feather-light steps, she ebbed into the shadows until she was able to walk without fear of discovery. Round the back. There was always a loading bay. Wasn’t there? Time running out. But here was the back of the unit, she was sure. A harsh white beacon slicing upwards through the black night sky from the skylight in the roof. She flattened herself against the wall. Security light clicking on at her approach. With crab-like movements, edged sideways. Tried the door. Locked. Produced her skeleton key but the lock was too sophisticated. Shit!

  George looked up at the shaft of light emanating from inside.

  Only one way in. No time for vertigo, now.

  Clambering onto an industrial-sized dumper that stood against the wall, outside the unit, she started to hoist herself up the drainpipe. Biceps screaming in complaint. Get up that fucking pipe, woman. Don’t look down! Heart beating so hard, she wondered if the smoking man at the front would hear it.

  Crawling along the roof. Would it even take her weight? Pigeon guano squelching beneath her hands and knees. She gagged. Swallowed down the urge to vomit. The light coming closer, closer, now. Clenching her teeth, as though that would make her quieter. Slipping around. She was too high up. How the hell could she even get into the unit? You’re a fucking idiot, McKenzie. You haven’t thought this through.

  Then, she peered into the skylight. Saw the scene below.

  Van den Bergen almost unrecognisable with tubes going in; tubes coming out. Machinery all around him, filtering, aspirating, monitoring him. A livid, blood red line down his middle. Veronica in green scrubs, bent over his abdomen. Busy about her victim. Opening the line wider, wider. Cutting. Slicing.

  George clawed at the Perspex. No. No. Mouthing the words. Tears forcing their way out of her eyes and onto her cheeks. Watching this monster thrust her hands in van den Bergen’s stomach.

  Suddenly she was gripped in the jaws of anger. A rabid dog savaging its prey. It shook George about. And her trepidation was punctured. And her sadness flung aside. George was consumed whole. Only naked fury remained.

  On that slanting Perspex roof, she stood, jumped. Veronica Schwartz peered up, askance, trying to spy what caused the din. Jumped again. Creaking plastic, weakening screws.

  George crashed through the skylight, yelling as she fell. A battle-cry. No time to die. Landing some twenty feet below on the table that held an array of shining surgical tools. Buckling beneath her, but breaking her fall.

  ‘You!’ Schwartz said in English, quick to slash with the scalpel.

  But George was quicker still. Prepared. Adrenalin pumping. Feeling no pain. Out with the can of hairspray in her right hand. Lighter in the left. Old dogs had taught her some novel tricks. She sprayed the choking lacquer stink into Schwartz’s eyes. Flicked her lighter into life. A budget drug-store flame-thrower.

  Schwartz clasped her gloves to her face, screaming. Stumbling backwards, taking the drip stands with her in a tangle of tubing and rubber shoes. Clattering to the concrete ground. Ripping the cannula out of van den Bergen’s motionless arm. A glint of something silver in George’s peripheral vision.

  The surgeon steadied herself. Deadly focus in eyes that stared out of a bloody, scorched face. She snatched up a long-nosed silver pistol that had been lying on a chair. Waving it at George, now.

  ‘Put the hairspray down, Georgina!’ she said. Ice cold voice. Seemed not to feel the agony of having been burned. Gesticulating towards the chair where the gun had been. ‘Go on!’

  Stalemate. George stood, holding the spray and lighter in front of her. Unflinching. Trying to take in the surreal scene before making a decision. In addition to the medical equipment, and van den Bergen, split open like an edamame bean on the operating table, George noticed a steel trestle table, on top of which was a small empty plastic bag, a rolled-up fifty-euro note and a credit card. She caught the scent on the air. Above the pungent stench of alcohol, blood and shit, she could smell something else. Sex.

  Schwartz and the man outside. Partying inside, while van den Bergen lay prepped for death. The surgeon was high. Her reactions would be skewed. Good.

  Towering above her, Schwartz clicked the safety off the gun.

  ‘I said, put down the spray, you black midget.’

  George sucked her teeth, long and low; raising an eyebrow like this standoff was child’s play, though her head was swimming and her heart thundered inside her chest at a hundred and eighty bpm. ‘Fuck you, chicken tits. Put the gun down or I’ll torch you again. Your kind crisps up real nice like a suckling pig.’

  Schwartz’ scorched face became a sinister mask of hatred. She pointed the gun at George’s heart. Pulled the trigger. The gun went off.

  The full metal jacket bullet punched into George. Sent her careening backwards into the table that held the coke paraphernalia. The aerosol can uselessly bursting into a cloud of Albert Heijn’s super-hold above her head. Tinnitus buzzing in her ears from the deafening thunderclap that ricocheted off the breeze block walls. Agony all at once, she dropped the spray and lighter. Gasped, clutching her chest. Blood oozing warm between her fingers.

  ‘No signs of life, here,’ Elvis said. ‘Any texts from George?’

  Marie looked down at her phone. ‘No reception. Damn.’

  They trudged around to the back of the seemingly empty country house. Peering into blackness through locked doors and windows. Scenarios where she would have to explain her father’s death to the newly married Tamara played out in Marie’s mind, until her phone suddenly vibrated in her pocket. She took it out, lighting up the screen – the only illumination in that dark place apart from Elvis’ torch. A text, sent by George ten minutes earlier. It had only just reached her phone. Two bars.

  VdB being held in industrial unit north of Laren. Need backup. Come asap

  She showed it to Elvis. ‘No address,’ she said. One bar.

  ‘Get onto Google maps. Better pray that wi-fi connection holds up,’ he said, just as the last bar of reception disappeared.

  CHAPTER 87

  A secret location near Laren, later

  Standing over her, Schwartz smiled. ‘I told you I’d shoot.’

  George started to shake. Feeling the energy drain from her like a wounded character in Grand Theft Auto. But the bullet seemed to have missed her heart. Maybe. She was still breathing, wasn
’t she? Just. Grey-faced, she was sure. Everything prickling, as though the world was about to fade from view. Willed herself to stay. Get up. Get on your feet, girl.

  Vaguely aware that a door had slammed shut somewhere within the unit.

  ‘Roni! What the fuck—? My God! What happened to your face?’

  A man’s voice behind her, now. Sounded alarmed. Speaking English like a toff. George, back on her knees, craned her neck to see the newcomer. A finely dressed middle-aged man who looked like a hedge fund manager, but for the diamond in his tooth and the milky white stain on the crotch of his dark grey gabardine trousers. Stockily built. Shorn dirty blond hair. Scalp shining pinkish under the bright lights.

  He swiftly made for George, grabbing her from behind in a headlock.

  ‘Let me go!’ she cried weakly.

  Hand over her mouth, holding her in a vice-like grip. His fingers reeked of cigarettes and pussy.

  ‘This is the snooping little cow I tried to finish off in London,’ Schwartz said. Putting the gun down onto the operating table, beside the sleeping form of van den Bergen. Dabbing at her livid, shining face with some kind of surgical wipe. She kicked George in the stomach with a foot the size of a man’s. ‘Untermensch. You’re scum.’

  Holding steady, though the kick winded her and made the blood seep faster from her wound, George resolved to show no fear. No weakness. No pain. Fixed her adversary with a stare that could strip the flesh from those elongated aristocratic bones. I am not going to die here. And neither is van den Bergen. Not at the hands of this child-murdering skank.

  The Englishman dragged George to her feet. One of her arms was pinioned by him across her chest, stemming the flow of blood from the gunshot wound. But her other; her right arm hung loose. Big mistake, dickhead.