Marnie Riches - Born Bad - A gritty gangster thriller with a darkly funny heart

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 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

‘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

‘ 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’

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

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 bastard. 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.’