The Bitch Is Back Collection Two (Parts 4-6) (The Bitch Is Back British Crime Thrillers Boxset)

By Chris Barraclough

Experience the last three thrilling parts of award-winning British crime author Chris Barraclough's gritty UK crime serial, The Bitch Is Back. You can also pick up the first three parts in The Bitch Is Back Collection One.

Racked with guilt and emotionally scarred by the events since her accident, Ella Brownstone finds herself hunted in a foreign land by her most ruthless enemies yet. Back home, the threat to her family is still far from over, with the surviving Kellys intent on revenge and the obsessive Detective Dermont as determined as ever to crush the family for good...

This eBook contains very strong language and occasional violence and is intended for mature audiences only. Check out all of Chris Barraclough's UK crime thrillers, available now for a great price from the best online eBook sellers. You can pick up the British crime series 'The Twin Towers Estate' in two value-packed compilations: The Riot Trilogy and The Gang Wars Trilogy.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chris Barraclough is a British journalist and award-winning UK crime author who bagged the UK Authors Award for his highly-praised debut suspense novel "Bat Boy", following a blind teenage boy and his brother's search for their long-lost father (out now in paperback and eBook). His mystery novel “Dead Dogs” soon followed and was nominated for the Dylan Thomas Sony Reader Award.

"Crack" (shortlisted, Page Turner Prize 2011) was the first book in his thrilling Twin Towers Estate crime series, set in a notorious council estate on the brink of war. Crack won international acclaim and went on to sell tens of thousands of copies, and was followed by five more Twin Towers Estate thrillers, also available on eBook..

Praise for Chris Barraclough's crime books:

"This is seat-of-the-pants reading, so grab yourself a drink and snack and make yourself comfortable before you start. And remember to breathe occasionally...Five Stars." - Indie Ebook Review on the Twin Towers Estate series

"A great story, beautifully written...an excellent crime book. Once you start you will not stop, I promise you." - Graham Sclater's Book Review Show, Venture Radio

"Fast, funny, riveting...a glorious read" - Times Suspense

"A wonderful, gripping thriller, from the first words to the last. Marvellous!" - UK Crime Writers

"I enjoyed every minute of it. Its pace is so frenetic and the events pile up one on the other so rapidly that you won't want to put it down." - eBookanoid Reviews

"I was immediately sucked in...an action packed, tense thriller...I found the book gripping, the prose magnificent...one that I could not put down and that, I’m sure, will haunt me for some time. Five stars" - Author Susan Russo Anderson

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Barraclough
• Release date: May 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311763297

Chris Barraclough

Chris Barraclough is an award-winning crime writer and journalist from the UK. His debut novel 'Bat Boy' (told from the POV of a blind British boy searching for his father after a family tragedy) took him a sweat-inducing four years to write, but the pain was worth it. Bat Boy won the UK Authors Award 2011 and was published by the UKA Press, to great critical acclaim. 25% of paperback royalties are donated to the RNIB (so buying a copy makes you a wonderful person). His fast-paced crime thriller 'Crack', the first in his Twin Towers Estate series, was shortlisted for the Page Turner Prize and SpaSpa Award for Best Psychological Fiction. His second novel 'Dead Dogs' - a suspenseful but darkly comic portrayal of a family torn apart by Albania's archaic Blood Feud revenge laws - was nominated for the Sony Reader Award and his third novel, Devil's In A Different Dress, is out now and free for a limited time. See www.chrisbarraclough.co.uk for more news and info on upcoming books.

Book preview

PART FOUR: UNFAMILIAR TERRITORY

One (Joel)

Joel felt the bile rise up his throat, but he quickly swallowed it back down and clenched his hands together. The horror of it all was tearing him asunder. Part of him screamed for vengeance, demanding to watch every last bloody minute, while the other part was sickened by the full weight of the scene unfurling before him. When they started on the boy's eyes, it proved too much. He turned his head slightly and focused on the far wall of the darkened warehouse, not wanting to make his weak stomachknown.

One of the boy's eyeballs was little more than a bloody pulp, trickling down his bruised and swollen cheek, when the screams finally cut out. Ronnie let go of his skull and the boy's head flopped to the side, blood dripping from the chin. It was only the ropes binding him to the rickety wooden chair that held him upright.

Passed out, Ronnie said, carefully placing the scalpel back inside his case. He scratched his beard and turned to Laurence. Wait, or smelling salts?

Salts, Laurence said, shifting in his wheelchair. Let's just get it over with.

Joel looked down at his father, surprised at how well the older man was handling the scene. He expected rage, or disgust, or some kind of emotional explosion. But then, his father always had a habit of keeping his feelings hidden.

Salts it is, Ronnie said, plucking a thin glass vial from the case and twisting off the cap. He held it underneath Jamie's nose for a second and the boy kicked violently back into consciousness, vomiting all over his own lap and Ronnie's hand. The interrogator dropped the bottle of salts, cursing and flicking his sleeve. Ahh shit, bollocks! Off to his right, Mack smiled and shook his head.

Unlucky, mate. That'll take some dry cleaning.

I wouldn't laugh just yet, Ronnie said. You'll be the daft bastardmopping the floor. He grabbed the boy by the hair and pulled his head back, glaring down at him. The boy was still coughing and spitting up chunks, his eyelids fluttering rapidly while what remained of his left eye dangled loose, the sickening effect truly obscene. Look at me with your one good eye, Ronnie told him. The boy didn't seem to hear him. His right eyeball swivelled in its socket, wild and bloodshot, and his lips worked silently. Ronnie raised his free hand and slapped his palm across the lad's ruined face. Come on laddo, we're almost done. Focus, right here. He motioned and the boy finally gazed up at him, his featured contorted with fear.

P-please, he stammered, his voice weak. Please don't do it.

You were doing so well, Ronnie said. Just tell us about Sam, okay? How and why you killed him, and it'll all be over, I promise.

Please don't kill me! The boy started to shake, strange noises escaping his lips. I didn't wanna do it, I swear! I were just in the van, it were all Harold!

Hey, shhhh, we're past all that now. You already confessed the hit and run, remember? We just want to know about Sam, then all this ends.

Oh God, you're gonna do it, aren't you? The boy was sobbing now, and trembling so hard that Joel was sure the old chair would break apart beneath him. He felt a pang of shame, so he thrust his hands inside his jacket pockets and glanced at his father again. Laurence was watching with a stern, almost angry expression.

Jamie, Ronnie said, lowering his face until it was just inches away from the lad's. Of course I'm going to kill you. The question is, what else do I have to do before then? Eh? Come on, tell us about Sam and that's it over, the pain goes away.

Joel felt a cold, tingling sensation creep across his skin, starting in his neck and moving up his jaw and right down his spine. Suddenly the ground seemed too far away, as if his legs had mysteriously grown. He felt his balance wobble, and he swallowed and swept a sleeve across his brow, his chest heaving.

Don't fucking do this, not now, not here. Take some deep breaths, you're okay, you're okay...

The nausea built at the back of his throat, a pool of saliva collecting in his mouth, and swallowing only seemed to make it worse. At the point he knew he couldn't hold back, it was already too late to move. All he could do was turn and stagger a single step before he bent in half and his stomach crushed itself up, ejecting its hot, acidic contents up his throat. His mouth and lips burned, the dark red vomit splashing across the filthy concrete.

He stood in that position, his hands cradling his knees, body rocking side to side, exhausted and depleted, for what seemed like forever. Somewhere in the background he heard laughter, and Ronnie talking.

Another mess for you to clean up, then.

No way am I touching that, don't get paid nearly enough.

Then his father's wheelchair rolled into his peripheral vision, and he forced himself upright, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. The old man was frowning, his wrinkled face half masked by shadows.

You alright? he asked, and Joel nodded.

Too much booze at the funeral. Wasn't sitting right. Laurence stared at him, then nodded and wheeled his chair around.

Let's finish up quick, he told Ronnie, and the interrogator nodded, then returned to work. Joel tried his best to block out the screams by singing old songs in his head. It didn't work.

Two (Ella)

Ella was already on her third large glass of wine when Joel strode into the tiny Greek restaurant and swept his eyes across the dimly lit room. At the sight of him, Ella felt her gut tighten. Joel eventually spotted her in the corner and smiled his goofy broad smile, then he weaved his way between the other tables and slid into the chair opposite her. In his descent he accidentally nudged the precariously poised candle with his elbow, but his reactions were keen and he managed to steady the dark red stick just before it toppled.

Hey, he said, really sorry I'm late, shit traffic. After settling into his chair and exhaling sharply, his hand moved over the table and smothered hers. How are you doing? He asked. Ella stared back at him, a dead weight hanging inside her chest.

My head's kind of all over the place, she said, gulping down some more wine. She licked her lips and sucked in a breath. Everything just feels so unreal still. So completely fucked up.

Yeah, I think I know. I felt the same sort of way after we buried Sam. I'd never really thought about death before he went, not even after the first attempt on dad's life. Like, you just expect life to go on forever, until one day it hits you. He smiled and shook his head. None of us are invincible.

Are you alright? Ella asked, feeling his hand tremble on top of hers. You look bloody awful.

Thanks, he said, his smile growing. I guess I'm a bit of a wreck still too. That thing with the kid, Jamie, I...I just can't stop going over it.

You wanna talk about it?

Not really dinner conversation. Ashamed to say, I puked up all over the place, right in front of the big man.

Oh, Ella said with a grimace. That bad? Joel nodded.

That bad. That's why I can't stop thinking about it. Not the actual...you know, he said, glancing around at the other patrons eating their meals and drinking their wine. Although God knows that shit was horrific enough to keep my nightmares topped up for years. But the fact that he rolled on the hit and run straight away, under no duress, but didn't confess about killing Sam until he was bleeding out of every fucking orifice...it's just not right. The guy had to be lying, just to end his fucking misery. Ella felt her cheeks burning up.

Sounds like you need a drink, she said, grabbing the attention of a passing waiter. They ordered a round, their food menus still untouched, and Joel paused until the waiter hurried away again before continuing.

I just wish he'd been the one, he said with a frown. Then all that shit would be over and done with. But now I've got this brick in my gut, this feeling that won't go away. Whoever killed Sam is still out there somewhere. Ella nodded slowly.

God, I wish I could just tell him. I wish life was that fucking simple. But there's no way. It'd ruin everything.

Eventually Joel smiled and shrugged. Bloody hell, bit of a morbid start. Wanna talk about something else?

Definitely. She finished her glass, pushing it to the edge of the table. So, she said, I'm off to Turkey tomorrow. That business stuff I told you about. Joel pursed his lips and nodded.

Yeah, he said, is it that soon? Thought it wouldn't be for another week or so.

Dad wanted me out there as soon as possible, Ella lied, knowing all too well that her father wanted to go in her place. The suppliers are acting cagey, and we've got to meet with the border control and negotiate new terms. Here's hoping my feminine charms do the trick, or I'll have to resort to stomping on their balls a bit.

Ouch. Joel grinned. Pity the poor bastards already. He draped the napkin over his lap and snatched up the menu, but his eyes stayed on her. You know, I meant what I said, about coming out with you. I really don't mind.

That's okay, Ella immediately said. Francis is coming with me, parents' orders, and you know how jealous he gets. She smiled and leaned across the table. But thank you, very sweet of you to offer.

I just need to get the hell away, clear my mind, mull this whole horrible bloody thing over.

They ordered their food and talked about anything and everything, and Ella drank just enough wine to keep her insides calm. After the meal, Joel offered to drive her home, and she accepted. She slipped inside the car and eased herself into the passenger seat, closing her eyes and listening as Joel made himself comfortable beside her. The engine started with a growl, sending almost indistinguishable vibrations through the body of the car, and a gentle sonata drifted out from the speakers.

Bit of a chill-out vibe, Joel said, hope that's alright?

Perfect, she said. They pulled away into the night traffic, accelerating so fast that her stomach tingled.

So this Turkey thing, it isn't going to be dangerous, is it?

I don't think so, Ella replied. She thought back to her brother's frantic phone call while he was out there, just minutes after meeting the new Baskomiser. The rough handling he was subjected to sounded like intimidation tactics more than anything, but her father had already warned her how unscrupulous the dirty Turkish officials could be, and a new face always demanded extra caution. He'd argued bitterly that he should go instead, warning her over and over.

These fuckers have to gain respect fast when they take over, or they'll be dog scraps in seconds. And the only way to get respect in that fucking dive is to bully and back-stab the hell out of anyoneconsidered weak or soft.

Okay, Joel said. So taking Francis, that's just a precaution, right?

Yeah, seriously, don't worry. She opened her eyes again and glanced sideways at him. Wait, hang on, I'm not detecting a hint of jealousy, am I?

No, course not, Joel said with a frown. Why would I be jealous of some Irish thug with a neck that's ten times bigger than his brain?

Oh God, you are jealous.

Nooooo. He sighed and lightly tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. Anyway, us two, we're just mates, right? What have I got to be jealous about? She stared at him, wondering exactly how he meant those last few words. Her teeth pulled gently on her lower lip.

Everything that's happened, she said, these past few weeks...well, you know how fucking mental life's been. Everyone keeps telling me I'm this cold, cunning super-bitch from hell, but I don't think I am any more. I don't know who the hell I am, really. She smiled and shook her head. And I can't really talk about it with my family, cos I feel like I'll be letting them down if I tell them all the shit that's really going on, you know? But I feel alright talking with you, like I can say any crap I feel like and you don't judge me on it. And it's not just thanks to the bottle and a half of wine I drink every time. Joel snorted and raised both eyebrows.

Great, so I get to listen to you pour your troubled little heart out all the time. Works for me. Ella's smile widened.

What can I say, you're just a great listener. Or at least you vaguely look like you give a shit.

Yeah, Joel said. Was the same at bloody school. All the fit girls in my year would go and shag the bad boys, then come cry on my shoulder after the scumbags dumped them. Those macho arseholes got all the action, and I'd get the bloody sob stories.

Awwww. Ella pouted. Didn't the sympathy angle get you in their knickers?

Maybe if I'd exploited it a bit more, Joel said with a gentle sigh. But I was always the gentleman. I hugged them and told them everything would be alright, then I ran off home to furiously wank myself into a coma.

They pulled up the grand garden drive to the latest Brownstone manor just a few minutes later. Joel eased the handbrake up and twisted in his seat, staring at her with a curious expression.

Here you are m'lady, he said in an exaggerated aristocratic accent. Home safe and sound.

You know, Ella replied with a mischievous grin, you don't need to put on an accent. You sound pretty posh as it is.

Har har. He scratched his nose, his brow wrinkling. So, take care of yourself out in Turkey, okay? Send me a postcard and all that bollocks.

I will, Ella said, her grin melting into a sad smile. She took in every inch of his soft features there in the darkened interior, finishing with his eyes. She used to find comfort there, but after the memories of the church and Joel's brother came flooding back, she found it incredibly painful just to meet his gaze. Her hand moved to the door handle and fumbled until the thing swung open and a cold breeze rolled in. Thanks for the lift. I'll let you know how it goes out there. She swallowed. And try not to linger on what happened. Maybe it's best to just keep it in the past.

Maybe, Joel said with a nod. But she could tell from his tone that he was completely unconvinced.

Three (Joon-Ho)

His teeth slid across each other, grinding firmly back and forth. He ignored the aching in his jaw, or rather he simply didn't feel it, nor the familiar burn in his left side, just below his ribs. Even the stale, bitter taste that coated his mouth was pushed to the back of his mind.

Seriously, said the skinny man with the pock-marked cheeks and the greasy swept-back hair. You carried that mental bitch for far too long, fella. When was the last time she even left the fucking flat, eh? What kinda message does that send out, right? The grin returned, a sinister stretching of thin, pale lips to expose his impressively white teeth. I know she started it all, you an' her, right, but she turned into a right fucking paranoid schizo mental case. Ask me, they did us a fucking favour.

Joon-Ho glared at the skinny man and concentrated on his breathing, slowly sucking in the fumes of last night's curry and beer before releasing back through his mouth. The runt sat opposite him was known throughout the region as 'A.K.', a nickname he'd been all too keen to spread around himself, mostly so people would stop calling him by his real name - the rather less manly Kenneth. He claimed the nickname was started by others of course, and was in honour of the number of times he'd been nicked, 47 in all. Joon-Ho couldn't understand why that was something worth boasting about. Surely being pinched was a sign of sheer incompetence, making him 47 times the idiot.

She had her problems, Joon-Ho said, and left it at that. A.K. snorted.

Yeahhh, she did have a few, eh. And the way she went about dealing with those Brownstone muppets. He licked his lips and tapped his freshly rolled fag against the glass coffee table. Let's just say I wouldn't have gone about it quite the same way, right. I heard they got connections now, hooked up with the Fingers. That's why our lads took a right royal pounding up the jacksie. That Laurence, he don't fuck about. Got a squadron of fucking ex-army bods working for him. The cigarette twirled in his fingers, dancing between his knuckles. But don't you worry, fella. We're gonna be alright. He flashed Joon-Ho a conspirational wink and eased back into his leather sofa, the material crackling beneath him. My recruitment binge has come up trumps. That's what I wanted to tell you about, right? I finally got that little prick Carter to sign up. They're gonna handle all the deals East of the high street for us, and it's another thirty, forty obedient arseholes we can use to spread out a bit. Or to take down the Brownstones for good.

You're sure they can be trusted? Joon-Ho asked, already knowing the answer, but wanting to make sure the other man did too. A.K. sniffed.

Trusted? Not a fucking chance, but I'll be keeping an eye on 'em. And now we basically control two thirds of the fucking city, I reckon the other estates are gonna sign right up. This is it fella, this is the big one! He spread his arms in triumph, as if waiting for applause. Joon-Ho nodded, fighting back his disgust, then he rose from his chair.

I'll leave you to it, he said, turning and picking up his coat.

Course, A.K. said. He slipped the fag between his lips and pulled out a lighter shaped like a miniature pistol. And don't you worry 'bout the Brownstones. We're like Chelsea and they're fucking Wycombe Wanderers, mate. Be done and dusted in no time. He sparked up as Joon-Ho left the flat, closing the door softly behind him.

The walk back to his modest little seaside flat took just twenty minutes. Even though their dealings had made a hefty chunk of cash over the years, his nature hadn't changed since he was a skint, homeless orphan. Save every penny you can, for you never know when you'll need it. He reinvested wisely and spent very little on himself, beyond the occasional meal or smart suit. After years of wearing rags, there was something about a silk shirt and imported Neapolitan jacket that he just couldn't resist.

He downed a glass of cold water and stooped beside the tiny shrine in the corner of his lounge. A photo of Leeza from her earlier years was propped up beside some burned-out incense sticks and a small pile of fruit. She was smiling in the picture, her face turned up to the sun. Joon-Ho stared at her, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

You may have been impulsive, paranoid, maybe even reckless at times. But you were the only one I ever trusted. The only one who ever cared.

Joon-Ho ground his teeth again, silently cursing the Brownstone name.

Four (Ella)

Somehow she fell asleep in the car en-route to the airport, and woke with a moan when her father gently shook her from her slumber. His face creased when he smiled, a series of shallow trenches creeping across from his eyes to his temples.

Come on there, sleepy, he said, squeezing her shoulder. You can kip on the plane. Ella stretched, blinking against the bright light that pinged on when Francis opened the driver's door and slid out. A moment later the back door swung wide, and Ella and her father stepped onto the pavement outside the departure terminal. It was almost ten in the evening, but dozens of tourists still swarmed through the entrance, dragging wheeled cases and shouting at unruly offspring. The air had a chilly bite, and a light mist was glowing in the bright airport lights. Ella stared in through the enormous glass façade and sucked up an icy breath. Sure you still want to go through with it? her father asked. She nodded andforced a reassuring smile.

You can't do everything yourself, dad. I'm sure it'll be a quick trip, couple of days max.

Aye, Richard said, and he turned to Francis, who was clutching a brand new carry-all, and prodded the bodyguard in the chest. Now hear, you take good care of my little girl, alright? And bring me back as much duty free booze as you can pack into that little bag of yours.

No worries, Francis said with a swift salute, and after a quick round of goodbyes, Ella was striding into the airport alongside him. The Irishman grimaced and peered up at the departure board. Here we go again, he sighed.

Not a fan of Turkey? Ella asked. Francis shook his head.

I get the worst stomach upsets from that lousy food. Last time I spent half a week on the bogs, non-stop. I had to keep a bucket between my legs, the stuff was constantly gushing out of both ends.

Lovely.

Just warning you. Stick with plain rice if you value your guts.

Although Ella could only remember tiny fragments of previous flights she'd taken, she didn't feel any anxiety as the plane trembled and accelerated down the runway, before tilting back and lifting towards the night sky. She was asleep again in minutes, waking only when the aircraft dropped heavily onto the long strip of concrete at the other end. When she yawned and glanced across at Francis, he was sitting bolt upright. His hands were wrapped around both armrests, his knuckles bright white.

You alright? She asked with a frown. Francis bared his teeth, his eyes stretched wide.

I don't get on well with planes, he whispered, and although Ella tried to stop herself, she let out a loud snort. The bodyguard glared at her. What?

But you were in the army. You've been shot at and all sorts, and you're still scared of flying?

What's that got to do with anything? He closed his eyes and released a breath as the plane slowed to a trundle. I've had a few bad experiences flying and I'd appreciate you not taking the piss, alright?

Okay, okay, Ella said, sensing his irritation. She smiled. This explains the four pints before boarding, then.

Some good it did. Maybe I'll try four pints of vodka for the trip home.

It was already morning when they stepped from the craft, and hot enough for Ella to immediately shed her jacket. She breathed the dusty air deep and relished the tingle of warmth on her skin. Just half an hour later, they were sat in a taxi blasting down a motorway heading into Izmir, weaving in and out of traffic while the driver mumbled to himself.

Feeling a bit better? Ella asked Francis, who was grumpily gazing out of the window at a parade of scooters. He grunted.

Always feel a bit naked without a...you know. He fidgeted, running a hand through his hair. I'll be alright once we make that stop.

Do you have one stashed, Ella asked. Or are you buying one?

Stash. Got a few of them around town, just in case. I don't trust these Turks any further than I could kick them.

The taxi pulled over around ten miles from the airport, in a narrow road surrounded by ancient crumbling buildings made of what looked like sandstone. Most of them looked like houses, their pink and yellow exteriors shining in the sun, but some had signs hanging over the doors. The text was bright and completely meaningless to Ella, with no English translation. Francis told her to sit tight and she did as he said, watching a couple of kids kicking a patchwork ball around the street until he returned a moment later. He wasn't carrying anything, but his confident stride and relieved smile told her the stop had been worth it.

Medallion hotel, he told the driver as he slipped back inside the taxi. He winked at Ella, the corner of his mouth turned up.

Got it alright then? she asked. He nodded and patted his left breast.

Holster and all.