BLOG TOUR: The Girl Who Got Revenge by Marnie Riches

The Girl Who Got Revenge, Marnie Riches

‘Fast-paced, enthralling and heartrending; I couldn’t put it down’ C. L. TAYLOR

Revenge is a dish best served deadly…

A twelve-year-old girl is found dead at the Amsterdam port. An old man dies mysteriously in a doctors’ waiting room. Two seemingly unconnected cases, but Inspector Van den Bergen doesn’t think so…

Criminologist George McKenzie is called in to help crack the case before it’s too late. But the truth is far more deadly than anyone can imagine… Can George get justice for the dead before she ends up six-feet under too?

A heart-racing thriller packed with secrets, lies and the ultimate revenge, perfect for fans of Steig Larsson and Jo Nesbo.

The fifth gripping thriller in the Georgina McKenzie series.

Excerpt

   Getting close enough to make a note of the van’s number plate would be impossible without putting her and the boy at risk, even if they continued to crawl along at tyre height. His mother would certainly raise the alarm when she realised he was missing, wouldn’t she? Or perhaps Ummi was dead beneath some bombed-out masonry in Aleppo. It was impossible to know; her Arabic was so unreliable and the boy was shaking with fear.

   ‘Ummi!’ he whimpered, pointing at the van.

   It was time to get the authorities involved, George decided. She was in an enclosed, deserted space with no way to defend herself, and in charge of someone else’s precious son. No. She had seen enough. But at least from this distance, she might get a quick snapshot of the van’s livery to send to Marie.

   Raising her index finger to her mouth, willing the boy to remain silent, she took out her phone. Fumbling fingers failed to bring up the photo function. The ferry tipped violently. The boy wailed, falling into the side of a car.

   ‘Hey, you!’ A gruff voice in Dutch resounded throughout the industrial vastness of the lower deck.

   George looked up from her phone to see a brick wall of a man, dressed in a high-vis jacket and jeans. The van door was open. This was the driver, no doubt. A scream from the boy rent the still air.

   Clambering to her feet, George snatched the boy up. She glanced behind. The stairs weren’t far. She could make a run for it with the kid, couldn’t she?

   The driver took something from his pocket. Was it a gun? She had time neither for fear nor recrimination nor understanding of what in fresh hell was going on. He held the black thing in his hand up. A phone. He pointed it at her – click – and winked.

   As George sprinted with her trafficked charge to the safety of the stairs, she realised two things: if she raised the alarm, she would be putting the trafficked cargo in that van in mortal danger. It took only a moment to shoot someone or cut their throat, and she’d heard often enough of how expendable these refugees were to their traffickers, if they thought their necks were on the line. But perhaps most worryingly of all, the driver had taken her photo. His boss would know who she was. And nowadays, she wasn’t that hard to find.