The Bitch is Back Collection One (Parts 1-3) (The Bitch Is Back British Crime Thrillers Boxset)

The Bitch is Back: Collection One (Parts 1-3)

Copyright Chris Barraclough 2013

Chris Barraclough has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, names and events, except the obvious famed, historical and political, are the author’s creations; any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to places or events is purely coincidental.

Cover image credit: Jorge Gobbi (Flickr)

First published in Great Britain in 2013 by LHC Publishing

www.ChrisBarraclough.co.uk

info@chrisbarraclough.co.uk

Also Available on eBook from Chris Barraclough, best-selling and award-winning British crime author

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One

First there was a noise, a raspy guttural sound like an ancient cooler desperately trying to suck some air into its bowels. The smell of burned rubber and scorched asphalt lingered in her nostrils, making her twitch. One by one, the tiny aches returned. They carved a path through her body from her toes to her neck, muscles that had long since cramped and seized up. Her mouth was dry, a bitter substance coating her tongue. Her throat was just as barren. When she peeled open her lips to beg for water, the sound that emerged was some kind of groan, normally reserved for shuffling zombies seeking their fill of human brains and entrails.

When her eyelids fluttered open, she found herself staring at a ceiling covered in peeling white paint. Another moan rumbled out as she tried to move, her limbs stiff and unresponsive, and a sudden surge of adrenaline snapped her out of her daze. She blinked hard several times over and rolled her head over her pillow, staring around the room. It was a tiny box, barely big enough for the bed she was lying in plus a few standing pieces of equipment, and a narrow bedside table. The blinds were drawn over the single window, letting in only a faint orange light.

Jesus...what the help happened to me? Why am I in a bloody hospital?

That burning smell was gone now, replaced with a sharp waft of bleach. She wrinkled her nose and pulled back the bedsheets with trembling fingertips, staring down at her body. She was dressed in some old pyjamas that she didn't recognise, covered in faded yellow daisies. A needle attached to a drip was buried inside her left arm. For a while she stared at it fascinated, until a sudden panic took hold of her and she ground her teeth, gripping the mattress tight and attempting to slide her legs to the edge of the bed. They ached with the effort, but obeyed. Her feet dropped over the side and after a minute of struggling she had both soles planted on the cold white tiles below.

She cried out as she pushed away, her entire body shaking under the strain. Her limbs burned and a sudden rush of nausea almost doubled her over, but she swallowed back the acid and took a moment, then staggered towards the doorway. She made it two steps before a sharp tug on her arm twisted her around, and she peered down at the needle still stuck sideways in her flesh, roping her to the drip pole. She swallowed hard, then grabbed it with tender fingertips and slid it out inch by inch until it swung away and clattered against the pole.

Another bout of sickness coursed through her, and this time she couldn't hold it back. Her mouth gaped and a viscous trickle spurted across the tiles, her stomach pumping hard until only hot air remained. By then her legs had given out, and she collapsed next to the tiny puddle. Her cheek rested against the tiles, their cool touch refreshing. Her throat burned and her gut ached and her body felt as if it were on fire, but she drifted into a troubled sleep for what seemed like days.

A panicked voice and fingers digging beneath her armpits stirred her awake again only minutes later. She was dragged back into bed, greeting the orderlies with groans and dribbles of spit as they probed her and tucked her back in, and reinserted the drip. A needle pierced her other arm, and the voices faded into silence.

The next time her eyelids eased apart, a man with grainy stubble and a mole on his left cheek was staring down at her. At first she thought he was a doctor or a nurse, until she saw he was wearing a dark navy suit. His face brightened and he scratched at the stubble with yellowing fingernails.

Well well, miracles really do happen. The bitch is back.

Whuhhhh, she said, frowning as the aches returned. The man smiled.

Gotta do better than that if you want my help, love.

She stared up at him, tracing every wrinkle and pockmark, and some distant thought stirred in the darkest recesses of her mind. She had seen this man before, but nothing more came. Once more she tried to speak, and this time the noise that emerged sounded like a cow giving birth.

Other voices drifted into the room, growing louder, and the man turned and stared at the door with a tight-lipped look of irritation. A moment later, another figure appeared in the doorway. Thisman was older, perhaps mid-fifties, with short blond hair and glowing crystal blue eyes. He also wore a suit, but his dark pinstripe number wrapped snugly around his slender frame like only a made-to-measure could.

His first words were, get the fuck out of my daughter's room you reptilian cunt, before I slap you to fucking pieces. The stubbled man simply stared back, then his face broke into another wide grin.

Threatening a detective, not your smartest move.

That wasn't a threat, shit head. That was a promise. Out. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder and the other man shrugged, glanced down at her one last time and shot her a wink. Then he strode out, brushing past the man with blond hair.

Durghhhh, she said, shifting beneath her sheets. Something else had stirred inside her head at the sight of the newcomer, but this time it was more than just a vague twinge.

This man really is my father. Richard Brownstone.

She knew that much, but when she struggled to recall a single moment they had spent together, she came up empty. The realisation set her heart racing and she tried to push herself up, her hands scrambling across the bedsheets until her father strode over and tenderly took her by the shoulders.

It's okay, Ella. Calm it, you're fine. That wanker's gone. His hardened features warmed and a smile of relief crossed his lips. God, it's good to see you awake. They were saying you might never come out of it. She swallowed back the bile and stared up at him, her chest heaving. Once more she tried to speak.

Whaagh...what happened? she eventually managed, her words garbled. Her father's brow creased.

You were in an accident, pet. Your car skidded off the road, smashed into a bus stop. Her eyes widened, but he quickly shook his head and gave her arm a squeeze. No one else was hurt, it was late at night. But you weren't wearing your belt, so you banged your head good and proper.

How long?

About a month. Actually, thirty three days and ten or so hours. He smiled again, stroking a finger along her jaw and tickling beneath her chin. "Aw, pet, this is fucking brilliant. Your mum's on her way, she'll be here any minute.

Dad, I can't remember. She shuddered as a spasm of pain flashed through her ribs. Her father opened his mouth to speak, but a young nurse with short ginger hair walked in clutching a metal tray, a gormless look plastered across his face. The warm hand left her cheek and her father rose, glaring at the nurse.

Which arsehole let that cop in here, eh? Which soon-to-be-unemployed piece of shit allowed him to stand, unsupervised, in this very room, while my daughter slept? The nurse's mouth dropped open and he backed off a step.

I...I'm sorry, sir, I didn't see...

Course you didn't. Fuck off and get the doctor, will you? The young man beat a hasty retreat, and just half a minute later a tiny woman with thick-rimmed specs strode in. She stopped a foot away from Richard and peered over the top of her glasses at him.

Mr Brownstone. You've reduced my nurse to a wobbly jelly. Ella's father smirked.

There was bugger all reducing involved. Little tosser looks like he'd bawl at a papercut.

Well, all the same, please refrain from bullying my staff. The doctor nodded at Ella. Sleeping Beauty gave us a bloody good fright earlier. Tried wandering around, all by herself.

Aye, she's put the shits up me and her mum a few times too. Richard sniffed and patted the doctor on her arm. Thanks for the call, doc. But you know how that fucking detective happened to get here before me?

Detective?

Slimy creep, about six foot, penchant for awful suits. He's given us hassle before. Found the tosser stood right here when I arrived.

Bloody hell, the doctor said with a frown. I'll ask around, see if I can find out who tipped him off.

Appreciated.

The doctor slipped past to Ella's bedside and leaned in close, until her bloodshot eyes filled Ella's vision. A close examination followed, while the doctor asked question after question.

What's your name?

Ella. Brownstone.

Good to meet you at last, Ella. I'm Doctor Thrift. Now, where do you live?

Live? Ella screwed her face up as a torch was shone in her eyes. I...I don't think I remember.

Can you picture your house?

No, there's...there's just nothing there. God, I can't even remember what my mother looks like. A tear slipped from her left eye and trickled down her cheek, coming to rest on her upper lip. She licked it away and shuddered. What's wrong with me? Am I brain damaged? Doctor Thrift gave her a soft smile.

You were concussed pretty bad in the accident. Your noggin went through quite a bit of trauma, but there's nothing to suggest the damage is permanent. Motor functions all look normal and you've already proved you're strong enough to climb out of bed unaided. She lifted an eyebrow and pouted. Disorientation and memory loss are common symptoms, and unfortunately difficult to predict. You say you can't picture your mother, but did you recognise your father when you saw him? Ella nodded, rubbing her eyes. Okay, so your visual memory is still intact. Chances are, as soon as your mother walks into this room, you'll be able to identify her. Brains are bloody complex things, and still a bit of a mystery, despite everything we know about them. Your memories should start to return as you go about your everyday life, falling back into your usual habits, interacting with friends and family. Take it easy at first, but as soon as you're feeling up to it, try to get back to your normal routine.

When can she come home? Richard asked, and the doctor shrugged.

I need to play with her a bit longer, make sure the cogs are turning nicely, but I think she'll be good to go by the weekend.

Ella heard none of this. She was stood within the darkened machinery of her mind, a vast room filled with rusted metal beasts that grew out of the ground. A million lightbulbs dangled down on cords from an invisible ceiling. Only a single bulb was lit, the one directly overhead, and it cast a sinister glow over her naked, shivering form. She wrapped her arms around her torso and squeezed.

Who the hell am I?

Two

When they pulled into Farmington Close, something stirred again deep inside her skull. Ella stared out from the passenger seat of the Alfa, noting that the houses at this end of town were much grander than the terraced buildings clustered tightly together in the centre. Each home was detached, with a spacious well-tended garden and in most cases a double garage.

Clearly we're not hard done by, then.

All coming back? her father asked, eyes locked on the road as he gripped the steering wheel. Ella nodded.

This kinda looks familiar.

Okay, time for a test. I'll keep on driving, nice and slow, and you shout when you think you spot our place. Alright?

Yeah, okay. She shifted her gaze from side to side, studying each house in turn. Her eyes drifted across red brickwork, manicured hedges and gaudy ponds, until they were halfway down the road. Then her gaze fell on one of the more modest homes, a narrow two storey with a plain grass lawn. A wooden deck chair stood solemnly in the middle of the grass. She felt a sudden pang in her gut, and she raised her hand and tapped on the glass with her finger. This one, she said. Her father stopped the car, but when she looked over at him, his face was creased with concern.

You think we live here? In an instant, all of her confidence drained away. She glanced out at the house again, chewing on her lip.

It feels...so familiar.

This isn't our home. This place belonged to someone you used to know. Ella detected a bitter tone in her father's voice.

Sorry, I just felt...

That's okay. It's good, in fact, shows that you've still got those memories tucked away. Ours is further down.

The car rolled off and continued down the street, and Ella resumed her watch, scrutinising every place they passed until finally the Alfa slowed and stopped at the end of the street. Ella turned her head and stared out through the windscreen. The road expanded here into a wide gravel driveway which was blocked off by iron gates. Through the bars she saw the driveway wind through a vibrant green garden, filled with majestic oaks and what looked like olive trees. And there, beyond it all, was a gothic mansion that made Ella's jaw drop. Bloody hell, she muttered. This is it, isn't it? Her father glanced at her and a sly smile crossed his lips.

Did you remember, or did you just read the sign? He nodded at the post flap to the left of the gate, where the name 'Brownstones' was carved into a wooden plaque. Ella smirked.

Oh, yeah. Bit of a giveaway, that.

Richard pushed his door open and was halfway out, before a tall figure appeared through the bars of the gate. The pair waved to each other and Richard climbed back inside, and a moment later the gates swung open. Ella stared at the figure as the car rolled onto the driveway. He must have been seven feet tall and was reasonably well built for his size, with a slight paunch hanging over his belt. His face was weathered but friendly, and he winked at her without smiling before they pulled away.

Francis, she said, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. He's called Francis.

Correct, her father replied. Anything else coming back? Ella closed her eyes and swallowed.

I think...I can see him in a room, a really big room like a warehouse or something. The image was vague, the scene only partially remembered, like a half-finished painting. Through the enormous windows that filled every wall, she saw nothing but bright light. Above her, the ceiling was obscured in darkness, and the room was completely bare. Francis was stood in front of her with a mop clutched in his hands, and a metal bucket between his feet. He was staring at the ground while he dragged the tendrils of the mop head over the grimy floor. Ella peered down and saw that he was attacking some kind of dark stain, and when she looked closer, she saw that the bucket was filled with rusty red water.

Sounds like the docks, her father said, and the image vanished. Ella sucked in a breath and realised that her nails had dug deep into the fabric of her seat. An inexplicable panic set her left leg jittering up and down, and she tried to counter it by gripping her legs and massaging the muscles with her thumbs. Her breathing had almost returned to normal by the time the house filled the windscreen. She stared out at it, her eyes tracing across the thick tangles of creeper vine that clung onto the bricks. The place had to contain a dozen rooms, maybe more. There were three stories in all, plus what looked like a summer house off to one side of the garden.

I can't believe I live here. We must be absolutely loaded.

Her father pulled up near the front door and jumped out, and Ella followed. The gravel crunched beneath her shoes and she gazed down at the tiny red shards, the sickening feeling in her stomach easing off. She slowly crossed the sea of rusty red to the porch, a wooden deck that creaked as she stepped up. The porch was bare, save for a pair of limestone lions that stood guard, their dark, fierce gaze locked on her. She paused and stared past them, at the oaken door. It looked thick and heavy, the surface riddled with tiny cracks. A spider darted across diagonally, scuttling over the brass knocker and down to one of the thicker cracks, where it disappeared.

She was still stood there, gazing at the crack, when the front door swung open and her mother, Eve Brownstone, appeared out of the gloom. Thin lips stretched into an almost ghostly smile. She was wrapped in a crimson knee-length dress that propped up her breasts and showed off every curve, even the ones most women would strive to conceal. Even in flat heels she stood at an imposing six feet, something Ella herself was only an inch from achieving.

Ella, her mother said, stepping back to allow her daughter to cross the threshold. Come on in. Where's your dad? Ella turned and peered back at the car, but Richard had vanished.

He was here a moment ago.

Never mind, he'll be off with Francis, conspiring over something like normal. Come on, let me take that. She grabbed the bag from Ella's grasp and ushered her into the enormous hall. Ella gazed up, her breath caught in her throat, as a storybook of memories flipped open and a barrage of images hit her. There, on the grand staircase dead ahead which opened up into a balcony above. She was seven years old, kneeling at the top with her younger brother, cheering as a pair of coloured springs raced to the bottom. Then another memory, descending the staircase with all three of her siblings. All dressed in black, all strangely silent. Little Lisa was too young to really understand, but she was a smart one. She saw the sadness in her brothers and her elder sister, and she kept quiet, her bottom lip clamped between her teeth.

More memories, jumbled and mostly senseless, came flooding back. Ella leaned against the wall with one arm and sucked in a deep breath, waiting until her sudden dizziness passed. By then her mother was at her side, and a cold hand wrapped around Ella's bicep.

You okay? You're not gonna pass out, are you? Ella gazed at her, then swallowed and shook her head.

No, I'm just...beginning to remember. I can see you, in some kind of red dress, stood up on the landing there. Ella raised an arm and pointed to the top of the staircase. I'm right here, at the bottom, and you're staring at me. We're staring at each other. I... She shook her head and smiled. Sorry, my head's just in a weird place right now. Her mother nodded.

Come on, I'll show you to your bedroom.

Her room had the same effect, seconds after she stepped inside. Her mother strode across to her bed, a Queen sized four-poster with intricate carvings on each of the wooden posts, and dumped the bag on one of the pillows. Ella glanced around the spacious den, modestly furnished considering its size. There were plenty of books stacked up on almost every surface, and an enormous collection of CDs and DVDs housed in a wall-length entertainment centre, the centrepiece of which was an impressive flat screen telly. Her gaze stuck on the TV and hazy images seeped back. Lounging on the bed with her little sister, watching disgusting slasher horror films well into the wee hours. The pair of them snuggled up close, munching on popcorn and drinking their father's beer, pulling faces and sticking out their tongues with every sip. How old must she have been? Thirteen? Fourteen?

But then one memory that rose to the surface made the breath catch in her chest. It involved a teenage boy, tall and dark and ruggedly handsome, with stubble shading his cheeks and a faint scar running up from his right eyelid. They were both about seventeen, and they were tumbling about on the bed. His hands were roaming beneath her t-shirt, his fingers creeping up her body. His touch was cold but she pushed her body into his caress, their lips pressing urgently together. She shuddered as his hand reached her breast and squeezed, but the moment of ecstasy was shattered when she heard the bedroom door creak open and footsteps start across the bare floorboards. Immediately she shoved her partner aside, peering up into the emotionless face of Francis.

What the fuck- the boy started, before Francis reached out and grabbed him by the arm, hauling him off the bed in one swift motion. Ella protested, leaping into the centre of the room and chasing the pair into the hallway. She was yelling, her cheeks burning with rage.

Ella?

She snapped out of the memory, shaking her head and squeezing the bridge of her nose. When she opened her eyes, her mother's face was hovering in front of her, features creased with concern.

Sorry, Ella said with a shrug. Just zoned out again.

That's starting to creep me out, her mother said, one eyebrow raised. Ella smiled and ran a hand through her hair.

Yeah, me too.

How much do you actually remember? Eve leaned against one of the bed posts and folded her arms across her chest. You know what this family does, right? Ella stared at her, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

My memory's all messed up. All I can really recall are little moments here and there. But dad explained the business to me.

How much did he tell you?

Well, we run an independent holiday firm called Carnival Cruises, which deals in affordable holidays to Turkey and Greece. We have our own private port, and four ships that operate March to October. You and dad are equal partners, and Marcus and me are assistants. Her mother pursed her lips.

"Speaking of your little brother, his plane should be landing in an hour. I'll go make sure Francis is free to pick him