Broke
Authors: Mandasue Heller
Tags: #Thrillers, #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Crime
Table of Contents
Also by Mandasue Heller
The Front
Forget Me Not
Tainted Lives
The Game
The Charmer
The Club
Shafted
Snatched
Two-Faced
The Driver
Lost Angel
About the author
Mandasue Heller was born in Cheshire and moved to Manchester in 1982. She spent ten years living in the notorious Hulme Crescents which have since become the background to her novels. Not only is she a talented writer, but she has also sung in cabaret and rock groups, seventies soul cover bands and blues jam bands.
BROKE
Mandasue Heller
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Mandasue Heller 2013
The right of Mandasue Heller to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Ebook ISBN 978 1 444 71296 4
Trade paperback ISBN 978 0 340 96013 4
Hardback ISBN 978 0 340 96012 7
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
For Win; my mum, Jean; my children, Michael, Andrew, Azzura (& Michael); and my gorgeous grandchildren, Marissa, Lariah and Antonio. Also, Ava, Amber, Martin, Jade, Reece, Kyro and Diaz, Nats and Dan, Auntie Doreen, Pete, Lorna, Cliff, Chris and Glen. And not forgetting the rest of my family, past and present, here and abroad. I love you all.
As I write the acknowledgements for this, my twelfth book, I’m finding it harder and harder to include everybody who has helped, or has meant something to me, without actually naming them all. So if you don’t see your name here, please don’t think that I don’t appreciate everything you have done, because I do.
Much love, as always, to Win’s mum and dad, his fantastic kids, his sisters, nieces, nephew, aunts and uncles.
Love also to great friends The Duchess, Liz Paton and Norman Brown. Also to Betty (and Ronnie) Schwartz, Wayne Brookes and Martina Cole, for being there from the start and helping to make my journey a smooth one.
The usual gratitude to my editor, Carolyn Caughey, for the unwavering faith, support and advice you’ve given me. Also, Emma, Lucy, Auriol, Emilie, Francine – and the rest of the brilliant Hodder team. And not forgetting Phil Pelham, who has spent many an hour driving me and Win around without ever once complaining.
Massive thanks to Jeffery Deaver for taking the time to read my last book – and being generous enough to give me such a wonderful review.
Immeasurable thanks to Cat Ledger – for everything.
And thanks also to Nick Austin.
I can’t leave out the fantastic buyers from Waterstone’s, W.H. Smith, Asda, etc, who have supported me so fantastically. And a huge thank-you to you, the readers, for making this worthwhile.
And, lastly, a special thank-you to Jac and Brian Capron, and the rest of my FB&T friends, for the amazing support you have shown me over this last year. You guys rock!
‘For, when debts are payable, right or wrong, a short-term loan is as bad as a long . . .
So why in heaven (before we are there) should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?’
Rudyard Kipling
PROLOGUE
Lacklustre strands of tinsel lined the community centre walls, and silver balloons etched with
Mr & Mrs Taylor
bobbed limply against the ceiling above the heads of the drunken reception guests.
The DJ, ‘Cheap ’n’ Cheerful Chas’, had been hired from an ad in the newsagent’s window, and so far he’d lived up to his name in the worst possible way by spinning the biggest load of shite the guests had ever heard. But booze had a way of turning tripe into treasure, so it hadn’t taken long for the mutterings of discontent to change to whoops of delight. The
Shoop Shoop Song
had brought every female in the room to her feet, and then it was down onto their boat-rowing bottoms for
Oops, Upside Your Head
, followed by the cheesiest fool-maker of them all:
The Birdie Song
.
Halfway through her fourth Vodka WKD, Amy, the bride, was having the time of her life. Everything had gone perfectly to plan, and she felt like the queen of the ball in her hired Cinderella dress, with her blonde hair coiled up and held in place by a pearl tiara. When her all-time favourite, Whitney’s
Saving All My Love
, came on, she raised her bottle into the air and sang along with her friends at the top of her voice. But just as they reached the chorus, something popped down below, and a puddle seeped out around her white satin shoes.
‘Christ, I hope that’s booze, not piss?’ her friend teased, pointing at it.
‘No, I think her waters have broke,’ said another girl.
‘They can’t have.’ Amy stared down in dismay. ‘I’m not due for another three weeks. Mum!
Muuum!
’
Sonia Clark was standing by the wall chatting to an elderly aunt. Glancing round when she heard her daughter’s panicked voice, she noticed the girls huddled together on the dance floor and rushed over.
‘Oh, bloody hell,’ she squawked when she saw what was happening. ‘I
told
you not to overdo it. And you’re not supposed to be drinking, neither!’ She snatched the bottle out of Amy’s hand.
‘I’ve only had one,’ Amy lied, clutching at her stomach as a sharp pain ripped through her. ‘I don’t feel well.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Jane Taylor, the groom’s mum, asked, wandering over. ‘She’s not gone and started, has she?’
‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ Sonia said frostily. ‘She’s
my
daughter, I’ll look after her.’ She turned back to Amy now and, seeing the pain on her face, said, ‘Right, we need to get you to hospital. Just let me find your dad.’
‘Isn’t that him over there?’ Jane pointed towards the front of the stage where a group of Amy’s scantily clad school friends were sexy-dancing around a fat middle-aged man.
Furious, Sonia shoved Jane aside and yelled, ‘John Clark! Get your arse over here before I crack you one!’
‘I think I’m gonna puke,’ Amy moaned.
‘Not here, you don’t!’ hissed Sonia. ‘They’re already going to make us pay extra to clean up the mess you’ve just made. And pick your dress up before it gets ruined and they keep me deposit for that, an’ all.’
‘Mum, stop it!’ Amy complained when Sonia started yanking her skirt up. ‘You’re making a show of me.’
‘What’s up?’ John Clark ambled over, wiping his sweaty brow on his sodden shirt sleeve.
‘She’s started.’ Sonia scowled. ‘Go and fetch the car – you’ll have to drive her to A and E.’
‘I’m not going with him, he’s pissed,’ Amy protested. Then, doubling over at yet another pain, she sobbed, ‘Where’s Mark? I want Mark.’
‘Where is he?’ Sonia asked Jane. Getting a shrug in reply, she blew out an exasperated breath and yelled, ‘Where’s Mark? Anyone seen Mark?’
‘I think he went for a fag,’ Steve, the best man, told her.
‘Find him.’ Sonia shoved the boy towards the door. ‘And hurry up!’
Steve rushed outside. It might be Mark’s wedding day but that hadn’t stopped the sex-mad bastard from casting his net, and Steve had seen him and Ginger Jenny Abbot sneak out ten minutes earlier. They were nowhere to be seen, so he hurried round to the dark alley that ran down the side of the hall.
Mark had Jenny pressed up against the wall at the far end, her dress pulled up over her hips, his suit trousers on the floor around his ankles. He was going at her like a man who hadn’t had sex in a year – which was what it felt like to him, considering that Amy hadn’t let him near her in weeks. Not that he’d have wanted her even if she’d been willing, because he’d gone right off her since she’d bloated up like a beached whale. In contrast, Ginger Jenny was as thin as a rake – but that was the only good thing she had going for her, in Mark’s opinion. That, and the fact that she was up for it, unlike Amy’s mates who had all thought he was joking when he’d tried to chat them up.
Eyes shut now, Mark was mentally visualising all the girls he’d
rather
be shagging when he heard Steve calling his name. ‘Piss off,’ he grunted. ‘I’m busy.’
‘You’d best hurry up,’ Steve whispered urgently. ‘Amy’s gone into labour.’
‘Oh, fuck!’ Mark croaked, scrabbling to pull his trousers up.
‘You’re not just going to leave me here like this, are you?’ Jenny gasped, tugging her dress back down. ‘I need a tissue.’
Mark was already walking backwards to where Steve was waiting. He pulled out of his pocket the serviette that he’d used earlier to spit a mouthful of rancid sausage roll into and tossed it to her.
‘Sorry about the crumbs – it’s all I’ve got. See you later.’
‘When?’ Jenny called after him. But Steve had already pulled him around the corner.
‘You’re a right one, you,’ Steve whispered as they re-entered the hall. ‘You’ve only been married two minutes, and you’re at it already.’
‘Last fling,’ Mark retorted cockily.
‘Thought you had that last night?’
‘That was me last one as a single man,’ Mark informed him, grinning as he pulled open the door to the inner hall.
The main lights had been turned on by now, and Amy had been moved onto a chair by the wall. Already furious that the ambulance wasn’t here yet, despite it only being a couple of minutes since the call went out, Sonia lost her temper when somebody in the gawping crowd kneed her in the back as she knelt in front of her daughter.
‘It’s not a flaming sideshow!’ she roared, shoving people roughly back. ‘The party’s over, in case you hadn’t noticed, so why don’t you all just piss off home!’
‘Leave them,’ Amy groaned, seeing no reason to deprive her mates of their fun just because it was over for her. ‘There’s loads of food left over from the buffet, and the DJ’s booked till twelve.’
Mark pushed his way through the crowd and dropped to his knees in front of his wife. ‘Are you all right?’
