Read Online The Girl Who Broke the Rules by Marnie Riches - Free Book Online Page A

a novelty prop. It had been the same on the red carpet at the premiere. The blinding glare of flashing bulbs, illuminating bleach-white grins of her mama and papa. Gretchen had shown her the photos in the gossip columns the following day, above a caption that identified their family trio as ‘mining heiress and former Broadway star, Heidi Schwartz, with plastic surgeon husband and daughter’. Veronica had recognised herself in one of the photos, trudging behind Perseus, looking downright glum. Too shell-shocked by the press attention to feel excited about being close to the star of the film.

    Together, they stumbled away from the party, back down the hall, Veronica being dragged and at the mercy of her mother’s unsteady gait. Reeling. Bursting into her room. Harsh light on. Pyjama bottoms yanked down around her ankles.
    ‘Don’t…let… me…see…you…come…out…of…this…room…again!’ Mama said, slapping the words out onto her thighs with the flat of her hand like the drummer in a military tattoo. Yanked back up, once the skin was livid. ‘Horrible girl. Into bed!’
    ‘I’m so sorry, Mama,’ Veronica wept, climbing under her blankets and clutching her knees. Making herself as small as possible. Thumb in. Teddy next to her heart, at first.
    ‘You’re not sorry. You’re never sorry!’ Mama screamed. She removed her thick, red leather belt with its deep, jewel-studded buckle. Brought it down on her hard, so that it whistled through the still air and cracked as it made contact with her shoulder. The blankets provided a merciful barrier for its sting, at least. ‘Go to sleep! Go to sleep, you fucking pain in the ass!’
    Veronica shut her eyes tight, though the tears leached onto her face and coursed freely into her ear. She was careful to hold her teddy protectively over her head, as the belt buckle found its mark again and again. The light of a Manhattan morning seemed a long way off.

CHAPTER 13
    Amsterdam, police headquarters, then, a building site, 19 January
    ‘Are the rumours that it’s a serial sexual killer true?’ asked a woman he recognised as a big ticket reporter for de Volkskrant .
    Where the hell had she got that? Who had opened their big mouth?
    Suddenly the entire meeting room erupted with the probing voices of media representatives. On their feet, all demanding to have their questions answered. Hands in the air. Voice recorders pointed in his direction. The room was full to claustrophobic bursting point as it was, but the clamour made it all the more unbearable. Van den Bergen could feel sweat starting to trickle down his back. All eyes were trained on him. He had to address them. Opened and closed his mouth. But no words would come.
    Hasselblad tapped the microphone. Brass buttons clinking on his commissioner’s jacket. Frog-eyes bulging. The PA system’s feedback whistled around the room, reinstating silence.
    ‘Chief Inspector?’ Hasselblad was staring at him expectantly. His best trick. Daring van den Bergen to challenge his authority.
    Only moments before they had filed into the room for this press conference, van den Bergen had been trapped inside Hasselblad’s office, arguing vociferously about which line to take. They had been at it, on and off, ever since van den Bergen had come back with Strietman’s preliminary report.

    ‘Paul, I want them to know we’re after a serial killing sex pervert,’ Hasselblad had said, strutting up to the ornate mirror that hung next to a sizeable oil-on-canvas portrait, painted of him when he had taken up office and had been a good stone lighter. He checked his tie was straight. Held in his gut. Smoothed his shirt as he viewed himself sideways-on and nodded at his reflection. Satisfied. ‘You play down the depravity of these murders, and this department gets sod all kudos when you come to solve them. I get sod all kudos.’ He was still in socks. He marched back over to his rosewood desk, lifted up one of his already gleaming dress