The Girl Who Walked in the Shadows: A gripping thriller that keeps you on the edge of your seat. Marnie Riches

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       CHAPTER 1

       London, Belgravia, 16 February

      Cold jabbed his raw skin where it was exposed. Hands, wrapped in torn, woollen gloves; the filthy threads had come loose, long ago. Blackened nails, blue fingers, toes on the cusp of being devoured by greedy frostbite. Vulnerable. But his discomfort mattered no longer. Only watching these two men, as he crouched behind a Range Rover, out of view. On this grand Belgravia street in London, double yellow lines – hidden beneath thick, shovelled banks of snow, but there nonetheless – ensured a clear line of sight.

      Problem was, a man like him stood out, here. An imperfect grey figure, juxtaposed against flawless white stone; perfectly white snow, too deep to clear with grit, even in the city; icicles hanging from every portico and window frame – deadly diamond daggers.

      Move along, sir. Sorry, no spare change. Shift, or I’ll call the police.

      Always looks of utter disdain, as these wealthy denizens of SW1X picked up the scent of urine and stale alcohol. Especially the women. Clad in real fur, now. Since the Siberian winter of discontent …

      Fuck them.

      He had eyes only for these two men, standing outside Mosimann’s private restaurant. A picture of establishment respectability, posed in their cashmere outer layers before ecclesiastical built-beauty, where now only millionaires could afford to dine. Worshipping at the altar of fine food and business transactions, sealed over bottles of wine that cost thousands. Scum of the earth, these two. Black hearts so easily hidden beneath bespoke Jermyn Street clothing. Lies. Corruption. Evil.

      His heart was pounding, as he rehearsed in his mind what he intended to do. Steeling himself, though a man could have no better motivation. Would he miss his chance?

      Across the road, the men laughed. Easy in each other’s company. Moving aside, to let a blonde beauty pass. Some Russian oligarch’s squeeze, walking her lapdog. Trot, trot, trot. Firm buttocks clad in baby-pink Lycra. A show-pony, even in harsh conditions, drawing the men’s gaze. Now, he had a good look at them, as they turned to follow the blonde’s progress.

      His quarry was neither tall nor fat. An average man in physical respects. Forty something. Dark-haired. Ordinary looks compensated for with immaculate grooming and a physique that had been created in an expensive gym. He knew this much. He also knew that this man lived in a mansion block with Chelsea views of the river. Too much security round there. So, the backstreets of Knightsbridge would suffice, providing things went according to plan.

      The СКАЧАТЬ