Life of Crime: The gripping, epic new thriller from the No 1 bestseller. Kimberley Chambers

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       PROLOGUE

      I was thirteen the first time I ever got arrested and can remember it as though it were yesterday. I was driving a stolen Ford Escort MK 2, my feet barely able to touch the pedals, yet I’d still been able to handle that car like a man.

      Cigarettes, I’d been caught with. Illegal ones that’d been brought into the country from Belgium via France. Yet no matter how hard the Old Bill interrogated me, I never admitted to where I’d really got those fags from.

      ‘One of life’s losers, that’s what you are. You’ll never amount to nothing, you stupid little bastard,’ my mother bellowed when the Old Bill brought me home.

      ‘Only fools break the law. You’re an idiot, boy,’ my schoolteacher hissed in my ear the following Monday morning.

      Well, I’ve got news for them. I ain’t no loser, neither am I a fool. A bastard perhaps, thanks to my embarrassment of a mother having no idea who my father is. But I’m a winner, and ever since that day I’ve been determined to prove all the doubters wrong.

      I was gifted with charm, good looks, the gift of the gab and intelligence – all the tools a man needs to make it to the very top. And if I need to trample on a few people’s lives and feelings to get there, then so be it.

      Well, that’s what I used to think, anyway. But I’ve since learned different.

      Sometimes in life – especially when it’s a life of crime you’re involved in – things don’t go to plan.

      My name is Jason Rampling and this is my story …

       CHAPTER ONE

      Spring 1994

      Johnny Brooks glanced up from his newspaper and looked at his daughter inquisitively over his thin-rimmed reading glasses. ‘And where do you think you’re off to, young lady?’

      ‘Only to the Sunday market with Trace. I’ll be back before dinner.’

      ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’ Johnny asked shirtily.

      Twenty-one-year-old Melissa sighed. She was running half an hour late as it was; she’d promised to be at Tracey’s by eleven. ‘What?’

      Johnny gestured towards the child who’d caused so many arguments and so much personal heartbreak. ‘Your mum isn’t well enough to look after your son today. She’s gone back to bed with a migraine.’

      ‘Another one? Can’t you keep an eye on Donte, Dad? Please. I promise I won’t be long,’ Melissa asked hopefully.

      ‘No. I bloody well can’t. He’s your son and you knew your life would change when you decided to have him. Your mum’s run down lately. I don’t want you putting her under any more pressure. It isn’t fair, swanning off whenever you feel like it.’

      Melissa Brooks picked up her son and glared at her father. ‘Come on, Donte, let’s get away from the old bigot. If you were white, he’d be happy to take you to the Working Men’s Club with him. But he hates taking you anywhere because you’re mixed-race.’

      ‘That’s a lie and you know it, Mel. I like to enjoy a pint on a Sunday and relax. Not baby-bloody-sit a toddler. You made your bed, you lie in it.’

      When the front door slammed, Johnny Brooks cursed. He was old school and loathed the fact that she’d got herself knocked up out of wedlock. But that wasn’t the reason he was so tetchy of late. His beloved wife was dying – the doctors had found a cancerous tumour on her brain – and nobody else in the family knew, bar him.

      ‘You’re late,’ Tracey Thompson snapped.

      ‘I know. Sorry.’

      ‘Bloody hell, Mel. I told you to dress up a bit. You could’ve made more of an effort. And why’ve you brought Donte with you? You said you’d be leaving him indoors.’

      ‘My mum’s not well again so I had to bring him. And it’s pouring with rain, case you hadn’t noticed, that’s why I wore my Timberlands. You’re not wearing those high heels, are you? Your feet’ll get soaked.’

      Tracey studied herself in the hallway mirror. Her long blonde hair wouldn’t be blown out of place as she’d used half a can of extra-strong lacquer on it. Determined to impress, she was wearing her ripped faded jeans, short denim jacket, a belly top that showed off her recent piercing and red stiletto sandals. ‘How do I look?’ she asked, satisfied that she looked incredible.

      ‘Nice. But it’s nippy out so you’ll probably freeze to death. Never mind. You wanted to stand out, didn’t you?’

      Tracey chuckled. She had her eye on a lad who worked at Dagenham Sunday Market, hence her getting so dolled up. ‘Come on then, bitch, let’s go.’

      Johnny Brooks sipped his pint while discussing yesterday’s football results. Rainham Working Men’s Club was his regular Sunday lunchtime haunt. Stepney born and bred, Johnny lived in South Hornchurch now and owned a successful builders’ merchants. Everybody knew him in Rainham as that’s where his business was. Back in the day, he had been a decent amateur boxer. Although at five foot eight he wasn’t the tallest of men, he was sturdy like a bull, and had carved out quite a hard-man reputation for himself over the years. He was forty-eight now and had recently had his ginger hair cropped to cover up the fact his hair had started to recede.

      ‘Your old pal’s just walked in, Johnny. I thought he was still in the clink,’ said Scottish Paul.

      Glancing around, Johnny’s expression turned to one of anger. Craig Thurston had been a business associate of his – until they’d fallen out over money. Carol had warned him to steer well clear of the man in future and Johnny hadn’t even known he was out of prison.

      ‘He’s coming over, Johnny,’ Brian the Cabbie added, well aware there was no love lost between his pal and Thurston.

      At six foot three, Craig Thurston was a lump. He’d made good use of the gym while in prison and sauntered towards Johnny with a cocksure grin on his face. ‘Well, well, well, if it ain’t my old mucker, Brooksy. Got that dosh you owe me, have ya? Only I’m collecting my debts now I’m a free man again.’

      ‘Do one, Thurston. I owe you sod-all and you know it,’ Johnny spat, even though that wasn’t entirely true.

      ‘Not the way I see it, pal. Fifty grand I lost, thanks to you, and I want it back.’

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