The Mistake

Gemma Rogers

Description

Can you ever escape your past?
Perfect for fans of Liane Moriarty, Shari Lapena and Lisa Jewell

Four years in prison were hard but I thought things were looking up when I landed a job at Bright’s Industrial Laundry.
I just wanted to get on with my life, put my past, my mistakes behind me.
With only six months’ probation left to serve, I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. I just wanted to keep my head down and nose clean.
But little did I know I was no safer on the outside than I was on the inside.
The boss, Terry, didn’t want us to forget.
But I wasn’t going to be another one of his victims and I would do anything not to go back…

Praise for Gemma Rogers:

'Unputdownable. a nail-biting thriller that grips to the very last page.' Keri Beevis
‘A beautifully written edge-of-your-seat thriller that had me guessing right until the end’Dreda Say Mitchell,
'A brilliant thriller from an exciting new voice. Stalker it had me on the edge of my seat' Kerry Barnes
'An atmospheric, taut thriller which keeps you hooked from the first page' Jacqui Rose
'A cracking read. Brilliantly written characters and a gripping plot. Highly recommended.' Caz Finlay
'A page-turning must-read. It will have you hooked from the first page until the last' Stephanie Harte
'An intense thriller - it's a must-read' Sam Michaels
‘An incredible read that had me engrossed from the first page. A five-star read’ Alex Kane
‘A real page turner, full of sinister secrets' Casey Kelleher

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Thriller
• Mashups
• Legal
• Psychological
• Private Investigators
• Hard-Boiled
• Amateur Sleuth
• Political
• Thrillers
• Women
• Coming of Age
• Suspenso
• Inglaterra
• Friendship
• Street crime
• Psychological thriller
• Domestic
• Corporate crime
• General officer
• Woman
• Politics
• Psychology
• Organized crime
• Espionage
• The Women
• City Life
• Summer
• General
• Fall
• Crime
• Legall de Kermeur
• Winter
• Family Life
• England
• Suspense
• Fiction
• Halloween

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 14 janvier 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838890223
• Langue: English

Extrait

Bad Girls


Gemma Rogers
For every single key worker who risked everything so we could stay safe at home during Lockdown 2020.
Contents



Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Epilogue


Acknowledgments

More from Gemma Rogers

About the Author

About Boldwood Books
Prologue

I stared at my trembling hands, the flesh glowing a radioactive pink. Blood seemed to have worked its way beneath my cuticles and was proving difficult to remove. I’d scrubbed them with bleach, eyes streaming, skin on fire, but still I scraped the brush back and forth, watching rosy specks line the sink.
Karla forced me to stop, resting a cool hand on my arm, her fingertips glacial. She was calm, thinking clearly, whereas my head was spinning like a carousel. What had I done?
‘We have to take care of him, Jess,’ Karla said as I dried my hands on a paper towel, wiped the sink clean and flushed it down the toilet. She handed me some latex gloves, retrieved from the large store cupboard, and nodded in the direction of the warehouse, where the industrial machines were housed.
The unit where Bright’s Laundry Service was based was relatively new; a twelve-thousand-square-foot warehouse in an L-shape on a small industrial estate on the edge of Croydon. Our closest neighbour was an automotive parts supplier who kept to themselves; the rest of the units were mostly offices with a parcel-distribution company taking the largest warehouse at the entrance to the estate. The space was open-plan, with the exception of Terry’s office, the toilets and a store cupboard full of detergent and various supplies. It felt like a shell – a cold, damp space, until all the machines were working and then it became stifling. It had never felt as claustrophobic before now.
Eyes wide, I glared at Karla.
‘We have to call the police,’ I said.
‘And go back to prison?’ she hissed.
Her words were enough. I followed her back to the office. Where he lay sprawled, half in, half out of the door. I glanced towards the window; blinds open a crack to see the sky darkening to a threatening red. There was a chill evident in the air, not unusual for early February. The lights were on a timer, they came on at four and went off at seven unless turned back on.
‘Help me,’ Karla gasped as she rolled him over. His face was purple, blood had begun to pool beneath the skin where he’d been lying on his front. She stood, hands upon bony hips, sweat beading on her brow. Her dark glare piercing as she wiped her cheek with her forearm. Wild corkscrew curls pointing in every direction. ‘We’ve got to get him out the back.’
I could see she was getting frustrated with me, and I chewed my lip, willing myself to think clearly. We were both small; around five feet, years of undernourishment had left my limbs wiry. Was hers for the same reason? The body at our feet had to weigh in excess of thirteen stone. Dead weight.
‘We need tape,’ I said, eyeing the office chair. If we could get him in the chair, taped in so he wouldn’t fall, we could wheel him out between us.
Karla left the office and I wrinkled my nose. It smelt sickly sweet inside; the smell of death lingered in the air. Not helped by him shitting himself as he passed. Bile rose and my chest heaved, but I swallowed it down.
The mobile rang out again, still discarded on the floor where it must have fallen from his pocket. It was the second time it had gone off. Kim, in large capital letters, flashed on the screen. Must be his wife wondering where he was. I glanced at the clock; it was five thirty. No doubt she was expecting him home from work, perhaps wanting him to pick up a pint of milk on the way? What would we do with the phone? I needed time to think. If we got anything wrong, I’d be going back to prison and Karla too, just for helping me.
‘Got it.’ Karla made me jump as she came back in, a role of silver duct tape on her wrist.
She wrapped tape around the ankles of each trouser leg.
‘He’s definitely shit himself, don’t know about you, but I don’t want any of it spilling out when we move him.’
I shook my head, my thumb and forefinger rubbing my earlobe. Trying to concentrate on not being sick.
After ten minutes of struggling, we managed to get him into the chair. His body flopped forwards and I recoiled as I made contact with damp skin. Drool leaked from his mouth, dripping onto his chest. I turned away so I wouldn’t gag. We wrapped tape around his middle, securing him to the back of the chair, and his ankles to the base so his legs wouldn’t drag.
‘What are we going to do with him?’ I asked.
‘There’s only one thing we can do with him. It’s too risky to take him anywhere else. We have to burn him here.’
I shut my eyes for a second, trying to stop my head swimming, until Karla tugged on my arm, bringing me back to the present. There was no time to waste, we had to get on with it.
It wasn’t the easiest method of transportation, but between us we managed to push and pull him out to the large red medical waste incinerator. The warehouse contained the industrial machines: the washers, dryers and presses, as well as the incinerator, which was reserved for sheets that couldn’t be cleaned.
Bright’s would receive a load from a local private hospital Terry had a contract with and some would be stained with blood or faecal matter. These would have to be incinerated and, almost daily, sheets were loaded into the bin tipper at the side, to ensure minimal contact. Using the controls, the bin was raised, sliding the sheets directly into the chamber at the top for incineration.
Unwrapping Terry from the chair, the smell of faeces made me gag. Together, we wrestled him from the chair into the tipping bin, but his dead weight was a struggle. His body, as well as being heavy, was becoming stiffer by the minute as rigor mortis set in. At one point, I was waiting for Karla to suggest removing his legs, as we struggled to fold them in. It would have been the final straw. I’d have given in and called the police. No matter what he’d done, I couldn’t hack him to pieces. Dead or not.
Our muscles screaming, we finally sank onto the floor. A joint puddle of sweat and grime. The effort involved in getting him inside the tipping bin had been immense and we were exhausted.
‘Come on, we’ve got to keep going.’ Karla sighed, heaving herself up. She squinted, trying to remember the controls of the incinerator, saying she’d only used it a couple of times because Terry liked to operate it, as it was the most expensive piece of kit he owned and he didn’t trust anyone else with it. Our speciality was the enormous washing machines that could wash in the region of thirty kilograms of sheets at once.
As she tried to work out which button ignited the cycle, I hurried to the office, ignoring Karla’s calls at my retreating back. I had to pull up the carpet tiles. They were old and cheap, a dark blue colour. Most were coming unstuck and beginning to peel back from the concrete. Only two had bloodstains on that I could see, and they needed to go into the incinerator as well. They came away easily with a good tug, the floor beneath looked to be clean.
I surveyed the office, but nothing else looked out of place. The desk was a mess as usual, covered in paperwork, with three coffee-stained mugs on top and a half-full bottle of Gaviscon next to the monitor.
‘Good thinking,’ Karla said as I returned with the tiles, throwing them in the tipping bin with Terry. She helped me out of my tabard before removing her own and tossed them inside. She hovered at the controls, chewing the inside of her cheek as she deliberated.
‘Do you know what you’re doing?’ I asked.
‘Fuck no,’ she said, slamming her fist on the big green button. The machine sprang to life, metal screeching as it lifted the bin and opened the chamber. Terry toppled down inside, landing with a thud. The tipping bin lowered, the chamber locking, and it fell silent for a second. Karla and I looked at one another, but before I had a chance to speak, there was a hiss, a spitting sound and a whoosh of flames from inside. The deed was done.
1
One Month Earlier

I met Karla on my first day at Bright’s Laundry Service. My case manager, Barry, at the Community Rehabilitation Company had managed to put a good word in for me. I was relieved there was no prolonged job search involving multiple rejections. The following week of my release I’d secured the position as Laundry Operator with an immediate start.
Based on the outskirts of Croydon, it was only a short bus ride away for me, so the location was good. Barry knew the owner, Terry Bright, well apparently, and I was hired at a little over minimum wage to load and unload the enormous washing machines.
My day was spent wheeling around huge trolleys of sheets, getting them washed, and moving them to another section to be dried, folded and repacked. It wouldn’t have been a job I’d have chosen but I was grateful to be employed at all. I knew my prospects weren’t great, my criminal record unappealing to pro