Brides Trail
Perfect
for fans of John Grisham, Jeffrey Archer and Ruth Rendell
The Bride's Trail
by AA Abbott
Twenty
grand has vanished from Shaun Halloran’s casino, and so has gorgeous blonde
croupier Kat White. Once he’s tracked her down, he’ll shoot first and ask
questions later.
Amy Satterthwaite’s just learned Kat stole her ID for a sham marriage. Desperate to clear her name and save her friend from Shaun, she swallows her pride and turns to arrogant Ross Pritchard for help. But can they find Kat in time?
Twists and tension keep the pages turning in A.A. Abbott’s stunning crime thriller. As Kat’s trail leads from London’s smart Fitzrovia to secret tunnels below central Birmingham, the stakes couldn’t be higher.
Amy Satterthwaite’s just learned Kat stole her ID for a sham marriage. Desperate to clear her name and save her friend from Shaun, she swallows her pride and turns to arrogant Ross Pritchard for help. But can they find Kat in time?
Twists and tension keep the pages turning in A.A. Abbott’s stunning crime thriller. As Kat’s trail leads from London’s smart Fitzrovia to secret tunnels below central Birmingham, the stakes couldn’t be higher.
Please note there is also a taster story, The Gap, at http://aaabbott.co.uk/free-stuff/
EXTRACT
“What do you
want?” she asked.
“Where’s Kat?
I need to see her.”
“I don’t
know.”
He took the
knife from his pocket.
“No,” Amy
said, “I really don’t know. If I did, I’d tell you. She’s been gone for three
days and I can’t reach her. I’ve tried, believe me.” This was no time for
heroics. Had she the slightest idea of Kat’s whereabouts, she would have
divulged them, of that she was sure.
His eyes
darted down to the knife. He flicked it open, stroked its blade, then looked up
at her again. “I need answers, Amy,” he said, almost sorrowfully. “If someone
had stolen twenty grand from you, you’d want some answers too.”
“Kat stole
twenty thousand pounds?” A week ago she wouldn’t have believed it. Now, she
couldn’t be sure. “That’s not all she’s done. She married an illegal immigrant,
using my name. The police were round this morning.”
“Do they know
where she is?”
Amy sighed.
“No.”
“Good. I want
to see her before the police do. I don’t suppose they’ve searched this flat for
clues to her whereabouts?”
She was
silent.
“No,” he
said. “I thought not. You and me, Amy, we’re going to do that now, before any
such clues might do a vanishing act like our mutual friend. Show me Kat’s
room.”
“You’re in
it.”
He looked
around, shook his head. “Really? I thought this was the lounge. Okay, I want
you to take everything out of those boxes.” He pointed to a stack of wooden
wine crates, painted white, in which Kat’s belongings were stowed.
The top crate
was crammed with shopping bags, over a dozen of them, bearing the names of
designer boutiques: Prada, Marc Jacobs, Miu Miu and more. Reluctantly, Amy
picked up a bag.
“Open it,”
the knifeman said.
It was from
Agent Provocateur, a powder pink paper bag sealed with a black ribbon.
Carefully, Amy untied the bow. Inside, there was a pink cardboard box.
“Now that,”
he ordered.
“Must I?” Amy
pleaded. “These are Kat’s personal things.”
“That’s the
whole point.”
Silently, she
opened the box, unfolded the black tissue paper inside and shook out a frilly
silk underwear set. A receipt showed it had cost two hundred pounds.
He whistled,
leering. “Very nice. Now the rest.”
Altogether,
Kat had spent over four thousand pounds on unworn purchases. “A shopping
addiction,” he said thoughtfully, reflecting Amy’s surprised reaction. “Carry
on.”
The crates
below mostly contained clothes, neatly folded, and shoes in bags. There were a
few books, overspill from the shelves by the wall, and finally, a box file
containing paperwork.
“Give me
that,” the dangerous stranger commanded. He fished out a letter. “Dearest Kat,”
he read aloud, “I hope you are well. I am fine, and so is Cedric the Cat, but
he is very old now. I have a little job now at Treasures in Harborne. Same old,
same old. Do write and tell me your news. With love, Auntie Lizzie.” He paused.
“Isn’t that sweet?” he said sarcastically. “Let’s see if there’s more of the
same.”
He rifled
through the box, shaking his head. Evidently, nothing further was deemed worthy
of comment. He asked her to empty the only other article of storage in the
room, a large rosewood chest, but that merely yielded towels and bedding.
“Interesting,
and predictable,” he muttered. “I’ll tell you what we haven’t found. No
suitcase, money, passport, women’s things like cosmetics. No certificates for
qualifications, birth, marriage even.” He looked pointedly at Amy. “She’s done
a runner.”
Amy bit her
tongue. He was unlikely to appreciate being told he was stating the obvious.
He pocketed
the letter. “I’ll be back. And you’ll tell me where she is, okay?” He fingered
the knife again. “Not a word to the Old Bill. I’ve never been here, not on your
life.”
“What about
the CCTV?” she couldn’t resist challenging him.
“What about
it?” he said dismissively. “None in that car park. I cut the wires.” He stood
to leave, putting a finger to his lips. “You’re a lucky, lucky girl, Amy,
because I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t. Now don’t forget – not a dicky bird,
okay?”
When he’d
gone, Amy bolted the door and searched the kitchenette for alcohol. Finding a
bottle of Snow Mountain vodka, less than a quarter full, she drank all that was
left of it and went straight to bed.
ABOUT A.A. ABBOTT
AA Abbott (also known as Helen) chose her pen name in a shameless attempt
to slot into the first space on your bookshelf.
Born near London, she’s lived
in Birmingham and Bristol, and worked in all three cities.
She works for big
companies for half the year as a tax accountant, taking temporary work so she
can spend the rest of the year writing fast-paced crime thrillers.
Although her
work gives her inspiration, she says none of her colleagues have murdered,
blackmailed or defrauded anyone.
Hanging out in coffee shops and cocktail bars,
she loves city life and can’t resist writing about it.
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