The Girl Who Wouldn’t Die: The first book in an addictive crime series that will have you gripped. Marnie Riches

do you require, please?’ the woman at the other end asked.

      ‘Police. Quick. They’re here,’ Ella said.

      The gate clicked as they crept into the garden. Right up the back path; brazen now. Ella could see their hooded silhouettes as they skulked by the door. She fired the details of her name and address at the woman on the phone.

      ‘Come quickly!’ she shouted.

      Too late. Ella screamed.

      It takes more than one go to smash an entire window in with a crowbar. The crowbar doesn’t do a clean job and glass is much harder to break than people think. Danny and his boy smacked the window hard, twice, and left only small shards stuck to the white UPVC frames. They had had a lot of practice lately.

      Oh Danny Boy, Oh Danny Boy, the sirens are calling, Ella thought.

      Their trainer-clad feet pounded away, accompanied by laughter and whistles. Down through the twists and turns of the alleys they would run, like rats hastening to the sewers. Always knowing where to go to ground. Ella knew this much.

      Letitia was standing by the back door, staring down at the wreckage on the carpet.

      ‘How can they do this? Nearly Christmas, man. Look at the fucking mess. And now the cops are coming. I told you not to bloody ring them.’

      Ella stared at the glass strewn at her feet. She looked around at the dismal living room. Sagging three piece suite, peppered with cigarette burns and food stains. Scratched coffee table. Old stereo, a relic from the early nineties. Drunken, balding Christmas tree, perched in the corner like a sad, old glittery tart at a crap party. There was nothing left to steal. There was nothing left to break. She shut her eyes and swallowed hard. She thought about her just-in-case hammer under her pillow. Then she kicked the despair aside.

      ‘I’ll help,’ Ella said, grabbing a dustpan and brush from the cupboard under the sink.

      The wail of sirens heralded the approaching police but something caught Ella’s eye. She looked up from sweeping the glass, wondering what the bright light in the back was. The tree. The tree, the only attractive growing thing in Ella’s garden, was a prunus kanzan – standard council issue that bore racemes of pink candyfloss blossom in May. There was something different about it now.

      Ella edged closer so that the icy wind whipped through the empty window frame and made her ironed hair slap up and down on her shoulders.

      In the small garden, the tree looked like a bright Christmas message from the Ku Klux Klan. Fire licked along its slender branches. A flaming cherry tree, blooming unnaturally early. Ella spied the dark figure standing behind the fence, admiring his handiwork. One of Danny’s boys.

      Oh Danny Boy, Oh Danny Boy, I hate you so.

      Twelve sleepless hours later and Letitia was holding a black bin liner open.

      ‘Stuff that shit in the bag. Come on! Quickly,’ she said, staring at Ella.

      Ella put the handbags into the bin liner one at a time.

      ‘Grab a pile, for Christ’s sake. We ain’t got all day.’

      Ella looked up, checking that they weren’t being watched.

      The factory where her mother worked was cavernous. Cardboard box high-rises stretched up to the double-height ceiling, looking like an oversized 3D model of the housing estates in Deptford. Each box was stuffed full of flashy Taiwanese handbags.

      ‘There’s no one there. I checked,’ Letitia said.

      ‘Are you sure?’ Ella’s heart was pounding. She scanned the walls for CCTV cameras.

      ‘’Course I’m fucking sure.’ Letitia started to grab handbags herself and piled them in fast. ‘Everyone wants one of these,’ she cooed. ‘That is some proper bling. Fiver a pop. Easy money, man.’ One of her false nails flipped off and flew across the floor. ‘Bollocks! My Christmas nails. That’s your fault.’ She treated Ella to a withering glance.

      Cold fear roiled around Ella’s insides, making her wince. A storm was coming. Letitia had broken a special occasion nail. She knew she needed to do something; say something fast if she was to head off her mother’s emotional hurricane.

      ‘You just hold the bag, Mum. I’ll work faster, yeah?’

      As she stuffed the handbags into the bin liner, her breath came short. She had to get done. Had to get out before they got copped. First Danny’s boys, now this. She hated this life. Last thing she wanted was a criminal record for the sake of PVC ghetto crap adorned with zips and diamanté. Letitia didn’t see it that way.

      ‘Hello!’ A man’s voice. Cheery but questioning.

      Letitia looked up. ‘Out the back with the bags,’ she said.

      ‘Who the hell?’ Ella said.

      ‘Now!’

      Ella knew the drill. She grabbed both bin liners and flung each one out through the opening that gave way to the loading bay below.

      As she did so, she could see Letitia coming out of the back room. Wheeling the mop bucket before her now. Swinging her ample arse from side to side the way the older men like. Singing softly.

      ‘Oh, morning, Fred,’ she called.

      ‘Letitia. You nearly gave me a heart attack. Didn’t expect to see you until after New Year, love.’

      ‘Making up time, you know. I got an hospital appointment early next week. Can’t afford to be short on money.’

      ‘I’ve got a flask. Would you like a nice cup of tea?’

      ‘No. I’m finishing up. Them toilets was a disgrace after the Christmas party …’, tutting, ‘… but they’re clean now. See you on the second anyway.’

      Ella could hear that old Fred had bought it. She swallowed hard, looking at the drop into the loading bay. It was a good eight or nine feet. Ten even. She knew her knees would jar even if she bent them.

      ‘Just grit your teeth.’ She jumped to the concrete below and bit her tongue as her legs screamed in complaint. She grabbed the bin liners. They were fat and unwieldy. The booty inside weighed like dead bodies. She prayed they wouldn’t split.

      When Ella reached the rendezvous point around the corner, she dumped the bin liners on the ground. Her arms would ache for a week. The icy chill bit into her face and hands but the sweat poured down her back and under her breasts on the inside of her anorak. She took a packet of Marlboro Lights out of her pocket and tapped a cigarette on the side of the pack. Flick flick. She tried to get the weak flame of her disposable lighter to stay for long enough to light up but it was no match for the gusting December wind.

      ‘I am some Olympic-sized idiot,’ she said, finally getting the cigarette to light. She inhaled deeply and felt lightheaded from the nicotine rush. Fatigue pressed down on her fifteen-year-old body like super-strong gravity. Pulling her down, down, down.

      Letitia appeared from around the corner, grinning like she had just won the lottery.

      ‘Good girl,’ she said, looking at the bin liners.

      ‘Did he suspect?’ Ella asked.

      ‘No way. Let’s get these bags home. Check out our haul.’

      Ella picked one of the bin liners up and started to walk towards the bus stop.

      ‘Oi!’ Letitia shouted. ‘Get back here and take the other one. I ain’t gonna lose another nail.’

      Ella stopped in her tracks. Bitch, bitch, bitch, you’re a bitch all day long. She quickly weighed up the odds. Start a thing in the street and attract attention to bags full of hooky gear? No. She was smarter than that.

      Ella listened to the hiss of the kettle while she watched Letitia in the reflection of the cooker splashback. Bags were scattered all around. Counting. Five,