Don't Wake Up: A dark, terrifying new thriller with the most gripping first chapter you will ever read!

by Liz Lawler

  ‘I think she’s a little worried about you. I thought she was seeing you after work. She said she was going to talk to you.’

  Alex was puzzled. ‘She didn’t ask me. But as I say, we didn’t talk. She’s probably texted me and now thinks I’m ignoring her. Damn, I’ll have a look in a minute. But I’m pleased she gave you my address. I’m glad to see you.’

  She showed him into her sitting room and was aware he was taking in every detail.

  ‘It’s not what I expected,’ he said.

  ‘What did you expect?’

  ‘Something more homely. Different. This is a little aseptic,’ he answered in his usual blunt fashion.

  She didn’t take offence, because he was right. It was Patrick’s idea of a home, not hers.

  ‘I’ll be changing it soon, making it more homely.’

  ‘Good. This room doesn’t suit you.’

  They stood awkwardly, a silence stretching. She could see he would leave soon if she didn’t break the ice and say something more meaningful.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  He handed her the bottle. ‘Only if you are and only if you’re able.’

  She knew he was asking her if she was capable of having a drink without it leading to a dependency. She didn’t know the answer to that, as she hadn’t tested herself for a while, but she felt safe enough in his company to try.

  ‘It’s nearly Christmas. I’d like to have a drink with a friend.’

  He took his black coat off. Wearing a dark grey shirt tucked into black tailored trousers and a silver-grey tie he looked sophisticated and somewhat remote. ‘If you fetch a bottle opener I’ll do the honours.’

  With lightness in her step she quickly fetched glasses and a corkscrew from the kitchen, stopping to check her appearance in the hall mirror on the way. Her face was flushed, framed by wispy tendrils of hair that had come loose from her ponytail, but at least it was clean and she smelled fresh. She discarded her coat and took off her blouse, leaving her wearing only a cream T-shirt and jeans. He was studying the painting when she returned.

  ‘A present?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. It’s Potiphar’s wife. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’

  Nathan studied it some more. ‘She looks a little desperate to me, hanging on to his clothes like that.’

  ‘She’s letting him know she wants him,’ Alex explained, without any real knowledge of the painting. She had yet to look up the history of Potiphar’s wife.

  ‘Is it a present from your boyfriend?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t have a boyfriend. Not any more.’

  He raised his eyebrow at this. ‘So it did end . . . I wondered after the party that night . . .’

  She took a sip of the red wine he handed her and knew she had to say something. ‘I wouldn’t have asked you out if it hadn’t ended.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ he quickly said. ‘I should have explained. It’s difficult . . . I—’

  ‘—have a girlfriend,’ she quickly finished for him, not wanting to hear why he had rejected her and feel embarrassed all over again.

  ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s the bit that’s difficult to explain.’ He stared around the room at everything but her, and she realised it was he who was embarrassed. Even as she moved closer, he avoided looking at her. It was only when she reached out to touch him that his eyes finally met hers, and there was so much need in their depths it was harrowing.

  ‘I’ve never had a girlfriend. No girl has ever asked me out before. When I was sixteen I developed a crush on a girl and I knew the only way she would talk to me was if I were in with a group of other lads. I targeted the boys I would become friends with, boys less clever than me, who I hinted to that I could help with their homework. Very quickly I became part of a group, and soon after I got to talk to her.’

  He paused, clearly reflecting on that time.

  ‘I couldn’t believe my luck. She was actually going to go out with me. Our first date was in a park in the evening when no one was around and we sat on the swings, holding hands for hours. Our second date was on an alley wall, not far from her house, and again we sat for hours chatting.’ He smiled, but there was little humour in his eyes. ‘You’re waiting for the punchline, aren’t you? Our third date was in her bed. We got undressed and were lying close to each other. We hadn’t kissed yet and I badly wanted to. She suddenly rolled onto her front and said to me, could I do it to her from behind because she couldn’t look at my face. After it was over, disgusted with myself, I quickly dressed and scarpered. A few of the lads were at the end of the street sitting on the alley wall. They asked what I’d been up to and I of course said, “Nothing.” They laughed and jeered and they said they didn’t believe me. They said they knew exactly what I’d been up to because they had paid for it.

  ‘The ironic thing was they thought they were real friends. They knew I liked her and they paid her to have sex with me.’

  She put a hand up and gently clasped his blemished cheek, and his head turned sharply away. His voice was heavy with emotion. ‘Don’t feel sorry for me, Alex. It’s more than I can bear.’

  She put her glass of wine down and then placed her free hand on his other cheek and turned his face towards her so that he couldn’t look away. ‘I don’t feel sorry for you. I feel sorry for me. I want you . . . and you don’t seem to want me back.’

  He stared at her for long seconds, staring deeply into her eyes to see if she was telling him the truth, and then with a groan he dragged her into his arms. His first kiss was no slow approach and his arms were confident as they wrapped around her. He may not have had a girlfriend before, but it didn’t show in his performance as he hungrily explored her lips and mouth. His strong hands pressed her close against him and it was his lean body she felt. He wasn’t as thin as he seemed, but muscular and toned.

  She was trembling badly and knew it was only the support of his arms that kept her on her feet.

  ‘Will you let me make love to you?’ he whispered fiercely, looking intently into her eyes.

  She couldn’t speak. She was beyond words. Her answer was in the kiss she gave him. In his safe arms she was carried to her bed and with an unbelievable sensitivity Nathan Bell made love for the first time in his life.

  *

  She stood by her bedroom window and gazed at his dark hair and beautifully curved back. His skin was smooth and unblemished. He had been sleeping deeply for several hours, but she was not surprised. The emotions wrung out of him had left him exhausted. It was over in a matter of seconds. She had encouraged him to let go, knowing that he would learn control and be better the second time. And he was. She hoped she pleased him as much as he pleased her.

  He was stirring and she saw him slowly become aware that she was not beside him in the bed. His head and shoulders lifted off the pillow as he searched for her, and the heat in his eyes when they fixed on her made her almost dizzy. ‘Come back to bed,’ he whispered.

  She was conscious of smelling slightly musty and feeling unclean from all the sex, and felt she should wash. ‘Let me shower first,’ she said softly.

  He shook his head from side to side. ‘No, you’ll wash away your beautiful smell and I’m only just getting to know it.’

  Feeling an instant heat buck her insides and a heaviness sweep through her thighs, she slowly walked back to the bed.

  Chapter thirty-six

  ‘The tyre impression left on Lillian Armstrong’s jacket was a Pirelli 205/45 R17. But as I said, thousands of cars are fitted with these tyres. The chances are, many of the cars in that car park are fitted with these tyres – there are certainly enough sports cars parked in there.’

  Greg gazed at Peter Spencer, needing to hear again what the man had said earlier. ‘But it does fit a Mini?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got the report here.’ He held up the sheet of paper and started to read it. ‘Pirelli 205/45 R17. It—’

  ‘—and this tyre make is the one that made the i
mpression on Lillian Armstrong’s jacket?’ Greg said, repeating Peter, as if to cement the fact in his brain.

  ‘Yes.’

  Greg’s mind was not eased. The likelihood of it being Alex Taylor’s car was increasing. ‘OK. So let’s begin checking all the occupants of the building first.’

  Peter Spencer nodded, but his expression was doubtful. ‘Do you not think we should start with Dr Taylor’s car? At least to eliminate her?’

  ‘So you’re buying into DC Best’s theory? Dr Taylor ran the woman over to gain attention?’

  ‘I’m not buying into anyone’s theory. We haven’t proved the tyre came from her car, I haven’t even seen what tyres are on her car. She may have Pirellis, she may not. If she has I’ll be looking for fresh bitumen. That’s what made the impression so clear. Although it may be too late for that, given the doctor had her car cleaned. We really need to just take a look and take her out of the frame. Or . . . I’m letting you know the facts, Greg. Not joining the dots.’

  Greg stared around, looking at the spacious CID suite, and saw that even at seven o’clock in the morning the place was busy. Officers were sitting at desks, checking information on their computers or preparing hard copy notes for the morning briefing. Laura Best’s desk was still empty, giving him a few minutes’ grace. She was late, which was unheard of.

  Greg nodded appreciatively. ‘Thanks, Peter. Keep at it. We need a location with fresh tar laid. In the meantime let’s keep quiet on the tyre information. Laura Best is out to hang the doctor and I do not want any wrongful arrests, especially not of a doctor. The media will have a field day if we’re wrong.’

  ‘It’s your decision,’ Peter Spencer answered. ‘I’ll do what you want.’

  He turned to leave, then stopped. ‘It still doesn’t make sense to me – why Dr Taylor would run the woman over and then tell you about the tyre mark on her jacket. It all seems a bit strange.’

  Greg nodded. ‘My sentiments exactly. Which is why we need to check our facts first.’

  ‘Do you think it’s possible someone borrowed her car while she was shopping?’

  Greg shrugged. He had no answer.

  ‘If Lillian Armstrong was in Dr Taylor’s car there will be evidence.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ Greg replied. ‘And of the fact that we still have no answers.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Do it, Peter. But do it discreetly. Check out what tyres her car has. And then we’ll know.’

  Chapter thirty-seven

  Maria Asif elbowed the door open, taking care not to drop the tray of dirty instruments she carried. It was the final tray she needed to bring into the room. She had piled the others up on the counter so that she could do another quick check and make sure there were no needles or blades among them before they were sent back for sterilisation.

  It had been a busy night, especially the last few hours, and an unsuccessful one at that. The body of a young man was still lying on one of the operating tables waiting to be collected by the porters and taken to the mortuary. He was nineteen years old, but looked even younger. He had been brought into A & E with virtually every bone in his body broken after coming off his motorbike at high speed.

  There had been little they could do for him, and the attempt to stem bleeding from severed arteries, damaged organs and broken bones had been more of a token gesture. In her opinion it would have been better to have left him to die surrounded by his family, instead of in a cold and sterile operating theatre surrounded by a dozen professionals, desperately wanting to help, but clearly unable to.

  Maria Asif had said a prayer for him and had stood with his crying parents as they hugged and kissed him goodbye. It was two days before Christmas and their child had died, and there were no words that could help them. Maria had nothing to say that would lessen their sorrow. She now wanted to get home to her own babies. She wanted to kiss her eldest son while he was still at an age to let her, and hold her two youngest children for the rest of the day.

  It was moments like this that made her hate her job. As she checked over all of the instruments that had been used on the dead boy she felt tears run down her face. It was unfair. Sudden death in someone so young was so unfair. There were no answers, only ‘what ifs’. With the sleeve of her surgical gown she quickly wiped away the tears.

  Moving over to the waist-high dumb waiter she saw blood on the wall beneath the lift. It must have leaked from the lift, and run down the wall.

  Staff were continually reminded about the importance of hygiene, the seriousness of cross infection and the out of control MRSA sweeping through most hospitals, and yet a simple thing like cleaning up the mess left by bloody instruments was ignored. Someone had obviously put a tray of dripping instruments into the lift without wrapping them first. She would report this when the day staff came on, because the mess had been left from yesterday, not during the night.

  Angry at the state of the lift, which would keep her from her family longer, she raised the outer door. She would send the instruments down to the sterilising unit, bring the lift back up and then clean it. Gripping the inner door, she raised it and saw that the blood was not caused by dripping instruments, but by a body curled up tight, wearing clothes drenched with it.

  Maria Asif’s screams reached the ears of her colleagues and she stumbled away, backing out of the room and into the corridor, where she vomited.

  *

  Greg looked at his watch again. The morning briefing was nearing an end and Laura still hadn’t shown up; he was now worried. He had called her on her mobile and tried her home several times and she wasn’t answering. It was so unlike her, and as much as he disliked the woman he had a responsibility for her.

  Every officer knew the importance of staying in contact. All police officers were targets and knew that at any time in their lives they could find themselves in a situation where they faced danger. Reprisal and revenge from people who felt the police had wronged them, or cornered perpetrators trying to escape a capture, were all a source of potential danger.

  Greg had sent an officer over to her home, but she seemed not to be there. When the briefing was over he would get someone to call again and, if necessary, get a doorman to let them in.

  He saw Dennis Morgan checking his mobile again and felt irritated by the young officer’s rudeness. Walking behind his chair, Greg adopted the manner of a teacher and snatched the mobile out of his hands. ‘You need to pay attention when you’re in this room, Morgan. You shouldn’t be checking up on your love life. Get it back from me at the end of the briefing.’

  The tall and newly trained officer reddened. ‘Sorry, sir. I was checking on DC Best’s whereabouts.’

  Greg stared at him with new interest. Had Laura found herself a new playmate, he wondered. He hoped so. He really did. He wanted Laura Best off his back before this year ended.

  ‘And why would you be doing that?’

  ‘Concern, sir. She hasn’t shown up.’

  ‘I meant,’ Greg said more concisely. ‘Why you? Why would you take it on yourself to check out her whereabouts?’

  ‘Because I’ve . . . I’ve been seeing her lately.’

  Greg smiled. ‘Seeing, as in . . . romantically seeing?’

  Morgan nodded.

  ‘And have you heard from her today?’

  ‘No, sir. She had a meeting yesterday evening with someone. She texted me yesterday to cancel our date and I haven’t heard from her since.’

  ‘Were you expecting to hear from her again?’

  Another nod. ‘After her meeting I thought she might ring me.’

  The door to the briefing room opened and Stella Cartwright, a senior civilian support officer, entered the room. ‘Sorry to barge in, Greg. We just had a 999 from the hospital. They’ve got a dead body up there and this one didn’t die in a bed.’

  Dennis Morgan let out a gasp and Greg quickly looked at him.

  ‘What is it, Dennis?’

  His handsome face had turned pale and his eyes gone wide.
/>   ‘Laura’s meeting was at the hospital. That’s where she went.’

  *

  Laura was not in the best of moods. She was late for work, which was a cardinal sin for her. She had dropped her mobile in the bath this morning and the person she had been meeting had stood her up the night before. Touché, maybe. But enough was enough. So far she had wasted an entire evening and part of her morning.

  She was standing in the emergency department trying to speak to the coordinator and get an explanation without a telephone constantly interrupting them, and had so far gleaned that her no-show of last night had no-showed for work as well.

  She now needed her mobile number again, as she was unable to access it from her own phone, so that she could get in contact and set up another meeting fast.

  As the charge nurse ended yet another call, Laura tried again to speak to him.

  His smile was rueful. ‘Sorry, it’s always like this in the mornings. Just give me a sec and I’ll get you the number.’ He pulled a red folder towards him and then raised his eyebrows in resignation and sighed loudly as his bleeper went off. He dialled a number on his phone and Laura saw his instant shock as he spoke to the caller. She was about to turn away when she heard him mention the police being called. His face was white when he came off the phone, and she had to ask him twice what the problem was.

  His eyes were glazed and blinking fast. ‘Theatre. It’s up in main theatre. You need to get up there,’ he managed to say.

  Hurrying through the corridors, she passed others rushing towards the theatres, and when she got to the doors she was barred until she pulled out her ID and informed the orderly that she was a police officer.

  Doctors and nurses were gathered in the long corridor, all wearing scrubs and clearly shocked by what had happened, and one woman, an Asian of tiny stature, was crying hysterically.

  On the floor outside an open door was a pool of vomit, and Laura began to realise that something very serious had happened.

  A man in blue scrubs was comforting the Asian woman, and beside them a second woman, the only person who looked to be remotely in control, was standing quietly by.