by Dylan Young
Blood Runs Cold
A completely unputdownable mystery and suspense thriller
Dylan Young
Contents
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
Hear More From Dylan
A Letter from Dylan
Also by Dylan Young
The Silent Girls
Acknowledgements
One
Thursday, Edinburgh
It was hot for June. Sweltering for Scotland. The meteorologists called it a plume. Mediterranean air from southern Europe billowed up across the Channel, sending temperatures soaring. Suddenly men were in T-shirts and shorts, girls in denim cut-offs and flouncy tops, their pale northern thighs and chests blotched from the sudden exposure to rarely experienced levels of UV.
Thirteen-year-old Kirsty Smeaton told her eleven-year-old sister Blair she was taking her to the shop on Market Street for an ice cream. But really it was because their mother wanted half an hour’s quiet to smoke and watch the soaps on catch-up.
Blair dawdled beside Kirsty, concentrating on the Twister dripping sticky green and yellow tracks onto her fingers. Heat seemed to flow up in waves from the pavement. They’d crossed back over the Esk and Kirsty had demolished half of her Solero already, struggling not to get any gunk onto her phone. Her friend Marie had just sent her a Snapchat of her kid brother, Charlie, in a paddling pool with a rubber ring on his head, and she was texting a thumbs-up emoji in reply as she walked along the park path. She didn’t notice the dog until it emerged from behind the white van and they almost walked into it – a gorgeous, wonderful, floppy-eared German Shepherd puppy.
‘Careful now,’ said a voice.
The van stood parked at the kerb in the lay-by on Station Road, opposite the print works. A man followed the dog onto the pavement, clutching a long lead.
‘You need to look where you’re going, ladies,’ said the man, ‘in case you trip over Banshee, here.’
‘Banshee, is that his name?’
‘Her name. Cos she makes a noise like a banshee when she says hello.’
The dog looked longingly up at the girls’ lollipops, straining at the lead. The yellow and black jacket strapped around her chest said, ‘Guide dog puppy in training.’
‘Awww,’ cooed Kirsty.
‘Can we pet her?’ Blair asked.
The man frowned. ‘Well. You shouldn’t. Not really. Not while she’s being walked. But let me put her back in her crate and then we’ll see.’
The man picked the dog up and walked to the rear of the white van, opened the doors and put Banshee into a mesh cage. Both girls followed their progress, leaning in to touch the dog through the grille. Banshee was now in a tail-wagging frenzy, trying to lick as many bits of their flesh as she could.
‘Are you teaching her?’ asked Kirsty, grinning.
‘Oh yes. She’s a quick learner, too,’ said the man, adjusting the rear door inwards a little, shielding the dog from the street. He unclipped something from his belt. Something black and cylindrical that looked like a torch. He reached forwards casually as if he was going to shine it into the van, keeping it at shoulder level. Kirsty followed his hand. It moved slowly, non-threateningly, the man smiling as he noticed her curious gaze, tilting the object almost as if offering it to her. As if he was about to explain.
Blair was too preoccupied with Banshee to notice. But Kirsty frowned, her instincts alerted, blinked once and looked up into the man’s face just before he thrust the prongs towards her T-shirt and hit the skin behind it.
She jerked away, but not before the stun gun sent 800,000 volts pulsing through her with an accompanying crackle and buzz. Kirsty clattered against the van’s rear plastic bumper, her knees folding under her. Pain erupted as her muscles went into spasm and she collapsed against the inside of the rear door. She tried to scream, to breathe, but nothing, for several long seconds, emerged from her locked-up body. The very last thing she remembered before being thrown into the rear next to the yelping Banshee was seeing Blair’s lolly tumble from her hands.
One eyewitness on the other side of the bridge later said they saw a dog handler talking to two girls. The older girl seemed to slump and needed assistance getting into the back of the van. The witness had been too far away to see the make or model. Too far away to see a number plate. The driver, she reported, closed the rear doors, walked calmly around and drove away.
They found Kirsty eight hours later, stumbling, disorientated, in a field in Pennycuick with a stolen German Shepherd puppy at her side. She could add nothing to the accounts other than describing a man dressed in a brown short-sleeved shirt and cargo pants, wearing sunglasses under a green baseball cap. His shirt had looked a little bit too large for him, he spoke in a calm and steady voice that she didn’t recognise and, through her tears, she could think of nothing that made him stand out.
Despite a huge search, house to house on the streets surrounding where it had happened and a Police Scotland city-wide sweep that day, there was no sign of Blair Smeaton anywhere.
Two
Friday, Bath, Royal United Hospital
The staff nurse was new. He’d seen her a couple of times on shifts, her face blooming pink with adrenaline, her dark hair tied back. She was young, still keen.
‘Dr Hawley, Dr Hawley!’ Her voice cut through the war-zone noises; clattering trolleys, someone vomiting in an adjacent cubicle, an elderly patient pleading to go home, her confused begging forlornly hushed by a relative. Hawley didn’t reply immediately. He was busy turning over black instrument boxes on a shelf, searching for an ophthalmoscope. He needed it to examine a stroke patient’s retinas but the one he liked, the one with the least dust on the lens, wasn’t where it should have been. He preferred the wall-units, the rechargeable type. They, at least, never went walkabout.
‘Dr Hawley.’
He felt a hand on his elbow and turned, flicking his gaze down to her name badge. Kelly Mann. The noise of an ambulance siren slowly getting louder in its approach from the city centre drew her attention for a moment and she glanced towards the entrance. More patients on the way.
‘Motorcycle accident according to Charge nurse. Multiple injuries. No idea where we’ll put
them.’ Kelly shrugged and proffered a sanguine smile.
‘We’ll find somewhere. He’s a magician.’
Kelly let out a small sigh. She hadn’t quite developed the thick skin you needed to work the Friday night six to two shift. Maybe she never would. Every training NHS doctor and nurse did a stint in A and E. It was more than a bit like conscription given that every day in every hospital in the country felt like a battle. But this wasn’t Syria, this was Bath in June. Not many trainees stayed after their mandatory stint. Only the brave, or the very foolish. Hawley knew to which category he belonged.
‘What can I do for you, Kelly?’
Someone, probably an anaesthetist judging by the green theatre scrubs, ran towards the resuscitation room. Through the open door, Hawley counted at least eight staff working on a forty-six-year-old cardiac arrest.
Kelly said, ‘I know it’s not yours, but I have a six-year-old who fell off a swing. Goran was dealing with it but he’s been in there,’ she nodded towards the resus room, ‘for twenty minutes and I just need someone to take a quick look and sign a form so that we can get the poor little thing to X-ray. Do you mind?’
He wanted to suggest she ask someone else but one glance told him there was no one. They’d had the usual slew of drunks and minor traumas, but the evening had been compounded by a collapsed stage at an agricultural show. No fatalities, but they could have done without the extra dozen cuts and scrapes that needed dressings and sutures.
With someone a little more experienced he might have suggested she fill the form in and he’d simply sign it, job done. But Kelly was new. It wouldn’t be fair to ask her to stretch the rules she was still learning.
‘Please?’ She let her chin fall and batted her lashes. He hesitated and her lips morphed into a flickering smile of confusion. That would have been his chance. There, with that little flicker. He could have told her why he hesitated and why he couldn’t help. But a paramedic pushed through between them, brusquely excusing himself, and Hawley’s chance evaporated, the moment lost. He was caught now with no way out. Despite all the promises he’d made to himself and stuck to for years, he heard himself say, ‘OK.’
Kelly beamed. ‘Oh, thanks. I know I’m being a pain, but she’s such a sweetie.’
She was already turning, leading the way across the frantic department, towards the paediatric cubicles. He heard a name as Kelly turned to deliver it, but only vaguely. The noise of shouted orders and bleeping alarms competed with the dull buzz in Hawley’s ears. He felt a prickling in his fingers and clutched his cold hands together. They crossed a corridor and the noise changed. The volume dropped away and instead of cacophony, here were muffled voices and the miserable wailing of a sick baby. Kelly pulled back a curtain and smiled brightly.
‘Hi, Ashlee.’
A student nurse in lilac scrubs stood sentinel at the bedside, the relief at Kelly’s return obvious in her anxious face. The little girl looked tiny on the trolley, her dark skin stark against the yellow sheets. A grey sling held her right arm flexed. Kelly kept eye contact, her dazzling smile not faltering for a second.
‘Where’s Mummy, Ashlee?’
‘She’s taken Efren to the toilet.’
‘Poor Efren,’ she made a joke of it, dropping her voice in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Look, I’ve brought Dr Hawley to make you better.’
Ashlee whimpered.
Kelly turned to the student. ‘Lucy, pop to the loo and tell Ashlee’s mum the doctor’s here.
Lucy nodded and hurried off.
‘I want Mummy,’ Ashlee said.
‘No, it’s OK, Ashlee. All Dr Hawley wants to do is look. All he’s going to do is look at your poorly arm.’
Hawley watched the exchange from the foot of the bed.
‘Will you let him have a peep if I hold your hand, Ashlee?’
Ashlee gave a solemn nod.
Hawley didn’t move. He looked at the little girl. She was scared and vulnerable. He felt saliva pooling on the root of his tongue. He tried swallowing, but his throat felt tight and narrow, forcing a noisy gulp.
‘Hi Ashlee,’ he said, his voice cracking.
Ashlee said nothing.
‘Show me,’ Hawley said. He moved to the side opposite the sling. Kelly, confused, waited.
‘Just lift the sling a little,’ Hawley ordered.
Ashlee’s arm was resting on her abdomen. Carefully, Kelly lifted the bandage. Hawley leaned forwards and peered. The swelling above the wrist looked like a barn door diagnosis. He’d put money on it being a Colles’ fracture.
‘Yeah, that needs an X-ray.’
‘Good. I’ll get the form…’ she froze with one hand raised and sent him a manic smile, ‘which I’ve left on the desk. I’ll be two seconds.’ Before Hawley could respond, she swept the curtain back and exited, leaving him alone with the little girl.
He turned back to look at her.
She watched him, her eyes huge, brow furrowing, sensing at last that something was off-kilter.
He almost laughed at the thought. Off-kilter was putting it mildly.
Hawley forced a breath, steadying himself. He ought to say something. Reassure his patient. But he didn’t trust Ashlee. More importantly, he didn’t trust himself. That was why he avoided seeing children whenever he could. It was difficult. Sometimes impossible. And when it became absolutely essential and unavoidable he would. But always with a nurse present and with a parent. There was good reason. That was the sort of world it was these days. Hawley knew that only too well.
It was why he never saw children alone, like this. It provided far too many opportunities for misunderstandings.
He didn’t say anything to Ashlee. He merely turned away and swept out of the cubicle, not wanting to let thoughts, dark thoughts, crowd in on him again.
He almost collided with Kelly, beetling back around the corner.
‘Dr Hawley?’ Concern tipped the last vowel of his name up an octave.
He held out a palm, willing her to stop and be quiet as he recovered.
Kelly ignored him. ‘What’s wrong? Is it Ashlee?’
She brushed past him, opened the curtains. Hawley heard her voice, in control, soothing. ‘Hello sweetie. Won’t be a minute. You OK?’
Hawley waited until Kelly emerged from behind the curtain.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’
Hawley was shaking his head. ‘You should never…’ he blew out air. ‘Never leave a kid that age unchaperoned.’ He sucked in a breath through his nose. ‘Never alone…’
Not with me.
Kelly stared at him. ‘I only went to get the X-ray form.’
Hawley squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them. ‘Never.’ He shook his head.
‘But you were—’
‘Never.’ It came out through gritted teeth and made her flinch. ‘Never fucking ever…’
Kelly flushed.
Hawley closed his eyes again, knowing he was going way too far. This girl wasn’t responsible for his baggage. Baggage that had fallen open again here in this busy A and E, spilling out all its dirty laundry for her to see. But she had to know. That much she had to realise. He picked up a clipboard from a desk and grunted. ‘Give me the form.’
Kelly handed him the slip. He filled it in, signed it, gave it back, not meeting her gaze when he said, ‘Get someone else to look at the X-ray.’
She took it and said to his departing back, ‘Have I done something wrong?’
He stopped, half turned. ‘Kids are… You can’t be too careful. Get Goran to review her.’
Kelly nodded, tight-lipped. ‘You sure you’re alright?’
In his head, he could hear a shrill voice laughing maniacally. He was far from alright. He quelled the voice and said, ‘Fine.’
As he walked away, he could sense her eyes on him.
Sometime during this shift, she would speak to Goran about him. He had a good idea of how that conversation would go. Goran would sigh and explain how it was such a shame. That Hawley was a
good doctor, an asset to the unit whenever he did a shift. But that there was something no one could quite put a finger on. And when Goran would ask why Kelly wanted to know, she’d explain about Ashlee, and Goran would bare his teeth in a grimace of pained understanding. Dr Hawley avoided kids. Would swap the crappiest file, even see to a constantly retching food poisoning case or debride a putrid gangrenous foot, anything so long as he didn’t have to see any kids. The other staff were only too happy to help him out. And Kelly would ask why. And Goran would reply with a faraway look and explain that no one really knew but it must have been something bad. Maybe he’d lost one along the way. A meningitis, or an Addison’s. Something that had left deep and unhealed wounds. And Kelly would nod and look sympathetic and feel sorry for him.
* * *
Hawley went to the bathroom. Sweat had beaded on his clean-shaven top lip. He splashed water over his face and let it run over his wrists before sucking up a mouthful in his scooped hands. He glared at his reflection in response to what had just happened, and his own eyes looked back at him accusingly. There were easier ways to earn a living, but the crisis in recruitment in emergency medicine and the government’s targets of four-hour waits ensured that he, with his qualifications, could pick and choose his shifts in almost any unit in the country. But that still didn’t explain why he worked the worst of them: the Friday and Saturday nights, the bank holidays. What did explain it was the fact that they were the worst. He gobbled them up, relishing the constant mayhem. Alcohol-related injuries made up four out of every five emergency episodes during the weekends. That meant lots of fights. Lots of blood. Hardly any kids. No one in their right mind who wanted any semblance of work–life balance would ever choose to do the job.
