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

by Liz Lawler

  It was Alex’s turn to laugh. ‘He was! Is! It’s just a shame he’s such a prick. He still loves me; in fact he wants to marry me. The only tiny hitch is that we have a slight difference of opinion – he thinks I’ve lost my mind.’

  When Maggie didn’t answer straight away Alex felt embarrassed. From the heat in her face she knew she had turned a fiery red.

  ‘Listen, I’ve got to go soon. I’m on an early tomorrow and I need to do a few things tonight. It’s been really nice chatting to you, though, I appreciate it.’

  ‘Alex, there’s no need to be embarrassed. I don’t think for one minute that you’ve lost your mind. I’ll be honest, I’m more inclined to think you suffered some sort of post-traumatic episode. Something that manifested itself as real, maybe something in your past or something to do with the type of work you do.’ She paused, and a wry smile curved her lips. ‘I wondered why you let me to carry out the examination on you that night. I thought perhaps it might have been because I was still quite new to the hospital – a relative stranger, so to speak. But you didn’t like me, so I still thought it odd. You could have refused.’

  Alex felt her face grow warmer. ‘Why would I? You were the best. I was lucky you were there to deal with that wretched policewoman. But it is true . . . I didn’t like you. Every time I met you, you were so dismissive.’

  Maggie sighed. ‘It’s true, but I can’t help it, Alex. When I’m focused on a job everything else becomes irrelevant, including my manners.’

  Alex raised a mocking eyebrow. ‘You’re not so bad, I suppose, when you’re not in work.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Maggie said, equally mocking. She chewed her lip for a second, her eyes considering Alex. ‘I think you owe it to yourself to explore this further, and if you think it would help, I can put you in touch with someone I know. He’s very good. He’s a psychoanalyst and has a lot of experience dealing with post-traumatic stress. He also practises hypnosis, retrieves memories, that kind of thing.’ She gazed at Alex expectantly. ‘You’ve gone quiet. Have I said too much?’

  Alex shook her head. And strangely, instead of feeling disappointed by what Maggie had said, she felt some relief. Maybe, just maybe, she should explore the possibility of this being in her mind. Not the message left on her Mini; that was real enough, but perhaps it had been carried out, as suggested by Laura Best, by a joker.

  Maybe she should undergo hypnosis, even though she was highly sceptical. For all she knew, this expert might uncover stuff she had blocked. It was a chance worth taking to know one way or another, if only to stop her looking at every dying woman as a victim of her attacker.

  ‘Will you put me in touch with him?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Maggie Fielding said. ‘I’ll ring him soon. Now, forget all about rushing off home. You’re staying to dinner and that’s final.’

  Chapter nineteen

  Greg crouched down, staring at the ground around the parking space where Lillian Armstrong was found. Her spilled blood was still on the floor. It had spurted onto the wall by her head and now looked like dry brown paint. Dr Taylor’s footprints showed where she was led away, gradually petering out until eventually they became invisible to the naked eye.

  His immediate thought, when Dr Taylor told him about the tyre mark across the woman’s chest, was that she had been moved. And now of course it was obvious. The cars either side of her had been parked there all day. She had lain with her head facing into the wall, and yet the tyre mark indicated that a car had driven across her chest. So unless she positioned herself this way, someone else had.

  Lillian Armstrong had to have been invited to this place. Laura was right about that.

  She had been a small-time prostitute, working under the guise of a masseuse. If she was serious about her profession she had certainly picked the wrong city to work in. Despite its ancient history of debauchery, Bath had no red light area, so unfortunately, for the likes of people like Lillian Armstrong, when you came to the notice of the police you were remembered. She had been arrested and cautioned several times for loitering – once in Monmouth Street toilets on suspicion of soliciting, but the charge was dropped. And once, in a restaurant, where Greg and his then wife had been dining. His wife had just told him that she’d filed for divorce, and Greg had sat stunned until the raucous voice of Lillian Armstrong had penetrated his skull. Greg had gone to the aid of the restaurant manager as Lillian was disturbing one of the diners, a man sitting alone, trying to hide his face behind the menu. Greg had ended up accompanying Lillian to the police station, because while dealing with her, his wife had taken the opportunity to leave.

  *

  Back at the police station she had the audacity to claim that her business cards, printed on cheap pink card with her name and phone number, offered a legitimate service.

  Unwind with Lillian. Spend your lunchtime with a relaxing massage.

  Hence the nickname.

  The pathologist had called Greg earlier and said there had been little chance of her surviving; she had injuries to her trachea and bronchus. Most patients die at the scene with this type of injury, coughing and drowning in blood. Even those who reach hospital alive have a high mortality rate. Greg would tell this to Dr Taylor when he next spoke to her, give her some peace of mind. He would give her his mobile number as well, save her calling the station and being on the receiving end of Laura’s wrath.

  Poor Lilly, he thought. Beneath the make-up and the tarty clothes she was really just someone doing a job to earn money and look after her kids.

  *

  The communal area of Lillian Armstrong’s building was a stone stairwell with paint-sprayed graffiti, and other crap thrown by the residents, covering the walls. The block of flats, six storeys high, was an eyesore in an area where riding stolen mopeds and motorbikes was a hobby. Jola Bakowski, Lillian’s neighbour, didn’t look like she belonged there.

  She had been living in the UK for four years and been a neighbour of Lillian Armstrong for three of them. She was single and shared the two-bedroom flat with another Polish girl. They both worked at the same hotel. The flatmate was working a double shift and was still at work. The small square living room with its low ceiling and bland beige walls was an uninspiring box, but was also immaculate.

  It was the home of someone who prided herself on cleanliness. Jola placed a tray set with teapot, china crockery, and a plate of very moist looking cake on the table, and then proceeded to serve Greg as if he were an honoured guest.

  ‘Thank you, Jola,’ he said, taking the cup with every intention of drinking the tea, which was not something he chanced in most other homes he visited in the course of his job. He was parched and famished, but he’d talk first and then have a piece of cake.

  ‘Was Lillian a good neighbour?’

  Jola gave a ghost of a smile. Her age was difficult to judge; anywhere between twenty and thirty, he guessed. She was small and wore her clean brown hair back in a short ponytail. She had a pretty, natural face, free of make-up, and shy brown eyes.

  ‘She was a friend. I liked Lillian very much. She was very kind. She show me the way when I move in – where to put rubbish, to catch buses, to say English words properly. She always say, “I went, not I go, to shops. I am. Not I is.” I am very sad she is dead. Her children will now be orphanages.’

  ‘Orphans,’ Greg corrected gently.

  ‘Thank you. Yes, orphans. Do you know where they go now?’

  He nodded. ‘Temporary fostering. They’re with a family who look after children in these circumstances until such time as a permanent home can be found for them. Did you ever see their father?’

  Jola shook her head. ‘Lillian never marry him. She say, he is bastard and better off without him. I never see him.’

  ‘Would you know what he looked like if he did visit?’

  ‘Lillian show me a photo when they are young. He is black man, but I never see him and Lillian say she never see him. She never have money from him for children.
She say he hide from responsibility.’

  Greg sipped at the tea and awarded it ten out of ten. A perfect cup of tea, and so much better for being in a china cup. A mug of tea never quite tasted the same. ‘Can I ask you about Lillian’s work?’

  Jola shrugged. ‘Of course. She not hide what she do. But she very discreet and she change job this last year. She no longer give the sex.’

  Greg was surprised at her directness and found it refreshing. ‘And why do you think she stopped? Did she not have men come to her flat?’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied with another shrug, which could only be described as Gallic – head tilted, and shoulders and hands rising. ‘But they not come for the sex. Lillian stopped the sex. She had problem with her . . . how you say . . . she say it to me. I erm . . . I get “the clap”, Jola. She not wear a Johnny one time cos she get more money, and she get the clap. So she no do it any more.’

  ‘Surely that would give her more reason to wear a condom in her business if she carried on?’

  Her head slowly shook from side to side, and she stood up as if to reinforce her argument. ‘She no longer do the sex, cos she get a fright when that happen to her’

  ‘OK, OK. I believe you,’ Greg calmly replied. ‘Can you tell me why she was dressed in clothes that looked like she was working in her old job when we found her?’

  ‘I no idea,’ Jola said, looking a little distressed. ‘She dress nicely when she do her job – black trousers and black top. She give very good massage and she dress nicely when she not do job – jeans, top, nice coat. Even in old job she dress not too sexy. She look after her children and she always a happy mother, never shout at children, never hit them. And they happy, you can tell.’

  After few more questions Greg stood up to take his leave. The last time Jola had seen Lillian was the day before her death, and she was happy and normal and had booked a Haven holiday for the February half-term. Weymouth, she’d told Jola, a seaside holiday for her and the kids. Even though it would be in the winter they’d build snow castles if need be.

  As he made his way down the steps and away from the concrete building the image of Lillian Armstrong’s last choice of clothing filled his mind. She had been as obvious as a red light. Despite Jola’s protest that she had stopped selling sex, Lillian Armstrong had been dressed for business. But with whom, that was the question.

  Chapter twenty

  Heavy rain pelted the windowpanes in the CID suite and thick cloud darkened the sky. The lights were on in the department, even though it was only ten o’clock in the morning. The sound of the rain and the darkness outside made the office feel oppressive, and the noise of the tapping of keyboards, ringing of mobiles and a dozen different voices were giving Greg a headache. Laura Best was back on day shift and her mere presence, even though she had yet to say or do anything annoying, irritated him.

  She was minding her own business and had been at her desk for an hour, working. At what, though? he wondered.

  He looked over her shoulder at her computer screen. ‘What are you looking at this stuff for?’ he asked.

  She turned her head and stared at him. ‘I want you to read this, and then I want to talk to you about something. It’s a thought I’ve been having over the last few days.’

  ‘And what about the stuff you’re meant to be doing? Checking with Lillian Armstrong’s friends about punters that are more dubious than most. Checking to see if they know any of her regulars. We need her mobile contacts, if she has a Facebook page, or Twitter. We know nothing about what she was doing in the hours that led up to her death, or what she was doing in that car park in the first place. These are the things you should be working on, Laura, not looking up some illness. Get with the programme, why don’t you?’

  She smiled, unfazed by his annoyance with her. ‘Take a chill pill, why don’t you?’ she retaliated. ‘This stuff I’m looking at might be the answer to your prayers. I’ve been doing a little checking on Dr Taylor and she’s not as pure as she makes out.

  ‘I’ve talked to some of the staff in A & E and rumour has it she made some almighty cock-up a couple of weeks back and it’s been covered up. The nurse I spoke to reckons she was going to administer the wrong drug – she made some hoo-ha about someone mixing them up. Apparently it would have killed the man if he had been given it.

  ‘And another piece of information I gathered from one of her close friends – Fiona Woods. She said something that got me thinking. She said something along the lines of “it shouldn’t have happened to her again”. I tried to get her to talk, let her think I was being sympathetic.’

  Greg raised an eyebrow at this. He had seen Laura Best’s sympathy in action. He had been on the receiving end.

  ‘And then she said, “I don’t mean literally happen again. It’s just, I thought she’d moved on.” Now what could she have meant by that, I wonder?’

  He could almost see her licking the cream from her lips as she smiled smugly. ‘So I’m going to do a little more digging on our Dr Taylor.’

  ‘And in the meantime, why have you got this stuff up on your screen, about Munchausen syndrome, of all things?’ he answered, no less curtly. He shouldn’t feel protective towards Alex Taylor, but he did. He felt bound to protect her. Laura Best was gunning for the doctor and he had seen her annihilate people before, whether they were innocent or guilty. It didn’t matter to her as long as she got a result.

  ‘Well, let me read it to you, Greg, and then you might not be so snotty.’

  Greg nudged aside Laura’s office chair and lent closer to the monitor screen. ‘No, let’s not. I’ll read it myself.’ Greg quickly scanned the document, which stated that Munchausen syndrome was a psychological disorder, where someone pretends to be ill or deliberately produces symptoms of illness in themselves.

  Greg stared at her in disbelief. This was way below the belt, even for her. ‘Are you seriously suggesting Dr Taylor has Munchausen’s syndrome?’

  ‘I saved the best for last, Greg,’ she said, wearing another smug smile. She clicked the mouse and a new document appeared on the screen. ‘Munchausen by proxy makes for a far more interesting read. I—’

  ‘That’s where the mother makes the child sick,’ he interrupted coldly and sarcastically. ‘You’re barking up the wrong illness.’

  She sighed as if trying to keep calm with a naughty child. ‘Patience, Greg, and all will be revealed. This isn’t just about mothers who make their children sick. It’s about people in caring roles: nurses, doctors, medical professionals who deliberately make their patients sick with the sole purpose to then save them so that they can be praised and revered. It’s also referred to as “playing God”.’

  Greg felt a rush of coldness. He didn’t like the fact that Laura had dug this up. But there was stuff here that could apply . . .

  ‘This is bollocks,’ he snapped. ‘And you’ll be up on a charge for defamation of character if you’re not careful.’

  ‘Is it? I don’t think so, Greg.’

  ‘It was Alex Taylor who told us about the tyre mark on Lillian Armstrong’s jacket. You think she’d do that if she’s just run over the woman? Use her car and then point us in the direction of the weapon?’

  ‘Who said anything about her using her car? She could have used someone else’s, for all we know. Don’t you think it’s a little interesting that she keeps popping up? She’s abducted, attacked. Then her patient, Amy Abbott, is murdered, according to her. Then a message is left on her car. Next she makes a serious drug error where someone nearly dies. And to top it all, now she’s first on the scene at a hit and run. It would tie in nicely to her theory of a mad doctor being on the loose. For someone who is supposed to be innocent, there’s a lot of stuff going on around her. But, if she has got some mental illness like I think she has, this would then all make sense. You could even expect bodies to start mounting up.’

  She swung the chair round and stood up. ‘I intend to investigate her and then we’ll find out if I’m rig
ht or wrong. Oh, and for the record,’ she said in a tone that bordered on insolence, ‘Lillian Armstrong had a Facebook account, full of drivel: what the kids had for dinner, what the kids did at school, what the kids were doing tomorrow. Nothing whatsoever about what she did for a living. Her phone records are presently being checked and her ex, or rather the father of her children, has an alibi for the time of her death. He’s a taxi driver in Southampton and is logged as working that day.’

  Greg stared at the screen long after she’d gone. He felt as if a savage dog had just been unleashed, snapping and snarling and baying for blood, and he couldn’t stop it. Neither could he warn Dr Taylor that it was coming her way.

  Chapter twenty-one

  Nathan broke off a piece of Galaxy and handed it to her. He had taken to sharing his junk food with her as a matter of habit, and Alex had stopped thanking him after the first half a dozen times, as it was becoming annoying to them both.

  ‘I’ll have no teeth left if you keep buying this stuff. And my father the dentist would kill me, seeing as he kept my teeth nigh on perfect till I left home. Can’t you bring in healthier options? Dried fruit, perhaps? A sandwich, maybe. Nuts would be nice.’

  She saw his lips twitch as he carried on writing up his notes. ‘Alex, if you want healthy options you can bring them in. I haven’t got time to make sandwiches or shop for dried fruit. The vending machine in the corridor supplies me with everything I need, and I can get fish and chips or a Chinese on my way home.’

  ‘You’ll end up diabetic if you’re not careful. Or you’ll have a heart attack or kidney problems. You’ll be a food junkie when you’re ninety, with no teeth.’

  She realised he’d stopped writing and wasn’t replying to her after a few silent seconds.

  ‘What?’ she asked as she raised her head and saw him staring at her. ‘What’s with the look? Why are you staring?’

  The doctors’ office was empty except for the two of them, but he still lowered his voice. ‘I recognise the signs. You’re taking something, Alex. And it’s not alcohol. Something is giving you a level of calmness that I don’t think you get by doing yoga or some other kind of torture. Occasionally I hear it in your voice. A little too relaxed, you might say.’