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

by Liz Lawler

  ‘Fiona. She’s worried sick about you. They all are. Even Pamela. She says you had a bit of a breakdown on the day of her wedding. They’re all worried about you and they don’t know how to help.’

  She managed to walk towards his office, one foot blindly in front of the other as she made for the door that would let her back out of his house.

  ‘Let me help you, Alex. Let’s tackle this together.’

  She stopped as she reached the door, aware he was only a step behind. ‘Thank you for letting me collect my things. I need to go to work now.’

  ‘Alex, don’t go. You shouldn’t be working in this state. We can find someone to help you. Caroline would rather you went off sick and got proper help.’

  Dear God, she thought. How many people had he spoken to? How many people were out there analysing her right now? She felt bile rise in her throat and knew she had to get out fast before she disgraced herself.

  ‘I’m going to be late,’ she said woodenly. ‘Don’t see me out.’

  He made one last attempt: ‘I’ll be here when you need me. Please remember that, Alex.’

  She almost flew back along the mud track in her haste to get back to her car. Her hands were shaking as she tried to get the driver’s door open. She had parked close to the hedge to allow access for other cars visiting the practice and her clothes were soaking up the wetness as she pressed against them.

  Finally, she sat in the driver’s seat with the engine off, her clothes wet, her hair dripping again, and the rain pounding the windscreen, making it impossible for her to see out, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. Her heartbreaking cries went unheard and the tears joining the rain on her face went unseen.

  They were all talking about her, all thinking she had gone mad, and she could bear it no longer.

  Chapter thirty-two

  The briefing was a fiasco from beginning to end. Greg wanted to wring a few of the officers’ necks. Some had turned up late, some hadn’t even bothered to turn up at all and the ones that had made it on time had nothing useful to offer. They were all now shifting restlessly in their seats waiting for permission to go. Greg wouldn’t give it.

  ‘So to recap: Lillian Armstrong’s been dead nearly a week and we still haven’t been able to map out her last few remaining hours of life. We haven’t been able to locate a single witness. We have yet to discover the name of even one of her punters. And we still haven’t located the car or the person who killed her?’

  Slow shakes of heads and nonchalant shrugs were given and Greg, furious and unable to stand the lethargy in the room any longer, stood up and banged the table hard.

  ‘A woman is dead! She was thirty-four years old! Wake up to that fact, will you? Someone drove over her and left her to die! Get off your arses and find something. Do something! Talk to her family again. Talk to her friends again. Get her regulars’ names! Talk to the people who live in those flats. She had leather boots on, a red mini skirt on that showed her arse, her tits virtually hanging out. Someone must have seen her. She was not fucking invisible.’

  The two dozen officers in the room lifted their heads in surprise, the sandwiches and rolls, the coffees and canned drinks in their hands, frozen in mid-air. Their senior investigating officer was angry, and it was rare for them to see him this way.

  Greg rarely swore at the officers – there was not often a need to – but this investigation was going nowhere six days on, and he had a horrible feeling that they were slacking because Lillian Armstrong was a prostitute and they felt she didn’t merit their full effort.

  Peter Spencer had slipped into the room and was making his way to an empty chair. Greg turned on him as well. ‘Bit late, aren’t you? We’re just finished and unless you’ve got something concrete to contribute there’s no point in joining us at all.’

  Peter Spencer tapped a finger on a hard-backed envelope. He wasn’t the sort of man to play games, and nor was he interested in scoring points. ‘She wasn’t run over in the parking space where she was found. She was moved into it after she was run over.’

  ‘We know this, Peter,’ Greg said, interrupting the forensic officer. ‘So, she walked, crawled or was dumped into it?’

  ‘No. Because of what else we found, or rather what we didn’t, we have a bit of an anomaly,’ Peter Spencer stated.

  Everyone in the room was now alert and sitting up straight. They all wanted to know what the senior forensic officer was driving at.

  ‘Here’s the thing: we know the cars either side of her were parked there all day. The tyre mark on her jacket has left a good imprint. Yet there is no other impression of that tyre mark leading up to her or driving away from her. It just sits on her chest as if it were painted on. The second thing: there’s no blood elsewhere. Her hand was bleeding heavily, so if she was dragged there, there would be a blood trail, but the only blood found is around the body, and because of that and no tyre mark leading up to her, we have to consider that she was knocked down elsewhere and then dumped into that space.’

  He had Greg’s attention. ‘What if a motorbike drove over her? In that space, I mean?’

  ‘But where’s the tyre marks, Greg? Like I keep saying, there are none leading up to or away from the body. She might not have been knocked down in that car park.’

  ‘Alex Taylor’s tyres should be checked to see if they match the impression found,’ Laura Best suddenly said from her end of the table.

  Greg felt his throat tighten.

  ‘You think she drove over Lillian Armstrong?’ he made himself ask.

  She shrugged innocently. ‘Could be, guv. She might have moved her into that space after knocking her down, in order to confuse us. When we looked at her car that day she’d had it cleaned. She might have run the woman over, realised she’d left evidence and had her car cleaned.’

  ‘You’d need nerves of steel,’ Peter Spencer commented drily.

  ‘She’d know about blood and evidence being left,’ Laura pressed on. ‘She’s a doctor and probably knows more about forensics than any of us lot. It would be simple just to check if the tyres on her Mini match the impression found on Lillian Armstrong.’

  ‘Lillian Armstrong weighed 173 pounds,’ Greg said in a voice that managed to convey amazement, and scepticism at the same time. ‘Dr Taylor is not Superwoman. You expect us to believe she drove over the woman, then carried her or dragged her into her own parking space. And then what? Pops off to get her car cleaned?’

  ‘Yes,’ Laura said confidently. ‘And moving a body for a doctor or a nurse wouldn’t be difficult. They do it all the time using sheets to drag and roll.’

  Greg stood up, gathering his thoughts. ‘But how could she risk the woman being found in the meantime? Unless you’re suggesting she hid her in her boot while she got the car cleaned. But if that’s the case the woman would have died. She’d be dead already when the ambulance got there and there’d be no blood splatter up the wall.’

  ‘All I’m saying is she could have done it. Knocked her down. Wrapped her. Moved her. Taken the wrapping away. The woman then bleeds more and she dies. That leaves Taylor with decisions to make. Leave the body while she gets her car cleaned or else take it with her. But my money’s on her leaving the body. Maybe she even wanted it found by somebody else, taking her out of the picture. But as it happens, she arrives back and it’s still there, so she has to play out her little charade.’

  ‘And what about time of death?’ Peter Spencer butted in. ‘When the ambulance arrived she’d just died.’

  ‘That’s because Dr Taylor said she’d just died!’ Laura said excitedly. ‘She’s a doctor. They’re going to accept her stated time of death.’

  ‘But as you say, Dr Taylor had blood all over her. She would have been seen!’ Greg objected.

  ‘Not necessarily. It’s dark by four. A lot of these car washes are self-service now. You wind down a window, put your money in the slot and drive through. No one need have seen her. Then she comes back and sees an ambulance, so she driv
es away again or she comes back and finds the woman dead as she left her and she can still carry out her little charade of calling for help.’

  Laura was indeed impressive, and Greg felt helpless as she made one argument after the other.

  ‘So why tell us about the tyre mark on the woman’s chest? It doesn’t add up.’

  ‘She had to tell us. She knew we’d find it. This story is a lot more believable than any of her stories,’ Laura answered back. ‘Abduction—’

  ‘I’m confused here,’ Peter Spencer cut in. ‘Why do you think the doctor’s involved in the first place?’

  Greg answered for Laura: ‘DC Best has a theory that Dr Taylor is suffering from some form of Munchausen’s. Creating scenarios to gain attention.’

  ‘It’s been done before,’ Laura argued. ‘Back in October, I met Dr Taylor for the first time. She said she had been abducted, taken to a theatre in the hospital and threatened with surgery or rape and then miraculously her colleagues found her in the hospital car park and brought her into A & E. Unharmed, except for a small bump on her head. No sign of a rape or surgery. We were sceptical to say the least. A couple of weeks later Greg gets called into A & E because she says a patient who just died on her was murdered.’

  ‘Who was that?’ Peter asked.

  ‘The missing nurse, Amy Abbott,’ Greg answered. ‘She was brought in by ambulance haemorrhaging, died shortly afterwards. The pathologist said it was a self-induced abortion.’

  ‘It’s interesting,’ Laura said, ‘that we still don’t know Amy Abbott’s whereabouts while she was missing. No one seems to know where she was. She was alone for five days, with no withdrawals from her account and no reported sightings. Where was she, Greg? Where did that abortion take place? Perhaps Dr Taylor knows.’

  ‘Dr Taylor, and you have checked and confirmed this, was in Barbados when Amy Abbott went missing. Where Amy was in the days leading up to her death we may never know. What we do know is Dr Taylor couldn’t have taken her anywhere because she was four thousand miles away. And Laura,’ Greg said in a cutting tone, ‘in case you haven’t realised, Amy Abbott’s death is not being investigated.’

  ‘I thought Dr Taylor was out shopping in Bristol and came back to find Lillian Armstrong already injured,’ an officer beside Laura piped up.

  ‘So she said,’ Laura snapped. ‘We haven’t checked out her movements or verified her alibi. She says she was in Bristol, but how do we know that?’

  ‘I suppose she could have flown back,’ the same officer said, sounding amused.

  Laura Best turned to him, and for the second time in the last half hour the officers were shocked by a change in someone’s character. Only this time it wasn’t the senior officer surprising them – it was the normally self-controlled Laura Best.

  ‘Don’t dismiss it,’ she said coldly. ‘She can fly a fucking helicopter.’

  Greg’s eyes darted to her face to see if she was looking at him, wondering how she knew this. But the angry woman was concentrating on the officer beside her, leaving Greg in the dark.

  He hadn’t done anything wrong by going out with Alex that day; she was, after all, only a witness, but that wouldn’t stop Laura from trying to cause him trouble. He sensed in her an almost pathological jealousy whenever she mentioned Alex and knew he should tread carefully. He couldn’t stop her investigating Alex Taylor, but he didn’t have to help her cause by letting slip about the outing.

  He directed his final instructions to Peter Spencer. ‘Let’s get the make of the tyre as soon as possible. As soon as we know that, we can move forward.’

  ‘And Dr Taylor?’ Laura asked.

  Greg’s eyes rested on Laura, his voice firm. ‘We do not go near Dr Taylor, unless we find evidence that gives us reason to.’

  Chapter thirty-three

  Richard Sickert was surprised when she showed up on his doorstep, but was quickly welcoming and reassuring when he saw her distress.

  Alex called the department from his sitting room and informed Caroline that she was unwell and couldn’t make it in to work. Caroline seemed to be expecting the call and said it didn’t matter, that the teaching session assigned to Alex could be rescheduled. The junior doctors could do hands-on practice in the department instead. It was more important for her to get better.

  ‘Take some time off, Alex. You need to get yourself properly better. Patrick is very worried about you,’ was her advice, confirming that Patrick had contacted her boss the minute she stepped out of his house. Interfering for her own good, he would no doubt argue. He had made the situation worse by talking to people like Fiona and Pamela. Even if she’d wanted to talk to them herself about it, he’d now made it impossible. They would think the same as him. She needed help. Proper help.

  The peppermint tea was easing the tightness in her chest and slowly she was beginning to calm down.

  ‘Thank you for not turning me away. I’m sorry for intruding on your morning,’ she said to Richard Sickert.

  Today he was wearing jeans and a navy, white and red striped jumper, and on his black and tan golfing shoes she saw bits of grass. He had paperwork out on his desk and a full mug of tea beside it, telling her he had been busy or was about to be before she came.

  ‘I’ll go after I’ve had my tea.’

  ‘There’s no rush. I’m having an indecisive day myself. It’s too wet to do anything outside, and paperwork . . . well, it will probably rain again tomorrow.’

  ‘I just couldn’t think where else to go. Maggie Fielding will get fed up if I keep turning up on her doorstep.’

  He smiled at this. ‘I’m sure she won’t. She doesn’t strike me as the Good Samaritan type unless she wishes to be. Friendships are important, and if Dr Fielding is offering, you should feel confident in accepting.’

  ‘She doesn’t believe what happened to me.’

  ‘Has she said that?’

  Alex nodded. ‘Oh yes. She says it’s completely impossible.’

  ‘That must be upsetting?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Have you asked her what else she thinks?’

  ‘The reason I’m here seeing you is because she thinks it could be some kind of post-traumatic thing. Something in my past, or to do with the work I do.’

  He gave a slight nod. ‘She did say much the same thing to me, but what’s important is what you think. Did anything upset you in the days leading up to the event?’

  ‘I lost a baby that morning.’ She sighed tiredly. ‘A three-month-old baby girl. It was awful. The baby came in blue. Her mum and dad were screaming at anyone and everyone to get their baby breathing again, but she was cold. Ambulance crew should never have brought her in in the first place. It was suspected Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, and the post-mortem findings confirmed that. But once she was with us, the parents thought we could revive her, bring her back to life. Her tiny fingers were already stiffening.’ She sighed again. ‘So yes, something pretty stressful did happen leading up to that event.’

  ‘And what about other stressful times? Anything else that may have triggered a crisis?’

  She stayed mute, unwilling to share the previous year’s experience with him. If she told him, he would immediately form the idea that the two events were related, and that her abductor was only in her mind. On the other hand, she couldn’t keep avoiding the issue. She had to give him the full facts if this disclosure was to help.

  ‘I was attacked last year.’

  His eyes remained calm and his manner unchanged. ‘Is that all you wish to tell me?’

  Tears flooded her eyes and she had to bite down hard on her lower lip to stay in control. After taking a few calming breaths she was ready to talk.

  ‘He didn’t rape me. Just so you know. He didn’t rape me.’

  Richard Sickert nodded and Alex carried on.

  ‘He was an actor shadowing me for a few days to study for the role of a doctor. He had the main part in this medical thriller. My boss put him with me, partly because she was
too busy and partly because he expressed a wish to partner me. He was very pleasant. A charming and intelligent man, who was very courteous to both patients and me. He’d been with me five days and I hadn’t found a problem with him at all. If I’m being perfectly honest, he was a delight to have around.’

  ‘Were you attracted to him?’ Richard Sickert quietly asked.

  She gave a small nod. ‘A tiny bit, I suppose. He was a television star. He was familiar right from the beginning, just from seeing him on the TV, and he was modest and seemed genuinely interested in learning. He borrowed loads of medical books off me. Made me explain medical terms until he completely understood. I suppose I admired him for that. He wasn’t just going to learn some lines and that was that. He was going to be faithful to the character he was playing. Anyway, as I say, it was day five. It was a hot day. That lovely late summer we had. The department was like a furnace, fans switched on, people guzzling water and desperate to get home so that they could lie out in their gardens.

  ‘I was in the major incident room with him. He wanted me to show him the equipment we used and the suits we have to put on when we’re called to a major incident. He had his back towards me while I was trying to struggle into one. Normally, for training purposes, I would have kept my tunic and trousers on underneath the suit, but it was so hot in the room I would have fainted if I’d kept them on.’

  ‘So he turned his back?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I had my back to him as well to give me a bit more privacy. I had the suit hitched to my hips and was trying to get my feet into the heavy-duty boots when suddenly he grabbed me from behind. I couldn’t stand up. I was completely bent over and the suit was slipping down round my ankles.’

  Her eyes screwed shut as she remembered the moment and her heart began to thump unpleasantly. ‘He put his hand down my pants and a hand beneath my bra and then he pressed himself against me. I tried to shove him off, but he leaned his whole weight on my back. ’ She swallowed hard and could feel her body beginning shake. ‘Shit, I don’t want to think about this, I don’t want to remember his hands crawling all over me. I could feel him trying to undo his trousers. I was terrified. Then he touched me . . . I could feel him against my skin. He was dragging my pants down. I struggled to get away, shoving backwards and forwards, and then I fell to my knees. My head was shoved in against the bottom shelves and I was thinking it ludicrous that I was looking at all this medical equipment while he was on top of me. I could feel him . . . I knew it was going to happen . . . I . . .’