The Girl She Wanted: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist Read online

  The Girl She Wanted

  An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist

  K.L. Slater

  Books by K.L. Slater

  The Girl She Wanted

  Little Whispers

  Single

  The Silent Ones

  Finding Grace

  Closer

  The Secret

  The Visitor

  The Mistake

  Liar

  Blink

  Safe With Me

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  Blink

  Hear More From K.L. Slater

  Books by K.L. Slater

  A Letter from K.L. Slater

  Single

  Finding Grace

  Closer

  The Secret

  The Visitor

  The Mistake

  Liar

  Safe With Me

  Acknowledgements

  *

  To my daughter, Francesca Kim x

  Prologue

  Sunday 12 April

  Angus Titchford felt cheered when he pulled open his bedroom curtains at precisely 6.10 a.m.

  He sat on the edge of the bed to watch the glorious sunrise and realised with pleasure that it was going to be the perfect day. He’d been waiting in anticipation for weeks to sow the vegetable seeds in his freshly raked small allotment patch. The beetroot, carrots and leeks would provide him with tasty meals in the summer months, and he’d be able to feed Josh and Jemima with home-grown goodness when they came to visit.

  It was Easter Sunday too, he suddenly remembered. Beth had popped round yesterday with the Troublesome Twins, as he fondly called his five-year-old grandchildren, and they’d bought him a Lindt chocolate rabbit as a treat.

  ‘You’re not allowed to eat it until tomorrow, Grandad,’ Jemima had told him firmly.

  ‘Because you might be sick,’ Josh added gravely.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Angus frowned. ‘Well that’s a bit disappointing.’

  ‘That rule only applies to you two,’ Beth laughed. ‘Grandad’s a grown-up, and besides, he isn’t working his way through a dozen Easter eggs like you are.’

  Angus had ruffled their hair and marvelled, as he often did, how forty-odd years could have flown past so quickly. He could remember quite clearly when Beth, a small child herself, had raced around this very garden clutching her Easter basket and searching high and low for the eggs her mother had hidden amongst the shrubs and flowers.

  His heart squeezed as he thought of Sandy, his dear departed wife. Four years he’d been without her now. Since she’d been gone, he’d felt as though he was just going through the motions. But over the last eighteen months, he’d perked up a bit, started enjoying life again. Pottering around the garden, spending time with the Troublesome Twins, and then he’d taken up bowls, joined the club a couple of streets away. He’d met new people who lived locally, and his game was improving too.

  ‘Dad … are you feeling OK?’ Beth’s concerned voice had brought him back to the moment.

  He’d blinked his moist eyes. ‘Aye, I’m champion, love. Just thinking about you running up and down the garden on one of your mum’s Easter egg hunts.’

  She smiled, laid her hand on his arm. ‘We can do a hunt for these two next year, Dad, how about that? I’m sure you’ll manage to out-fox them with your chocolatey hidey-holes.’

  Angus had nodded and smiled. ‘You’re on. I like that idea.’

  When the sun had risen fully, he stood up from the bed, grimacing as his joints creaked and grumbled. The first ten minutes were the worst, until his body managed to somehow crank itself into order. The old rack was hardly a finely oiled machine these days, but he couldn’t complain. Apart from the usual aches and pains that came with wear and tear, he was relatively healthy, and had so far miraculously managed to avoid the diabetes, ticker trouble and breathing difficulties that many of his bowls club acquaintances had to put up with.

  Downstairs, he made a cup of nice strong Yorkshire tea, put his egg on to boil and buttered his toast soldiers for dipping into the soft yolk.

  Sandy’s voice rang in his ears, as it did regularly throughout the day now. ‘A few grapes and a sliced banana to go towards your five-a-day.’

  ‘Yes, dear. I shall do it now,’ he said mildly.

  Despite often speaking to himself out loud, Angus hadn’t lost his marbles – far from it. He still had all his wits about him, otherwise how was he able to finish the Times crossword every day? He spoke to Sandy because he liked doing it, simple as that. It comforted him to continue the routines they’d shared for forty-five years.

  Sadly, the habit was set to be his demise on that Easter morning.

  Heading for the fridge to get the grapes, he slipped on a wet patch of floor, and the next thing he knew he was lying flat on his back with a breathtaking pain shooting through his hip and leg.

  His first thought was for the egg bobbing away in the pan on the hob. What would happen if the pan boiled dry? His second thought was one of pure annoyance at himself. Only a couple of months ago he’d scathingly waved away Beth’s idea to get a panic alarm installed for emergency situations just like this one.

  He had fallen once before. Sprained his wrist and got away lightly. But now … now this. It was a bad one, he could feel it.

  Very slowly and painfully, he managed to shuffle a few inches at a time towards the hallway, where the phone sat tantalisingly on a small table. It took him nearly fifteen minutes to get there, by which time his forehead was spotted with sweat and he felt nauseous from the pain radiating from his left hip.

  He used his right foot to kick the flimsy leg of the hall table, and the cordless phone tumbled out of its charging base.

  Thirty minutes later, Angus was safely in an ambulance heading for King’s Mill Hospital in the next town. He might be getting on a bit, but he had lots to live for: his garden, his loving daughter and his beautiful grandchildren. Silently he thanked his lucky stars that he’d managed to summon help.

  It was going to be OK now, he felt absolutely sure of that.

  1

  King’s Mill Hospital, Nottinghamshire

  Dr Nathan Mosley groaned as his pager trilled again. He was in the last thirty minutes of yet another gruelling twelve-hour shift. You nev er knew what you were going to encounter when that pager went off. Could be a two-minute signing of paperwork for a routine discharge, or the start of an intense two-hour treatment and monitoring of a patient.

  There was just no telling until you got there.

  Nathan was twenty-nine years old and had almost completed his final year as a medical intern and junior doctor in the accident and emergency department at King’s Mill Hospital in Sutton-in-Ashfield, part of the Sherwood Forest Health Trust.

  He loved the buzz and pace of the emergency wards. Every day felt like he was at the sharp end of saving lives. He could never have envisaged opting for a GP role in a sleepy village like the one he’d grown up in. No, his job here had it all: unlimited adrenaline, an unrivalled sense of daily unpredictability, and many satisfying moments over the course of every shift. His duties could range from giving someone the good news that they wouldn’t lose their badly crushed finger, to spotting a serious medical problem when the patient arrived for some unconnected ailment and referring them for what he knew would be life-saving treatment.

  He’d clawed his way up from humble beginnings and a few of life’s obstacles to get here. Now, he told anyone who would listen that he loved his job. But boy, was it tiring. The A&E department gave new meaning to the word. He was dog-tired most of the time these days, even on his day off. Exhaustion was like a fusty smell that clung to his clothes no matter how often he washed them. It was always there.

  During training, they’d constantly been warned of the toll the shifts took on new doctors, but Nathan could never have imagined just how tired it was possible to get and still carry on working. Not to mention making crucially important decisions that affected hundreds of people’s lives every month.

  He silenced the pager and strode through the waiting area, his eyes scanning the hopeful but weary rows of patients, some of whom looked at him pleadingly, as if he might be here for them. All the usual sights were present: a hastily bandaged arm, a bloodstained rag held up to an eye, a crying child cradled in a mother’s arms, and numerous worried and desperate-looking relatives of the ill and injured. The smell of antiseptic perked him up a bit, at least, and he pushed his light-brown curls out of his eyes as he fixed his gaze on the opposite side of the room to discourage any of the patients from speaking to him, and whooshed through the swinging double doors that led to the emergency wards, his open white coat billowing behind his lanky frame like a magician’s cloak.

  The A&E department was classed as one ward for the purposes of internal organisation, but in actual fact it was split into four arms of patient beds – one male and one female section, and two mixed – that ran from the central nurses’ station. Instantly alert and focused, he saw the point of interest immediately over in Section 2, where a cluster of nurses and auxiliary staff buzzed around a bed at the far end.

  Someone announced his arrival, and Carrie Parsons, the A&E ward manager, rushed towards him, her face tight with concern and tension.

  ‘What have we got here?’ he barked, not yet breaking his stride.

  ‘Male, eighty-two years old, admitted this morning following a fall. Hip fracture, mild concussion. Patient stabilised and monitored ready for transfer to a ward. He’s just gone into cardiac arrest.’

  He remembered Angus Titchford’s admission onto the ward earlier. The supervising clinician had reported that there was no great concern over his condition, but Nathan had looked in on him a couple of times anyway. He was a plucky old chap, self-deprecating about his own clumsiness. He’d rather reminded Nathan of his grandfather, who’d passed away when Nathan had been just twelve years old.

  Nathan had seen the patient just one more time to view his X-ray. Carrie Parsons had assured him she was happy to take over the supervision of Angus’s care until his transfer to another area of the hospital had been completed.

  Nathan stood next to Carrie now and watched the resuscitation team at work, applying the cardiac charges to the patient’s bare chest and then standing back to wait for the shock. A growing discomfort moved up from his solar plexus and lodged itself firmly in his chest. Something wasn’t right here, but he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what.

  He glanced at Carrie, trying to gauge if she too seemed concerned. But her expression was bland as a mask, as if she was simply observing a routine daily procedure. Maybe she had become accustomed to this sort of thing happening.

  Yet this was the second case in the last few months where a patient admitted to the emergency ward with a seemingly fairly minor condition had deteriorated dramatically.

  Nathan recalled the six-month-old baby girl who’d been admitted with a high temperature and vomiting – a suspected nasty viral infection. Following a period of intravenous rehydration, the child had appeared to be recovering; then, completely without warning, her condition had rapidly declined. Urgent tests had shown the rapid onset of respiratory failure and she had died.

  And now Angus Titchford was fighting for his life even though his initial prognosis had been perfectly routine. It was unusual and troubling. Very troubling indeed.

  While the resuscitation team battled to save the elderly man, Nathan plucked the clipboard displaying his information from the bottom rail of the bed. His eyes slid expertly across the myriad of readings and particulars recorded since the patient’s admission. Finally, he found what he was looking for: the heart rate variability chart.

  There had been a worrying ramping up of the heart rate, and palpitations had started, for no apparent reason, less than an hour ago. It was puzzling, because there was no trace of this anomaly when the patient had been admitted, nor was any history of the problem recorded in the notes. Mr Titchford had been treated with appropriate beta blocker medication and the symptoms had initially settled down again. Then, out of nowhere, there had been another massive spike, and now here he was in full cardiac arrest.

  It was unusual, even in an eighty-two-year-old after the shock of a fall. The other case, a few months ago, had been remarkably similar in that serious symptoms had suddenly appeared as if from nowhere, resulting in an irreversible and tragic outcome.

  Nathan knew how carefully the hospital trust protected its reputation. Although transparent policies and procedures were in place encouraging staff to speak up if they witnessed any wrongdoing, he’d heard unofficial stories from other hospitals of how careers could mysteriously stall if people dared to do so.

  He was just six months away from achieving his lifelong dream of qualifying as a full-time A&E doctor. It had been a long, long road and his achievement would taste all the sweeter for the struggle. He’d already booked a dream trip to Santorini with his fiancée, Suzy, to celebrate both this milestone and his thirtieth birthday. She didn’t know yet but he planned to use the holiday to scout for possible wedding venues. Life was good and full of promise, but Nathan couldn’t fully enjoy it with guilt twisting in his guts, lethal as razor blades.

  He had to do something.

  The medical team leader stood back and raised his hand for the activity to cease. The faces around Nathan faded out. It was possible the feeling he had in his chest right now was just his imagination, but he seriously doubted it. Something was wrong. He could feel anxiety pulsing and expanding inside him.

  First, do no harm. The Hippocratic oath he’d pledged echoed once again in his ears.

  If he spoke up and raised the alarm, then his colleagues’ jobs could be at stake. An unpleasant inquiry might ensue, and there was no guarantee he would be proven right. There might be no wrongdoing to be found and he’d be left a leper amongst his own team.

  And yet the feeling in his chest grew stronger, like a bad case of indigestion. He knew he couldn’t live with himself if he just stood by and watched another patient die. Whatever the cost to his own career might be, he had to take action.

  He took a deep breath in and released the air slowly before turning on his heel and leaving the ward. He ignored Carrie Parsons calling out his name, asking him to return.