YOU'RE DEAD: Three Gripping Murder Mystery Suspense Novels Read online

  YOU’RE DEAD

  DIANE M. DICKSON

  Published by

  THE BOOK FOLKS

  London, 2015

  © Diane Dickson

  Comprising three novellas by Diane Dickson available exclusively in this kindle edition:

  ANGEL OF MERCY

  WHATEVER HAPPENED TO MRS BOULTON?

  TAINTED ROSES

  Out now! Exciting new suspense fiction by Diane Dickson available for just £0.99/$0.99 for a limited time on Kindle:

  Buried secrets, hidden regrets and crime uncovered.

  Many years ago, Lily and her partner covered up a crime. They took something precious that didn’t belong to them and lost it. Lily has had to live with the consequences of her actions until she is given the chance to repair the damage she has done.

  This leads Lily down a dangerous path into the past. Disorientated, paranoid and scared, she uncovers a far graver crime. What she contemplates next is unthinkable.

  http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B073V1GRTT

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B073V1GRTT

  Polite note to the reader

  This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.

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  We hope you enjoy the book.

  Table of Contents

  ANGEL OF MERCY

  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

  WHATEVER HAPPENED TO MRS BOULTON?

  Prologue

  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

  TAINTED ROSES

  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

  Also available by Diane Dickson on Kindle

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  ANGEL OF MERCY

  Chapter 1

  Right from when she was a little girl Phillipa had known, just known that she would be a nurse; she would hold the hand of the dying, welcome the newborn and every little thing in between. The entrance and admission tests to university were easy for her because she was confident, driven and sure; no second thoughts or night-time angst. She was born to be a nurse, she would train to be a nurse and in the fullness of time she would be a nurse.

  The university was attached to a wonderful teaching hospital with a world-renowned reputation. It would look great on her CV as she made her inexorable way upwards. She was a little regretful that she was no longer required to wear a cap and crisp white apron with scissor chain attached, but she made a supreme effort with the trouser uniform and always appeared smart, clean, fragrant and fresh. At last the day arrived when she was actually “on duty” – not observing or doing induction but actually nursing. Her first days were to be spent in a medical unit suitably provided with consultants, the usual range of junior doctors in the typical state of exhaustion as befitted their status. Nurses both on the staff and agency, of various sizes and types, and of course a complete range of competency. Add to the mix several therapists of different orders, clerical bods, caterers, cleaners and management types who were best avoided but at all costs kept sweet. It was her dream – a veritable little township of the infirm.

  The only fly, as it were, in the sparkling bottles of well-kept ointments were the patients. When Phillipa was a little girl her dollies had slept in serried ranks, their eyes closed, their nighties clean and tidy and all their coughs and splutters imagined. Now though in this lovely well-appointed modern unit Phillipa discovered that there were patients who were incontinent, disappointingly disturbed and even on occasion impatient as patients. They wouldn’t stay in bed, they wanted to sit in chairs, walk about, eat biscuits. They wore an assortment of ill-matched garments. They littered the lockers and tables with what could only be described as crap. Of course Phillipa knew that the reason for this was simply shoddy management of wards and units. Patients were after all only sick people; people react to authority and the “Nurse in Charge” was that relevant authority. It was unreasonable that patients were allowed to simply please themselves as to their conduct as if they were at home or in some rather mediocre hotel. She silently judged the smiling ward supervisors and found them sadly wanting.

  They didn’t seem to mind when the patients kept bits of their lunch “for later” instead of allowing the kitchen staff to clear it all away. They weren’t bothered when patients wandered around sitting on each other’s beds and leaving books and newspapers lying about. This was not the way a hospital should be run, she knew that, but she also knew that as a junior nurse she was pretty much the lowest of the low and could do nothing except as she was instructed. She did her best, bit her tongue and kept her own council tidying, clearing and regulating until she exasperated the patients and irritated the other nurses who were quite happy to nurse amongst what she could only think of as chaos.

  Chapter 2

  Everyone noticed how dedicated Phillipa was, never failing to go the extra mile for the sake of her patients. Smiling and pleasant even in the most trying of circumstances and calm in a crisis, she was, everyone agreed, a gem. But deep down our little Florence Nightingale was struggling. This was not the way it was supposed to be, there were no flowers in the wards anymore, something to do with infections and allergies. The patients didn’t seem to want to sit and hold her hand and cling to her in their confusion and fear, they wanted to know what the pills were for and why they couldn’t have a glass of lager with their steak pies. It wasn’t at all the experience she’d imagined but she hunkered down and carried on.

  Her first night duty was better than the preceding days. It was hushed if not exactly quiet and although the patients were not all sleeping they were at least confined to their beds. Due to shortage of staff the nurses staggered their breaks and after several nights under supervision she at last found herself alone. Sitting at
the central desk she surveyed the unit under her sole care. The lights were dimmed and the white sheets gleamed spectrally. The beds were all reasonably tidy, one or two of the older women snored but that wasn’t too much of a disturbance, at least they were neat.

  All except for the blasted old biddy in the corner.

  She had been in the ward for over a week, she was very old, very cantankerous and immensely demanding. She had no nightwear of her own and so was clothed in hospital issue. She refused to fasten the ties and so the gown flapped loosely around her wrinkled and wasted limbs, exposing glimpses of her belly and hips. She drooled and she spilled her food and consequently the gown was marked, stained and rancid. This woman had a nasty pair of old man’s slippers and a large brown plastic handbag which she refused to allow out of her sight. In short, she was a blot on the landscape of the unit.

  Phillipa walked through the dimness to stand at the end of Mrs Bowling’s bed. There were tissues on the floor. The nasty slippers had been separated, one of them was deep underneath the frame amongst other detritus, a piece of orange peel and a crust from the tea time meal. The other slipper was under the bedside chair. The plastic handbag was on the bed beside the pillow. Mrs Bowling’s hand was wrapped round the splitting and peeling handle.

  Phillipa drew nearer. The hospital gown gaped at the neck showing wrinkly grey skin at the throat and just a glimpse of the saggy old breasts. Phillipa leaned over to draw the covers up. She was overwhelmed by the smell; it took her breath away and made her gag. There was an undertone from the spilt tea time casserole drying on the covers and the nightie, and overlaying that was the unmistakable stench of urine and yes, faeces. Mrs Bowling had become doubly incontinent, had stained and soiled the bed and was fast asleep in the middle of it all.

  Nurse Phillipa drew back, her hand to her mouth. She looked on this vision of chaos and contamination. She tutted. Dear, oh dear, oh dear. This was unacceptable, this was not at all how a hospital should be. Appalled, she turned to make her way to the linen room and fetch the wherewithal to change the bed and make all sweet and fresh again. Well, as sweet and fresh as it was possible to make this malodorous and unwholesome old lady. She paused and looked back at the bed. Was there any real point to it? She could change it all now and of course in no time at all it would be creased and stained and messy all over again.

  Mrs Bowling must be so unhappy, so uncomfortable. All wrinkled and furrowed up and, if she could just see herself, drooling and snoring. It just wasn’t fair to leave her like this, the poor old thing. Surely no-one would wish to be seen in this condition.

  She glanced around the four bedded cubicle. Two beds were empty and the patient in the other one was heavily sedated. She checked the clock. The other staff would be coming back in just over ten minutes. She reached out and picked up the spare pillow that was resting on the chair. She helped Mrs Bowling to regain some of her dignity. She saved her from any more untidiness and discomfort. The old woman struggled a little but she was weak and really it was probably just an instinctive reaction and it didn’t take long, not long at all.

  When the others came back, help had already been sent for, and between them Phillipa and a nurse from the ward next door were washing and tidying and making all sweet and neat. Poor old Mrs Bowling, they all agreed. Then again, she had been very poorly and lonely, and what was there for her to carry on for with? No relatives and nobody to take an interest. No, all in all her death was probably for the best.

  Chapter 3

  It all worked out very well. Poor Mrs Bowling was tidily in the morgue and, in the absence of relatives, would be collected and disposed of in a very satisfactory way. There had been no inconvenient questions because she had been very sick and therefore her demise had been expected. The overtired and under-interested houseman said that it seemed that Nurse Phillipa had done everything perfectly, so all’s well that ends well and all that.

  They tidied and cleared up. The nasty old slippers and the oversized, brown plastic handbag went into the black plastic bin for disposal. Soon the minimal fuss was over, the bed had been washed and disinfected and made up with crisp white sheets and freshly laundered blankets and Phillipa took the refuse to the skip. As she was about to throw it away it occurred to her that no-one had checked for spectacles or anything else that should be recycled, so she popped on a pair of latex gloves and tipped the contents out onto the top of the big bin.

  Rubbish, just rubbish. Phillipa tutted – honestly, the way she had carried on you would have thought that Mrs Bowling had the crown jewels in there. There were some filthy handkerchiefs, a couple of old sticky mints seeping through their wrappers and an envelope of dog-eared and discoloured photographs of people in very old-fashioned brown clothes. She picked them up in her finger tips and thrust them into the bin.

  She didn’t put the big packet of legal papers and house deeds into the bin though. She popped them into her locker for safe keeping along with that surprisingly large envelope of money. Just in case someone should come looking for them.

  Chapter 4

  Thursday and a day off. The sun was shining, the air was thick with the scent of flowers and alive with the chirping and twittering of Spring happy birds. It was a perfect day for a walk.

  As she was out and heading that way, Phillipa thought that it would be just as well to visit the house referred to in the deeds that had been in the old brown handbag. She had found keys along with the deeds, and maybe she could do a good deed here and just make sure that all was in order, no starving cat or gas oven left on.

  As she strolled down the tree-lined streets Phillipa did so admire the neat brick drives, smart paintwork and well-tended gardens of these old houses. Many of them were converted into flats which, although that was a shame, at least they were well-appointed and beautifully maintained. Just the sort of place that Phillipa would like to have as her address. She sighed, maybe one day when she was a senior nurse or nurse manager and the money had improved. A dream to cling to in these difficult days when things were just a teeny bit less than she had hoped.

  Reaching Lime Walk she glanced down at the paper in her hand: number 72. Amongst all the smart villas there it stood like a carbuncle on the neck of a movie starlet. Overgrown, unpainted, untidy and grim. The wrought iron gates were pitted with rust, the lovely stone wall was losing its mortar and the paintwork was so old that it was difficult to decide just what colour the front door had been.

  Pushing open the gate she carefully picked her way through weeds and overgrown shrubs which encroached the cracked and uneven pathway. The key worked fine and the front door swung back on the old hinges with only the smallest of squeaks. Entering the dim hallway she drew a handkerchief from her bag and held it to her nose. The smell was unpleasant but not overpowering, the typical smell of a house left too long without airing. She pushed aside the little frisson of guilt. After all she was just being a responsible citizen and making sure all was well until someone turned up to claim the old lady’s belongings. Ah, yes she must remember to hand the papers in to the office at the hospital or else no-one would know that the old lady had any property. Yes, she would get on to that as soon as she could, but in the meantime best to take a look around and make sure all was safe.

  It was huge. Compared to the little 1940s semi that had been Phillipa’s family home it was massive. She opened the first door and entered a living room. The heavy drapes were closed so she pulled them apart slightly to let in the spring sunshine.

  It was a large room, the furniture was old, dusty and dimmed by time but it was fine, really superb. There were two settees that had been covered at some time with lemon damask that was now sadly decayed and frayed and three chairs had suffered the same fate. There was, however, a lovely old dresser in the corner with ornaments and glassware struggling to be seen behind the dusty glass. There was a writing desk and several little round tables. The central light was a chandelier which dripped muddy crystal icicles and table lamps with spoiled and tattered shade
s.

  Back in the hallway Phillipa was captivated. Just like something in a film, the house was trapped in the past. She moved through the downstairs rooms. Two more, another sitting room and a dining room furnished with heavy oak. At the back of the hallway she opened the kitchen door.

  This was obviously where old Mrs Bowling had spent her time. There was a battered settee in the corner with grimy blankets and cushions indicating its use as a bed, and dishes climbed a ceramic mountain in the sink. Everywhere was grime and grubbiness. Phillipa sighed and moved on.

  Chapter 5

  Upstairs six large bedrooms sulked in various states of dust and despair. Curtains were tattered and filthy and mattresses fit only for the skip, but this clearly had been a beautiful, grand home. It was so sad and neglected it was heartbreaking, it really was.

  As Phillipa pulled the front door closed and bent her head to put the key back in her bag she was startled by the appearance of a pair of black shoes and the bottom of a pair of jeans there on the path and filling her eyeline. The following conversation had a mind of its own, just upped and ran with no help from her.

  “Hi there. I was wondering if everything was okay with Mrs B.”

  “Oh, you made me jump. Sorry, hello, I’m Phillipa.” Her hand was waggled gently by the suburban housewife type standing before her.

  “Is Mrs B any better? I have been meaning to go and visit but you know how it is, time goes on and before you can blink another week has gone by. Just exactly who are you incidentally?” The question creased the smooth well-moisturised brow.

  “Erm Mrs Bowling’s niece. I’m afraid that she has passed on.”

  “Niece! I thought she didn’t have any relatives.”

  “Well she wasn’t really my aunt, you know it was one of those old friends of the family sort of things, always called her auntie sort of stuff.”