The Paramedic's Daughter Read online

  The Paramedic’s Daughter

  Tara Lyons

  Contents

  Also by Tara Lyons

  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

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2019 Tara Lyons

  The right of Tara Lyons to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2019 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Also by Tara Lyons

  The DI Hamilton Series

  In The Shadows ( Book 1)

  No Safe Home ( Book 2)

  Deadly Friendship ( Book 3)

  The Stranger Within ( Book 4)

  Praise for Tara Lyons

  Tara has given us a dark plot with depth and intrigue, and mystery while being gritty it is a fantastic easy to read novel, with edge of your seat moments.

  JJ Bookworm – Amazon Reviewer

  In short: Crikey. Blimey. Pulse racing. Brilliant

  Nellie Williams – Amazon Reviewer

  Wow. What a captivating read. I couldn’t put it down.

  Yep, I love a good crime story. However, I was getting annoyed with myself, for not being able to guess who did the crime.

  The story then delves into something deeper, that I do know about. This really piqued my interest. Just had to read until the end.

  Fantastic story.

  Lin Robertson – Amazon Reviewer

  I have to say that Tara out wit my Miss marple skills just when I thought I knew who the killer was, bang there was another shocker thrown in! Very clever I have to say. This book will have you guessing until the end I can tell you that

  Shell Baker – Goodreads Reviewer

  A stunning solo debut from Tara Lyons! Tara's writing sent me up several garden paths only for me to find huge piles of red herrings!! The story made me think about it when I wasn't reading; I just wanted to get back to it to read more and find out who the cocky killer is. It's still making me think a day after I've finished.

  Claire – Goodreads Reviewer

  Tara Lyons has brought yet another cracking story to the table.

  Susan Hampson – Goodreads Reviewer

  For Laura

  My personal paramedic, always on hand to navigate me through the technical side of things, and my cheerleader from the start.

  Prologue

  The first time a stranger died in my arms, I cried myself to sleep for a week. It doesn’t matter what you’ve learnt, or who they are, or the circumstances that led you both to that point. What matters is that you didn’t save them. And it’s your job to save them. It’s my job.

  This was always what I wanted to do with my life. It was my calling – like a nun, I suppose, but without any religious connotation. I’m not a religious person, though I was raised as a Catholic and went to a Catholic school, but when the time comes to choose for yourself, you have to determine what kind of person you are… and want to be. I’ve seen so much death and destruction in my life, it’s hard to believe any god, any almighty being, could make a world where there is so much pain and tragedy and suffering – a lot of which is caused largely by human conflict. But I’m not here to preach.

  Anyway, it started for me in 1983 when I broke my ankle. The potential frailty of the human body is what first attracted me, and over the years my fascination flourished steadily. As I grew into a woman, I soon became interested in people as much as with medical science.

  Why do we cry when we see blood, even if we don’t feel any pain?

  Why do people punch and kick others, delighted when they summon a bruise to the flesh or even knock them clean out?

  How can some people walk away from a four-car collision with merely a scratch, but others can innocently trip over, bang their head and die instantly?

  How do cancer and dementia and multiple sclerosis attack people’s bodies in such different ways that it gives each of them a completely unique quality – or lack thereof – of life?

  Most importantly, by the age of eighteen, I wanted to know: what can I do to help?

  And that was it, that was my calling. I knew I wanted to be in the middle of the storm, rescuing people who couldn’t save themselves, bandaging up the wounded and sending them on their merry way again, bringing babies into the world when their mummies couldn’t make it to the hospital after their waters broke in the local supermarket, and helping an elderly person after a fall.

  It all sounds so easy, with happy endings worthy of any big-stage musical, doesn’t it? To believe that I could save the world one 999 call at a time. That was teenager Abi, the one who saw the good in people, the one who believed all bad things happened accidentally. I could cope with looking at and handling the blood and broken bones, the tears and seeping flesh, therefore I could deal with it all. But it’s amazing the clarity that comes with just being on the job for one week. Not the years of studying and exams, but that first week of shadowing a team of two in an ambulance.

  No amount of medical training prepares you for the crime scenes: the beaten children, the raped women, the boys gunned down. No amount of CPR practice prepares you for the heartache: the stillborns, the suicides, the mental health patients who have no one to turn to and, more often than not, nowhere to go. No amount of experience prepares you for the everyday juggling of emotions that comes with interacting with a multitude of people in London, a city tiptoeing on the edge of crumbling as the National Health Services calls out for help.

  And no amount of professionalism trains you for the personal tragedy you’re yet to face. When you’re used to rescuing people, and then your world comes crashing down around you, who rescues you? When your actions cause devastation to others, and you find yourself all alone, who saves the paramedic?

  Chapter 1

  I jump in the driver’s seat and start the engine while Adele takes the details of our next call-out. We’ve only been on duty for three hours, but we’ve already had two jobs and couldn’t assist with a further eight – such is the way on a daily basis in London. I take a left out of our base, Camden Ambulance Station, and flip on the blues as I turn right on Fleet Road. The swirling emergency lights and piercing buzz of the siren captures everyone’s attention and has the desired effect; cars imm
ediately veer to the right and give me a clear passage down the narrow road.

  When I first started this job, it amazed me the power my ambulance held as I cruised through the city. Pedestrians would stop to see which direction I was headed in, perhaps worried for their own family – as so many are when they hear the call of the sirens – and cars would go out of their way to mount the kerb, so as not to hold me up en route to my next patient. But, almost seventeen years later, the amazement has faded slightly – not least because I’ve come across some arseholes who refuse to move out of the way. How would they feel if it were their mother, father or child we were trying to save? I am eternally grateful to those who do their best to let us get through. Like today, dashing past Hampstead Underground tube station and then on towards sheltered accommodation on Hollycroft Avenue. We’re just seven minutes out from tending to an elderly man, living alone, who fell in his kitchen.

  ‘So, Abi, any romances started that I should know about?’ Adele nonchalantly asks as I manoeuvre through the high street.

  Rolling my eyes, I reply, ‘Not since you last asked me two days ago.’

  ‘Well, you know, I can’t keep up with such a social butterfly as yourself.’ I chortle at the sarcasm, but she continues anyway. ‘Hot dates here, parties there. How do you find the time for these shifts?’

  ‘Can we not have another day taking the piss out of my social life?’

  ‘Non-existent social life, you mean,’ Adele replies, and, from the corner of my eye, I see the huge smile on her face. ‘I’m sorry. You know I’m winding you up. I just think you need to get out there and enjoy life.’

  Adele’s words come from a place of love and friendship, but I can’t stifle my frown. ‘I do have a life,’ I protest, but begin to stutter. ‘I-I mean, I do enjoy life. But I have a child, Adele, and Rose is my world. She’s my life.’

  She sucks the air through her teeth and folds her arms. ‘Woman, please. Your child is a full-grown adult and enjoying her own life at university. You should take a leaf out of her book. She probably goes on more dates than you.’

  Probably, I echo in my mind. More like definitely. But I don’t have time to voice my thoughts as our attention is diverted to the call-out on our radio.

  ‘Change of plan. We have to get over to Regent’s Park,’ Adele calls out.

  ‘Our ETA is one minute to the old chap on Hollycroft Avenue,’ I reply, knowing in my heart there’s no point. It’s not the first job we’ve been called away from because a higher priority emergency came through; there’s just not enough of us to meet the demand of the calls.

  ‘Patient at Hollycroft is breathing and on the line with one of our operators.’ The dispatcher’s voice comes through the radio clearly. ‘You’re needed on Park Road, The London Central Mosque. Tango Alpha.’

  ‘Shit,’ I whisper at the operator’s use of code.

  In the London Ambulance Service, we use a secret set of codes when communicating with one another. Some are used as warnings for what we can expect when we arrive at a scene. Tango Alpha – or TA – is a code we all know well… and one we all hope we never have to hear.

  I pull a sharp U-turn in the middle of the road, aware of my personal mobile vibrating against my thigh. I ignore it and slam my foot on the accelerator to race down Finchley Road. The built-up traffic makes the journey slightly difficult here, despite the effort of fellow drivers to move, and our ETA to the scene of the terrorist attack is currently thirteen minutes.

  Once Adele has updated our movements, she uses the iPad to familiarise us with the breaking news. Given the location, and the current state of affairs in London, it’s sadly no surprise to learn that a suspected terrorist has hit the city.

  ‘And so, the mosque is our rendezvous point for the TA. So that’s where it all started?’ I ask, making an assumption.

  Adele mumbles incoherently for a few moments, reading over the news article and even watching a short clip that has already been posted on YouTube. While waiting, I notice my fingers have gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my pointy white knuckles look as though they’re ready to break through my skin.

  ‘Hmm… no, looks like that’s where the TA ended,’ she finally answers. ‘A bomb exploded at Baker Street Underground Station and the suspect was seen fleeing the scene in a white van, speeding away into oncoming traffic, before crashing at Hanover Gate just yards short of the mosque…’

  Adele’s voice trails off, and we’re both left to our thoughts about the potential victims at the scene. The fact we’re being sent to the mosque means crews have already been deployed to the Underground station. My heartbeat increases, and I gently tap on the van’s horn. The traffic parts and I’m suddenly aware of how dry my mouth is. Attending any crime scene is horrific, but this… this racing into the dangerous unknown, so blind to the terrors you’re about to face… I have no words for it.

  Park Road, a usually busy and built-up street in London, already resembles a ghost town and it feels eerily quiet as I slow down the van. A uniformed police officer stands in front of a strip of crime-scene tape laced from one side of the street to the other. Cars have been abandoned and pedestrians are peppered along the pavement; some are sat on the kerb crying. Despite the window being open, I can’t hear them. Others are huddling into each other, their faces pale and eyes wide and red-rimmed.

  We’ve entered the aftermath.

  ‘Continue on,’ Adele instructs, and drags me from my personal reverie.

  I turn to her, realising my foot had automatically slid across to the brake and she’s already spoken to the uniformed officer stood at the passenger window. The tape is pulled back, and we’re directed from officer to officer, their hand signals urging us forward, until we can turn left at Hanover Gate.

  An orchestra of sound comes back to me, crashing into my ears like an angry ocean: distant sirens, a woman crying, commands shouted, the metal clink of a rifle, a helicopter’s blades roaring overhead. There’s one voice that blasts through it all, like a beacon. He details the scene and instructs us that it’s safe to move forward and do our jobs. There are two men on the ground. Both have been shot. A surge of adrenaline pumps itself through my veins and my body moves into automatic action without a second thought.

  As we’re the first crew on the scene, Adele should stay with the van and report back while I triage both patients – prioritising who needs help first. But after quickly assessing the situation, and the obvious need for urgency, I ignore protocol.

  ‘Take the victim closest to us,’ I instruct Adele as we both grab our response bags from the ambulance. ‘I’ll check the status of the one furthest from us, near the mosque entrance.’

  She gives me a sharp nod and disappears without a word. The repeated vibration against my leg is distracting and, as I turn and walk back along the side of the van, I pull my mobile from my pocket. Rose’s name glares at me, just as I can imagine my only daughter glaring at me while she impatiently waits for an answer. Her worry must be immense, I get that, but I don’t have the time to reassure her just yet. I sling the phone onto the passenger seat, slam the door shut and run double time to the blood-soaked body lying thirty or so feet away from me.

  Chapter 2

  The police have cleared the area of any danger. I know that to be a fact, because they wouldn’t have let us this far into the crime scene if they hadn’t. They have a duty of care to us before we can attempt to save anyone’s life. Despite that knowledge, I’m on edge as I work on my patient. Although my hands don’t shake as I cut away at his cloak – a long item of clothing that was obviously once a brilliant shade of white but has now been tainted crimson with his blood – there is a sensation in me that builds and builds, like cement filling my organs. I can’t help taking deep breaths, slowly inhaling and exhaling as I tend to the male victim’s injuries.

  The multiple gunshots to his stomach mean my gloved hands are already covered in his blood. With him lying on his back, it’s difficult to tell if there are any ex
it wounds. I can count at least three entry wounds. There are probably more. The victim’s guttural groans bring my attention to his face, to his eyes rolling into the back of their sockets and his lips moving. I crouch closer to him, trying to make out what he’s whispering, and that’s when I notice the marksman, dressed in a black bulletproof uniform, with a rifle aimed at me and my patient.

  ‘Don’t help me.’ The man on the ground grabs me and murmurs into my ear, his lips grazing against it.

  ‘Sorry, sir?’

  ‘I am… supposed to die. It is my destiny,’ he says, and releases the hold he has on my shirt.

  As my patient begins to lose consciousness, his eyelids slowly fluttering open and closed, my hands mechanically mop away what I can of the gushing blood and I tend to his injuries. I dress the gunshot wounds as best I can, now counting five spread around his abdomen and chest – it’s a wonder he’s still alive at all. I grab an oxygen mask from my bag, pull at the elastic strap and move to place it over his head. He grabs my wrist. A collective gasp from the surrounding crowd echoes around me and I hear the metallic clinks of more than one cocking-lever being made ready from the rifles around me. It’s also in that moment I notice there’s more than one weapon trained on us.