The Fake Date Read online

  About the Book

  The Fake Date

  by Lynda Stacey

  Nine hours and eleven minutes …

  That’s how long it’s been since Ella Hope was beaten to within an inch of life and left for dead.

  She lies, unable to move and praying for somebody to find her, as she counts down the minutes and wonders who could have hated her so much to have hurt her so badly.

  Was it the man she went on a date with the previous evening, the man linked to the deaths of two other women? Or somebody else, somebody who wants her out of the picture so much they’re willing to kill?

  Whoever it is, they will pay. All Ella has to do first is survive …

  Stories that inspire emotions

  www.rubyfiction.com

  Contents

  About the Book

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Thank you!

  About the Author

  More from Lynda Stacey

  Introducing Ruby Fiction

  More from Ruby Fiction

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright information

  Preview of Tell Me No Secrets by Lynda Stacey

  Chapter One

  ‘Nine hours and eleven minutes,’ Ella whispered as she stared continually at the watch that lay beside her. Its face was cracked. Its leather strap was broken. It was just close enough to see, but far enough away to prevent her from touching it. She had counted each time the second hand moved, watched the luminous dial as each minute had clicked forward and then quietly sobbed as the minutes slowly turned into hours.

  The minute hand clicked forward. Nine hours and twelve minutes. That’s how long it had been since she’d felt the first blow, the first agonising pain, the constant barrage of punches that had rained down upon her from every direction and then, once the onslaught had ended, had come the realisation that she’d been left for dead; lying dirty and broken in the muddy undergrowth of the North Yorkshire moors, waiting to be found.

  She tried to reach for the watch – but her hand didn’t respond. Her fingers were twisted in a peculiar shape and she tried not to look at them for fear that the sight would make her vomit. She tried not to move at all as bile rose in her throat and nausea assailed her each and every time that she did.

  Strangely though, she realised that she could just about wiggle her toes. They moved awkwardly, slowly and made a dull squelching noise as she eased them back and forth through the cold, slimy mud. Until, without warning, something sharp caught against her toe, which for a moment made her stop moving. But then she thought about the pain, and slowly moved her toe back and forth again, taking a strange pleasure in the fact that she could feel anything at all.

  Her shoes? What had happened to her shoes?

  It seemed an odd thought, quite irrelevant given her current state. She had no idea why the shoes would concern her so much. They should have been the least of her worries. But they’d been expensive and she’d really liked them. Unlike her dress, which was a typical, little black dress. One of the only going out dresses she’d possessed and, if she were honest, it hadn’t been nearly as flattering as she’d have liked. She knew that it was ruined, but she didn’t care. What she did care about was that the remnants of the dress now hung from her prone body, leaving parts of her naked and exposed.

  It was October and the rain had poured persistently for days. She’d trembled relentlessly throughout the night, and at times the trembling had turned into violent shudders that had passed through her whole body. But for some reason, at that moment in time, she no longer seemed to feel the cold, nor did any part of her seem to hurt. Every inch of her had become numb and if it hadn’t been for the shaking, she’d have actually thought it all a horrendous nightmare, one that she couldn’t wake herself up from. She no longer felt anything, except a deep, disturbing sadness, a longing for what she’d had. For what she hadn’t had. For what she’d left behind and for those who would grieve for her, if or when her body was ever found.

  Ella thought of her parents. She tried to picture their faces. They were the two people who’d always been there for her. They were the people she’d relied upon the most and she fondly remembered the hours that she’d sat on her father’s knee. He’d read the same books to her, over and over again. Then, in direct contrast, she thought of the snuggling with her mother. Of how they’d repeatedly watched the same musical films, one after the other, every Sunday afternoon. They’d both giggled and sang at the top of their voices, not caring if the neighbours could hear; a fond smile crossed her lips. Those times had been her happy times. Her parents had always given her a life full of love. Even though they hadn’t always been able to give her everything she’d have liked, she knew that she’d had all that they could afford. And for that Ella had always felt a deep sense of gratitude and had known never to complain.

  Yet now, lying there in the dirt, the mud and the rain, she suddenly realised that although they hadn’t had much money when she was growing up, they had been rich in so many other ways. Ella’s mind drifted to the many Christmases, birthdays and happy days they’d shared. The Christmas carols they’d sung. The picnics. The football, rounders, cricket and Monopoly they’d played. Her father’s overwhelming competitive nature and the way her mother would always try to help her win.

  Looking deeper into her childhood, there had always been Sarah too. She was practically family, the closest she’d had to a sister and had lived next door since preschool. From the minute she’d moved in, they’d become inseparable to the point that Ella couldn’t think of a single day that they hadn’t spoken, texted or communicated in some way or another.

  A deep, disturbing sob suddenly left her throat. The memories made her heart thump wildly. The violent trembling once again began to overtake her body and, even though she was lying on the ground, her mind began to rotate like a fairground ride, which spun at speed and wouldn’t stop.

  Ella tried to take control and took in a deep breath. ‘Focus,’ she tried to whisper as she glanced up and towards the sky. She’d prayed all night for daylight, yet even though it had been just about an hour since the sun had fully risen and the rain had stopped, all she saw were dark, depressing clouds that swirled unpredictably above her head, making her wonder if the darkness had been preferable. Between each dark cloud she noticed small, clear patches of sky, as diamante sparks of daylight tried to force their way through. Each sparkle of light gave her a moment of hope; each tiny glimmer of
daylight gave her just a little assurance and each minute she stared at her dirty, cracked watch was another minute she’d survived and another minute she hoped that she was closer to being found.

  A small, black, slimy beetle crawled over her fingertips, making her immediately try to flick the fingers that refused to move. She hated the thought that something could crawl over her and she had no power to remove it. She tried to scream. But couldn’t. Her mouth was dry, her lips had begun to split and the taste of congealed blood had settled on her tongue. Spitting, she felt a globule of blood drop unceremoniously down her cheek, making her retch repeatedly, causing a new, and more intense pain to sear through her body. The numbness had suddenly gone; once again everything hurt. She was now too afraid to move, but began to sob into the dirt until her stream of tears began forming her own mini puddle in the wet, cold mud.

  Her clutch bag lay in the distance. From within it she heard her mobile spring to life. It was the first real noise she’d heard for hours and she closed her eyes as she listened to the tune. She wished it were close enough to be answered. But then she began to wonder who would have called her so early, especially on a Saturday. ‘Please let it be someone who realises I’m missing,’ she thought as she allowed the corner of her mouth to lift, just a fraction. It was an attempt at a smile as she tried to be brave, but then she closed her eyes and tried to imagine that she could have answered the call. That she could have shouted for help and that someone, somewhere, could have tracked her phone in order that they might find her and save her life.

  Ella cursed inwardly as her breathing became shallow. It was so shallow that her chest barely moved with each breath and she wondered if she should panic. But panic was far from her mind. Her heart rate slowed and it suddenly occurred to her that death might follow quickly.

  Was this how it felt to die?

  She mentally shook her head; she was only twenty-eight years old. She couldn’t die. She still had everything to live for, yet fate seemed to disagree. She swallowed hard and breathed in as deeply as she could in an attempt to force her lungs to take in the air. Then she opened her eyes as wide as she could, stared at the watch and continued to count every second that flicked past. She was determined to stay conscious. Determined to live and determined to understand the events that had led to her current situation.

  Why had she done it?

  Because it had been her job, that was why. Her job had always come first, yet she’d disobeyed the most important rule she’d ever learned since becoming a reporter. She’d gone undercover and had followed a lead alone. Which had been the biggest and most stupid thing she’d ever done. Her reporter’s intuition had been so strong. She was sure she’d been onto a big story. She was sure that Rick Greaves was guilty of murder. He’d been married twice. Both wives had died, both suspiciously. Greaves had been a suspect; the police had been sure he’d been involved. Yet, on both occasions, he’d been cleared and released without charge. But Ella was sure that there was more to his story, was certain that he’d been involved and just couldn’t believe that a man could be so unlucky that he could have lost two wives in such awful circumstances. And both before the age of thirty-five.

  She’d found herself gripped by his story. She’d been researching it for months and had even joined the gym that he owned to ensure that she was in the right place at the right time. She’d found ways to chat to him, to understand his side of the story. But he gave nothing away and she couldn’t believe her luck when, out of the blue, he’d asked her out on a date – which she’d agreed to much too quickly. Rick had no idea who she was or what she did. To him she was just another pretty woman to chat up. But she’d seen the date as her chance. It was her way to get to him. After all, all she had to do was to have a drink or two and wait until he opened up. She remembered how she’d crossed her fingers in the hope that he’d slip up, say something he shouldn’t and give her a new and intriguing angle to work on.

  But had getting to the truth been more valuable than life itself?

  She’d worked her way up at the Filey Chronicle since leaving school. She’d seen men like him so many times before and, with his history, she should have been aware that he could have been dangerous. So, why, why had she done it? Why had she gone on a date with the biggest womaniser she’d ever heard of? Especially when every instinct in her body had warned her against him. And why, oh why, hadn’t she told Sarah?

  ‘Because Sarah was far too sensible. She was in the force, did things by the book and she wouldn’t have let you go,’ Ella whispered to herself.

  From the moment she’d met Rick Greaves she’d allowed herself to fall under his spell. She’d watched him chat up other women, the other gym members and the staff. In fact he’d chatted up every woman who’d allowed it. He hung around the female staff and Ella had often thought that he looked just a little too close to them to be their boss. She’d worked out what he was like at an early stage, yet she’d still loved it when he turned his attention in her direction. She’d loved the compliments, the cheeky smiles and the discreet touches as he’d assisted her with equipment. And she hadn’t discouraged him. It had all been part of her plan and it had only taken him a few weeks before he’d asked her out.

  The date had been organised by Rick. He’d suggested that they might meet for dinner in a remote gastropub, which was miles from town. They’d sat in a high-backed leather booth. They’d chatted, laughed and joked and Rick Greaves had been fun and attentive. But he’d given nothing away and, at one point, she’d thought he’d been about to kiss her. His face had been just millimetres from hers, their eyes had locked, but at the last moment he’d pulled away and, much to her surprise, he’d suddenly left the room and hadn’t returned.

  She tried to think of the conversation that had passed between them. Of what had been said before he’d left. But she couldn’t. Her whole memory of the date had turned into a fog, from the moment she’d arrived, to the time after Rick had disappeared. She couldn’t even remember how long she’d waited before she too had finally left the pub.

  The only thing she vividly remembered was the sudden jolt of pain as she was being dragged from a car. A deep blue vehicle. It was one she hadn’t seen before and didn’t know why or how she’d come to be in it. She remembered trying to look around, trying to work out where she was, but there had been no street lights for what seemed like miles. The only light had come from the moon. It had been late, dark and she’d felt drowsy and confused and she’d knelt there in the mud, as excruciating pain thundered through her. One blow was followed by the next. A sharp, piercing pain tore through her scalp. Her hair was torn from its roots and then she remembered hitting the floor. It had been a vicious, cruel and inhuman attack. A weapon had been used, something hard, solid and unyielding, but she had no idea what had hit her, or whether more blows would come. She seemed to recollect screaming, begging and pleading for her life. Then the attack had stopped as suddenly as it had begun and she’d opened her eyes to see someone casually climbing into the car. She saw a black hoody with a flash of gold embroidery. It was an item of clothing she’d recognised, but couldn’t place. Then she remembered the fear she’d felt as the car had spun around, she could see the headlights shining at her, she could hear the tyres spinning. For a few moments she thought the car would be aimed at her, but watched in relief as it spun back around and sped off into the distance. Then her body sank into a deep and overwhelming darkness.

  She’d then begun the biggest battle of all: the battle to stay alive as consciousness had come and gone. Each time she’d opened her eyes, another hour had passed and she’d prayed for daylight. But then, when it had come, she’d begun focusing on the watch face with its tiny luminous hands. It was much easier now that the sun had risen; she didn’t have to concentrate quite so much, and she stared at it with hope that someone, anyone or anything would come to her rescue.

  Ella let out a sigh and once again began to feel her breathing slow down. She forced her eyes open and tried
to focus in a desperate attempt to keep herself alert.

  ‘Ten hours, twenty-seven minutes and one, two, three, four, five, six …!’

  The rain that had threatened began to fall. She’d dreaded the raindrops, but now each one that fell felt soft and strangely refreshing as they landed on her face. Each tiny droplet gave her cracked, split lips a small but welcome amount of moisture as each one dripped into her dry, swollen mouth.

  She closed her eyes and began drifting into sleep. But, then, what was that? Was there a noise? She was sure she’d heard something. It came from behind her, or did it? Her eyes sprang back open and she held her breath for just a second, while she listened intently. She was sure she’d heard a rustling, something moving towards her through wet moorland heather. And then the unmistakable panting of a dog.

  Using every last ounce of energy, she let out a noise. It was a shrill, gurgling noise, one that she barely recognised, but knew that somehow it had come from somewhere deep within her own body.

  ‘Here, boy, Benny boy, come here. It’s raining, come on, time to go home.’ A man’s voice bellowed as Ella felt a soft, wet nose run itself across her face, into her ear and then back across her cheek until it stopped at her nose. It sniffed in, long and deep and was followed by a soft, whining howl as the tiny, liver and white spaniel, with ears that were far too big for its body, once again sniffed at her face, before nestling into her, bringing her body some much needed warmth. Ella tried to smile as the puppy continued to lick her face; its tongue was rough, ticklish, yet oddly pleasurable and welcoming.

  A sob left her. She felt exhausted, happy, relieved and devastated, all at once. She was alive and had an overwhelming desire to do a happy dance, if only she could move.

  She once again breathed in deeply, desperate to fill her lungs, desperate to stay alive. There was still hope, just so long as the puppy stayed with her and so long as the man didn’t call it away.

  She glanced back up to the clouds and to the small shafts of light that still tried to break their way through. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered as the spaniel once again looked up and licked at her face.