TWISTED DREAMS
By Tanya Allan
Also by Tanya Allan on Amazon Kindle:
http://www.amazon.com/-e/B004VTB5OQ
A FAIRY’S TALE
AMBER ALERT
BEHIND THE ENEMY
EMMA
EVERY LITTLE GIRL’S DREAM
FLIGHT OR FIGHT
FORTUNE’S SOLDIER
GRUESOME TUESDAY
IN PLAIN SIGHT
MARINE I
MODERN MASQUERADE
MONIQUE
QUEEN OF HEARTS
RING THE CHANGE
SHIT HAPPENS, SO DO MIRACLES
TANGO GOLF: COP WITH A DIFFERENCE
THE CANDY CANE CLUB
THE HARD WAY
THE OTHER SIDE OF DREAMS
THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS A SUPER HERO
THE SUMMER JOB & OTHER STORIES
TO FIGHT FOR A DREAM
TWISTED DREAMS
WEIRD WEDNESDAY
WHEN FORTUNE SMILES
WHISPERS IN THE MIND
Twisted Dreams by Tanya Allan
Copyright 2004 Tanya J. Allan
Second edition Copyright 2011 Tanya J. Allan
All rights reserved.
This work is the property of the author, and the author retains full copyright in relation to printed material, whether on paper, digitally or electronically. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – for example, electronic, photocopy, data recording, etc… – without the prior written permission of the author or unless paid for through sales channels authorised and approved by the author. The only exception is brief quotation in printed reviews.
Any adaptation of the whole or part of the material for broadcast by radio, TV, or for stage plays or film, is the right of the author unless negotiated through legal contract. Any commercial use by anyone other than the author is strictly prohibited.
This work is fictitious, and any similarities to any persons, alive or dead, are purely coincidental. Mention is made of persons in public life only for the purposes of realism and for that reason alone. Certain licence is taken in respect of medical procedures, terms and conditions, and the author does not claim to be the fount of all knowledge.
The author accepts the right of the individual to hold his/her (or whatever) own political, religious and social views, and there is no intention to deliberately offend anyone.
Prologue
Sitting in the very bleak waiting area, I felt very nervous and about as insecure as I had ever been, not least because of the task I knew I had to undertake. I was a stranger in a strange land. The rain lashed against the window, so I was grateful for the lift to the hospital in the police car. I had sat in silence for the twenty-minute trip; the young, uniformed NYPD officer was obviously aware of the purpose of my journey, so did not really know what to say to me.
I stood up and walked across the grey lino floor, to stare out of the window for the twentieth time. I was conscious of the sound of my high heels on the hard floor. As I looked out into the darkness, with the rain running down the outside of the panes, I could see my reflection in the window. A tall, pretty girl, in her late teens or early twenties stared back at me, with her long, fair hair cascading across her shoulders, her dark skirt ended just above her knees, and with her long, attractive legs clad in sheer stockings.
In truth, I was actually nineteen, but looked older. I wore a dark turtleneck sweater and a broad cream belt on the outside of the sweater, emphasising my hourglass figure. I had a coat, but it was lying on a chair to my left. My black leather shoulder bag was slung across my shoulder, and I felt no doubt that this was the person I should always have been. I opened my bag and, using my compact mirror, repaired my makeup. After all, it had been a long day, but was clearly not over yet.
“Miss Lake?” a male voice asked. I turned to see a white-coated woman and a man in a suit. The man looked like a policeman. I’d seen a fair few of them in the last few months.
“Yes.”
He smiled, one of those half-apologetic and half-embarrassed smiles of officials everywhere who have to give you bad news.
“Thanks for coming, Miss Lake, I’m Lieutenant Collinson, NYPD Homicide. I understand that you’ve been through a hell of a time. I’m sorry about what’s happened, so I hope this will not be too distressing for you.”
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“We’re not certain yet, as there’s an ongoing active investigation into his death, but we do actually have reason to believe that it was a homicide,” he said, and I watched his eyes narrow as he tried to gauge my reaction.
“Reason?”
“We aren’t certain. We do know that he was assisting Federal officers, and was, ah, actually in touch with a Federal Agent even a few days ago. It’s rather confused by the fact that we’re in possession of information from an official source that he died over two years ago in Miami. But when we ran his prints through New Scotland Yard, it came back as your father.”
“How did he die, this time?” I asked.
“This time?”
“Last time they said he was shot by a policeman, so what’s the story this time?”
I felt sorry for the poor man, as he only had some of the pieces of the jigsaw, so he didn’t know whether I had the rest of the pieces or not.
“That can only be determined officially by autopsy.”
“Come on; was he shot, stabbed or what?”
The lieutenant looked slightly troubled, then scratched his head and gave a short laugh. “He has a single bullet-wound to his heart. But that is unofficial at this time.”
I stared at him, aware that I was giving nothing away. I nodded, and almost smiled.
“I suppose expected it,” I said, causing him to frown.
“Oh?”
“Lieutenant Collinson, I know that he was hardly an angel. I had to identify him last time, only to find him alive and on a witness protection programme. I was never aware of his actual activities, but over the last few years, I’ve been made aware that he was mixed up in all kinds of things. Last year he told me he had information that the FBI found useful, but I still have no idea what that information was. I do know that a substantial amount of cocaine was seized along with an awful lot of money.
“As you probably know, I was the subject of a kidnap attempt, so had been under police protection for some time because of information that I passed to them from him. My father and I were not dreadfully close, but we did love each other in a funny sort of way.” I was aware that I sounded very English.
“Well, shall we get the formal identification over with, and then we could discuss things?” he said.
“Will I need a solicitor?” I asked, and he smiled at my very Englishness, shaking his head.
“No, you don’t need a lawyer, as you are not implicated in any crime in the United States. But you could help me clear up quite a lot that I don’t understand.”
I followed the pair through the doors marked Morgue and we entered a long room with large cooler doors down one side. The woman checked her clipboard and then opened one of the fridge doors. There were three tiers of body trays, and she pulled out the middle one. A figure was covered by a plain pale blue sheet. She looked at me, and then at the cop. He nodded, so she pulled back the sheet.