The Stranger in My Bed: An utterly gripping psychological thriller Read online

  The Stranger in My Bed

  An utterly gripping psychological thriller

  Karen King

  Books by Karen King

  Psychological Thrillers

  The Stranger in My Bed

  Romantic Comedies

  Single All the Way

  The Year of Starting Over

  Snowy Nights at the Lonely Hearts Hotel

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 39

  *

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  *

  Hear More from Karen

  Books by Karen King

  A Letter from Karen

  Single All the Way

  The Year of Starting Over

  Snowy Nights at the Lonely Hearts Hotel

  Acknowledgements

  *

  To Sharon. Thank you for all the years of friendship and support.

  Prologue

  I watch as he strides down the path, pressing the remote to unlock his car as he walks. He gets into the driver’s seat, then he’s off, speeding down the road. He shouldn’t be speeding, not with the state of those brakes. But he thinks he’s safe; he doesn’t know that he’s not.

  I follow him, wanting to see it happen with my own eyes, wanting to see him dead. He deserves to die. He’s a bully, a cheat, scum. He doesn’t know that I know about him, know all the awful things he’s done.

  He’s heading down the hill now and the lights are changing. I know he won’t be able to stop in time. I can imagine his panic as he stamps down on the brake pedal and finds that it doesn’t work, that he can’t stop his descent down the hill, can’t stop as a lorry emerges out of the side road. I pull over and watch as the lorry smashes into the side of his car. I hope the lorry driver is okay. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.

  Only him.

  I hope he dies.

  1

  Freya

  Monday

  ‘Wake up, Phil,’ Freya whispered, holding her husband’s hand as she sat beside the hospital bed. A place she’d barely left since that devasting moment on Friday evening when two police officers had knocked on the door to say that Phil had been seriously injured in a car accident. ‘Please wake up.’

  She searched his face for any sign of consciousness. He looked gaunt, ashen-faced, vulnerable, with the three-day-old dark stubble covering his usually smooth chin and his short, treacle-brown hair ruffled up like hedgehog spikes. Wires attached him to an assortment of machines that bleeped away in the background. A bandage was wrapped around the top of his right arm where it had been cut in the accident. They said some of his ribs were broken and his legs were badly bruised but he was breathing unaided, which the doctors assured her was a good sign. They were confident he would wake up soon. She prayed he would.

  If anything happened to him… If he died… or was brain-damaged, she would never forgive herself. Apparently it was only the side airbags that had saved him from serious injury – or death. His precious BMW, the pride of his life, was a write-off.

  ‘Oh, Phil, why did you have to storm out like that?’ she whispered, her eyes resting on the small cut on his forehead for a moment then flicking down to his closed eyes. He looked strangely peaceful, as if he were in a deep sleep. Well, that’s what a coma was, she guessed, a deep sleep. She used to love watching him sleep when they were first married, to see his chest rise slowly up and down, his eyes sometimes flickering as he dreamt, marvelling at how lucky she was, what a fairy tale her life had turned out to be. Sometimes he would mumble in his sleep but she could never understand what he was saying; they were unintelligible sounds. She’d give anything to hear them now, to see his eyes open, to know he had suffered no lasting damage.

  She squeezed her eyes closed and took a deep breath to calm herself. If only she could turn back time. Back to three days ago. No – to longer ago than that. Back to when they first got married. They had been so happy. It had all been perfect: the wedding, the honeymoon. Perfect. How had it all gone wrong? If only she could change it all.

  If it wasn’t for her, they would be in Dubai now. Instead, Phil was lying in a hospital bed and she was keeping permanent vigil by his bedside, unable to sleep, to function, consumed by despair and guilt.

  It was touch-and-go at first, the doctors had told her. The lorry that Phil had crashed into had pulled his car underneath its carriage. The driver, shaken up and bruised but not severely injured, said that Phil hadn’t slowed down at the crossroads, had sped straight into him, that he’d had no time to swerve. Why hadn’t Phil seen the lorry? Why hadn’t he braked? Was it because he’d been too upset to think straight?

  Or did he intend to kill himself?

  There it was. The thought that kept nagging her, refusing to go away. Had Phil purposefully driven at the lorry, intending to kill himself? He’d threatened it before, several times, saying that she made him so miserable, so worthless, that he felt like ending it all…

  It was her fault. It was always her fault.

  ‘You’re too confrontational. Too headstrong. Always so quick to argue.’ How many times had her mother said that to her over the years?

  ‘I’m just sticking up for myself,’ she’d protested, stung by the criticism. ‘I’ve got a right to stick up for myself. I have an opinion, you know.’

  Well, this was where her sticking up for herself had got them: Phil lying in a hospital bed, maybe brain-damaged.

  She glanced around as the door opened behind her and her older sister Daisy came into the room. ‘Any change?’’

  ‘His eyes flickered earlier. The doctor thinks he might come round today,’ Freya told her.

  ‘Really? That’s great.’ Daisy walked over and squeezed Freya’s shoulder comfortingly. There were five years between her and Daisy; that and Daisy’s rather aloof manner meant that they had never been particularly close, although Freya had idolised her big sister when they were growing up. She was surprised and pleased at how much of a support Daisy had been the last few days. Daisy had come straight to the hospital as soon as Fre
ya, not knowing who else to turn to, had phoned her to tell her about Phil’s accident, her voice shaking so much she could barely get her words out. Since then Daisy had barely left Freya’s side, comforting her, assuring her that Phil would pull through, keeping her supplied with coffee and sandwiches.

  Right after Freya’s call, Daisy’s husband Mark had sprung into action, dropping the twins off at Daisy and Freya’s mother’s for the weekend so Daisy could be there for Freya. He’d recently been appointed as regional manager for a large supermarket chain and had to work, but he’d collected the children on Sunday evening. Daisy had also managed to arrange for the other receptionist to cover her morning shift at the dental surgery so she could be with Freya, coming straight to the hospital after dropping the twins off at school.

  Meanwhile, Stefan, Freya’s boss at IPA Studio, the design agency where she’d worked for the past three years, had insisted on her taking compassionate leave for as long as she needed. Someone else was going to give the important presentation Freya had slaved over for the last few weeks, the one that had caused the row. The row that had resulted in Phil storming out and ending up in this hospital bed.

  Not that she gave a damn about the presentation now.

  God, she was tired. She rubbed her eyes, blinked furiously a few times in an effort to wake herself up. She desperately needed to sleep, longed to go home, have a shower, something decent to eat, but she didn’t want to leave Phil lying here like this. At first she’d been worried that he would die while she was gone, but the doctors said he had stirred in the night when Freya had dozed off in the chair, that they thought he might wake up today, and she wanted to be here when he did. Daisy had offered to fetch her some clean clothes but Freya told her that she had some in a suitcase in the car because they were supposed to be going away that weekend.

  It was a lie. They hadn’t been going away. She’d packed the case because she’d been planning to leave Phil. She’d just put it in the boot when the police car had pulled up on the drive.

  Daisy walked over to the bed and stared at Phil. Her long, dark hair was loose around her shoulders rather than in her usual low ponytail, emphasising the paleness of her face. Her sister looked tired, Freya thought, and no wonder when she’d spent so much time at the hospital this weekend. It was so good of Daisy to keep her company like this, especially when she had the twins to look after, and a part-time job.

  She turned to Freya. ‘You look exhausted. Why don’t you go home? I’ll sit with Phil and call you if there’s any change. I promise.’

  Tears sprang to Freya’s eyes. ‘Thanks, Daisy. I really appreciate your support,’ she said, her voice cracking a bit. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done without you this weekend.’ She took a tissue from her jeans pocket and dabbed her eyes. ‘I’ll stay a little longer. I want to be here when Phil wakes. I want to make sure he’s okay.’

  Daisy looked back at Phil. ‘Of course you do. I’ll fetch us both a drink, shall I? I’m going to have tea, I think. I feel a bit queasy. I think it’s the hospital smell.’

  ‘I know what you mean. I feel permanently sick,’ Freya told her. Sick with anxiety and worry that Phil wouldn’t recover. ‘I’ll have coffee – make it black, please.’ She normally had her coffee white with sugar, but she was so exhausted, every bone in her body ached, and she was hoping that black coffee might wake her up. ‘Let me give you the money for the drinks – you can’t keep buying them.’ She reached for her bag to get her purse and winced as she knocked her right forearm on the chair. It was still tender.

  ‘You’re bleeding,’ Daisy said sharply.

  Freya looked down at the sleeve of her cream jumper and saw a small pool of blood seeping through. ‘I grazed it when I was gardening the other day,’ she said.

  ‘Do you want a plaster?’ Daisy opened her handbag and started to rummage inside. She always had a supply of wipes, tissues and plasters on her in case her six-year-old twins needed them. She took out a wrapped plaster and handed it to Freya, who was scrabbling in her own handbag for her purse.

  ‘Thank you.’ Freya opened her purse then handed Daisy a ten-pound note. ‘Sorry I don’t have the change.’

  ‘It’s okay, the machine gives change.’ Daisy slipped the note in the front pocket of her bag. ‘I won’t be long.’

  As soon as her sister went out of the room, Freya rolled up the sleeve of her jumper to put the plaster on the cut. The knock on the chair had opened it up again and it was bleeding slowly. She looked over at Phil. How had it come to this? She loved him so much and he loved her too. She was sure he did.

  She so desperately wanted him to open his eyes. But when he did, what then? Where did they go from here?

  2

  Three days before

  Freya sat on the sofa, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees to try and still the tremors coursing through her body, her tears exhausted now, her eyes fixed on the dirty water stains dripping down the silver-and-white embossed wallpaper. They followed the stains down to the pool of water on the floor, the broken fragments of the crystal vase that had been a wedding present, the beautiful roses it had held now strewn over the light oak tiles: orange and cream petals broken off, stems bent. Only the single white rose remained intact. The first rose Phil had ever given her was a thornless single white rose. He’d told her it meant ‘love at first sight’ and that he’d fallen in love with her as soon as he’d seen her. She had fallen for him too, immediately charmed by his dark, rugged good looks; come-to-bed, twinkling, ink-blue eyes; quirky smile; soft, lilting voice with just a touch of an Irish accent. When he’d invited her out for a drink she’d instantly agreed. She’d had absolutely no intention of getting serious with anyone, enjoying her freedom after the end of her long-term relationship with a lovable but immature boyfriend a few months earlier. But Phil had sneaked into her heart and taken over her life. She’d accepted his marriage proposal six months later without hesitation, confident of their love for each other. If only she had known then how quickly it would all go wrong.

  She loved him so much. So why couldn’t she stop this happening? Why couldn’t she just be quiet and walk away?

  Why couldn’t she control herself?

  Because she didn’t want to be like her mother, dominated by her father, that was why. Her father had never been violent, but he was cold and controlling, and her mother always gave in to him to keep the peace. When she was growing up, Freya had vowed that she would never do that, that she would always stand up for what she believed, for what she wanted to do.

  Well, look where that had got her.

  She slowly moved her gaze to the door, which Phil – after looking in horror at the broken vase and the cut on her arm – had flown out of a few minutes before, sounding close to tears as he said, ‘I can’t stand this any more!’

  This had to stop. It was too destructive.

  She got down on her knees and, taking care to avoid the broken glass, crawled over to the scattered flowers, picking up the heads of an orange then a cream rose – orange for the desire and fascination Phil said he felt for her, cream for her charm and thoughtfulness. Phil had explained the meanings when he’d bought her the first bunch of roses a month after they’d met, when they’d declared their love for each other. Every weekend since he’d bought her a bunch of the same roses. She’d been overwhelmed that Phil thought so much of her and was soon swept off her feet by his devotion and her own heady feelings for him. They had never argued when they were dating, never had a cross word. Phil had so openly adored her; nothing was too much effort for him. Every day they had met, he had been smiling – happy, calm, reliable Phil. And she’d adored him too. He was so sweet, funny, easy-going and generous. He’d showered her with gifts, still did.

  Caressing the broken heads of the two roses gently, she closed her eyes, blinking back the tears as their latest argument replayed in her mind.

  ‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ Phil said as soon as he bounced through the door, kicking it shut behin
d him, one arm full of the sweet-smelling roses, the other holding a carrier bag from the expensive lingerie boutique in town.

  ‘Thank you. You spoil me.’ She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, then took the flowers from him and sniffed them. ‘They’re heavenly.’

  ‘So are these. I can’t wait to see you wearing them.’ He held open the bag so she could see the glimpse of lacy undies nestling inside. She’d known without looking at them that they would be red. They always were.

  She smiled indulgently at him. ‘They look gorgeous. Let me put these roses in water then I’ll try them on.’ She knew they’d fit – Phil was familiar with her size, if not her taste. She preferred cream or black underwear, but she didn’t mind wearing red now and again if it kept Phil happy.