Ask Natalie: A gripping psychological suspense full of mystery

By Natasha Boydell

“A fantastic read . . . I absolutely loved this book . . . I was hooked.” —Amazon reviewer, five stars

Her long-lost love is missing—and obsession with the case could save her or sabotage her, in this gripping new suspense by the author of The Woman Next Door.

Natalie is single and carefree, fulfilled by her journalism career, but still she can’t help but wonder what happened to Owen, the one that got away.

When she learns that he’s disappeared—and left behind a note that mentions her name—she finds herself pulled back into his life.

Compelled by the mystery, her boss encourages her to pursue it, believing it would make a great story. And Natalie’s determination knows no bounds . . .

Soon she finds herself thrust into a murky world of money, power, and ruthlessness. But just how far will a search for the truth lead her away from home?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Dec 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781504082365

Natasha Boydell

Natasha is an internationally bestselling author of psychological fiction. She trained and worked as a journalist for many years before moving into communications in the charity and education sectors. She decided to pursue her lifelong dream of writing a novel in 2019, when she was approaching her 40th birthday and realised it was time to stop procrastinating! Natasha lives in North London with her husband, two daughters and two rescue cats.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

‘H oly mother of God, this is the worst thing I’ve ever read in my life.’

These were not the words that Natalie had been hoping to hear from her editor when she filed her article twenty minutes previously. She’d been in the middle of having a wee when the office junior had stumbled breathlessly into the ladies, slamming the door against the wall in her haste and calling out to Natalie that Bob King wanted to see her immediately.

Natalie had stormed from the cubicle, ranting that she couldn’t even piss in peace, and the poor junior had looked like she might cry. Remembering her own, terrifying days as the work experience kid in a busy newsroom, Natalie had handed her a tissue and thanked her for passing on the message. Then she had marched back through the newsroom and into Bob’s fishbowl of an office.

‘What’s up, Bob?’

That was the moment when he had delivered his damning verdict on the article that Natalie had stayed up until two o’clock in the morning to finish.

‘I can’t run this, Natalie.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s shit.’

‘That’s not very motivational, Bob. Did you not partake in the mandatory effective leadership training that HR organised last week?’

He ignored her. ‘What about that other piece you were working on? The new generation of WAGs? Weren’t you sorting out an interview with the new England player’s missus?’

Natalie rolled her eyes. ‘No one cares about footballers’ wives and girlfriends anymore, Bob.’

‘The readers care about WAGs, thus I care about WAGs. Thus you care about WAGs.’

‘I’ll call her agent again now.’

‘Fine.’

Bob turned back to his computer, indicating that she was dismissed. She hovered in front of his desk for a moment longer, until he looked at her again with an expression akin to exasperation.

‘Can I help you with something?’

She shook her head. It probably wasn’t the best time to ask him exactly what it was that he hadn’t liked about her article. ‘No.’

He nodded and returned to his screen, and she turned and made her way back out of the office towards her desk on the other side of the newsroom.

Her colleague, Christina, raised an eyebrow. ‘Bob on the warpath again?’

Natalie grunted in response and sat down, wiggling her mouse impatiently until her inbox reappeared on the screen, displaying her depressingly growing pile of spam emails.

A new message appeared at the top from Bob. It was marked urgent and the subject line was WAGs WAGs WAGs. She scowled and deleted the email. And then deleted it from her deleted items in a tiny yet satisfying protest against his tyranny.

‘I need a coffee,’ she told Christina. ‘A proper one. I’m going to Gio’s. Want one?’

Christina gave her a thumbs-up and Natalie picked up her purse and made her way towards the lift.

Just as the doors were closing Nick Walker, the crime correspondent, pushed them open again, and barged his way into the confined space. He gave Natalie a sideways glance. ‘All right Natalie, how’s the fluffy and pointless world of features?’

‘Fine thanks Nick, how’s the miserable and soul-destroying world of crime?’

‘Life affirming, as always. I hear Bob’s spiked your page seven for tomorrow.’

Natalie grimaced. ‘Jesus, nothing’s sacred in this place.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve got a great little piece all lined up to replace it. I’ve just sent it over to Bob now. I don’t like to gloat, but I think the word that he used was saviour.’

‘Show-off, more like.’

A life of crime wasn’t for her, but sometimes she envied Nick’s constant access to stories. With London as his patch, and several coppers as his drinking buddies, he had an endless supply of leads to follow up on and he got more by-lines in the paper than anyone else.

For her it was getting increasingly difficult to secure decent exclusives, which were the only type of story that Bob got excited about. Most of the time it came down to which newspaper, magazine or website could afford to pay the most money for the story and The Daily hadn’t won a bidding war yet. Bob wanted her to compete with the big titles but with ever-shrinking budgets he couldn’t put his money where his mouth was and even Natalie’s well-oiled charm and persuasion had limits.

She bickered good-naturedly with Nick all the way down to the ground floor before they went their separate ways; Nick to a press conference at Scotland Yard and Natalie to the local coffee shop, run by an impossibly cheerful Italian man whose face lit up every time he saw her. Natalie suspected that his business was fully funded by coffee-addicted journalists who worked around the clock to get a paper out each day.

‘Natalie! The usual?’

‘Yes please Gio, and a cappuccino for Christina too please,’ Natalie said, reaching for her phone and scrolling absentmindedly through Facebook while she waited for Gio to make the drinks. After a minute or so she moved on to Twitter and Instagram before pocketing her phone again with a sigh. As usual, her news feeds were uninspiring.

Taking the coffees gratefully from Gio, she made her way back towards the office, glancing as she always did at the imposing red and white sign outside that declared the building to be the home of The Daily. Natalie had worked in journalism for twenty years, but the buzz of walking into the office of a national newspaper and swiping her security card still hadn’t worn off.

Today, though, even that wasn’t enough to clear the mist of melancholy that had settled over her; the result of a bad night’s sleep and Bob’s scathing critique of her latest article. She couldn’t shake off the lingering feeling that she was on borrowed time, that one more spiked article could land her the sack, thinly veiled as a restructure. The newspaper industry was in decline, people were losing their jobs left, right and centre and the ones left behind were hanging on by a thread. It felt like survival of the fittest and she was painfully out of shape.

There was a time when Natalie was the golden girl of the newsroom, the one who could do no wrong. In her twenties she had been branded as one to watch after securing several impressive scoops which had caused sales of the paper to soar.

In her early thirties, she’d won an award after being the only journalist to get a sit-down interview with the family involved in a major court case. She’d even been interviewed on Channel 4 News about the story, the highlight of her career to date. There had been talk of a book deal, but in the end it hadn’t materialised.

But that was years ago and she felt like she’d been chasing her tail ever since. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d landed a front-page story and she seemed to spend most of her time writing what could only be described as page filler. Or, as Nick called it, fluff.

She was a good writer, an experienced and reliable member of the team, a safe pair of hands and well-respected by those she worked with, but it wasn’t enough. She knew it and Bob knew it.

As she emerged from the lift with a coffee in each hand, several pairs of eyes turned towards her and followed her as she walked across the newsroom. Feeling self-conscious, she balanced one coffee precariously on top of the other and patted her hair with her free hand. Had a bird pooed on her? Perhaps her skirt was caught in her knickers? But a quick check confirmed that everything was in order.

She glanced at one of the reporters and he looked away quickly. Why was everyone acting so strangely? She wondered if someone had overheard the earlier exchange between her and Bob and gossiped about it, but even if they had, a journalist getting a dressing down from the editor was not unusual and didn’t normally cause such intense interest.

Over by the window, she noticed a couple of people from the TV listings team muttering quietly across their desks and glancing in her direction. Whatever was going on, word had spread like wildfire and by the time Natalie reached her desk she was paranoid.

‘What’s going on?’ she hissed at Christina as she handed her one of the coffees.

‘Police are here,’ Christina hissed back. ‘To see you.’

Natalie’s eyes widened. Panic swelled within her as she began frantically running through the stories that she had worked on over the past few weeks. Had she written something libellous? Had her article about fake celebrities enraged a reality TV star who was now out for her blood? Sorry, Dr Alex, I love you really.

She was already in Bob’s bad books; legal action against the paper could sound the death knell on her career.

But, thinking rationally, the police wouldn’t turn up for a libel case, and she couldn’t think of anything she had written that amounted to a criminal offence.

Had she inadvertently done something terrible in her personal life? Her guilty conscience kicked in, accusing her of irrational and unforgivable crimes. Perhaps she’d hit a cyclist while driving without even realising? Oh God, what if she had? She could go to prison.

Her panic shifted again. What if it was nothing to do with her at all? What if someone had died? She could count the number of her nearest and dearest on one hand; Christina – who was currently sitting opposite her – her mother and her brother, Tom. And Tom had texted her an hour ago, so there definitely hadn’t been enough time for him to have met a grisly end in the interim. Her mother then. Oh my God.

Her palms were clammy now and she wiped them on her skirt before glancing nervously in the direction of Bob’s office. He was sitting at his desk, talking to two police officers. Sensing her gaze, he looked at Natalie and beckoned her over, and before she knew it the officers were staring at her too.

She gulped.

‘Good luck,’ Christina whispered. ‘I’ll be here when you get back.’

The twenty-metre walk across the newsroom felt like twenty miles. Knowing that everyone’s eyes were on her, Natalie fought the urge to turn on her heel and run towards the lift in a mad dash for freedom. Whatever the police were here to talk to her about, it would catch up with her eventually, so she might as well get it over with. And anyway, part of her was curious to know what it was about. She walked into Bob’s office and smiled at the officers, trying to swallow her nerves. Bob immediately sprang from his chair and made a dash towards the door.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said, glancing at Natalie with a look that said, What the fuck have you done now? This was not good. Not good at all. She turned back to the police officers.

‘What can I do for you?’ she asked, with more confidence than she felt.

‘Are you Natalie Brown?’ the female officer asked her.

‘Yes, that’s me.’

The woman introduced herself and her male colleague. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you at work Natalie, but we’d like to ask you a few questions if we may. Shall we sit down?’

‘Of course,’ Natalie replied, gesturing towards the sofa in the corner of Bob’s office. She sat down and clutched tightly on to the armrest, her palms leaving a slick of sweat on the black leather. Give it to me then, she thought. Whatever it is, I can take it.

‘Do you know a man called Simon Hall?’

‘Who?’ Natalie frowned.

‘Simon Hall,’ the woman repeated.

Natalie was confused. She had braced herself for an accusation or news of an untimely death and the unexpected question had thrown her. She racked her brain, working her way back through her catalogue of recent interviews, but nothing rang any bells.

‘I don’t recognise the name,’ she told the officers truthfully.

‘I believe you went to school with him?’ the officer said.

Natalie’s hand shot to her mouth. How could she not have remembered? But, in her defence, she had only known him as Simon for about five seconds. On his first day as the new boy at school, he’d scored a hat-trick in the lunchtime football match, and the lads had immediately dubbed him Owen, in honour of the England striker Michael Owen. Within a few days no one even remembered that it wasn’t his real name, including the teachers. She smiled at the memory; of the boys lifting Owen up above their heads and chanting his name while the girls watched on, deciding whether they were going to have a crush on him. The answer was invariably yes. Despite not joining their school until Year 11, when friendships and pecking orders were already well established, Owen had quickly become one of the most popular boys.

The officer was watching her ‘So, you do know Simon Hall?’

‘Yes, I’m sorry, I do. Well, I used to. A long time ago.’

‘Can I ask when you last spoke to Mr Hall?’

How could she forget? It had been two decades ago but she could still remember how excited she had been about seeing him, nerves tinged with a sense of foreboding which she had tried to ignore; she could almost feel the joy that had flooded her eighteen-year-old body when he appeared on her street, ambling towards the house with his hands in his pockets, looking as beautiful as she had ever seen him. And then the crushing disappointment when he delivered the news that she had, deep down, known was coming, yet refused to acknowledge until then.

‘It was twenty-two years ago,’ she told him. ‘Christmas time. He came home from university for the holidays and dumped me. I never spoke to him again.’

Despite his promises that he wanted them to stay friends, that Natalie meant more to him than anyone else he had ever known, Owen hadn’t bothered to keep in touch. He had destroyed her, left her a broken wreck, and walked out of her life like he had never been there in the first place. He hadn’t even called to see if she was okay.

She had not been okay. The first few weeks had been terrible and she had barely got out of bed, reliving the pain of their break-up repeatedly. Images had intruded into her mind of him talking to girls, kissing them, taking their clothes off, laughing about his provincial ex-girlfriend back home. The humiliation had stung as much as the rejection.

Owen had got on with his life and forgotten all about her, yet she had remained, trapped in emotional torture, incapable of seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. He had broken her heart, it was as simple as that, and she had thought she would never get over it. She did, of course. Eventually.

And yet if she was being honest, she still thought about him from time to time. He had been her one that got away, the person she fantasised about, and wondered how different things would have been if they’d stayed together.

For years she’d imagined bumping into him again, dreaming of a chance meeting at a pub or on the bus, when they’d sit next to each other and talk for hours, both missing their stops. Occasionally she had looked for him across a crowded dancefloor after a tequila too many had made her melancholy, and she had hoped and prayed for a glimpse of him. If it’s meant to be, we’ll meet again, she had told herself. And then, less certainly, we’re soulmates.

But Owen hadn’t so much as poked her on Facebook, let alone made a physical appearance in her life, and she didn’t even know where he lived. Over time she had accepted that he was gone forever.

The officer was asking her another question. ‘So, you two were in a relationship?’

‘Yes,’ Natalie confirmed. ‘We got together when we were seventeen and went out for about eighteen months. Then he went away to university, met someone else and the rest is history.’

‘Have you seen Mr Hall since then?’

Natalie thought back. ‘I spotted him around town a few times after we first broke up, when he was home for the holidays, but I avoided him. A few months later, I moved away from Lincolnshire and I rarely return now. I don’t even know if his parents still live there.’

‘What about other friends from school? Are you in touch with them?’

The less said about them, the better. Natalie shook her head. ‘No, I’m not the reunion type.’

‘And you haven’t spoken to Mr Hall since then? Not even on the phone or via email?’

When they first split up, she had wanted to call him every day. His parents had given him a mobile phone when he went to university, making him tantalisingly reachable, and she had been unable to resist on a couple of occasions. But he had never picked up, and in the end the temptation had lessened until it disappeared altogether. She shook her head.

‘What about social media?’

Natalie grinned ruefully. ‘I’m not going to lie, I’ve searched for him a few times over the years, just out of curiosity. But I’ve never managed to find him on any social media channels. It’s probably for the best, really.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, I don’t think any good ever comes of dwelling on the past, does it? That’s the problem with social media, it makes it hard for us to let go of things. I did think it odd though, that I couldn’t find him online. It’s unusual in this day and age.’ The cogs in Natalie’s head were turning. ‘What is this about? Has something happened to him?’

The officers glanced at each other. ‘Mr Hall has been reported missing.’

‘Since when?’

‘He was last seen on Saturday morning.’

That was five days ago. Long enough for any confusion or misunderstanding about his whereabouts to have been cleared up. Natalie’s immediate reaction was dread in case something terrible had happened to him. But it was quickly replaced with the question that had been bothering her since the police first asked her about him.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, I really am, but I can’t help wondering what it’s got to do with me? I haven’t seen or heard from him since I was eighteen years old.’

‘And you’re sure you haven’t heard from him? Could you have missed any correspondence from him? A message in your junk mail? Or a missed call from an unknown number?’

‘I’m positive.’ Natalie’s journalistic instincts were kicking in. There was no way the police would be so thorough in their investigation as to go back twenty years without reason.

‘Did you know that Mr Hall also lived in London?’

‘I had no idea. As I’ve already told you, I’m not in touch with him. And London’s a big place.’

‘The thing is, Natalie, Mr Hall left a note.’

‘A suicide note?’ Natalie was horrified.

‘It’s too early in the investigation to say,’ the officer told her. ‘The note was extremely brief and we’re still trying to establish the facts.’

‘But you think it has something to do with me?’

‘We’re exploring all possibilities. You see, the note was quite unusual, in that it contained just two words.’

‘Which were?’

The officer fixed her gaze on Natalie. ‘The note said, ask Natalie.’

Natalie scans the lunch hall, her eyes searching the crowds until they hit the jackpot. There he is. Owen Hall. Her stomach churns, a physical reminder of how bittersweet it is to see him; intense joy tinged with pain that he is not, and probably will never be, hers. She must resign herself to admiring him from a distance and most days that’s enough for her.

Today, however, is not one of those days. She woke up to the sound of her parents rowing, followed by a loud slam of the door as her father stormed out of the house, and then the muffled cries of her mother.

By the time Natalie got downstairs, her mother was pottering around the kitchen in her dressing gown, humming to the radio as she set the table for breakfast and acting as though nothing had happened. Natalie had wanted to bring it up, to ask if her mum was okay, but she hadn’t been able to say the words out loud.

Her period is due too, adding to her rage at the injustice of the world. She looks down at her bloated stomach and wants to punch it. Then she looks back at Owen to cheer herself up.

He’s messing around, jostling one of the lads and using his dinner tray as a pretend shield. One of them says something and all four boys erupt into laughter, doubling over in delight.

Natalie watches them, wishing that she had the confidence to walk over and ask what the joke is, but she doesn’t. And in any case, on the rare occasions that she has been close to Owen, she’s not been able to think of a single thing to say to him other than, I love you.

Something catches her eye. Belinda Langley is hovering just behind the lads, with a few of the girls from her class. Belinda is practically perfect in every way, with the exception of her tendency towards being a bit of a bitch. Now she flicks her long dark hair and laughs loudly, grafting to be the centre of attention.

It works because Owen turns and says something to her, causing her to giggle and flutter her eyelashes at him. She touches his arm playfully, flicking her hair one more time for good measure. She is marking her territory and it makes Natalie’s heart sink to rock bottom. She’s always known that she’s not the only one who has a crush on Owen, half the girls in the school do, but once Belinda throws her hat in the ring it’s game over. Boys love Belinda.

Natalie can’t not look as Belinda pulls out a piece of paper and passes it to Owen, who nods and slips it into his pocket.

An intense jealousy comes over Natalie and she drags her eyes away, staring down at the linoleum floor and the dropped food that has been squashed underfoot by unruly pupils. She has lost her appetite and considers abandoning the lunch queue and going to the toilets to cry instead. But then her friend Liz appears, slipping into the queue next to her.

‘Thanks for saving me a place,’ she says and Natalie smiles at her before glancing back over at Owen and Belinda. They have nearly reached the front of the queue now and they are still chatting to each other.

Liz follows her gaze. ‘Belinda’s probably inviting him to her house party on Saturday night. Are you going?’

‘Yes.’ It’s the social event of the term and Natalie has been looking forward to it for weeks while also agonising over whether Owen will go. In her fantasies, he’s there. At night, when she’s lying in bed, she imagines him taking her hand and leading her outside to the summer house at the bottom of Belinda’s garden. They sit together, side by side, looking at the stars and then he turns, cups her face and kisses her passionately. But her dreams, far-fetched to begin with, are slipping further away when faced with the reality being played out in the lunch hall.

‘Are you okay, Nat?’

‘Fine,’ she says tersely. Liz smiles, knowing exactly what’s got her best friend’s goat. Natalie managed to keep her feelings a secret for all of two days before fessing up to Liz. The desire to talk about Owen was just too strong. She’s had a crush on him ever since he first walked through the gates of Penshore Comprehensive at the beginning of term, causing a ripple of excitement to run through the already established Year 11 cohort.

Once the air of mystery surrounding a new pupil has gone, they can go either way in the pecking order, but Owen quickly marked his place at the top, helped by his confidence, good looks, and skills on the football field.

Within a couple of weeks everyone agreed that they couldn’t remember what school life was like before Owen Hall. Yet while he seems content to hang out with the lads, there’s something different about him. A maturity, or experience perhaps, that the others don’t possess yet. He’s not embarrassed to talk to girls, he speaks to teachers with respect, he works hard in class. And he gets away with being a swot, except for a gentle ribbing from the lads from time to time when he gets top marks, because he’s well-liked. It’s a heady