Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

More from J. A. Baker

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by J. A. Baker

The Murder List

About Boldwood Books

1FEBRUARY 2018

It’s always the dog walkers and the early-morning joggers that find them, isn’t it? They begin their day full of hope, ready to greet the hours ahead with a smile as they step out into the crisp, morning air only to have those hopes dashed by their grisly find, their minds tarnished, the sight before them forever embedded deep within their brains.

The young woman stares down at the ground, realisation dawning. She thought initially that it was a stray shoe: a discarded trainer, one of many that litter this area, along with empty coffee cartons and crisp packets. She sees them all the time and wonders how they get there. Always one, never the pair. Babies’ dummies, empty aerosol cans, mouldy food wrappers – she has stumbled across them all while out on her morning run, but this is different. She doesn’t know how it’s different, or why. It just strikes her as an eerie find. A shoe would slide down the embankment. It wouldn’t just sit there, poking out from a pile of fallen leaves. It’s the angle that worries and intrigues her. It’s almost perpendicular. As if it’s attached to something. Her skin prickles, ice sliding beneath her flesh.

She stands, stares up at it, her breath hot and sour, misting the air in front of her face: perfectly formed vapour clouds that appear in a small, pulsing orb before vanishing into the atmosphere. The mornings are getting lighter. Winter seems to have gone on for a hundred years. She shivers, thinks about carrying on with her run. It won’t do her any good, standing here getting cold. She has to keep moving, keep the blood pumping through her veins, otherwise she will seize up, her muscles knotting, pain shrieking through her limbs when she tries to move. And yet there is something about that trainer – the angle of it perhaps – that doesn’t sit well with her.

Moving closer, scrambling on her hands and knees to clamber up the bank, she can see even from a distance that it isn’t a trainer at all. It’s proper shoe – cream leather with a short, square heel. Mud has almost disguised it beyond recognition, clumps of dirt and rotted leaves sticking to its surface. It’s an incongruous sight – the type of footwear somebody would wear to an office – smart, functional, not too glamorous. Not the sort of thing that gets lodged on a riverbank.

Her eyes are drawn to the steep, slippery incline above her, covered with moss and leaves and the general debris nature leaves behind after a cold, dark winter. Pressing on, she clambers up until the item is close to her face. She shivers and backs away a fraction, the thought of slipping never far from her mind. It’s a steep gradient, almost vertical, requiring her to use her hands and feet to make the ascent. Her foot is lodged against the base of a tree that, along with many others nearby, appear to defy gravity. Standing upright, their deep root systems probably help to knit together this bank, stopping any erosion or landslips.

She shuffles ever nearer, one hand resting against the rough bark of the tree to steady herself while the other reaches down and brushes away the twigs and leaves that surround the shoe. Her hand hits something solid, something cold that makes her recoil. She lets out a shriek, hoping it isn’t what she thinks it could be, yet knowing deep down that it probably is. This is a quiet, shaded area and yet she has never felt frightened or unsafe here. It’s next to the river, just two minutes from the nearest village, but the canopy of trees and its deep-set location make it feel a million miles away from everything. It’s peaceful, calming. And now this.

Her breathing is ragged, her skin flashing hot and cold simultaneously. She gives the soil and dirt and leaves one final push, sweeping it all aside to reveal a glimpse of dead flesh. It’s a leg, its texture grey and mottled. She fumbles in her pocket for her phone, praying to a God she doesn’t believe exists that she can get a signal.

Sweat rolls down her back. She is cold and clammy as she stares at the screen, panic biting at her. No bars. No signal. No way of getting any help.

Shit!

She clambers and crawls higher up the embankment on watery legs, her innards roiling, the image of the decaying limb burnt deep into her brain. By the time she reaches the top, her knees are scraped and bloody, her hands covered in leaf mulch. Strands of wet hair hang in her eyes. Sweat courses down her back.

Her phone springs to life. She cries out, her voice a loud echo. Relief blooms in her chest. She punches at the screen, calls 999, her voice a croak as she hears somebody speaking on the other end. A welcome voice. A helpful, soothing sound that eases the fear and helplessness that are currently slamming into her, violent blows that leave her winded and breathless.

‘Body,’ is all she can say before her legs give way and she collapses onto the wet grass. ‘I’ve found a dead body.’

Man Jailed for Murder of Local Teacher

Phillip Kennedy, 40, of Wainwright Court, York, has been found guilty of murdering a local teacher. Her bruised and battered body was found on the banks of the River Ouse by an early-morning jogger.

Sophia Saunders, 38, a teacher, suffered severe head injuries and her body was dragged down an embankment before being covered with leaves and branches. She was discovered by an unsuspecting jogger who alerted the police to the grisly find.

Phillip Kennedy pleaded not guilty throughout the trial, lowering his head and weeping as the verdict was read out in court.

Judge Sebastien Ward said the killer would be shown no mercy and should expect to serve a long sentence for a heinous crime against an innocent woman.

Kennedy was led from the dock by police officers, turning only once to glance at the victim’s husband who bore a dignified silence throughout the proceedings.

Sentencing will take place later this month.

The Yorkshire News, October 2018

2A YEAR LATER

Alice

I see him before he sees me. I shuffle forward on unsteady legs, my hands trembling as he turns and looks my way. His eyes are blind to my presence, always glancing elsewhere, their unseeing stare shifting over and beyond me. This is always the way, me chasing after him, watching, waiting, hoping that one day, he will finally turn my way and sense that I am here. Weeks and weeks of longing for him to speak and acknowledge me. Anything. I will take any crumbs he decides to throw my way. That’s how anxious I am for his attention. Does that make me sound sad and desperate? Probably. But that’s because I am. I need him to want me, to be with me. It’s just how it is.

The group of bodies moves out of the church, their voices a gravelly murmur. People turning, speaking to one another, talking in hushed tones, heads dipped together respectfully.

Only when we are outside does the noise level return to normal, people’s whispers raised to their usual volume, their voices carrying over the warm air.

‘How’s your Mum? Still not well?’

‘Yes, John’s still working over at the big supermarket. Been there for over ten years now.’

‘Lovely session, don’t you think? Went really well.’

‘My arthritis is getting worse by the week. Don’t know how I managed to make it here today.’

The voices around me are no more than white noise as I scan the crowd for signs of him. He’s disappeared. No hanging around for idle chat; Peter has vanished from the throng, heading away from the crowd before anybody has a chance to engage him in conversation. I admire him, being unwilling to become embroiled in the pointless, boring minutiae of other people’s lives. The rest of us are all too polite to say no, to tell people that we have better things to do with our time than to stand and listen to their endless litany of ailments or be subjected to the mindless repetition of banal news about their lives; news that is insignificant and trivial to us and important only to them. We all have our damaged existences that we strive to conceal. Peter has his and I have mine.

I wonder if he has noticed me watching him from afar? I don’t suppose he has. Why would he? He doesn’t know me. Or at least, I don’t think he does. I’m just another face in the crowd, another member of the group who is mourning the loss of somebody close to them. I know him, though. I definitely know him. We have a lot in common. It’s just that he doesn’t know it yet. For the past year, I’ve been wandering aimlessly through life, rudderless and confused, with nobody and nothing to assist me, to tell me that everything is going to be just fine. Nobody to stop me from collapsing in a heap. Until I realised that Peter attended the grieving sessions in church, that is. It gave me a purpose, knowing I could get close to him. It was a chance, possibly my only chance. Hope flourished within me. I had something to aim for, something tangible I could cling onto. Something that could turn my life around, make it worth living again.

Every week at the group sessions, I watch him: scrutinising his speech, his movements, every little thing about him. I need to know it all, to work him out, assess him. Become his judge and jury. Unlike me, he is able to speak coherently, to relax, converse with others in the group. Be himself.

I am not a gibbering wreck but choose to remain silent, convinced everyone can see my weaknesses and vulnerabilities, convinced they can see deep inside my soul, into the blackness that festers there, the simmering resentment at being left to cope on my own in this scary and often harsh and unforgiving world. Of course, we are all weak and vulnerable. That’s why we’re here. Peter stands out from the others. He’s stronger, capable. It makes me wonder why he’s here at all.

Every week as I watch him, I feel as if I am being drawn closer by an invisible strand. Each time I attend, I find myself trying that bit harder with my appearance, wearing more make-up, curling my hair. Not too much. Nothing too garish. It’s a therapy group, not a pick-up joint. I don’t want to turn up looking as if I am going clubbing. So instead, I wear perfume, brush my hair, do what I can to make myself noticeable and half decent without appearing too brash and brassy. Yet still he turns a blind eye, appearing to show little interest in anybody around him. Especially me.

I’ve never been particularly drawn to religion, finding churches often oppressive and unwelcoming, but knowing Peter would be there every week was enough to lure me through these doors and so here I am, trailing after him like a small child desperate for attention. And here he is, barely acknowledging my existence. I will keep trying however, and soon he will see me through his fog of misery and grief. Soon enough I will penetrate his armour, his invisible shield and then he will know who I am. I’ll make sure of it.