The Toxic Friend

J A Baker

Description

A brilliant psychological thriller by bestselling author J.A. Baker...

After spending her childhood in care, Eva is desperate to find her birth parents and to get some closure on her difficult past. And so she finishes her relationship with boyfriend Gareth, leaves her home in London, and heads to Whitby in search of the family she has never known.

But Eva’s close friend, Celia is worried. Eva has stopped answering her calls and when Celia travels to London to speak to her she realises Eva has moved without telling anyone. Both women have been badly damaged by their childhoods, and Celia makes the decision to follow Eva to Whitby, concerned that Eva is unravelling....

Gareth, furious that Eva ended things the way she did also decides to go in search of his missing girlfriend. But it is the start of a lethal situation.

But who exactly is Eva and why is Celia so concerned about her friend?

Some relationships are toxic. Others are deadly.

**Perfect for fans of Sue Watson, Valerie Keogh and K.L. Slater.

What people are saying about J.A. Baker...**

'Superbly written with a cast of crazy characters who will make you look differently at your co-workers from now on.’ Bestselling author Valerie Keogh

'Fast-paced, riveting thriller. Gripped until the last page!' Bestselling author Diana Wilkinson

'I read this story in a single day. Once you begin, it's difficult to put it down. 5 stars from me!' Bestselling author L.H. Stacey

'A twisty, creepy story, expertly told. Perfect for reading on dark winter evenings…with the doors double-locked and bolted. Highly recommended!' Bestselling author Amanda James

Please note this book was previously published as Finding Eva

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Thriller
• Fiction
• Noir
• Suspense
• Family Life
• Crime
• General
• The Women
• British Isles
• Psychology
• Woman
• General officer
• Domestic
• Psychological thriller
• Friendship
• 21st century
• Suspenso
• Coming of Age
• Women
• Thrillers
• Women Sleuths
• Psychological
• Mashups

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 27 juin 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781805491729
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE TOXIC FRIEND


J. A. BAKER
To all my friends out there who help keep me sane and grounded. Thank you for not being like any of the weird characters in my books.
If you want to understand today, you have to search yesterday.
PEARL BUCK

Family quarrels are bitter things. They don't go according to any rules. They're not like aches or wounds; they're more like splits in the skin that won't heal because there's not enough material.
F. SCOTT FITZGERALD
CONTENTS



Whitby - The Present


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

London - Before and Leading up to

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Whitby - Two Months Later

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

London

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Whitby

Chapter 11

London

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


Acknowledgments

More from J. A. Baker

About the Author

The Murder List

About Boldwood Books
Whitby


The Present
1

The people in the crowd jostle for space, a huddle of hot bodies crushed together, pushing, shoving, manners and decency all but forgotten. Their heads bob about as they stand on tiptoe, everybody teetering and falling as they peer across the road in the vein hope of getting a better view of the deceased. Dead bodies. That’s what it’s all about. It’s the thought of death and blood and gore that draws the crowds, especially round these parts. This is a rarity: a tragedy like this happening in their neck of the woods. The closest they usually come to crime is the odd bit of shoplifting, or the occasional argument in the pub on a Friday night when the alcohol is flowing freely, but this… this is something completely out of their comfort zone. A crime of this ilk is in a different league. There have been murders here in the past, many years back, but it’s hardly commonplace; this is a rare occurrence that shocks and horrifies the locals. This place is a friendly area famous for its tourists and landmarks, not for its dead.
It was a young neighbour who told the locals; the same woman who alerted the authorities, calling for an ambulance, yelling that they had to hurry up. She was the one who listened to the screams, the one who burst in and found the victims. She was the one who heard them die.
Voices filter out from the mass of curious bodies that sway from side to side as they push forward towards the crime scene, their murmurs and chatter piercing the chill of the mid-morning spring air.
‘Two people involved apparently.’
‘I heard it was three.’
‘Police won’t release any details but we all know who lives there, don’t we?’
‘It was poor Gillian who sounded the alarm. In a right state she is, by all accounts. She was out the back, sweeping up leaves, and heard screaming.’
The mumbling and gossip hang over their heads and swarm about, words and sounds buzzing around in an invisible haze only to be swallowed up by a collective gasp as the front door opens and a police officer steps out. His face is impassive as he scans the hordes of onlookers before marching past, bending down and dipping into a nearby unmarked car. The disappointment of the waiting crowd at not seeing anything of any significance is so tangible, you can almost taste it.
They crave information. Any snippet will do. Any morsel of gossip to satiate their all-consuming need to know about the crimes that took place behind that door. Their expressions say it all. Each and every one of them is desperate, driven on by panic and curiosity. Despite the shock, they all sense it: the splinter of excitement that is coursing through their veins, the rush of adrenalin at being so close to where the violence took place. When it comes down to it, we are all voyeurs, each and every one of us; we’re all attracted to death and cruelty like moths to a flame. It makes us feel just that bit more appreciative at being alive, at not being one of the victims.
A young woman wearing a strappy T-shirt and tight, faded jeans pushes her way forwards, her head thrust out, a snaking vein of annoyance protruding from the side of her throat as she raises her arm and shouts over to the officer standing guard outside the large, terraced property.
‘Oi! What’s going on in there?’
Behind her, the muttering and grumbling grows, anger now driving their voices at being kept in the dark, raw fear fuelling their shouts at the thought of it happening to one of them. She feels herself grow hot and continues her tirade, her voice a screech above the hubbub of the pulsing crowd behind her.
‘Most of us here have lived in this place all our lives. We have a right to know if there’s a madman running loose!’
Clapping erupts from the multitude of angry bodies as she pushes even further forward, her face puckered into a mean, angry grimace, her eyes narrowed in concentration. She has a right to speak up. They all do. They deserve to be kept in the loop, to be informed about what’s going on.
‘We’ve been standing here for fucking ages and you’ve told us nothing! We’re not leaving till we know what’s happened, are we?’
She turns and nods at the rest of the onlookers. More clapping and jeering spills out and spreads around them like raging wildfire as she stares at the sea of faces looking at her. A broad smile splits her acne-covered features as the roar from the ever-growing multitude of watchers explodes into the cold, still air. She nods at them in recognition. They’re all here for the same reason – to make sure their neighbourhood is safe. She can help that happen. She can take charge here, be their new leader, a self-elected spokesperson for their close-knit neighbourhood.
Bristling with new-found confidence, she surges forward once more, making sure the police officer standing outside the property can see her. This is her territory. She belongs here. She waves her arm around to catch his attention. She’s going to do something about this whole sorry mess, make sure they’re all kept abreast of proceedings. This is her home after all, her town. She has spent her entire life here. She has every right to know exactly what is going on – what went on in that house, and the police have no fucking right keeping it from her. Who do they think they are, anyway? Jumped up, overpaid nobodies, that’s what they are. A load of pompous arses who spend their time milling around doing not much of anything while taking home big, fat salaries out of the public purse. All these people here, paying their wages, contributing to their mortgages while they swan in and out of the crime scene, their lips sealed, telling the local people nothing. Zero. No information at all so far. It’s a fucking disgrace is what it is. The whole thing boils her piss.
The police officer stares ahead, his body rigid, his features unmoving despite the insults being hurled his way.
‘Fucking pig! Get on with your fucking job instead of standing there like a useless dickhead!’
The door to the house opens a fraction, a teasing crack of darkness. A collective breath is held before it’s pushed further ajar, revealing a shadowy hallway within. Silence descends as all eyes hold fast to the goings on at number forty-three. They wait and watch. Nothing happens.
‘Come on! What the fuck’s going on in there?’ a voice from the back hollers.
More waiting, a shift in tension, movement from within the house. There’s a deep sigh as an androgynous individual in a white, billowing outfit complete with hairnet and mask, appears out of the darkness and carefully backs out of the door. The ghostly figure leans forward, its body bent over an unseen object that’s concealed in the greyness of the house. There’s a moment of silence, a pregnant pause of anticipation before the figure moves again, its hands holding on tight to a gurney. The white-clad individual drags it out of the doorway with a clatter and wheels it over the step. The gurney rumbles onto the path and remains still for a few seconds before another person emerges at the other end, wearing identical forensic clothing, their features hidden from view behind full-face masks. A series of gasps and cries tinged with mild excitement pierce the air as a body bag, strapped to the gurney, is wheeled into a nearby vehicle. All eyes follow the concealed mound of flesh as it is pushed towards the van and unceremoniously hauled inside.
T-shirt woman stands, mouth gaping open, as another trolley with yet another body bag tightly secured to it is pushed out of the open doorway, and also wheeled towards the van. She stares at the vehicle, visualising the still, pale bodies inside it, wondering how they died, trying to imagine the scars and the cold flesh, picturing the dark, pooling blood. A crackle of expectancy hangs over everybody. The silence doesn’t last long. A guttural voice punctures the momentary lull.
‘What the fuck is going on?’
A rotund man wearing dark-blue overalls steps out of the crowd, a gathering that has merged into one huge, pulsating organism. Unrest ripples through the pack of ogling faces as they watch him push his way to the front. His solid midriff presses against the police tape, stopping it from flapping in the strong, north-easterly breeze. It sticks to his belly, flesh enveloping the narrow strip of plastic as he lunges forward, the yellow and black warning sign no barrier to his large frame.
‘If you wouldn’t mind moving back, sir,’ a uniformed officer says as he holds his hand up to indicate his disapproval of the man’s proximity to the cordoned-off area. The policeman stares down at the protruding gut before diverting his gaze elsewhere.
‘So it’s a crime scene, is it then?’ the man asks, a deep frown slicing through his forehead as he stares up at the po