Finding Eva: a thrilling psychological suspense

by J. A. Baker

  Finding Eva

  J.A. Baker

  Copyright © 2018 J.A. Baker

  The right of J.A.Baker to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2018 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  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

  A Note from Bloodhound 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

  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 tip toes, everybody teetering and falling as they peer across the road in the vain 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 hangs over their heads and swarms 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 satisfy 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 top 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; her hometown. 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 neighbourhood after all, her town. She has spent her entire life here and 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 and hood 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 carefully placed inside.

  T-shirt woman stands, mouth gaping open, as another trolley with yet another bodybag 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 policeman next to him. ‘Somebody killed them, did they? Or one of them killed the other one then topped themselves? Typical, isn’t it? Selfish bastards. Too cowardly to do the time. Bring back hanging, that’s what I say.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything, sir. Now if you wouldn’t mind stepping back?’

  The portly man moves away before turning to the people and bellowing at them, ‘Lock all your doors tonight! Keep your kids inside, everyone. There’s a fucking murderer on the loose.’

  The crowd moves; their collective energy slowly morphing into a sinister entity that radiates negativity, pure hatred. They need answers and they won’t rest until they get them. They are all fearful, terrified of the unknown. Terrified of the killer amongst them.

  Suddenly everybody stops; the noise dropping to a barely audible hum. Heads turn. The distant roar of an engine catches their attention. They swing round to see a local news van screech to a halt at the end of the road, a large blue and white logo on the side displaying the familiar ITV sign. A handful of reporters and cameramen tumble out of it and within a matter of seconds, the crowd disperses as people wander over towards them, their pace growing faster the closer they get, the idea of being involved in any sort of interview too attractive an option to ignore. They want to have their say, to let everyone know how fearful they are about this situation, to tell the police that they need to find the person who did this. Their voices deserve to be heard and what better way than in front of a TV camera? They are a jumble of limbs as they push forward, desperate to speak, anger swelling within them, faces angled towards the microphones and cameras. This is their chance to put their points of view forward. This is their chance to shine.

  On the periphery of the original crowd stands an individual who shrinks away as the gawping people part and filter off, most heading over to where the reporters are setting up their equipment. Thrusting hands deep into pockets, the lone person waits a while, wondering what is being said behind the closed curtains of number forty-three, wondering if the police in there have any idea what actually happened; what was said, who was present, what really took place in that awful house. It’s doubtful. Nobody could know. Nobody would ever guess the events that led up to this moment in time. Nobody.

  A gust of wind whips in from the sea, an invisible hand pushing the lone person forward. The figure blinks hard against the roar of the elements, dips its head and shuffles away towards the main road, then stops and takes one last glance at the crime scene before smiling broadly and heading off towards the beach until it is no more than a speck in the distance.

  A group of dog walkers mill about on the sand, throwing sticks into the frothing sea, calling to their animals to fetch. Their bodies mask the lone figure, concealing its movements until, after a short while, the walkers disperse, leaving an empty stretch of beach; a long expanse of soggy mud-brown sand. The place is empty. There is nobody there. The lone figure has gone.

  2

  Trish

  She has no idea how her life has come to this. It wasn’t how she had planned it all those years ago when she was fresh-faced and painfully naive, but then it never is, is it? That’s just how life goes. It starts off easy enough; you amble through, get a few bounces along the way and suddenly, before you know it, life has you by the throat and is shaking you about like a ragdoll until you are dizzy and sick with it all. That’s when she knew it was easier to let it all wash over her, to go along with whatever shit was thrown her way. Far easier than trying to rail against it. It was like swimming against the tide, constantly trying to do the right thing by other people and keep the peace, so she just gave in, accepted her lot and rolled with the punches.

  Smiling sadly, her chin trembles as she slumps down into the chair; probably not the best analogy to use, given the life she has had, but that’s just how it is. Nothing she can say or do will change what has gone before. One long stream of misery and hardship interspersed with the weekly bout of violence. That’s how she would sum up her life if asked – she is punch drunk on despair. She’s dealt with it however, ‘made the best of it’ as the saying goes. And it hasn’t been all bad. She bites at the inside of her mouth and drums her fingers on the edge of the chair, the thick oak echoing out a dull, solid beat. It hasn’t been all good either. She’s still here though. She grew a second skin many years back; took the beatings and painted a smile on her face. No choice really. She learnt how to not feel anything. It was the best way; the only way. She stopped feeling when he came home inebriated, she stopped feeling when the blows came her way. Actually, she just stopped feeling. It was a necessity; the only way she could continue to exist, because if she allowed herself to feel, then it would have become unbearable. She switched off to it all, shut down her emotions, refusing to question her choices, refusing to reflect on what she should or shouldn’t have done. Because if she had started to think and reflect on that, mulling over what has gone before and what she could have done to prevent it, then she would have come to one conclusion; that her entire life has been a complete waste; every decision she has made that has led her down this path and got h
er to this point, it is all her own doing. That’s the hardest thing to deal with. Worse than any beating she has ever endured. Worse than sitting in the dark because their electricity had been cut off after drinking the week’s wages. Worse than all of those dark times in her life is the fact that she knew what he was like when she met him but went right ahead and accepted his offer of a drink anyway, ignoring the inner voice warning her to stay away, to steer clear of a man who drank like a demon and spoke with his fists. She forged ahead and accepted it all, blind to the dangers. Silent in the face of fear.

  Her eyes move along the mantelpiece to the family picture that’s sitting there, teasing her with what could have been and torturing her with the missing face. Her face. She’s thought of the kid frequently over the years but was certain that the child was better off without her. She wouldn’t have been able to give it the life it deserved; she knew that, but it didn’t stop her thinking about its absence. Sometimes she would wake on a morning with an ache so deep and cavernous it felt as if her insides had been scooped out. She learnt how to ignore that as well. She became a self-taught woman, even convincing herself that the child was whiny and needy – too much like hard work – telling herself over and over that having a little one around would have impinged on her day-to-day existence. That’s how she coped with it. That’s how she managed to get on with the rest of her life; by being half dead, refusing to allow sentimental nonsense to muddy her thinking. She did what had to be done, knowing that regrets solved nothing. Regrets simply reminded her of things she could no longer change.