She would write it all down once she was settled back in her flat. Then the money would come rolling in. She didn’t want to speak to anybody while she was here. Small villages had big ears and even larger mouths. She knew that some people had already sold their stories but she had more integrity than that. Or enough common sense to hide what she was really doing. Nobody would ever guess that she would be the type of person to do such a thing: to spread malicious gossip and lies and speak ill of the dead. That was because they didn’t really know her. They thought they did. They couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Lily let out a wild laugh as she turned onto Church Lane and ambled along in the shadow in the dancing trees, their branches creaking and groaning above her as a gust of wind caught them and rattled at their leaves. It was like nature had suddenly become angry, furious at everybody and everything. Hardly surprising. Most of the time, people were shit. They were all so naïve. They thought they had her sussed; they were convinced they knew her and thought of her as one of their own. Yes, her father was a useless bastard, but she had learned how to survive it all, grown a second skin and developed into a tenacious character with traits that would serve her well in life. She wasn’t the helpless victim they all wanted her to be. Victims got nowhere in life. They got trodden underfoot, left to rot with the weak the lame and lazy. That wasn’t her. She was better than that.

  Everybody had cried when they found out what Ray had done. Lily hadn’t cried. If anything, it had given her a bit of a kick hearing about his crimes and, if she was going to be brutally truthful, she admired him. He’d done what he’d had to do, hadn’t let anybody stand in his way and had just got on with it. And the letters and dog shit were a stroke of genius. A complete hoot. Lily only wished she had thought of it first.

  She lengthened her stride and turned out of Church Lane onto the main road through the village. At least Ray had had the balls to do what he’d done. Lily only wished she had enough courage to do the same. She did manage to work her anger and frustrations out a few times, but nothing on the scale that Ray had managed. He had been the master at it. Pity he’d died. She could have learned from him. He would have made a good mentor. They would have made a good couple. They’d had chemistry, their lives running almost in parallel with similarities too striking to ignore. He might have been a bit older than her but kindred souls locked together by misery and madness surpassed any age restrictions placed upon them by everyday conventions.

  Still, at least she’d got to kill Mrs Batton’s cat. And she had enjoyed it too. Old woman Batton was a horrible old bitch and had always shouted at Lily and her friends when they were kids, chasing them away from playing outside her house. She deserved everything she got. Her cat had been ancient anyway, on its last legs and practically at death’s door long before Lily had stepped in and done her bit. If anything, she had done them both a favour. After an argument with her dad, Lily had needed to take her temper out on something or somebody and the cat had been there at her feet, meowing and angling for food. A weed killer pellet wrapped in a bit of ham was all it had taken. It had all been easy. So fucking easy. Like taking candy from a baby.

  Buoyed up by the memory of it, Lily couldn’t help but smile. It gave her a real buzz, tricking people, making them think they knew her when they actually didn’t really know her at all. It was the only bit of power she had, the only thing that stopped her from screaming out into the empty sky above at the injustice of it all, the unfairness of being born into a dysfunctional family where love was absent and beatings were the norm.

  Killing that cat had helped restore some equilibrium of power, reset the scales that for so long had been tipped out of balance, leaving her feeling empty and useless. Perhaps one day she would strike again when the time was right. Not just now though. Too much attention focused on them all. Their every move was being closely monitored by teams of journalists and reporters hoping to dig up more dirt. They waited around every corner, cameras at the ready, itching to get it all into print and make a fast buck.

  Maybe she would never feel the need to do it ever again. Or maybe she would. It all depended on what life decided to throw at her. Sometimes she did and said things just for kicks. Just because she could.

  Soon she would be away from here, far away from the village full of secrets where abuse and murder were commonplace and recognition for sins wasn’t mandatory. She would continue with her studies and work hard, try to forget about her shitty father and the beatings he had inflicted upon her as a child.

  She wondered if Ray had also had a diabolical childhood and if that was why he had done what he’d done. Or had he just been born that way? They would never really know. A few of the older people remembered him from when he lived in Whitchurch, but everyone was still at a loss as to why he had carried out such acts of monstrosity. Had he just been mad or had there been some sort of reason for his actions?

  Lily heaved a sigh as she pushed at the door of the pub and quietly slid inside. Thinking about it all made her head ache. Sometimes people did things just because they could. Like killing the cat. It was right at the time. Gave her such a kick, put her on a high and helped her to calm her anger. She only wished she’d done it to her dad many years ago.

  She smiled as she sauntered into room behind the bar and pulled on her apron. Killing her own dad, getting rid of that monster and setting the rest of her family free from his tyranny. Now there was a thought that made her soul sing…

  MORE FROM J. A. BAKER

  We hope you enjoyed reading The Stranger. If you did, please leave a review. If you’d like to gift a copy, this book is available to purchase in paperback, hardback, large print and audio.

  The Intruder, another twisty psychological thriller from J. A. Baker, is available to buy now by clicking on the link below. Or read on for an exclusive extract…

  Chapter 1

  The Reflection

  I’d like to say I picked up on it the first time we visited the old place – the sensation that somebody else was around, that uneasy feeling you get when you’re being watched – but that would be a lie. I didn’t feel anything of the sort. Neither of us did. It was an uneventful morning with no defining memories, nothing we could look back on to say we should have known. The sun shone, birds sang. It was a typical spring day. There were no dark shadows, no eerie moments that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, no signs or indications that anything was amiss. No clue as to what would follow.

  Hugh had spent a good deal of the time we were there itching to visit the basement. It was all he had talked about on the way to view the house. He was full of ideas about how he would turn it into a workshop where he could fix all the bits of broken machinery he had collected over the years. I was less than excited at the prospect of visiting a dank, underground room. It held no appeal for me and I urged him to go down there without me.

  It was a wise decision on my part. The basement, as it turned out, was much as I suspected it would be: like all basements everywhere, an airless, damp place, full of cobwebs, dark corners and echoes. The thought of visiting it filled me with a sense of dread. After a swift glance down, I had stayed in the kitchen, listening to Hugh’s voice as it filtered up through the floor where I was standing. I could hear him speaking to the estate agent in a rapid, animated fashion, firing questions at her, his excitement spilling out as he roamed around the concrete floor. He was so keyed up and desperate to purchase the place that excitement practically oozed out of every pore. We were both eager, but Hugh had the edge over me. He radiated pure energy.

  The house was a bargain, there was no denying it. Empty for almost two years, it had put most people off by the extensive renovations that were needed. I’d like to say it didn’t faze us one little bit but I don’t mind admitting I did feel more than a little overwhelmed at just how much needed doing to the old place. I couldn’t complain, however. It was what we had talked about, what we’d wanted for some time. Hugh and I were looking for a project: a property we could pull apart, put our own unique stamp on and then call our own, and Cross House met all our requirements, providing us with something we could get our teeth into.

  If only we had known.

  I waited in the kitchen while they continued their tour of the basement. I had seen enough to convince me we needed to buy it and didn’t feel compelled to go wandering around again. To be perfectly honest, I was starting to feel nervous about such an undertaking. The interior was in a much poorer condition close up than it had looked in the brochure, and if I stared too long and hard at all the flaws and the substantial amount of building work that needed to be done, I think my knees would have buckled, so I stayed put and spent the time gazing outside, working out where I could put my bird feeders and how we could best utilise the space out there. The garden was immense. I liked a sprawling lawn and Hugh liked plenty of flowers and border plants, so compromises would have to be made. I could live with that. Arguments about flora and fauna paled into insignificance compared to what we had already been through.

  The voices beneath me grew closer, the timbre in their tone altering and changing in pitch as they climbed back up the steps.

  I took one last look around the kitchen, opening cupboard doors and peering in, even though we had every intention of ripping them out and replacing them with modern units. An island. I really liked the idea of an island where we could gather as a family and chat while we cooked and prepared our food. I had plans for Cross House. High hopes and so many plans.

  By the time I had inspected each and every shelf and peered into the darkest of corners, they were back in the kitchen, making their appearance through the tiny entrance next to the old pantry, another feature I planned on disposing of as soon as we moved in. I watched them – Hugh and the slightly frazzled-looking, middle-aged lady – as they emerged with their heads bowed. They straightened up and brushed down their clothes, fingers patting and dragging across fabric to remove the dust that clung to them. The look on Hugh’s face told me all I needed to know. His mind was made up. He had put an offer in. That didn’t disturb me. We had already discussed the financial side of things prior to the visit and pored over photographs of the house online. Before we had even set foot in it, we knew that it was the property we had been looking for. We had outgrown our other home. It no longer felt like a relaxing place to be. We had plenty of reasons to be leaving it behind, none of them pleasant.

  I shook hands with the estate agent; the look on her face was one of complete horror as I turned to Hugh and asked him whether the basement contained any dead bodies or rotting carcasses. She must have heard that line and worse many times over in her line of work and eventually laughed when I echoed Hugh’s sentiments about loving Cross House and its location. It was in a perfect setting in a tiny village in North Yorkshire with only a handful of neighbours. After what he had been through, it was ideal. What could possibly go wrong in such an idyllic place? I then backed up his offer, reminding her that our property had already sold. Estate agents love to hear about buyers without a chain speeding up the whole arduous process. I could almost see the pound-note signs flashing before her eyes as we continued to chat about the charm of the old place and how we couldn’t wait to start our renovations once it was ours.

  By the time we were back in the car, both Hugh and I knew that it was a done deal. There was no reason for it not to be. For once, everything would go our way. I could just feel it: the tug of good fortune that I was sure was long overdue. I managed to shut out of my mind all the dated decor and the heavy workload that lay ahead of us and instead focused on the positives. It was far bigger than our current house, was in a rural location and more than that, it provided us with a fresh start, the opportunity to leave those memories behind: all the emotional baggage and stress we were only too keen to forget about.

  That’s where it all started, really. That day in the kitchen when we said yes to the house. That day when we thought our lives would start again, free from terror and fear. We had endured enough. We deserved to sleep easy at night. We deserved some peace of mind and leaving everything behind would afford us just that. Or so we thought.

  How wrong we were. The day we bought Cross House was when it all started to go horribly awry. And that’s when our story really begins…

  We hope you enjoyed this exclusive extract. The Intruder is available to buy now by clicking on the image below:

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, I would like to thank Boldwood Books for taking on this book when I had lost all hope of it ever reappearing again. The team have been nothing short of brilliant in their efforts to rebrand and republish my back catalogue.

  The Stranger first appeared on the shelves as The Cleansing and after a brief flash into the Top 100 on Amazon, it disappeared out of view. I’m delighted to see it once again, being bought and read by people who were attracted to its new cover and blurb. I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading it.

  A huge thank you to my friends and family who have supported my writing career every single step of the way. There have been many high points and many low ones too. I hope the low days are behind me and I can continue writing and producing many more books.

  Thanks again to a small clutch of authors who keep me going. Anita Waller, Valerie Keogh and Diana Wilkinson, you ladies are brilliant!

  Thanks also to the many book clubs who have helped my career over the years. The clubs are run by volunteers and having been a member of the admin team for an online club for a few years, I know how time consuming and difficult job it is, so thanks to each and every one of you for giving up your time and supporting authors, especially Susan Hunter, Anita Waller, Tara Lyons and Mark Fearn. You guys are amazing.

  I’d like to thank my ARC readers for their loyalty and timely reviews and to Dee Groocock for her eagle eye! I’d be lost without you all.

  I’m certain to have missed somebody out and if I have, I apologise, but know that if you have helped and supported me in any way, I’m eternally grateful to you.

  Please feel free to contact/follow me on social media. I love to chat and always in need of a distraction from my writing! An author can only use so many methods of procrastination before running out of ideas…

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  J. A. Baker is a successful writer of numerous psychological thrillers. Born and brought up in Middlesbrough, she still lives in the North East, which inspires the settings for her books.

  Sign up to J. A. Baker’s mailing list here for news, competitions and updates on future books.

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  ALSO BY J A BAKER

  Local Girl Missing

  The Last Wife

  The Woman at Number 19

  The Other Mother

  The Toxic Friend

  The Retreat

  The Woman in the Woods

  The Stranger

  The Intruder

  First published in 2019. This edition published in Great Britain in 2023 by Boldwood Books Ltd.

  Copyright © J. A. Baker, 2023

  Cover Design by Head Design Ltd.

  Cover Illustration: Shutterstock

  The moral right of J. A. Baker to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologise for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Paperback ISBN 978-1-80549-209-2

  Large Print ISBN 978-1-80549-211-5

  Hardback ISBN 978-1-80549-210-8

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-80549-212-2

  Kindle ISBN 978-1-80549-213-9

  Audio CD ISBN 978-1-80549-204-7

  MP3 CD ISBN 978-1-80549-205-4

  Digital audio download ISBN 978-1-80549-206-1

  Boldwood Books Ltd

  23 Bowerdean Street

  London SW6 3TN

  www.boldwoodbooks.com

 

 

  J A Baker, The Stranger

 

 

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