‘Thanks,’ he says quietly, a cerise web spreading over his neck and creeping up his face. ‘For everything.’

  46

  Dominic wonders how long he will have to stay here, whether he will ever be allowed to leave. He thinks that maybe he will never be a free man ever again but then, what does he know? He has hidden depths, facets to his character that run deep. An unhinged man, a dangerous psychopath. That’s all he is now. This is who he has become.

  Teams of lawyers and psychologists have been to see him, talking to him, assessing his mental wellbeing, trying to see inside his head and work out his thought processes. His solicitor has advised him to plead guilty. To everything. That way, he will avoid a trial and the media scrum that goes with it. The psychologists are still trying to use the line that he suffered a massive breakdown, brought on by years of hiding his murderous deed. They are wrong. All of them. He has no time for these people who think that life is a series of simple events, one thing leading to another until everything comes toppling down, the weight of it all too much to bear. They think they know everything there is to know.

  They don’t.

  They are ignorant of his life, of the crooked path that led him to this dark and lonely place. Only he has the key to that particular corner of his head, the shadowy, dusty place that contains all of his dirty little secrets. The ones he has hidden away for most of his life.

  Doctor Reynolds claims that Clara wasn’t even Dominic’s girlfriend, that she was an acquaintance, nothing more, nothing less. Just somebody Dominic had become attached to, that their relationship was purely platonic and that she thought of him as a friend, a friend who had feelings for her that weren’t reciprocated. It’s nonsense. Of course it is. They were lovers, he and Clara, joined at the hip until she left for Scotland and distance drove them apart. If Doctor Reynolds can’t see that then maybe he should consider changing his profession, doing something more worthwhile. Something he is good at. He is supposed to be able to work people out, to unpick their snarled and knotted thoughts, the subtleties of their behaviour and come to a logical conclusion, but as far as Dominic can see, he knows nothing about anything and certainly nothing about Dominic and who he really is. Nothing at all.

  If he wants answers, then maybe Doctor Reynolds needs to start looking closer to home, casting his net wider and taking a good look at Dominic’s childhood and how he developed as a young man, how his parents berated him at every opportunity, how cruel and thoughtless they were with their constant put downs and aggressive words and actions. That’s where the problems always begin, isn’t it? Home is where the heart is. Or the hurt.

  Dominic wants them to ask him how his father died. He has been told that losing a parent at a young age will have impacted upon his personal growth, stunting his emotions, steering him off course. It was tragic of course, him falling off that ladder while working on the roof of the house. Tragic for many – but not for Dominic, not for the young man who shook that ladder then watched his father’s body fly through the air, his spine curved into an arc, before it landed with a sickening crack on the rough ground beneath.

  His tears were well rehearsed that day as he ran into the living room to tell his mother that an accident had taken place, that he had tried to stop it, done everything he could, but it had proved hopeless and that in the end, there was nothing he could have done to save his father.

  They cried together – a fifteen-year-old Dominic, clinging to his mother, listening to her sobs as they merged with his own howls of relief. He thought it was over that day, the misery and abuse. He thought he had put it all behind him. It was just the beginning.

  It was almost instantaneous, his mother’s decline into a permanent state of anger and wretchedness, as if being left on her own with her son was too much to bear. Her gripes and moans grew. She more than made up for her husband’s absence, berating her son with the voices of two people.

  Dominic lowers his head, stares at his shoes, thinking how little they all know – Doctor Reynolds and his team. How little they delve and forage when questioning him. They don’t know where to look, how to properly question him, to open and highlight that dusty, unlit corner of his brain that stores his many secrets and lies. He would tell them in a heartbeat, unburden himself of his sins. It’s a heavy load to carry, all this weight. All this knowledge.

  All those deaths and murders.

  He wants rid of it, to shed it all and start again. They just need to start asking the right questions. Then he will tell all. He will tell them everything they want to know.

  MORE FROM J. A. BAKER

  We hope you enjoyed reading The Guilty Teacher. 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 Widower’s Lie, another gripping 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 One

  FEBRUARY 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

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

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  There is, as always, so many people to thank once a book has been written that I am in danger of spending as much time compiling this list, as I did writing the actual book. With that in mind, I will try to keep it brief, so here goes.

  First and foremost, a huge thank you to everyone at Boldwood Books. Their unwavering faith in me always helps to bolster my flagging confidence. They help authors like myself, who would otherwise struggle to get noticed by the larger publishing houses, into print.

  My editor, Emily Ruston is somebody I trust implicitly, her wise words and guidance helping to shape my writing and make it the absolute best it can be. Thank you, Emily. You do a magnificent job!

  Who was it once said that if you think writing a book is hard work, wait until you come to try and sell it? Never was a truer word said, so a huge thank you to Jenna Houston, Nia Beynon and the marketing team at Boldwood, who work relentlessly, promoting our books and making sure they get the best coverage possible. Well done, everyone.

  I couldn’t possibly write this without saying a massive thank you to my family and friends. You never complain when I disappear for weeks at a time, sitting at my laptop typing until my fingers bleed and my brain begins to melt. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  A huge thank you to all the bloggers who help promote my books free of charge. You guys are quite literally diamonds. Keep on shining bright.

  And finally, thank you so much to you, dear reader for choosing my book and taking time out of your day to read it. I hope you enjoyed it and if you feel so inclined, a review would be most welcome.

  I love chatting to people so please feel free to drop in for a chinwag on any of my social media sites.

  Facebook.com/thewriterjude

  Twitter.com/thewriterjude

  Instagram.com/jabakerauthor

  Best wishes,

  Judith A Baker

  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.

  Follow J. A. Baker on social media:

  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

  The Girl In The Water

  The Quiet One

  The Passenger

  Little Boy, Gone

  When She Sleeps

  The Widower’s Lie

  The Guilty Teacher

  First published as The Face of Clara Morgan in 2021. This edition published in Great Britain in 2024 by Boldwood Books Ltd.

  Copyright © J. A. Baker, 2021

  Cover Design by Head Design Ltd

  Cover Illustration: iStock

  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 978-1-83561-257-6

  Large Print ISBN 978-1-83561-258-3

  Hardback ISBN 978-1-83561-256-9

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-83561-259-0

  Kindle ISBN 978-1-83561-260-6

  Audio CD ISBN 978-1-83561-251-4

  MP3 CD ISBN 978-1-83561-252-1

  Digital audio download ISBN 978-1-83561-255-2

  Boldwood Books Ltd

  23 Bowerdean Street

  London SW6 3TN

  www.boldwoodbooks.com

 

 

  J A Baker, The Guilty Teacher

 

 

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