Local Girl Missing: The addictive, twisty psychological thriller from J.A. Baker

By J A Baker

Missing without trace...

When local woman Deborah goes missing, her colleagues Adrian, Yvonne and Merriel are all left in shock. Gossip around the office begins to swirl – what could have happened to Deborah? Is she dead or alive? And who could be responsible for her disappearance?

Everyone is terrified that they could be next…except the one person who has all the answers. The last person people expect.

Because Deborah is being held captive by a monster, a psychopath. But not a stranger… it’s someone she knows all too well…

Don't miss the brand-new thriller by J.A. Baker! 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

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boldwood Books
• Release date: Dec 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781804153529

J A Baker

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

Book preview

1

DEBORAH

I’m not alone. Not any more. I heard her bringing them up here, this other person who is now lying across the floor from me. I heard the shush of fabric against fabric, felt the movement of air flowing past me as she forced them into the room after dragging them up the stairs, the clatter of their body as they fell against the floorboards, their grunt of pain as she kicked them into the corner, pushing at them with her foot. Enjoying the control she wields. Savouring every second of it. She must feel very powerful, doing what she does. She isn’t. What she is, is a psychopath who happens to have an advantage over me. I’m shackled. Gagged and bound. She isn’t. That’s her only superior trait. Other than that, she is weak, depraved and pathetic, lacking all the usual identifiable traits that make us human – empathy, compassion, the ability to form positive relationships with others. She has none of those characteristics. She is a monster and I hate her.

I don’t know who this other person is or why they’re here; why they have been dragged into this hellhole and subjected to this ongoing torture. I don’t suppose she needs a reason to do what she does. Her mind operates on a different level to normal people. She’s unfathomable, has an alien sense of logic. I’ve long since given up trying to see inside her head. Truth be told, it isn’t somewhere I would ever want to visit. I imagine it to be a dark, shadowy place, an infected, festering wound, damaged beyond repair. I’ve tried reasoning with her, pleading, crying. Begging. It doesn’t work. She’s impervious to it all; every human emotion – anger, fear, outrage – they don’t seem to touch her in any way, shape or form, gliding over her like liquid mercury. I fear that they possibly energise her even, that she feeds off my terror and misery like a predator feasting on its latest kill.

I try to think about what day it is, whether it’s morning, afternoon or evening. Maybe it’s the early hours. How would I know, stuck here in the darkness? Time has lost all meaning. I’m not even sure how long I’ve been here. Days, definitely. Weeks, probably. Months, very possibly. I wish I’d kept a more accurate count. I didn’t know it would go on for this long. I expected it to last a matter of days, my imprisonment here. I thought I would either escape or die. What I didn’t expect was this – to still be here and have somebody join me. Another captive. Another prisoner. One more poor, enslaved soul at her mercy.

Tears prick at my eyes. I swallow, fight them off. All this time, sitting here in the darkness with no end in sight. It feels like hell. Scratch that. It is hell. In the beginning, I tried marking off the hours, shuffling my body about, scoring into the soft pine flooring, noting each day that passed with a small, splintered line to remind myself of how long it had been since I had seen daylight, been allowed to walk free. I tried to keep a note of it, not lose all sense of what day it was and how long I had been here, in this dark, dank place, but it didn’t take long for my nails to tear, for my skin to split and bleed. So, I stopped. Why make life harder for myself? I now focus all my energy on simply surviving, not caving in to her imposing manner and draconian rules. Her constantly shifting moods and demands. But it’s so damn hard, like building on sand, the foundations of her character fluctuating from second to second, minute to minute. There is nothing steady or reliable about her presence, the drag of her ever-changing temperament as powerful as any riptide or raging current. I fear that one day in the not-too-distant future, it will pull me under, that I will drown in this place, choking on the toxic air around me, flailing and gasping my last in this miserable hovel while she stands by and watches, my demise feeding her warped urges.

The discomfort in my shoulder is a relentless dull ache interspersed with flashes of burning pain that spreads up my arm as I squirm and shift about, attempting to get into a more comfortable position. A few days ago, I asked for a cushion to try to alleviate the throbbing, nagging line of pain that is ever-present, but she refused, seemingly enthused by my agony, and yet there are other days when she spoon-feeds me, gently placing the cutlery on my lips, singing and whistling as food is shovelled into my parched, blistered mouth.

I would love to be able to talk right now, to ask what is going on and why this other person is here, but the gag makes it difficult to breathe, let alone speak. Even if I could, it would probably result in a beating. I’m a grown woman and yet like a small child, I fear her wrath if I say the wrong thing. What can be right one day is considered a serious breach of rules the next. There are no set guidelines here, nothing to help keep me safe. Nothing to keep me sane.

So I wait. I wait until I hear the clump of her feet on the stairs, listening intently as she fades into the distance. Then I open my eyes, my act of feigning sleep no longer required now she isn’t around to gloat over my predicament. My helplessness and vulnerability. It strengthens her resolve, seeing the desperation in my eyes, helping to fuel her tenacity. She thrives on it which is why I now choose to look at her rarely, turning away or pretending to be asleep. A docile prisoner. Dead to her demands. She has her power. This is mine. It’s all I have, a refusal to let her see my fear.

The figure on the floor twitches, their limbs gradually springing to life, a twisting backbone that arches and bends. They attempt to scramble themselves into a sitting position, hands and ankles bound tightly. It’s futile, so instead they lie there, energy spent, gasping and grunting as their gaze adjusts to the dimness around us, to the swirling dust motes and stark surroundings. The bare walls, the dusty floor. The darkness and unutterable horror of it all.

I shuffle over to where they lie sprawled out, trying to get a glimpse of them; to see who they are, work out their gender, what they look like. What sort of person I am going to be sharing this room with. They turn to look at me, head angled to one side, and that’s when I hear the sharp intake of breath. It’s a simultaneous act, a collective gasp of disbelief from both of us. My breath balloons in my chest, my head thuds as I stare down at this person before me. The woman lying on the floor in this makeshift prison cell.

This woman who looks exactly like me.

2

ADRIAN

Everything is shit. I throw my phone down on my desk, then slide it out of view. Away from the prying eyes of the rest of the staff. They’re all too keen to point the finger around this place. It’s not like we don’t have anything else to do. We’re up to our eyes in work, and yet at the first sign of somebody nipping off for another cup of tea or slyly glancing at their phone, they’re all so quick to jump. Like they don’t all pop off for a sneaky fag whenever they can, or spend ages in the bloody toilet applying more lipstick or powdering their noses or doing whatever it is women do when they’re in there. No wonder the ladies’ loos in bars and restaurants always have a massive frigging queue outside with the amount of time they take just to have a piss and wash their hands.

Beneath the manila folder, I see my mobile phone light up again, its fluorescent glow making my pulse race. Jesus Christ, why can’t she just leave me alone? I cannot be with her every minute of every day, solving her problems, making sure her life is as smooth and as easy as it can be. I just can’t. At some point, she has got to start helping herself. I’ve got my own problems, my own issues and demons. Nobody helps me with those. God helps those that help themselves. Jesus, what a fucking stupid saying that is. God gave up on lots of us a long time ago, including me. Especially me.

‘Everything okay, Ade?’ Ruth is standing by my desk, her eyes flicking between my face and the fucking folder that is currently vibrating and lit up like Blackpool illuminations. Ruth is the only person in this place who calls me Ade. I don’t mind. She’s not that bad. Better than many of the other people in this office. She’s not the best but she definitely isn’t the worst.

‘Yeah, fine. Just about to go through these quotes, see if we can tweak them and get some of the prices down to be in with a chance of getting the order.’

‘Ah, good luck with that. Rather you than me.’

She hesitates, her feet shuffling on the tiled floor. Ruth wants to ask. She’s HR manager. It’s not strictly part of her remit to make sure we’re all okay, that our home lives don’t interfere with our work output, but she’s a personable woman, always keen to listen, to offer solutions to problems that aren’t necessarily anything to do with our job. I’m not sure she can help with this one. In fact, I know she can’t, so I give her a meek smile and turn back to my computer, trying to look busy, my fingers hitting the keyboard with more force than is necessary. My fury is managing to leak out and it shouldn’t. I try to stay alert; my ears are attuned to every little sound, my skin prickling as I wait for her to say or do something. She doesn’t. Instead, she clears her throat and moves back off to her office at the far end of our main working area, the tap tap of her heels fading into the distance.

My phone continues to beep and vibrate, reminding me of how shit my life can be at times. How shit she makes it. I’ll answer it at lunchtime, speak to her then. Or maybe I won’t. Maybe, like everyone else, I will sit in the staffroom, eat my sandwiches and give myself a fucking well-deserved break from customers, buyers and the woman who thinks she has the right to control my life every minute of every fucking day with her incessant phone calls and demands, and a constant and overwhelming need for reassurance.

Over the other side of the office, Allison is standing chatting to Yvonne. I can hear snippets of their conversation. They’re talking about Deborah, Allison going on and on about it. As if we haven’t been over this subject time and time again. And here I was worrying about being caught out on a sneaky phone call while wading through a mountain of quotes that need adjusting. Sometimes, the people in this place piss me right off, with their superior attitudes and gossipy fucking mouths. Deborah is gone; yes, it’s sad, but it’s time to shut up about it and move on, to let the police do their work without muddying the waters with supposition and idle bloody chit-chat. Anything could have happened to her, anything at all. She could have decided that enough was enough and has taken herself off somewhere. Somewhere far away from this office, this town, these people. Then again, maybe something bad has happened to her. Maybe somebody made something bad happen. I stare at my phone, Beth still lingering at the back of my mind, and shiver.

Merriel mentioned about us going back to the pub again after work on a Friday. I’m up for it. We need some laughs around this place. I’m not one for all that bullshit come on, team, let’s all pull together towards a common goal nonsense, but I do think we need to start smiling and maybe even laughing and having a bit of banter again, not spending every day raking over Deborah’s disappearance. It’s become like a bloody morgue in this place since she went missing and I’ve just about had enough of it.

More buzzing from under that folder as I punch in new prices and readjust the quotes before sending them off to Roger, our chief engineer. He can’t complain at them. The margins are tight but they’re competitive and we’ll at least be in with a chance of getting the order. And it’s a big one too – £40,000. That should put a smile on the miserable old fart’s face.

The incessant flashing and buzzing is enough to make me want to throw my phone against the nearest wall. My chest tightens as I slide it back out, stand up and slip it into my arse pocket. It’s time for a break anyway. I need a coffee and maybe even a KitKat, that is if the vending machine decides to work and not swallow my money, giving me nothing in return like it did yesterday.

I heave a sigh and run my fingers through my hair, remembering yesterday and what Beth told me she had done. My skin burns at the memory, electric pulses firing and misfiring just beneath the surface of my flesh. Every day brings a new low. Just when I think things cannot possibly get any worse, she throws something else at me and I have to limbo my way under her latest trauma or misdemeanour. It’s exhausting and I am truly fucking sick of it.

Coffee is needed before I speak to her. I need something to fortify me so I can deal with whatever it is she is about to tell me. Because there will be something. There is always something.

It’s quiet out on the landing. Just me and the big, ancient vending machine, the pair of us locked in permanent battle as it eats my money, giving me nothing in return. Not today, however.

I shove my fingers in my pocket, bring out a handful of loose change and push two coins into the slot, watching as a bar of chocolate clunks its way into the tray at the bottom. Thank fuck for that. I need caffeine and I need sugar and I need them now.

The staffroom is empty. Something else to be thankful for. It’s rare that things usually go my way. I’m always grateful when they do. I’m accustomed to hiccups and failure and rejection. I’m not being pitiful or acting like the victim. It’s just how it is. I’m used to it, expect it even.

I make a strong coffee, almost black, and sit at the table that overlooks the main car park. It’s quiet down there. Not like last week and the week before that and the week before that when the police were swarming all over the place. Just seeing them there made me jittery, with their dark uniforms and even darker expressions. At least things are getting back to something resembling normal. Until Allison opens her mouth that is, and brings it all back up again. She seems determined to keep going on and on about it to the point where I want to shout in her face to fucking stop it and just get on with her job and her life. Instead, I sit hunched over my computer screen, getting more work done than the rest of them put together while they all mope about, droning on and on and on about how terrible and scary it is and how they wish the police would hurry up and find her.

They enjoy feeding off somebody else’s misery, that’s what it is. They fucking thrive on it. It makes them feel better about their own lives. Not that they’ve got anything going on at home that is enough to drag them down. They all have easy little numbers with nice houses and cars, and husbands who have good jobs that can supplement their income. What do they know about trauma and neglect and terror so real it keeps you awake at night? Maybe they should all open their eyes, take a good look around, see how easy they have it, how fortunate they are. Not all of us are that lucky. Not all of us were born into caring, compassionate families who knew how to love, families whose natural instinct is to nurture and care for their offspring.

The KitKat makes a snapping sound, echoing around the room as I break it in half and bite into it, the sugar relaxing me as the chunks melt in my mouth. Two slurps of my coffee and the world begins to take on a different hue – lighter, brighter, marginally easier to bear.

I pull out my phone and stare at the screen. Four missed calls and two texts. Jesus. I’m really not in the mood for this. No amount of chocolate or coffee is ever enough to face Beth and the barrage of problems she regularly throws my way. Still, at least she has stopped following me to work, waiting outside the main doors for hours like some sort of stalker. That was embarrassing, the way she would try to talk to people she didn’t know as they made their way to their cars or into town to catch a bus or a train, running alongside them at a lick, chatting as if they were old friends. The way she tried to befriend Deborah as she headed out of the office on an evening. I close my eyes and swallow, batting away that particular memory.

The past couple of weeks she has eased up from hanging around me and my colleagues, staying in her house instead. I say house – it’s more of a derelict building, somewhere the local authority and social services put her to keep her safe from the rest of the world. To keep her safe from herself. God knows what she gets up to when I’m at work and she is left to her own devices. What I do know is that she has stopped following me and it feels like a small victory. I try not to think about it. It’s down to her social worker and mental health team to take care of that part of her life. I have enough to be getting on with.

She picks up after just one ring when I call her, her voice husky and breathless. I visualise her crouched in the corner of her bedroom, fending off invisible faceless enemies who don’t exist.

‘You took your time,’ she says, her anger evident, her latent terror a tangible force, always present, never giving her any respite from its nasty little clutches.

‘Beth, I’m at work. You know that. We spoke about this, didn’t we – how I have to put my phone on silent during the day when I’m in the office?’

She doesn’t reply, knowing we have indeed spoken about it many, many times. Too many to count. It doesn’t stop her calling me. When Beth has things on her mind, a barrier the thickness of a submarine door wouldn’t be enough to halt her in her tracks. She is relentless. A force to be reckoned with.

‘Anyway,’ she says, blatantly ignoring my requests to be left alone during the day so I can get on with my job, ‘I need to talk to you about my new friend.’

I roll my eyes, suppressing a deep sigh. In the past I have actually bitten at the inside of my mouth so hard I ended up drawing blood to stop myself from shouting at her. I don’t do that now. I simply let her talk. It’s what her doctor told me to do. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. I never can tell. When it comes to Beth, there are no rules. She is her own mistress and I am forced to dance to her tune.

‘Right,’ I reply, knowing she doesn’t have any friends, aside from the imaginary one she has recently taken to talking about. ‘Fire away. I’m all ears.’

3

YVONNE

It’s quiet. The office feels eerie, the weight of silence a heavy, cumbersome thing. The usual repartee that keeps us going throughout the long and often arduous days of paperwork and invoicing, and the stream of endless emails from irate customers demanding their parts be delivered immediately despite a backlog at customs, is absent.

I gaze around the place, and apart from Allison wandering about, see nothing but a sea of dipped heads as people tap away at their keyboards, eyes focused on their computer screens, everyone too anxious, too despairing, to communicate with each other. There seems little point in making idle chatter. Nothing any of them can say will ever make this situation any better. They know it. I know it. Nobody can magically make Deborah reappear at her desk. She is missing, has been gone for weeks now. Weeks and weeks and weeks. How many is it? Three perhaps? Or is it four? Perhaps longer. I should know this. Our desks are next to one another. I should be keeping count. One day feels as if it is blending into another. Seconds, minutes, hours all bleeding into a vast pit of nothingness. Time has no meaning. There seems little point in counting if nothing changes and Deborah remains missing. That’s what everybody is saying. It’s what Ruth keeps on saying, her bottom lip quivering every time Deborah’s name is brought up in conversation. Every day that passes gives her disappearance another strand of finality, bolting it firmly into everyone’s minds that she isn’t coming back. That she won’t be found alive. Each extra week of her being gone nudges her farther away from people’s consciousness. Soon they will forget about her altogether. She will be another story pushed off the front page, replaced by bickering politicians, climate change stories, rapes, rising knife crime. Anything but Deborah. She is an adult. They don’t lodge in people’s heads the way missing children do. Helplessness, vulnerability. That’s what drives the interests of the masses. That’s what keeps them hooked into the story. And Deborah is neither of those things. She is a woman who left the office one evening and never arrived home.

Perhaps, with the passing of time, her name will be mentioned once in a while, the investigation into her disappearance re-examined, given air space on a prime news slot, the grainy picture of her smiling face filling our screens for the briefest of minutes before vanishing again.

A ribbon of discomfort sits across my forehead, tight and unforgiving as I clear my head before wringing my hands and cracking my knuckles. I should really get these invoices sorted. I need to clear my inbox and answer unopened emails. Do something. Anything at all to occupy my mind. There are so many tasks I could be pressing on with but I am not in the mood to think about tackling any of them. My bones are aching, my muscles knotted, threads of discomfort running through my veins, weighting me to the ground as I think about Deborah’s absence. I feel heavily anchored to this place, to this moment in time, to the ambience around me now Deborah is no longer here working alongside us. Everything has changed, her absence altering the dynamics of our working relationships with one another, everyone treading carefully, colleagues feeling on edge for fear of saying the wrong thing.

It's too hot in here. Too hot to work, to think clearly. Deborah’s empty desk shifts in and out of my focus, obscuring my peripheral vision. Conspicuous. Wieldy. An oversized piece of furniture, reminding me and everyone around me that she is no longer in the office. I begin to wonder if and when they will replace her. When is the right time to move on after somebody vanishes? A month, a year, a decade?

‘It’s weird, isn’t it?’ Allison is standing behind me, her eyes also sweeping over the person-sized space where Deborah used to sit, her voice a sharp crack as it cuts through the silence. ‘So strange how it can happen, how people can simply disappear. Just like that. Poof. A magic act. Here one minute, gone the next. Now you see her, now you don’t.’

I blink, unsure what to say, how to react to her glib statement. I remain silent and manage a smile. Allison nods, carries on walking, her figure silhouetted against the light that is streaming in through the full-length office windows. My fists are clenched in my lap. I don’t remember doing that, curling them up into tight balls until my nails dug into my palms. Sometimes that happens, my mood determining and driving my actions without me even realising it.

I stand up, turn down the thermostat, waiting for the screams and protests from the others that it’s too cold, and am prepared, for once, to fight my corner, to tell them to shut up, that I need some clean, cool air to help me breathe, help me think, not the muggy recirculated wafts of oxygen that are pumped my way every single day, filling my lungs, coating them with the bacteria and foulness of others. I need to feel free of the toxicity I am forced to inhale in this modern yet remarkably stuffy little office.

My thoughts turn back once again, to Deborah, to her soft laughter, the ease with which she would wade through a mountainous stack of invoices, her fingers tapping away at the keyboard, her eyes flicking between the screen and her notepad as she cleared the backlog and scribbled off her to-do list, smiling before heading off to the kitchen area and