Strangers

Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Copyright © C.L. Taylor 2020

Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover photographs © Mohamad Itani / Trevillion Images (legs and shadows), Magdalena Russocka / Trevillion Images (woman), Shutterstock.com (floor)

C.L. Taylor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008222468

Ebook Edition © April 2020 ISBN: 9780008221065

Version: 2020-06-19

PRAISE FOR C.L. TAYLOR

‘This masterfully woven story comes together in a thrilling and unexpected climax. I could not put it down.’

Fiona Cummins

‘Wonderfully devious, clever cliffhangers and utterly addictive.’

John Marrs

‘She’s done it again … what a brilliant read Strangers is.’

Cass Green

‘Strangers is her best yet. Expertly woven and so pacy – my heart was banging at the end!’

Holly Seddon

‘This is REALLY good. Read it in a day.’

Jane Fallon

‘Stayed up to finish Strangers, unable to put it down. It’s her best one yet. A joy to read, full of living, breathing characters, a compelling plot, humour and a killer twist.’

Mark Edwards

‘Clever, surprising and nuanced – C.L. Taylor is at the top of her game.’

Gillian McAllister

‘Brilliant characters and a jaw-dropping denouement. I swear I hardly breathed for the last 100 pages. This one is going to be HUGE in 2020.’

Claire Allan

‘Clever and unsettling, with a brilliant cast of characters, I am sure this is going to be another huge success.’

Rachel Abbott

‘A deep and dark tale of three individuals whose lives collide with such force, I’m sure I was holding my breath near to the end. Utterly sinister and compelling.’

Mel Sherratt

‘Claustrophobic and compelling.’

Karin Slaughter

‘A masterclass in character. Clear to see why she’s a million-copy seller.’

Sarah Pinborough

‘Highly original – kept me utterly enthralled.’

Liz Nugent

‘Twisted, unbearably tense, and a shock ending.’

C.J. Tudor

‘Has a delicious sense of foreboding from the first page, and a final, agonizing twist. Loved it.’

Fiona Barton

‘Fans of C.L. Taylor are in for a treat.’

Clare Mackintosh

‘Claustrophobic, tense and thrilling, a thrill-ride of a novel that keeps you guessing.’

Elizabeth Haynes

‘A gripping and disturbing psychological thriller.’

Lucy Clarke

‘Pacy, well written, and anxiety-inducing.’

Lisa Hall

‘A compulsive read.’

Emma Kavanagh

‘Kept me guessing till the end.’

Sun

‘Haunting and heart-stoppingly creepy, The Lie is a gripping rollercoaster of suspense.’

Sunday Express

‘A rollercoaster with multiple twists.’

Daily Mail

‘Packed with twists and turns, this brilliantly tense thriller will get your blood pumping.’

Fabulous Magazine

‘A real page-turner … creepy, horrifying and twisty. Intriguing, scary and extremely gripping.’

Julie Cohen

‘A compelling, addictive and wonderfully written tale. Can’t recommend it enough.’

Louise Douglas

See what bloggers are saying about C.L. TAYLOR …

‘I devoured Strangers. Twisty and clever, utterly compelling characters and a superb edge-of-the-seat finale.’

Liz Barnsley, Liz Loves Books

‘My eyes were simply glued to the page, I couldn’t tear them away!’

The Bookworm’s Fantasy

‘An intriguing and stirring tale, overflowing with family drama.’

Lovereading.co.uk

‘Astoundingly written, The Missing pulls you in from the very first page and doesn’t let you go until the final full stop.’

Bibliophile Book Club

‘Imaginative, compelling and shocking – The Fear is a highly engrossing read.’

The Book Review Café

‘The Fear is a dark tale of revenge and just when you think you know where the story’s going, the author takes you by surprise!’

Portobello Book Blog

‘[The Missing] inspired such a mixture of emotions in me and made me realise how truly talented you have to be to even attempt a psychological suspense of this calibre.’

My Chestnut Reading Tree

‘Tense and gripping with a dark, ominous feeling that seeps through the very clever writing … all praise to C.L. Taylor.’

Anne Cater, Random Things Through My Letterbox

‘C.L. Taylor has done it again, with another compelling masterpiece.’

Rachel’s Random Reads

‘In a crowded landscape of so-called domestic noir thrillers, most of which rely on clever twists and big reveals, [The Missing] stands out for its subtle and thoughtful analysis of the fallout from a loss in the family.’

Crime Fiction Lover

‘When I had finished, I felt like someone had ripped my heart out and wrung it out like a dish cloth.’

By the Letter Book Reviews

‘The Fear is a gripping, fast-paced read.’

The Book Whisperer

‘The Missing has such a big, juicy storyline and is a dream read if you like books that will keep you guessing and take on plenty of twists and turns.’

Bookaholic Confessions

‘Incredibly thrilling and utterly unpredictable! A must read!’

Aggie’s Books

‘A gripping story.’

Bibliomaniac

‘It’s the first time I have cried whilst reading. The last chapter [of The Missing] was heart-breaking and uplifting at the same time.’

The Coffee and Kindle

‘Another hit from C.L. Taylor … so cleverly written and so absorbing that I completely forgot about everything else while reading it. Unmissable.’

Alba in Book Land

Dedication

To Kellie Turner

My favourite Aussie

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for C.L. Taylor

See what bloggers are saying about C.L. Taylor …

Dedication

Chapter 1: Alice

Chapter 2

Chapter 3: Alice

Chapter 4: Gareth

Chapter 5: Ursula

Chapter 6: Alice

Chapter 7: Gareth

Chapter 8

Chapter 9: Ursula

Chapter 10: Alice

Chapter 11: Gareth

Chapter 12: Alice

Chapter 13: Ursula

Chapter 14: Gareth

Chapter 15: Alice

Chapter 16: Ursula

Chapter 17: Gareth

Chapter 18: Alice

Chapter 19: Ursula

Chapter 20: Gareth

Chapter 21: Gareth

Chapter 22: Alice

Chapter 23

Chapter 24: Ursula

Chapter 25: Gareth

Chapter 26: Alice

Chapter 27: Gareth

Chapter 28: Ursula

Chapter 29: Alice

Chapter 30: Gareth

Chapter 31: Ursula

Chapter 32: Gareth

Chapter 33: Alice

Chapter 34

Chapter 35: Ursula

Chapter 36: Gareth

Chapter 37: Alice

Chapter 38: Ursula

Chapter 39: Gareth

Chapter 40: Alice

Chapter 41: Ursula

Chapter 42: Gareth

Chapter 43: Alice

Chapter 44: Ursula

Chapter 45: Gareth

Chapter 46: Ursula

Chapter 47: Alice

Chapter 48: Gareth

Chapter 49: Ursula

Chapter 50: Alice

Chapter 51: Gareth

Chapter 52: Ursula

Chapter 53: Joan

Chapter 54: Alice

Chapter 55: Larry

Reading Group Questions

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Alice

Alice Fletcher has never seen a dead body before. She always imagined they’d look peaceful: their skin slackened, their muscles softened and their mouths settled, not into a smile exactly, but a loose, contented line. Alice Fletcher was wrong. The body lying motionless at her feet looks nothing like the soothing mental image she’s been carrying around with her for the last forty-six years; the mouth is open, the jaw is hinged into a silent scream and the glassy, lifeless eyes are staring into the distance, somewhere beyond the toes of her sensible court shoes.

Alice isn’t aware of the frantic pounding of her heart, the heavy-duty lino beneath her feet or the steel-grey shutter that separates her from the rest of the world. Nor is she conscious of the people around her. She doesn’t notice when the tall hulking woman to her left takes a step closer. She doesn’t see the sweat patches under the armpits of Ursula’s pale blue sweatshirt or the way her hands are shaking, one fingernail torn away leaving behind a raggedy nail bed, tinged with blood. She isn’t aware of Gareth’s laboured breathing or the bruise blooming on his jaw.

An anguished scream from across the shop snaps Alice back into herself. There are other sounds too: whispering, sobbing and ‘Oh God, oh God’ repeated over and over again. And then there’s the pain, the deep, nauseating ache that radiates up her arm and across her shoulder to her neck. Alice clutches at her arm, her fingers sliding over the warm, wet polyester sleeve of her blouse. But it’s not the blood that makes her stomach lurch and her legs weaken. There’s a dead body at her feet and her nightmare isn’t over yet.

‘I need my phone,’ she mutters. ‘I have to find my phone.’

‘Where are you going?’ Ursula shouts as Alice stumbles away and the frantic wail of a siren drifts through the open window. ‘The police are coming. What do we tell them when they get here?’

Alice turns slowly, her gaze returning to the corpse. She looks at it for a second, two, three, then draws an exhausted, raggedy breath and raises her eyes.

‘We say it was self-defence.’

Chapter 2

THE SAME EVENING, ON TWITTER

@realmadwife:

Massive police presence in the centre of Bristol. What’s going on?

@DiddleyBopDee:

Probably a road rage incident. The traffic is MENTAL.

@PeterCrussell:

I follow BBC Radio Bristol and they haven’t mentioned anything.

@realmadwife:

That doesn’t mean there’s nothing going on, Peter. It just means we haven’t been told about it yet.

@pauldunphy:

Everyone’s a conspiracist. Ring the police if you’re so worried.

@realmadwife:

I think they’ve got enough to deal with, don’t you? Anyway, thanks for butting in with your ‘helpful’ advice.

@onthecliffedge:

I bet the Harbourside Murderer is pleased.

@lisaharte101:

About what?

@onthecliffedge:

That we’re talking about something else for a change. Ha. Ha.

@lisaharte101:

Seriously? People have died and you’re laughing?

@cris_matthiesen:

There’s no such thing as the Harbourside Murderer. It’s an urban legend.

@snugbookshop:

Really? So how did three people just disappear then? Answer me that …

Chapter 3

Alice

ONE WEEK EARLIER

Monday

It’s the beginning of March but a bead of sweat winds its way down Alice’s spine as she unbuttons her damp coat and slides it off her shoulders. There’s a small round wooden table in front of her and a print of a dog sitting next to a gramophone on the wall but Alice isn’t interested in what she can see. She’s listening: for the tinkle of the bell above the door and the squeak of shoes on the sticky pub floor. But there’s no one creeping up behind her. The pub is silent apart from the tap-tapping of a man at his laptop on the other side of the room, the murmured voices of two old blokes at the bar and the clink of glasses as the dishwasher opens. She takes a steadying breath then flings the coat over the back of a chair and sits down on the padded corner seat, shuffling around the table so she’s facing the door. Her pulse slows.

Alice likes predictability. All-day delivery slots make her tense and just the thought of someone sneaking up on her, covering her eyes and shouting, ‘Guess who?’ is enough to bring her out in hives. The day she turned thirty-nine she texted all her friends telling them that under no circumstances were they to arrange a surprise party for her fortieth. It was probably the worst thing she could have done. Her phone didn’t stop pinging with threats to hire village halls, to swipe her spare house keys, to collude with Peter. One so-called friend had even tormented her with the promise of a male stripper.

She shudders at the thought and takes a sip of her lemonade. As it turned out there was no surprise party for her fortieth and, although she’d felt nervous stepping into the restaurant her friend Lynne had booked, there was no stripper either. It was a lovely evening, surrounded by good friends and full of laughter. Peter had been on his best behaviour all evening and, even though she’d girded herself for unpleasantness in the taxi on the way home, he hadn’t started a fight.

Her mobile vibrates on the table and she snatches it up, certain it’s Michael, cancelling their date. But it’s just Lynne, her best friend and workmate at Mirage Fashions, asking her how it’s going. She taps out a reply, keeping one eye on the door. It’s tipping down with rain outside and people are running past the pub, heads down, their faces obscured by heavy hoods and damp brollies.

He’s not here yet and I’m shitting myself. I don’t know why I agreed to this. Actually I do. Emily!

She inserts a rolling eyes emoticon at the end of the text, then deletes it. Her twenty-year-old daughter didn’t force her into using Tinder. But Emily certainly dropped a lot of hints:

‘It’s been two years since Dad left …’

‘I can’t remember the last time you went on a date.’

‘You’re forty-six, not eighty-six. You don’t have to spend the rest of your life alone.’

‘Doesn’t it get lonely? Spending the weekends on your own?’

She’d answered all of her daughter’s comments with a sharp comeback but when she tried to respond to the last question the words dried in her mouth. Returning to her empty two-bedroom flat wasn’t so bad in the week when her daughter was there. Besides, she was so tired after spending eight hours a day on her feet, smiling at customers and rallying her staff, that all she wanted to do was sink onto the sofa and lose herself in a documentary or some terrible reality TV show. But on a Sunday, when her daughter disappeared off to her boyfriend Adam’s place, the flat seemed to swell and Alice seemed to shrink. As she walked from room to room, looking for something to do, she felt like a marble rolling through a maze. And on the rare occasions when she spoke – to herself or to the television – her voice seemed to bounce off the walls. It was almost a relief to wake up on Monday and get ready for work.

She stares at her phone, pushing down the wave of self-pity that threatens to engulf her and deletes the part about her daughter. She presses send and, a couple of seconds later, the phone vibrates with a reply.

Leave! Meet me for a coffee and a sandwich! Kaisha can cover for me.

It’s a tempting offer but there’s no way she’s going to let her nerves stop her from meeting Michael. She decided, on 31st December, as she whirled around Lynne’s living room with her hands in the air and her head thrown back as eighties hits pounded at her eardrums, that the new year would see a more assertive Alice. She’d learned through bitter experience that when you sit back and wait for what life throws at you, you mostly get covered in shit.

She glances at her watch. 1.10 p.m. She only gets an hour for lunch and even if Michael walks through the door right now they’ll only be able to spend forty minutes together before she has to leave. An old man’s boozer with a sticky floor, tobacco-stained walls and choice of two soft drinks – ‘Coke or lemonade, that’s your lot’ – wouldn’t have been her ideal venue for a first date but he said it was his favourite pub and that they’d easily get a table because it wasn’t busy at lunchtime. She’d given him the benefit of the doubt. He was new to Bristol and probably hadn’t had chance to visit any of the nicer places yet. Either that or he has low standards. She smiles ruefully to herself, then pushes the thought away.

The bell above the door tinkles and a man in a black waterproof jacket walks in. Alice’s stomach hollows as he pauses, his gaze flitting from the blonde bloke with the laptop to the two older gents at the bar. She fights the urge to slip down in her seat and slither under the table. Assertive Alice wouldn’t do that, she tells herself as she straightens her spine and fixes a smile to her face. Assertive Alice does not hide. Instead she casts an eye over the man at the door. Michael’s shorter than she imagined, five foot eight or nine to her five foot four, but he’s better-looking than his photos (her daughter warned her that the opposite was more likely to be true). His thick dark hair is peppered with grey at the temples and he’s very masculine-looking with his heavy brow, wide jaw and strong nose, the tip pinked from the cold. There’s a tautness to his expression but it vanishes as he turns his head and his eyes flick towards her. His lips twitch at the edges. It’s not a smile per se, more a flash of recognition, and as he ambles across the carpet towards her the pit in her stomach fills with self-doubt. He doesn’t fancy her. She can see it in his face.

‘Alice!’ As Michael nears her table he half-falls, half-lunges in her direction and lands a cold kiss on her cheek. ‘Sorry I’m late!’

‘It’s fine,’ she lies, shifting across the padded bench to make room for him as he unceremoniously plonks himself next to her rather than taking the seat opposite. ‘But I can’t stay long. I need to get back to work.’

‘You’ve got time for a quick drink, though …’ His brow furrows as he takes in the near-empty glass on the table in front of her. ‘Gin and tonic is it?’

‘Lemonade.’

‘Have a gin and tonic!’ Still in his wet coat he heaves himself back onto his feet. ‘You can’t let me drink alone.’

‘I’m working! I don’t want a—’

But Michael is already halfway to the bar. As he signals to the bored-looking twenty-something barman Alice picks up her phone.

He’s here, she texts Lynne. He’s a bit … exuberant … but he’s nice-looking.

She stares at the phone, waiting for a reply, then quickly drops it into her bag as her date returns from the bar, two glasses in his hands.

If that’s gin I’m not drinking it, she thinks, warily eyeing the clear liquid and slice of lemon in one of the glasses.

‘Lemonade.’ He slides it across the table, his eyes not meeting hers.

She takes a sip to check – definitely lemonade – then sets it back down and takes a better look at Michael, or at least the part of his face that isn’t hidden behind the rim of his pint glass. Up close his skin is grey and dry, spidered with red thread veins and dotted with age spots. His thick hair is dull and brittle and his nails are gnarly and split. She sniffs subtly, silently drawing his scent into her nostrils. Booze. And something worse: unwashed clothes. He senses her watching him and sets down his pint, swivelling his bloodshot eyes in her direction.

He’s drunk, Alice realises. He’s turned up to our first date drunk.

Perhaps he’s nervous, she thinks, trying desperately to reconcile the glassy-eyed man to her right with the witty, clever man she exchanged dozens of messages with. It’s after one o’clock, technically the afternoon. Maybe he had a glass of wine with his lunch to calm himself down and one swiftly became two, or three.

‘Cheers! Here’s to meeting at last.’ He holds out his drink and clinks it, slightly too heavily, against hers. Lemonade slops over the glass and wets the cuff of her sleeve. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Catfish. You don’t know who you’re talking to on the internet half the time.’ His words aren’t slurred but they’re louder than they need to be, given there’s barely a foot between them. Definitely nervous, Alice tells herself.

‘Have you been catfished before?’ she asks.