MEL MCGRATHis an Essex girl, co-founder of Killer Women, and an award-winning writer of fiction and non-fiction.
As MJ McGrath she writes the acclaimed Edie Kiglatuk series of Arctic mysteries, which have been optioned for TV, were twice longlisted for the CWA Gold Dagger, and were Times and Financial Times thrillers of the year. As Melanie McGrath she wrote the critically acclaimed, bestselling memoir Silvertown . As Mel McGrath she is the author of the bestselling psychological thriller Give Me the Child . The Guilty Party is her latest novel.
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Mel McGrath 2019
Mel McGrath asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for 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 e-book 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.
Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008217105
This edition 2019/05/07
PRAISE FOR THE GUILTY PARTY
‘Dark, thrilling, impossible to predict’
ERIN KELLY
‘Brilliant’
ANN CLEEVES
‘Toxic friendship at its worst. Disturbing and dark yet very compelling’
MEL SHERRATT
‘A morally-complex, haunting thriller. The prose is breath-taking. The plot, layered, tense and utterly captivating. If you’re in the market for something sublime, you could not do better than this’
IMRAN MAHMOOD
‘Gripping, haunting, unstoppable. A ruthless and savage page turner’
ROSS ARMSTRONG
‘A dark and immersive journey into the heart of a toxic friendship group and the lies they tell themselves and each other to survive. I loved it’
HARRIET TYCE
‘A psychological tour de force with a superb plot from one of the UK’s most gifted crime writers’
KATE RHODES
‘An intriguing, deftly plotted novel of unravelling friendships and dark secrets’
LIZ NUGENT
‘Honest, dark and searching. I couldn’t put it down’
ALISON JOSEPH
‘Compelling, twisty, thought-provoking, and utterly unputdownable’
ROZ WATKINS
‘Mel McGrath expertly peels back the layers of her characters’ moral self-justification to expose the ugly truth. A scorching, clever thriller’
TAMMY COHEN
For my friends – I promise that none of
these characters are based on you.
There is no greater sorrow than to know another’s secret when you cannot help them.
ANTON CHEKHOV, UNCLE VANYA
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
PRAISE
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
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
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
About the Publisher
2.30 a.m., Sunday 14 August, Wapping
I’m going to take you back to the summer’s evening near the end of my friendship with Anna, Bo and Dex.
Until that day, the eve of my thirty-second birthday, we had been indivisible; our bond the kind that lasts a lifetime. Afterwards, when everything began to fall apart, I came to understand that the ties between us had always carried the seeds of rottenness and destruction, and that the life we shared was anything but normal. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind I think I had probably known this for years, but it took what happened late that night in August for me to begin to be able to put the pieces together. Why had I failed to acknowledge the truth for so long? Was it loneliness, or was I in love with an idea of friendship that I could not bear to let go? Perhaps I was simply a coward? One day, it might become clearer to me. Perhaps it will become clear to you, once I have taken you back there, to that time and that place. And when I am done with the story, when everything has been explained and the secrets are finally out, I will ask you what you would have done. Because that’s what I really want to know.
What would you have done?
Picture this scene: a Sunday morning in the early hours at a music festival in Wapping, East London. Most of the ticket holders have already left, and the organisers are clearing up now – stewards checking the mobile toilets, litter pickers working their grab hooks in the floodlights. Anna, Bo, Dex and I are lying side-by-side on the grass near the main stage, our limbs stiffening from all the dancing, staring at the marble eye of a supermoon and drinking in this late hour of our youth. None of us speaks but we don’t have to. We are wondering how many more hazy early mornings we will spend alone together. How much more dancing will there be? And how soon will it be before nights like these are gone forever?
At last, Bo says, ‘Maybe we should go on to a club or back to yours, Dex. You’re nearest.’
Dex says this won’t work; Gav is back tonight and he’ll kick off about the noise.
We’re all sitting up now, dusting the night from our clothes. In the distance I spot a security guard heading our way. ‘I vote we go to Bo’s. What is it, ten minutes in an Uber?’
Anna has spotted the guard too and jumps onto her feet, rubbing the goosebumps from her arms.
‘I’ve got literally zero booze,’ Bo says. ‘Plus the cleaner didn’t come this week so there’s, like, a bazillion pizza boxes everywhere.’
With one eye on the guard, Anna says, ‘How’s about we all just go home then?’
And that’s exactly what we should have done.
Home. A long night-tube ride to Tottenham and the shitty flat I share with four semi-strangers. The place with the peeling veneer flooring, the mouldy fridge cheese and the toothbrushes lined up on a bathroom shelf rimmed with limescale.
‘Will you guys see out my birthday with one last beer?’
Because it is my birthday, and it’s almost warm, and the supermoon is casting its weird, otherworldly light, and if we walk a few metres to the south the Thames will open up to us and there, overlooking the wonder that is London, there will be a chance for me to forget the bad thing I have done, at least until tomorrow.
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