The Serial Killer's Wife

by Alice Hunter

  ‘You were lucky to get away, then. She doesn’t half go on, doesn’t she?’

  I laugh at Lucy’s comment. She’s not wrong. As I go to take my things into the back room, my eyes fall on the book club poster. I take it down. Not because of what Shirley said – I’m determined to go ahead with it regardless of what she thinks – but because I would hate for Adam to see it later and think badly of me for taking over Camilla’s club. She started it and she’d been running it for a number of years. When we first moved here and I opened Poppy’s Place she’d swept in one day, her golden hair flowing over her shoulders like glossy honey, her slim figure encased in black, skin-tight leggings and a leopard print tee, and asked if she could use the place once a month on a Wednesday evening for her book club to meet. She usually had it at her house, she’d said, but the group had become larger and their rowdiness had reached a level where it disturbed her one-year-old’s sleep.

  I’d always kind of hoped she’d invite me to read their chosen book; sit with the other yummy mummies and discuss what they thought about it. Instead, I was on the periphery for two hours each month, serving drinks and cakes. But I got to know their names and who their children were. I heard their gossip and what was going on in each of their lives. It was an eye-opener; I had no idea so much went on in such a small place.

  And still, Camilla didn’t accept me into her inner circle. The only time we’d bonded was over my cookie recipes, as she liked to bake too. Seems a lifetime ago now.

  ‘Are you giving them the choice of any of the bisques?’ Lucy asks.

  ‘Oh, er … no.’ I pop the poster under the counter. ‘I think just the medium-sized animal ones, thanks, Lucy.’

  ‘Righto,’ she says. As she goes into the back, I hear her break into song. I smile, but then a cloud descends. Yesterday had been so normal: happy, carefree. Today, things are different. A heavy weight is squatting inside me, waiting. A sense that something bad is on its way.

  Four o’clock comes around quickly and I’m glad we did the majority of the prep in the morning, as it’s been really busy and I’ve been out over half an hour collecting Poppy, making a quick detour home to collect more cakes. I couldn’t be more proud that Poppy’s Place has taken off so well here. Bearing in mind I was a newcomer to a close-knit community, people have been keen to support me and the café. I glance over at the freshly baked cakes, muffins and cookies arranged in the glass display case next to the counter. They look and smell delicious. Some of them are from suppliers but I bake a lot of them myself at home – it’s my passion, and it’s a huge positive being able to fit my baking around Poppy and even involving her too. I’ve enjoyed experimenting with new recipes, and Poppy loves being my official taster. The feedback has been great – I even overheard someone saying I make the best cookies she’s ever had. Tom laughed when I told him. He said he’d never imagined me to be the homely, wifely type when we first met. I never decided if it was a compliment or a dig – but either way, being here, and running the café, has made me the happiest and most content I’ve felt in my life so far.

  Poppy has been a little angel waiting for the kids to arrive, patiently sitting at the table nearest the counter, playing with the table-top café set I bought her because she wanted to be like Mummy. Luckily, Sally’s invited her to Molly’s party so at least I haven’t had to worry about finding a babysitter.

  The bisque animals are lined up ready to be chosen by the kids and their parents; the eight tables are all prepped with different colour paints. There are brightly coloured balloons dotted around the café, and ‘Happy Birthday’ banners on the walls. I look over to Lucy, who’s tied her bandana in place and donned her apron. I feel like we’re about to be invaded.

  ‘We’re all set,’ Lucy declares.

  ‘Great. And thanks so much for all your help – as ever. Just think, in an hour or so it’ll all be over, and you can have a relaxing evening with Oscar,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, I love it, you know that. I’m in my element with the kids. Besides, Oscar is working late tonight – something about having to complete a car service and deliver another car somewhere and get a train back,’ Lucy says, waving her hand dismissively. ‘God knows what time he’ll rock up.’ Lucy isn’t a car person. She’s never owned one: she prefers to tear around the village on her trusty, rusty bike or take public transport. Mechanics are a mystery to her, and she often tells me she goes to sleep listening to her boyfriend rattling on about it. I think it’s pretty funny, although Oscar might feel differently.

  ‘Ah, the joys of owning your own business, eh? I can relate,’ I say. ‘He’s done so well taking over the garage from his dad, Lucy. Can’t have been easy for him.’

  ‘No, he misses him a lot. But you know, he’s worked hard without much help. His dad would’ve been proud.’

  ‘I’m sure he would, hun,’ I say, reassuringly, and then I plaster on a warm smile and open the door to greet the birthday girl.

  The calm quiet of the café explodes – a noise bomb of deafening toddlers and parents competing to be heard. It sounds like a party of twenty, not half that. It takes about fifteen minutes to get everyone sitting down at a table with their animals. I do a quick headcount: one child down. Adam and Jess aren’t here yet – perhaps they cancelled. I ask Sally if everyone is here.

  ‘Oh, er … no, actually. One more to come – Jess and her dad aren’t here yet,’ she says, her eyes flitting around the café. She flings her arm up and waves suddenly at something behind me, and I turn to see Adam walking in with Jess. She looks tiny – smaller than the other kids her age – which makes it even easier for her to maintain position, hiding behind her dad’s legs, gripping tightly. He tries to pry her off so he can walk to a table, but she holds on desperately. Sally jumps out of her chair and bends down to her level to coax her away from him, without success. As Sally returns to her seat next to Molly, I notice a toy white cat is grasped in the crook of Jess’s arm, which gives me an opening.

  ‘I see your favourite animal is a cat, Jess,’ I say. ‘There’s an incredibly special cat waiting for you over here – would you like to see her?’

  Jess peeks around from behind Adam and cranes her neck to where I’m pointing. I hold my hand out to her and she tentatively takes it. Adam smiles at me as I lead her to the bisque pieces, and Jess chooses her cat.

  ‘Thank you, you were great with her,’ Adam says when they’re sitting at the table ready to start. I draw up a chair and sit beside him.

  ‘It must be such a challenging time for you both – it can’t be easy to adapt.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ he lowers his gaze, but not before I see the tears in his eyes. ‘You’d be amazed how many people think that because it’s been a year, we should be over it and getting on with life. To be fair, I suppose we are getting on with it, to a degree. I’m back at the office part-time – I can do a fair bit from home to be around Jess more. But honestly,’ he pauses, as if contemplating whether to confide in me, ‘I need to be with other adults sometimes, you know? It’s what keeps me sane. Whatever I choose, I feel like I’m doing everything wrong …’ His voice breaks, and he coughs as though he’s clearing his throat to cover it up. I really want to pop my hand on his or something, to show I empathise – but this is the first time I’ve properly spoken to him, so it doesn’t seem appropriate. Instead, I ask him about Jess: how she’s getting on at nursery; what she enjoys; how he manages with working and looking after her. Somehow I end up offering to have her for tea next week.

  ‘Really? Yes, that would be great. She needs to mix more with children her age outside of nursery. She’s quite shy.’

  ‘Oh, Poppy is the same. You’d be doing me a favour!’ I grin. ‘I’ve spent so much time here, trying to make a good go of the business, I fear I’ve neglected her a bit.’

  ‘Ah, I’m sure you haven’t. You’ll be an inspiration to her. And no doubt you spend lots of quality time with her when you’re away from here.’

  I wonder if he’s just
being kind, but then he stares right into my eyes and gives me a genuine-looking smile.

  ‘I love being with her. Being a mother is the best job in the world.’ As I say it, my heart drops. Oh, God – why did I say that? I didn’t think. ‘I – I mean …’

  ‘It’s fine, Beth. Really. Being a parent is the best job – no need to feel bad on my account.’

  ‘I don’t think before I open my mouth sometimes,’ I say, my face hot.

  He laughs. ‘Do you know most people avoid me like the plague? Even now, they don’t know what to say. They feel awkward, so they give me a pleasant good morning, or a how’s things? But then they panic if I give more than a one-sentence answer.’ He brings his head closer to mine and whispers conspiratorially, ‘I’m surprised we were invited to this party, actually. Honestly, I’m thankful you’re talking to me! Please don’t worry about saying the wrong thing. I can assure you I won’t take any offence.’

  ‘Okay, that’s good,’ I grin, relieved, as I get up from the table. ‘Right, I’ll leave you and Jess to paint – looks like your cat is going to be the most colourful one I’ve ever seen!’ I smile at Jess. ‘Best check up on the others.’

  I do the rounds, glad I’ve spoken with Adam. It must be so lonely for him. Maybe getting Poppy and Jess together will be of benefit to both of us.

  As five o’clock approaches, a nervous knot starts tying itself tightly in my gut as I think about getting home. Now the party is almost over, I can allow myself to think about the murder enquiry. I’ll finally be able to talk to Tom soon. I don’t know how these things work, given they don’t have a body, but if they’re treating it as murder, they must have sufficient evidence pointing them in that direction.

  Poor Katie.

  I can’t imagine why they thought Tom could help, though. Despite him seeming fine this morning, it must’ve unsettled him to have the police turn up.

  ‘Thanks so much for letting us have the party here,’ Sally says, squeezing my arm. ‘Molly’s really enjoyed it. So have I. I’d love to come in on my own soon, actually, and make something a bit more … adult!’

  ‘Well, you’re very welcome, of course. And I’m glad Molly liked her party – it’s been fun!’ And I mean it, even if I hadn’t expected to. I’m utterly exhausted, but admittedly, it wasn’t as stressful as I’d imagined.

  The stress is yet to come.

  Chapter 7

  BETH

  Now

  Tom’s car is parked in the lane outside the cottage. It invokes mixed emotions in me. I’m thankful he’s home on time, but a wave of nauseous anticipation still surges through me. I take several deep breaths and open the front door.

  I immediately sense a problem. The house is silent.

  Tom isn’t here.

  ‘Daddy?’ Poppy calls, running into the lounge, out again, then into the kitchen, looking for him. For a moment, I stand stock still, my mind in disarray. His car is here. He is not. I check my mobile. If Tom was going to go out, surely he’d have texted? There’s a missed call from an unknown number, but zero new messages.

  ‘Maybe he’s gone for a run,’ I suggest to Poppy as she toddles back to me. It is possible. As we weren’t home, rather than waste his time sitting on his own, he could’ve taken the rare opportunity to run. He used to regularly, but with our busy days, he prefers to spend his time with Poppy before she goes to bed.

  ‘He back in a mimmit,’ she says with a shrug.

  ‘Yes, I expect so, sweetheart. Let’s get tea, shall we?’

  As I pop my bag on the hallway table, I see the flashing red light on the answerphone. I press play.

  ‘I don’t want you to panic, Beth …’ Tom’s voice fills the hallway, so loud it’s distorted, the echo bouncing off the walls. I quickly tap the volume down button, blood whooshing in my ears. ‘Sorry. I’ve been brought into the station again. I might be a bit longer this time. Don’t worry, I’ve got my solicitor here with me. I’ll call again when I can,’ he says. I think he’s finished, but then I hear a sigh. Followed by the whispered words: ‘I love you, Beth.’ The line goes dead.

  My arms and legs are leaden. I can’t move. What am I supposed to do? I wonder if I should call the station. Or Tom’s solicitor. Although if he’s with Tom he won’t be able to shed any light yet either.

  Jesus Christ.

  The detectives obviously came to the cottage to get him, because Tom’s car is here. Did the neighbours see?

  A shiver tracks down my spine.

  I feel light-headed.

  I need to call someone. Do something. But apart from Tom, I have no one I can turn to or lean on. How did I let that happen? Too busy setting up the café. Too busy with Poppy. Too busy being a wife. Tom has always said friends are over-rated and they’d distract us from each other. I’ve kept Lucy and the nursery group mums at arm’s length, and so I’m not comfortable turning to them now. Tom’s voice fills my mind:

  We only need each other, Beth. No one else matters.

  But Tom isn’t here. And suddenly, I realise he was wrong – I do need other people.

  Only now, there is no one. I’m in this alone.

  Chapter 8

  TOM

  Now

  I knew I’d made the right decision calling Maxwell from the off – even though DI Manning and DS Walters only wanted to ‘ask a couple of questions’. At least he’s up to speed, knows the situation now they’ve brought me in again. I didn’t go down the no comment route in the first interview as there was no need. A few simple enquiries ‘to gain a picture of Katie’ – that’s all they were after, they said. Why would anyone choose to give a no comment interview in that situation? In my mind, it immediately points to guilt. I’ve seen the real-crime police documentaries, and God, that gets my goat when the person interviewed mutters no comment every five seconds. It’s all I can do to stop myself hurling the controls through the telly screen. Surely it looks better for me if I answer their questions openly.

  If I’m seen to be cooperating maybe they’ll begin to look elsewhere.

  That said, now this is my second interview, and they look far more serious than before, I’m considering taking the ‘remain silent’ approach. No doubt Maxwell will advise this course too, because what if I say something wrong? Implicate myself somehow? At least if I don’t engage, they can’t trap me. Because that’s what this feels like. A carefully laid trap. Draw me in with the soft questions, lull me into a false sense of security by making me think I’ve done my bit to help, then, wham! – hit me with the heavy stuff.

  What do they think they know?

  They can’t know anything. There’s nothing to know.

  If I repeat this enough times in my head, there’s a possibility I’ll believe it.

  I was so stupid not to talk to Beth when she wanted to. Leaving it until tonight was clearly a huge mistake – and now it’s too late to rectify; I was only able to leave a short message on the home phone. I bet they speak to her before I can.

  ‘Are you charging my client with an offence, Detective Manning?’ Maxwell asks. He’s sitting beside me, casual yet authoritative in his precision-tailored bespoke silver-grey suit, his copper-red hair neatly gelled. His voice is calm, steady, assured. He’s the no-nonsense, give-it-to-me-straight kind. And he’s worth every penny I’m going to be paying. With luck, this will be the last time I need to call on his services.

  ‘As you know, your client admits he was in a relationship with Katie Williams of Bethnal Green, London, immediately prior to her disappearance. We also have evidence suggesting he may have been involved in that disappearance. This makes Mr Hardcastle a person of interest.’

  My confidence evaporates.

  It’s the first time DI Manning has mentioned this, and my gut reacts badly. I’m aware of voices continuing, Maxwell asking something about disclosure, the detective giving some kind of response, but the words are slow, distorting as they mix together in a blurry mess; I can’t decipher the meaning of any of them. The sudden sensatio
n of being on a boat in rough seas causes saliva to flood my mouth.

  ‘I’m going to need a toilet break. Now,’ I say, before dry-retching.

  Maxwell stops talking and jumps back as I push past him; then Manning scoots his chair back, gets up and leads me towards the toilets. He opens the door and lets me go in.

  ‘I’ll be outside,’ he says, as though he imagines I’ll do a runner. I give a quick nod, then dash to the cubicle where I add the contents of my stomach to the putrid-smelling, yellowing liquid in the toilet bowl.

  A suspect.

  After all these years.

  Chapter 9

  KATIE

  Eight years ago

  She noticed him the second she walked into Energies. Tall, muscular, dark hair and the bluest eyes, which rooted her to the spot from across the room. Katie even heard herself take a sharp intake of breath. God, he was gorgeous. A new instructor? This was a different time for her; she usually chose the early morning sessions before work, but every so often she left it until later. It had been a stressful day – although every day as a new freelancer was stressful – trying to win a big PR job she’d had on her radar for months, and she wanted to unwind with a yoga class before settling down for the evening. Maybe he always came in at this time and this was just the first time their paths had crossed.

  Peeling her eyes away, she composed herself and carried on walking. But should she ignore such an instant connection? What if she never saw him again?

  Turning on her heel, Katie strode quickly towards him. She had nothing to lose. He was bound to be in a relationship – she would probably be humiliated – but she wasn’t one to think things through. Her motto was ‘grasp every opportunity’.

  ‘Hi, I’m Katie,’ she said, thrusting out her hand and offering a wide smile. ‘Are you an instructor?’

  ‘Well, hello, Katie,’ he said. His eyes were hypnotic close up. They sparkled. A man who is clearly used to attention, she thought. His voice was deep; sexy. Katie felt a fluttering in her chest. He took her hand and held it firmly. Lingered. Warmth flowed through her. ‘It’s lovely to meet you. And no, I’m not an instructor – this is just my regular gym. I’m Tom.’