by Alice Hunter
I don’t believe she’d give the fucking police evidence that would help convict me. She needs me. Poppy needs me.
They have no one else.
It’s a game, isn’t it? Manning and Cooper are doing this to see how I react. It’s lies.
They’ve got nothing.
I let my arms hang loosely at my side.
‘Sorry,’ I say to the two officers either side of me, who have started manhandling me out of the hall, back to the wing. ‘I’m okay. Really. It was nothing. I’m over it now.’
‘Do you want to see a listener? Or the chaplain? I think it would be a good idea, Tom.’
The words wash over me.
Beth hasn’t sold me out; she’d never do that.
Those lying fuckers. I’m not falling for their games.
Chapter 69
BETH
Now
My knees scrape against the rough wooden slats as I crawl through the roof space to reach the box. DC Cooper was keen for me to hand it over, but she allowed me to wait until this morning – she refrained from seeking a warrant to search the premises herself, which I’m grateful for.
Cooper shines her torchlight through the loft hatch, but I don’t need it. I know exactly where it is – there are only a few cardboard boxes stored here. I hesitate once I find it, my fingers feeling around the outer edges and picking at the brown parcel tape I used to secure the flaps. Inside it is the link to Phoebe Drake – a second-year university student Tom met at Leeds. The girl he ‘accidentally’ pushed to her death.
I’d looked up everything there was to know about her after Tom told me. There wasn’t a lot. Cut and dried – death by misadventure. No one knew Tom had anything to do with it. No one knew they’d been together, albeit very briefly. No witnesses came forward to say they’d seen him with her that night, or the one evening previously when he’d taken her back to his accommodation. He said he hadn’t even been questioned – he’d only ‘heard’ of her death on the uni grapevine. A tragic accident, people said. A warning to students not to become so intoxicated that they were no longer aware of their surroundings; of the danger of being on their own.
Tom got away with it. He’d been lucky.
But that luck has just run out.
‘Here you go.’ I lower the box through the hatch and climb back down the ladder.
‘Thank you,’ Cooper says. Her eyes are alight, her pupils dilated. Excitement evident.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you earlier. Tom told me it was his when I first found it. Shrunk in the wash, he said.’ I let out a short, sharp laugh. ‘I kept it even though I’d promised to burn it.’
‘What made you hold onto it, then?’ Cooper’s eyes narrow.
‘A small part of me didn’t believe Tom’s account – a big enough part to prevent me destroying it. I thought it would be wise to hold onto it, for a little while at least. Then I forgot about it.’
‘Really?’ Cooper eyes me suspiciously. ‘You forgot about your husband telling you he’d killed two women?’ The scepticism drips from her tone.
‘No, I didn’t forget that. I mean the sweatshirt – I put it to the back of my mind. I’ve had to get good at burying things.’ I curse myself for my choice of words, expecting more reprisal from Cooper, but she remains pensive, cradling the box in her arms as though it were a baby.
‘All done?’ Adam pops his head around the corner. He’s kindly keeping an eye on Poppy – I set the girls up with some plates to paint while they wait. Being early on a Saturday, it’s only them – Lucy doesn’t open until nine, so there’s no one to witness Imogen Cooper walking out with further evidence.
‘Yes, I’ll be back with you in a moment,’ I say. He nods and leaves. His interruption has broken whatever trance Cooper was in.
‘He’s been supportive, then?’ she says, jerking her head towards where Adam had been. I don’t answer immediately, and my hesitation probably goes against me.
‘His daughter and Poppy are in nursery together,’ I say by way of explanation. ‘I’ve had to call on him to pick her up a few times while I’ve been at the station or visiting Tom.’
‘Yes, of course. Good that you have someone to lean on. Does he know?’
I’m wary of the question – what she’s implying. ‘I mentioned to him that I knew something I hadn’t yet informed the police of, yes, and I confided in him about how frightened I was of the repercussions. He was the one who encouraged me to talk to you. He said it was perfectly understandable that I’d held back given I was living with a manipulating, controlling man, but now was the time to break free.’
‘Good. That’s good,’ she says, moving towards the door. She seems perplexed, but she doesn’t say anything else.
Back in the café, I slide into the seat next to Poppy and start to talk to her about the plate she’s painting. There’s a large splodge of yellow in the middle, which she informs me is a sunflower. I give a sideways glance as Cooper walks past us to head out.
‘Thank you for this, Beth. We’ll be in touch,’ she says as she turns and closes the door.
‘Well done. That can’t have been easy. You’ve done the right thing, you know, Beth. I’m proud of you.’ Adam reaches his hand across the table, laying it on mine. Poppy pouts and glares at me. I pull my hand away, smiling at her.
It’s as if she knows I’ve just betrayed her daddy.
We’ve betrayed each other now – so I guess that makes us equal.
Chapter 70
BETH
Now
It’s hard not to let the images flood my mind. All those things I’ve imagined, ever since Tom confessed to ending two women’s lives. After I found Katie’s email account and he broke down and told me about her, things began to unwind. He unwound. The subsequent confession about Phoebe, although it came as a shock, felt almost inevitable. I think I’d been expecting it.
‘Are there more, Tom?’ I’d asked, hoping against hope he would say no. I was so relieved when he said he’d told me everything. That there were no more secrets.
I’d been stupid enough to believe him.
The sound of breaking glass and muted thuds on the carpet releases some of my pain: a silver-framed photo of me and Tom lands face down, and a glass jewellery box lies in bits at my feet where I’ve swept them off the dressing table with my arm. A book and a ceramic lamp crash on top. The damaged pile lies there, silently accusing me.
Our first year in Lower Tew set me up for what I imagined was going to be the happiest life. Even when he tried to ruin it with his bloody confessions, I continued to hold us together, to keep the dream alive. I wanted to succeed here; I wanted the happy, village lifestyle I’d craved since being a child.
Tom has destroyed my dream. Destroyed my dreams for Poppy.
I have to make up for his failures.
And I will. I’m determined to make sure she and I have the life I’d envisaged for us; that I’ve worked every hour for.
Even if it means being without Tom.
My husband.
Poppy’s daddy.
A murderer.
Adam is a good man. A good choice. Loving, stable, secure.
Not a murderer.
I flop down on the bed, listening intently, wondering if the noise from my outburst has stirred Poppy. It doesn’t seem to have. I slide my phone off the bedside table and check my messages.
How are you doing? If you need me, call. A xx
My pulse skips as I dial.
‘Thanks for your message,’ I say. ‘I’m taking you up on your offer.’
‘Good, I’m glad.’ Then, unexpectedly, and quietly, he adds, ‘I’ve been missing you.’
‘Really?’ I sit up, my mood lifting immediately. ‘You only saw me yesterday.’ I almost say that I thought that would be enough, given the circumstances, but I don’t want to put that idea into his mind. He was so supportive yesterday at the café, when I gave Imogen Cooper what I hope is hard evidence, so I’m assuming that means he doesn’t hold my failure to a
ct on my knowledge sooner against me.
‘Yeah, I know. Look, I know things aren’t exactly … usual – for want of a better word – but I want to be here for you. I’d actually quite like to see more of you …’
I inhale sharply.
‘Beth? I’m sorry, if this is too soon – if you think I’m being inappropriate—’
‘It’s not,’ I say, tears stinging my eyes. ‘Inappropriate, I mean.’
‘That’s a relief. Spending the last two weeks with you has been the best I’ve felt for a really long time.’
‘Since Camilla, you mean?’ Of course that’s what he means, but for some reason I ask the question.
‘Yes. Since Camilla. A dark cloud has hung over me every day since she died. I’ve allowed unanswered questions to eat away at me. It was like a cancer, slowly killing me. You’ve changed that.’
‘By replacing your darkest thoughts with my own?’
He laughs. ‘No. By giving me a reason to smile again. I let you in, and at first it frightened me; your intensity, my feelings for you …’
I hear him swallow. He’s letting his words sink in now, before he continues. He wants me to confirm I feel the same way. That won’t be hard.
‘It can be scary letting another person in, can’t it?’ I say.
‘Yes, and the timing is particularly challenging. What do you think will happen now?’
‘To Tom, you mean?’
‘Yeah – will what you’ve given them be enough, do you think?’
‘I really don’t know. I suppose it’ll depend what they can gain forensically from the sweatshirt, but ultimately, they’ll need more. This helps them collect the bigger picture – but really, he could say he found the sweatshirt. It doesn’t exactly prove anything, does it?’
‘But the detective seemed so pleased to have some more evidence.’
‘As I say, it’s building the case, but what she really needs is a body. And maybe DNA evidence that irrefutably links Tom to the killing of one or both women. Then there’s no doubt they’ll get a conviction.’
‘You sound as though you’ve thought this through.’
‘I’ve had lots of lonely nights to think about it.’
‘Ditto,’ Adam says. ‘My mind has actually been in overdrive.’
‘Oh, why?’
‘It’s daft,’ he says. I hear a heavy sigh.
‘No, go on. I’ve shared so much with you – do feel free to share your madness with me.’
Adam gives a nervous titter. ‘Well, it’s just – it struck me, when it first came to light that Tom had been charged with a woman’s murder, that he may have had a hand in—’
‘Oh, God! You’re not about to say you think he had something to do with Camilla’s death, are you?’ I can’t keep the shock from my voice. He said it was daft, but really – why would he make that leap? ‘Tom barely knew her, Adam. And her death was different – an accid—’ I stop speaking, recalling how Tom had called Katie and Phoebe’s deaths accidents too.
‘It was a stupid thought, I know. It was only because I didn’t find her EpiPen near her and she usually carried it everywhere. The spare was still in the bedside cabinet … I guess she couldn’t reach that in time.’
‘I’m not saying it’s stupid,’ I say, bringing the softness back to my tone. ‘But highly doubtful.’
‘Yes, probably. I guess in some way, believing that Tom had killed her would almost be better than knowing she chose not to take her allergy seriously enough. She’d been flippant; she kept buying stuff she wasn’t one hundred per cent sure didn’t contain any traces of nuts. Just because she’d got away with it once or twice, didn’t mean it was no longer a risk. A trace is a trace – they put that as a warning on everything for a reason.’
‘To be fair to Camilla, that might be why she ended up getting a bit complacent. As you say, they label practically everything with may contain traces of nuts. I have to put the sign up for all of my food at the café, too.’
‘Yes, true. But still. She didn’t only have herself to look after. She should’ve been more careful, for Jess’s sake. It was pretty selfish of her.’
I can hear his bitterness – an emotion I’ve not noticed before. I know it’s the grief talking. He doesn’t really think Camilla was selfish – he loved everything about her; that was obvious even to an outsider. I get what he means, though – if she’d been taken from him by someone else, he wouldn’t be able to blame her. Unfortunately, the way it had happened, he couldn’t avoid thinking that Camilla simply hadn’t taken enough responsibility. Her death was avoidable.
‘We’re all guilty of being selfish sometimes, Adam. It makes her human.’
‘Made,’ he says simply, correcting my tense. We both fall silent. I’m worried I’ve upset him by not giving any credence to his thoughts.
‘Anyway,’ I say to break the awkwardness. ‘You have any plans for tomorrow evening?’
‘We usually have a film night – well, late afternoon – every Monday. And we have a picnic in the lounge. Not exactly enthralling, I know, but Jess loves it.’
‘Sounds lovely. Can we join you?’ I ask, hopefully.
‘If you promise me one thing.’
I tut. ‘Oh, I see. Well – I’m not sure about that. If it comes with conditions attached, then one might have to decline,’ I say, in a mock posh voice.
‘Get you, turning down an invitation to be with the youngest widower in Lower Tew! You won’t get a better offer you know.’
‘I think one might be getting ideas above his station.’
‘Ahh, it’s so good to partake in some light-hearted humour, Beth. You’ve no idea. Anyway, the condition is only that you have to bring the snacks – nothing earth-shattering!’ he laughs. Finally, he sounds at ease. Clearly, talking about Camilla puts him on edge. I must steer the conversation away from her in future.
‘I think I can manage that,’ I say. ‘I need to cook up a batch of muffins for the café tomorrow anyway, so I’ll do a few extra.’
‘A few? I was hoping for a dozen at least.’
‘You drive a hard bargain,’ I say.
‘You’d best get used to it – you know, if we’re going to be seeing a bit more of each other.’
The instant warmth his words cause makes me happy and sad at the same time. Life seems to be like that at the moment – filled with contradictions. And I feel as though I’m the biggest contradiction of all.
As I’m drifting into sleep, Adam’s words float back into my consciousness. The fact he’d considered, however briefly, that Tom might have had a hand in Camilla’s death blindsided me. But her death wasn’t like the others, so why did Adam even contemplate it? Visions whir, blurring, mixing as they shoot through my mind. They mix with Jimmy’s words, too: Tom was having an affair. They all combine, and I dream vividly. Tom, Camilla, lying in each other’s arms. Blood-soaked sheets, blue-tinged lips, deep red gouges around a pale neck. Arms and legs bound to bed posts, Tom thrusting himself into her, shouting out her name as he climaxes, his hands around her throat. Camilla struggling to get air into her lungs, thrashing her body, grasping at her throat as she takes her final breath.
I awake, drenched in sweat, to a scream piercing through the stillness of the night.
Chapter 71
She’s barely had time to shower before he comes back. Seeing him at her door again so soon confuses her.
‘Did you forget something?’ she asks, letting him in.
She notices he’s carrying a briefcase; he hadn’t had that just now.
He sets it on the floor and closes the door, locking it. Her insides quiver. What’s happening? He never visits her more than once in one day, and never after four.
‘I think the seven-year itch might well be a thing, you know,’ he tells her as he bends down and snaps open the metal clasps on the case. There’s something about the loud clack as each one springs open, like a bullet being fired from a gun, that steals the saliva from her mouth.
She sw
allows hard. ‘Is that how long you’ve been with Beth?’ she says, instinctively backing away as she speaks, unsure of his intentions. Her gut tells her this situation isn’t one she’ll have control over.
He lets out a prolonged sigh. She catches its almost sarcastic tone, and realises too late what’s in store. He’s pulling out a piece of rope – slowly, deliberately twisting it in his hands. He stands up, smiling. ‘You know too much.’
‘No. No … I don’t … I don’t know what you mean.’ Panic grips to her words.
‘You know my wife’s name. You know why I come here. And I’ve shared too much.’ He moves swiftly towards her now, and as she turns to run, she screams. His hands are over her mouth in a split second – so fast she swears he must be superhuman. As he stands jutted up against her back, he whispers, ‘Shh, don’t,’ into her hair, then inhales deeply. The rope loops around her neck. ‘You know I can’t do this with Beth. You’re the only one I can be myself with.’
The rope isn’t tight yet – she can still get out of this, if she stays calm. She’s been ready for this type of situation for a while now. She must keep him talking. Make him believe she’s on his side.
‘I’ve always let you do the things you can’t with your wife. Like you say, you can be yourself with me. You need me. I need you, too, as it happens.’ Her words are shaky, but at least she has the ability to speak. For now.
‘Yes, I can tell. I can see you. Properly, I mean. Not what you show other people, but what’s inside you. You really did mean something to me.’
The past tense. She no longer means something to him? Or is the past tense what she’s to become? ‘I’m thirty-four years old and I’m saving up to get out of this place – I’ve got dreams, things I want to accomplish. You and me – we could carry on seeing each other. And not just here, somewhere better; somewhere classy. I could give you what you want.’
His laugh stops her speaking.
‘Don’t worry. You are going to give me what I want.’ He runs his tongue from her neck to her ear. ‘You are giving me your life.’