The Serial Killer's Wife

by Alice Hunter

Tears bubble and fall. She’s not going to talk him around. If he wants to end her life right here and now, there’s nothing she can say or do to stop him.

  Apart from the gun in her bedside table. If only she could reach it.

  ‘Why don’t we take this into the bedroom. You can tie me to the bed?’

  It’s a risky move, but her only hope. He pulls her backwards roughly by the rope and her legs grapple on the floor to get traction while her hands grasp the loop, trying to keep it from strangling her.

  ‘I’ve been with Beth for eight years. But it’s when I hit that seven-year mark that things became more of a struggle. Keeping my desires to myself; my real self hidden; it was problematic – which is when I found you. It struck me recently – I don’t know why it took so long before the thing inside me wanted more. I killed Phoebe in a fit of rage and hated myself for years. But when it happened again, when Katie cheated on me, I knew I needed to kill again. And I enjoyed giving her what she deserved.’ He pulls her to the bed, yanks her up. ‘It’d been seven years since Phoebe. See the pattern?’

  She rolls to one side, closer to the bedside cabinet. This is her chance.

  ‘Hey, what are you trying to do?’ He wraps the rope around his forearm and jerks it hard, snapping her head backwards.

  She groans, falling onto her back.

  This is it, she thinks as she stares up at the ceiling. At the damp patch that’s still there, despite asking her landlord a thousand times. It’s my fault. She knew Tom was bad news from their first encounter. Her own weird, twisted thinking had brought her here. The danger was exhilarating at times; the highs had seemed worth the risk.

  Not now, though.

  ‘Thank you for helping me. For keeping me on the right path for this long. My wife and child appreciate it.’

  ‘Your wife and child will leave you and you’ll die alone.’

  He puts all of his weight on her, pressing his thighs against hers, squashing her. The rope begins to tighten. She only has moments left. Her thoughts lose focus. He’s left his suit jacket on. He’s fully clothed. He’s not going to have sex with her? The strangulation part was always a sexual thing for him. Why not now? Maybe the killing doesn’t do the same thing for him. Maybe he’ll have sex with her lifeless body.

  ‘They’ll never know,’ he says, bending over her, smiling.

  She laughs – it comes out as a constricted gurgle. ‘That’s what you think,’ she manages to say, before swiping her hand up, digging her nails into his neck. He whacks it away, cursing, then pulls the rope again. Harder still. Her eyes bulge; they feel as though they’re about to burst out of her skull. Her vision blurs and her head feels light. Perhaps in her next life she’ll make something of herself. And avoid men like Tom.

  She tries to gasp for breath but nothing comes: her airway is totally blocked. She doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her panic; struggle; thrash – but she can’t resist the compulsion. That survival instinct you hear about – how even when death is inevitable, you fight it to the last.

  She hopes he doesn’t get away with this.

  Chapter 72

  BETH

  Now

  Was the scream mine? Or Poppy’s? I leap from the bed and run across the landing to Poppy’s room.

  Her bed is empty.

  ‘Poppy!’ I fall to my hands and knees to check under it. It’s not deep enough below her princess bed for her to be hiding there, but for some reason I check anyway. I call her name again, my blood whooshing in my ears so loudly I probably wouldn’t hear her answer me. My feet sound like rumbling thunder on the stairs as I descend.

  ‘Poppy, what’s the matter?’ I launch towards her, taking her in my arms. ‘Why are you downstairs, sweetheart?’ Her little body is rigid as she stares at the front door. I glance to where her eyes are focused. ‘Are you having a bad dream, Poppy?’ My hands are on her upper arms; I shake her gently to tear her from the trance. She’s never had night terrors, but I had them as a child, so I wonder if this might be the start. It wouldn’t surprise me, given the last few weeks. As much as I’ve tried to shield her from what’s been happening, she’s still witnessed the journalists; the spitting incident – she’s likely internalised it. And this is how her little brain is coping.

  ‘Why are you crying, Mummy?’ she says, finally turning her head up to mine. I give her a tight hug.

  ‘I’m not, my little Poppy poppet. My eyes are just tired.’

  Another lie. I seem to be telling so many that they come easily now.

  ‘Mine too,’ she says, rubbing them. ‘The bang woke me.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Was the bang down here?’

  ‘Think so.’

  ‘You should’ve come and got me first, Poppy. Always come to Mummy first, okay?’

  ‘Oookay!’ She buries her head in my chest and I lift her up and take her back upstairs. After tucking her in and waiting with her, stroking her temple until she falls back to sleep, I go downstairs. I whack on every light and do a thorough check of each room, wondering what the noise she heard could’ve been. I can’t see anything that may have fallen – there are no items out of place. She must have heard it in her dream.

  Before heading back up the stairs I peer out of the lounge window, which overlooks the garden. The sky is inky black, the moon full. Its glittery illumination casts enough light for me to see what caused the bang. My body freezes and goose bumps spring up on my arms. An icy-cold fear clamps down on my heart.

  Why the hell would someone do that?

  I can’t leave this until morning – this can’t be ignored, or flippantly cast aside like the spitting man. I run back upstairs, taking two steps at a time, grabbing my mobile from the bedside table.

  She picks up her phone on the second ring. ‘DC Cooper? It’s Beth Hardcastle. I need you to come to the cottage. Now.’

  ‘Beth, what’s happened?’ Cooper’s voice is groggy. I’ve obviously woken her.

  ‘Some creep has been in my garden,’ I say. Before I can explain further, Cooper says she’ll get the local police to send a car over to me.

  ‘Thanks. The cowards will already be long gone. But I need the police to do something – it’s getting out of hand. I don’t feel safe here.’

  ‘Okay, Beth. Try and keep calm. Obviously I won’t be able to get to Lower Tew very quickly, but let me call them now and then I’ll call you right back.’

  It’s only a few minutes before my phone rings.

  ‘Two PCs – one male, one female – are heading over to you now, Beth. They’re called Hopkins and Mumford. Only answer the door to them – no one else.’

  ‘Okay, thanks DC Cooper.’

  ‘It’s fine to call me Imogen, by the way. Makes a change from Cooper. Or Coops.’

  She’s trying to keep me chatting, to keep me calm. But nausea is squirming away in my stomach. ‘Sure. How long will they be?’

  ‘I’m guessing about twenty minutes.’

  ‘Twenty! Perhaps I should’ve called 999.’ It’s a long time to wait for a response. What if an intruder had got into the cottage? So much could happen in twenty minutes.

  ‘Sorry. It wouldn’t be any quicker, though – not to get to your location. The joys of living in the sticks.’

  ‘There’s no joy at all lately.’

  ‘I know you’ve been having a tough time. And this will be some idiots trying to scare you—’

  ‘They’ve succeeded, DC … Imogen. You need to see what they’ve left for me.’

  ‘You haven’t been outside, though, have you? Stay indoors, Beth. Just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘Nope. I can see it plainly enough from my window thanks. I just want it gone before Poppy gets up again. She heard it, you know. She was screaming because the noise frightened her. She was right by the front door when I found her!’ My voice is clipped, and my words speed up as I feel hysteria begin to take hold.

  ‘What is it? What’s in your garden?’

  ‘Someone has erected a gall
ows, Imogen. Complete with hanging body.’

  ‘Jesus,’ she whispers. ‘How awful.’

  ‘Not a real one, thank God.’ As I say those words, I’m suddenly not so sure I’m right. An icy-cold sensation skitters down my spine. I hadn’t even considered that possibility. ‘I assume it’s a dummy, anyway. Surely to God no one would go as far as to hang a real person to make some macabre point?’

  Imogen doesn’t respond. She doesn’t want to say it’s plausible. That she’s seen worse. The fact it’s even crossed my mind sets it racing. If this is what some people will do now, what the hell will they stretch to if they find out I did know about Tom’s past – that I knew he was a murderer?

  Is the gallows a warning to me? Are they saying I’ll be the next one hanging?

  No. It must be Tom they are aiming this at. They can’t get to him, so they’re targeting me. It’s a scare tactic, not a threat.

  Either way, I can’t stay here alone with Poppy any more. I won’t be a sitting duck.

  My next call is to Adam.

  Chapter 73

  BETH

  Now

  ‘Someone went to a lot of trouble with this.’ PC Mumford walks around the gallows, his torchlight illuminating the morbid structure. He tilts the torch upwards, the beam shining on the hanging dummy. It casts an eerie, yellow light on its head. He continues to step carefully around it, and despite the darkness, I can see him frowning. I wonder if this is the most exciting incident he’s dealt with for a while. He looks sluggish around the middle, like he hasn’t had to pursue a suspect for a number of years. He was calm and effective when he turned up, though – keen to put my mind at ease. His smile was confident and warm, the opposite of his colleague PC Hopkins. She gave me the impression I was wasting police time with her slow, uninterested manner. ‘I’ll do a perimeter check,’ she had said as soon as they arrived. Didn’t even introduce herself.

  ‘Looks to me like potato sacks,’ PC Mumford says, poking the middle section with a gloved hand. ‘Filled with sand,’ he suggests. The relief is short-lived for me, though. Tied to the head is a laminated picture. A blown-up photo of a face.

  My face.

  This is about me, not Tom.

  ‘Why would someone be doing this to me?’ I ask the question, but I’m afraid I already know. PC Hopkins answers. She’s been looking around the outside of my cottage for the past ten minutes or so, but now she’s back standing beside me. ‘Some people get hooked on cases like this. Invested. I suspect they think you’re getting away with something.’

  I turn sharply. ‘What! Me? What the hell do you mean?’

  She’s not perturbed by my abruptness; her face remains stony and she merely shrugs as she begins to usher me back inside. ‘Have you got somewhere you can stay for a bit? Until this dies down.’

  I almost laugh at her choice of words. ‘Yes, I’m going to be staying with a friend.’

  ‘We’ll take the address, if you don’t mind.’ She takes a notebook and while she leans on the hallway table, I rattle off Adam’s details. As I’d already planned to go over to his for film night, I’d asked if we could stay the night. I hadn’t needed to suggest it might be best if we stayed more than one – he extended the invitation himself.

  Her gaze lifts and she eyes me questioningly over the notebook. ‘Oh, really? Just around the corner. Is that wise?’

  ‘I don’t know! I assume you think not.’ My stomach knots. They’re worried that the freak who’s doing this is serious. That this is a threat, not some silly prank, and that there could be more to come. This could be just the start, and from here on, the threats might become actions.

  ‘It’s fine. But don’t you have family elsewhere?’

  ‘No. No family.’ I don’t elaborate. ‘What are you going to do about that … that thing in my garden?’

  ‘DC Cooper has requested it be dusted for prints. It’ll be photographed in situ, then removed and retained as evidence in case it’s required at a later date.’

  ‘If this escalates, you mean.’

  ‘Yes.’ PC Hopkins is not one to sugar-coat anything, I realise. Usually, I like straight-talking people, but in the dead of night, feeling alone and scared, I really would appreciate a lighter touch, a hint of empathy. Mumford is the sensitive one in this duo. He’s older, probably has a family, whereas Hopkins is barely out of her teens by the look of her. She’s likely new to this and has less life experience – and even less police experience.

  ‘How long will it take? I can’t have Poppy seeing it when she wakes up.’

  ‘We’ll be as quick as we can, Mrs Hardcastle,’ PC Mumford says, his voice making me jump as he sneaks into the hall behind me. The name makes me feel suddenly uneasy. It’s the first time I’ve experienced repulsion from hearing the surname I’ve had for the past seven years. Right here, right now, I decide I will be changing mine and Poppy’s names by deed poll – I don’t want us to be forever associated with a killer.

  ‘Thank you. Can I leave you to it, then?’ I’m exhausted. I know I won’t sleep, but I need to lie down.

  ‘Just a few questions first, please,’ Hopkins says. I nod, rolling my neck to release the stiffness. ‘DC Cooper mentioned there’d been a few other incidents recently. Could be linked – do you know the perpetrators of those?’

  ‘No. There was only really the one – some guy in a white estate car wound down his window as he drove by and spat on me. He shouted something about me being “her”. My friend got a photo of the car. I could get him to send it to you.’

  ‘That would be helpful. Anything else you can think of? Other people flinging abuse at you? Anyone from the village being particularly off with you?’

  ‘Not at this moment, no. Most people have been very supportive. I don’t think this would be anyone I know. Not anyone local. Poppy’s Place had a fair few new faces at the beginning of all this. Like you said, some people get invested in these stories. Like to see where the people involved live. It’s weird, but I suppose it’s like those rubberneckers who slow down to gawp at accidents.’

  ‘Okay, well if you think of anything, give us a call.’ She tears off a piece of paper with a telephone number and a crime report reference.

  ‘Thank you, I will.’

  She and PC Mumford both turn to walk back outside, but Hopkins pulls up short. She watches Mumford walk up the path, then says, ‘Oh, by the way. DC Cooper said she’ll be here in the morning. You need to stay in until she’s seen you. Then you can move in with the widower.’

  I’m taken aback by her tone, but too tired to counter it. I close the door, lock it and go back upstairs. I check on Poppy again before climbing into bed. In the daylight, everything will seem better. Plus, tomorrow night I’ll be with Adam.

  With Adam, I’ll feel safer.

  Chapter 74

  BETH

  Now

  I peep out of my bedroom window at five a.m. The sun hasn’t risen yet, but I can tell that the hideous structure has gone. I breathe a sigh of relief that PC Mumford kept his word. Poppy hasn’t stirred yet – her disturbed night’s sleep has clearly had an effect. I pull on my silk dressing gown and pad down the stairs to switch on the Nespresso machine.

  There’s a tremor in my hand as I take the cup. It’s Monday morning; I really should go to the café. Leaving everything to Lucy is unfair, and if I don’t think I can manage, then maybe I should hire someone else to take up the slack. I’ll sound her out about it once Imogen Cooper has been over.

  Adam said last night he’d come over after work and help me collect enough belongings to cover me and Poppy for a few nights. This development fills me with nerves, and I know he will be battling with conflicting emotions too. It’s not as if we’re moving in together – he’s only offering a short-term solution – but I doubt others will see it that way. The village gossips will be tripping over themselves.

  I notice the unread message on my mobile as I sit down to eat breakfast with Poppy. She’s as bright and alert as she usu
ally is, so the slightly later start to her morning hasn’t affected her. I eat a croissant with one hand and open the message from Julia with the other. My heart sinks.

  God, Beth, I’m so sorry. Just heard a nutter left a gallows in your garden last night. Wow – who’d even think of something so gruesome? Let alone putting your face on it! Makes me shudder – can’t imagine how you’re feeling. Give me a call if you need to chat. J xx

  I reread it several times, my face muscles tense. How had she heard so quickly? The neighbours didn’t make a peep last night when the police were here. No doubt there was some curtain-twitching going on, but only one of the neighbours can see into my garden from their window, and that’s Gretchen Collins and she rarely leaves. She wouldn’t have been calling the residents of Lower Tew to share the gossip – she’s not the type.

  But, then, who am I to judge?

  Maybe Julia was aware of it so quickly because she knows who did it.

  The thought clouds my mind while I get Poppy ready for nursery. I don’t want to get into any conversations about it when I drop her off. A weight feels as though it’s pushing down on my shoulders. If Julia knows, the others will too – and that means the press will.

  I hate being right. Of course they’re here, waiting for me to give them some juicy titbit, like dogs waiting outside the butcher’s. I’ve never liked the sensationalist spin that news journalists put on their stories, but now I have a newfound hatred. Maybe today would’ve been a good day to sneak out the back way with Poppy, but it’s too dangerous without someone helping her over the wall. Besides, my anger has reached a new peak and I find myself wanting to face the baying crowd.

  As soon as we open the front door, the onslaught begins. I pick Poppy up and with her on one hip, her head buried in my chest, I begin to push through them. I get a few feet from the cottage before my temper soars. Furious they have been the ones to allow some lunatic to get a photo of me, to get to me here at my home, I have the overwhelming need to yell at them.