The Serial Killer's Wife

by Alice Hunter

  So, if she gets what she’s looking for, then I imagine it’ll go in my favour.

  I am praying she does. Until I get confirmation, I won’t be able to settle. If I’m wrong about where Tom took Katie’s body, and if the other circumstantial evidence isn’t enough to convict him for life, then all this will have been for nothing.

  Adam’s hand is on my thigh. Its heat is penetrating to my skin. I turn my head to look into his eyes. ‘Are you sure about us staying for—’

  ‘I’m completely sure,’ he cuts in. ‘I’m sorry. This is all a lot to take in, that’s all. I’ll be fine once we’re inside.’ He turns his attention to his house, and I see him look up and down the road. He’s checking who’s around – checking who might see me and Poppy go inside with bags.

  ‘If you’re this worried about what people will say, Adam …’

  ‘I’m not. Not really. Old habits, I guess.’ His face relaxes into a wide grin. ‘Come on then – let’s get film night on the go. I do hope you’ve remembered those snacks, Beth!’

  It’s nine thirty when I get the call.

  ‘They’ve found her.’

  My world tilts on its axis. I don’t have the words to respond.

  Will this body be the evidence that finally reveals the truth about my husband and ensures he spends the rest of his life in prison?

  Chapter 82

  TOM

  Eight years ago

  The wind cuts across the garden, biting at my face. But I don’t feel the cold. Each one of my four million sweat glands is working in overdrive – every inch of my skin is slick with salty liquid. I can taste it as it drips onto my lips, and I unconsciously lick it away as I bump the suitcase over the uneven ground.

  Before reaching this final destination – the location that is to become Katie’s burial ground – I’d already dragged the fucking suitcase for almost a mile to get to my flat. Had I been able to go the direct route, I’d have shaved half a mile off. But I couldn’t risk the busier parts of town – or any CCTV cameras. I had my backstory ready if required – I was simply transporting Katie’s suitcase to mine, where she was staying the night prior to her flight to India – but I didn’t want to be observed during this critical moment. I couldn’t have people recalling seeing some sweaty bloke wheeling a heavy suitcase behind him. Too much chance of a link being made.

  I’d gone to my place because I needed to be in my own surroundings to figure out the next part of the plan. I went in the back entrance and took the lift; there was no way I’d have managed to get her up the stairs without someone coming to see what the noise was. As it happened, my luck was in – no sign of Paul from the ground floor or Maxine and Joy from the second.

  I’d been able to recover for an hour, and in that time I’d arranged a hire car. While that wasn’t without further risk of leaving a trail, the hope was no one would ever find her, so my actions wouldn’t come under scrutiny. If it came to it, I could say I’d hired it to take Katie to the airport anyway. In fact, I’ll probably drive it to City Airport afterwards to maintain my story. I figure the car will be professionally valeted on its return, so any evidence of the suitcase will be wiped clean.

  As I finally reach the little patch of woodland accessed from the back of my mother’s place, I stop to take a breather. The house is deserted; Mother has been in a home for the past two years. Not from old age – she’s only fifty – but because of dementia. Early onset, they’d said. I’m more inclined to think it’s from the stress of all the lies she held inside. Maybe, after all this, I’ll share the same fate.

  Perhaps it’s best. For her at least.

  I haven’t the strength to lift the suitcase over the fence, so I pull some of the wooden panels away instead. I go first, then I turn around to drag the suitcase through. I’ll replace the panelling when I’m done so it doesn’t draw attention to the location. With my energy at its lowest now, I don’t go far into the woods. Just far enough that none of the neighbours will see me, or any suspicious mound of earth. As far as I’m aware, this land isn’t used by the public. It’s not an area where walkers frequent, so I think it’s a relatively safe place to bury her.

  Getting her inside the suitcase was problematic – it’s as well she’s petite, or I may have had to dismember her. That would’ve been a messy process and one I wouldn’t have relished. I prefer to think of her as whole – her beauty intact. It was like packing away a large marionette. I’d considered having sex with her one last time before her body cooled, but I realised as I positioned her ready for me to enter that I wasn’t aroused enough by her lifeless body. There was no excitement in seeing her waxy face, her inert limbs. No thrashing, no bucking. No need for control.

  No. I enjoyed the fight and I enjoyed watching her die – but once that was done, she was redundant. Her body was a shell. I had no interest in her.

  Of course, I loved her when she was alive. Obsessed over her. Wanted her to myself. That’s why she was special. It’s why I’d asked her to marry me. I’m not sure, exactly, why I gave her my mother’s engagement ring – a unique single diamond-set ring made especially for her by my paternal grandfather. There was no inscription, just two initials and hallmarks. I hadn’t told Katie it was my mother’s, for some reason – I thought perhaps she might find it too much. I hadn’t wanted to give her a reason to hesitate. But she seemed delighted to have an antique ring. She’d said she felt it had a story: a proper history.

  Given my upbringing – how my mother had humiliated me, let my father abuse me and done nothing to stop him – you’d think it would be too much to bear to see this symbol of apparent love on my fiancée’s finger. But for whatever reason, I want Katie to have it. I’ve left it on her finger to remember me by, in whatever afterlife awaits her now.

  It’s only when I finish the job – stumble away, exhausted – that I realise I left Katie’s mobile phone in the suitcase. Dammit. I was going to destroy it and leave it at the airport so that if someone was to report her missing – which they shouldn’t do, bearing in mind how I’ve planned things – the last place it pinged would’ve been there. Not the back of my mother’s house.

  I have nothing left – all my energy, physical and emotional, is depleted. I simply couldn’t dig the suitcase back up now to retrieve it. It’s getting light, too.

  No, it’s fine. If I keep my head, send the emails to her father and friends as I plan to, there will be no reason for them to search for her.

  No one will ever find her here.

  Chapter 83

  BETH

  Now

  Maxwell’s call gives me the relief I so desperately need.

  ‘It’s done, Adam,’ I say, once I hang up.

  ‘They found her?’

  ‘Yes. With what I told them and the equipment they have, they detected variations in the ground’s surface in only three areas. Katie Williams was found on the second attempt.’ My hand, holding the mobile, drops in my lap – every ounce of energy seems to have just been zapped from me. ‘It’s over.’ I slump back into the sofa. My entire body feels like it’s wilting.

  ‘It’s not though, is it?’ Adam says, gently. ‘I don’t mean to sound negative, Beth. But they still have to link him to the body – it still has to be enough for a jury to return a guilty verdict at his trial.’

  His trial.

  Before he hung up, Maxwell said the date had been set. Four months from now. I’m dreading it and want that over too as soon as possible. I need to move on. I know Adam’s right – of course it’s not over until then. But this part is. My part in it is done.

  ‘Maxwell said that Imogen had sounded optimistic there’s enough evidence to secure a conviction,’ I say. ‘Not good news for him and Tom, obviously. He sounded pretty devastated. He says they think they have vital forensic evidence from the crime scene as well as from Katie’s remains and the burial ground. Let’s face it, Tom took her to the back of his old family home. That’s pretty damning; it all ties in.’

  ‘I hop
e you’re right,’ Adam says. ‘I want this to be over for you and Poppy, I really do. If everyone realises you’ve done what you can to help, and that you were lucky not to be one of his victims, then they should leave you alone – the bloody journalists and the idiots who are targeting you.’

  I manage a smile and shift up the sofa to be closer to him. His arm drapes around me and he pulls me in to him. It’s the first time we’ve allowed ourselves to be close like this. We sit in silence and I relish the warmth of his body.

  ‘Oh, I meant to say.’ Adam pulls away and faces me. ‘I emailed the photo I took of that car to the police and they got back to me earlier to say they’ve traced the owner.’

  ‘Good. And what are they going to do about it? I hope they charge him with—’

  ‘It wasn’t a him.’

  ‘It was a bloke who spat at me!’

  ‘Yes, but the car wasn’t registered to him. The sergeant I spoke to said he couldn’t divulge any more to me as it was an ongoing investigation, but they did ask me to make sure you called them “at your earliest convenience”.’

  ‘Hmmm. Okay, then. Sounds intriguing.’

  ‘Maybe they are also to blame for the gallows.’

  ‘I hope so, then that can be cleared up too.’

  ‘Things are looking up, finally.’ Adam jumps up and heads towards the kitchen. ‘I feel we should celebrate,’ he calls.

  I want to shout after him; remind him that he didn’t think it was over yet – that it’s too premature for celebration. But he appears as relieved as I am that I’ve told Imogen all that I know now, and I don’t want to spoil the moment. Plus, I could really do with a drink.

  ‘Here you go,’ he says, handing me a champagne flute. ‘It’s not champers yet – it’s just Prosecco. We’ll save the good stuff for the final verdict.’

  ‘Thanks, Adam. I really appreciate your support.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure. Thank you, too. Despite the stress and … well, weirdness, I’m so glad you came into my life.’

  We clink glasses and settle back on the sofa again. ‘You calling me weird?’

  He doesn’t give a comeback. Instead, without uttering a word, he takes my glass from my hand and puts it, together with his, on the table. Then, with no hesitation, he leans in and kisses me. Tiny electric shocks fire through me. I’m surprised at his swift move. Maybe it’s the certainty that Tom will be going to prison that’s allowed him to let go. Enabled him to let us take our friendship that one step further. All I know is it feels right.

  We don’t break away from each other until Poppy and Jess run into the room. I’m not sure if Poppy caught us in the act, but she gives me a cautious look.

  ‘When is it picnic time?’ Jess asks.

  Adam checks his watch. ‘Ooh, right about … now!’ And he leaps up and away from me and pretends to chase them. As I listen to their excited squeals, I realise I might have got away with the kiss, but I will still have to tell Poppy soon. There’s no getting away from it.

  Her father is not going to be part of her future, and I need to let her know in a way that she’ll understand. She can’t think he’s abandoned her.

  Chapter 84

  BETH

  Now

  The smell of freshly baked muffins fills my cottage and I breathe it in greedily. I’ve missed this. While it’s been wonderful to spend three days at Adam’s – with Adam – I am happy back here in my kitchen doing what I do best.

  Lucy has managed the café well in my absence. She even thought to increase the order from my usual suppliers so that my lack of baking didn’t impact the business. She’s been a great asset, and reading between the lines of her texts, she’s actually quite enjoyed me not being there. This is unsurprising, given the drama surrounding me.

  There’s a heavy knock on the front door. I instantly feel fear; I’ve become conditioned, like Pavlov’s dogs. I rinse my hands and cautiously check who it is.

  It’s Imogen. My heart falters.

  ‘Hi, Imogen. Is everything okay?’

  ‘Morning, Beth. I wanted to update you.’ She walks in, and as usual, walks right through to the kitchen.

  ‘Been baking?’ she asks as she sits down.

  ‘Yes, I needed to get some done for the café.’

  I suck in a lungful of air and hold it, waiting for what I hope is good news. I’m not prepared for anything bad.

  ‘You know the trial is set for August?’

  ‘Yes, Maxwell informed me.’

  ‘You’ll inevitably be called to testify for the prosecution. Are you okay with that?’

  ‘I’ll have to be.’

  ‘Good. Right, anyway – the evidence is strong, thanks to your information.’

  Oh, shit. Is this visit to finally tell me I’m going to be charged with perverting the course of justice or something like that? Panic swells inside me. Please, not now. My hands tremble – I keep them occupied by transferring cooled muffins to boxes as I wait for her to continue.

  ‘Has everything been all right since you’ve been back here? Any trouble with the mob?’ Imogen says, gesturing towards the front of the house.

  ‘I only got back this morning, but no one was outside when I arrived. Strange, actually, not having to bow my head and push through. I wonder how long the peace will last?’

  ‘Until the trial, probably,’ Imogen says, flippantly.

  ‘I’ll look forward to that then.’ I attempt humour, but it falls flat. Imogen looks at me, holding my gaze with her intense steel-grey eyes. I suspect this chit-chat is a precursor to her real reason for being here. I wish she’d come right out and say it – tell me I’m being charged. I’m waiting for the inevitable line: ‘Bethany Hardcastle, I’m arresting you for failure to provide evidence of which you were in possession … You do not have to say anything …’ I faff about with the used baking trays, filling the sink with hot water to soak them.

  ‘You seem a bit nervous, Beth,’ she says.

  ‘My nerves are constantly shredded. Have been for weeks. Hardly surprising, really, is it? I was scared of coming home this morning to find I’d been left further “gifts”. Thank God there weren’t any,’ I say.

  ‘Good. One of my updates was about that, actually.’

  ‘Oh? I thought local police were dealing with it?’

  ‘They were, but as it turns out, it’s linked to our investigation.’

  I sit down opposite Imogen ready to hear what’s coming. ‘So not just some random who wanted to scare me?’

  ‘We searched CCTV footage. A Jeep with a trailer was picked up close to here and it fitted with the timeframe of you hearing a commotion in your garden. The officers were able to see the trailer had something in it covered in tarp on the way here, but it was empty on the way back, so it seemed a good bet that whoever was in the Jeep was the culprit.’

  ‘And it links to the investigation how?’

  ‘The registered owner of the vehicle was interviewed. It transpired that he was not alone in carrying out this act – his sister had asked him to help her.’

  My brow knits together; this is so confusing. I’m about to say so, but Imogen continues.

  ‘The sister was a good friend of Natalia’s, the woman found murdered in her London flat.’

  I let this sink in for a moment. ‘How on earth would she have known it was Tom who’d killed her? Or where I lived?’

  ‘She told us she’d made plans with Natalia but she’d had a last-minute text cancelling. She didn’t think too much of it, but she went around early Wednesday to check on her as she was aware of her line of work. She was the one who found her.’

  ‘That still doesn’t explain—’

  ‘Natalia had told the friend about one of her clients. Mentioned details about his visits and apparently, in the days prior to her murder, Natalia had confided that she was becoming afraid of him and his taste for strangling her.’

  My heart feels as though someone is crushing it.

  ‘She saw the news about Tom be
ing charged with Katie’s murder and assumed he was the same person Natalia had told her about?’ I ask.

  ‘Yep. At the time of Natalia’s death, she’d reported her concerns about this man and how Natalia had been afraid of him, but she’d had nothing solid. Couldn’t even remember a name, until she saw the news and it sparked her memory. She didn’t think it was enough to go on – she’d no proof, just a hunch, having never even seen him before his arrest. But she did see you, and she could get at you, even if she couldn’t get at Tom.’

  ‘Bloody journalists.’

  ‘Once she knew your location, she felt she needed to do something to show you that she blamed you for her friend’s death. She was angry – she needed to hit out at someone.’

  I’m about to attempt the ‘how is it my fault?’ argument, but I realise it’s futile. It is my fault. Had I informed the police of my husband’s confession to me, Natalia’s death would’ve been avoided.

  ‘What’ll happen to her?’

  ‘Depends whether you want to bring charges.’

  ‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘I don’t. I understand her need to lash out. I deserve it.’

  A solemn silence falls.

  It’s a while before Imogen speaks again.

  ‘I need to ask, Beth – is there anything else you haven’t told me? Any bit of Tom’s past that might now ring alarm bells?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Why, do you believe he’s killed others?’

  ‘Do you?’

  The question throws me. I shake my head. ‘No … I – I …’ How can I answer that? I hadn’t been aware of Katie and Phoebe until last year. And Natalia’s death was certainly not something I’d seen coming. ‘Tom’s behaviour, up until the night he was late home and lied the next day, hasn’t ever given me cause for concern, really. Not that I can remember.’ I add the last bit, just in case.

  ‘Okay, Beth.’ Imogen gets up. ‘I’ll leave you to your baking. I just wanted to give you the news.’