The Trapped Wife: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a mind-blowing twist

by Samantha Hayes

  ‘But don’t you see, Jen? It means he might still be alive. Chris told me that no one from the local force even came out to see you that night to break the news. Before I came here, I looked up a few news reports about the avalanche. I couldn’t find Jeremy’s name anywhere on the list of those missing or dead, Jen. Could it have been fake, a set-up?’

  ‘You… you don’t believe me?’ Jen turns pale. ‘There was confusion about how many skiers had gone off-piste that day. I didn’t want his name plastered everywhere, so I insisted it was kept private. Anyway, I… I never said it was the local force,’ she snaps. ‘I had contact from the Swiss authorities. I already told you that. Perhaps it was someone from the embassy – I can’t remember, I was so upset.’

  Rhonda knows for certain that she said it was a pair of coppers from the local force, but she’s not about to press the point. Jen is far too upset as it is.

  ‘You need to go now,’ Jen says abruptly. ‘I have to clear up from dinner. I want to get an early night.’ She stands, heading to the kitchen door and waiting for Rhonda to follow, which, reluctantly, she does. As they pass the dining room, Rhonda ducks in to grab her coat, taking a last look at Scott, wondering whether to say goodbye, but he’s still sleeping.

  And that’s when she catches sight of the badge pinned to his shirt.

  ‘Jen?’ she whispers, halting, grabbing her arm.

  ‘Not now, Ronnie, I’m tired,’ she whispers in return.

  ‘That badge he’s wearing, where did it come from?’ Rhonda’s eyes flick up to Scott’s face. He really doesn’t look well – he’s a funny colour and there’s foam dribbling out of his mouth. What a state to get in. But she doesn’t care about that now – she’s just relieved that he’s zonked out from too much booze and they don’t have to deal with him.

  ‘I… I don’t know. It’s Scott’s. He had it on his coat earlier and—’

  But before Jen finishes, Rhonda dashes off to the hall and runs up the stairs as fast as she can. She hurls Kieran’s bedroom door open, her eyes scanning around his room. She flings open the wardrobe doors and hunts through his clothes.

  ‘What the hell are you doing, Ron?’ Jen says, catching up behind her. ‘I’m really in no mood for this right now. I just want to go to bed.’

  ‘Where’s Kieran’s jacket? The one he wore when we went out for pizza?’

  ‘Umm…’ Jen looks puzzled, touching her temple. ‘I don’t know. On the back of his door, maybe?’ She turns to look and, sure enough, hanging behind his dressing gown is Kieran’s well-worn old jacket.

  Rhonda pushes past and snatches it down, rummaging in the left pocket and then the right. A second later, she pulls out something, holding it up for them both to see.

  ‘It’s the same, Jen. The same badge as Scott is wearing. Don’t you see?’

  Jen stares at the badge for a moment, before taking it from between Rhonda’s fingers. ‘No, no I don’t see. What’s going on?’ Her voice is shaky and uncertain.

  ‘Where did Kieran get this?’ Rhonda asks.

  Jen blinks furiously. She opens her mouth as if she wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

  Rhonda grabs Jen by the shoulders. ‘Look, Jen. I know this is a lot to take in, but the child killer, Evan Locke… he had this exact same badge on him in his mugshot from way back when he was caught. No doubt about it. I’ve checked online and they’re not at all common – some military award thing. And Scott is wearing exactly the same one, and now we find Kieran has one in his coat pocket.’

  Jen stares blankly into Rhonda’s eyes.

  ‘Did Jeremy give this to Kieran?’ Rhonda asks, not knowing where else it could have come from.

  ‘Maybe. Yes… yes, possibly.’ Jen frowns, looking even more flustered as the lines deepen on her forehead. ‘In fact, I remember now. Yes, Jeremy did give it to Kieran.’

  ‘Don’t you see? Scott is Evan Locke, Jen. He must be. You’d never have recognised him from his childhood pictures, but look closely and I swear it’s the same man. I’ve read all about the case online. He was released with a new identity well over a decade ago, but then quickly reoffended and ended up back inside. He’s spent most of his adult life behind—’

  ‘You’re right,’ Jen says calmly, as though the penny is finally dropping. ‘In fact, I’d just discovered exactly the same. I knew him from school. It’s what we were arguing about, which is why I’ve told him he must leave in the morning. He understands that I don’t want… that I don’t want an ex-convict in the house. It’s unthinkable. He’s agreed to go, and I’m certain I will never hear from him again.’ She sounds almost robotic.

  Rhonda sits down on the edge of Kieran’s bed. She tugs on Jen’s arm, indicating she should sit down too. ‘I actually did lots of digging into the murder, Jen. I found old papers in the attic at school, and there’s quite a lot of information online, too. As a kid yourself at the time, you perhaps didn’t realise the gravity of the case, how it swept the country.’

  Jen nods blankly. ‘Oh, I did.’

  ‘There was mention of an accomplice, some other kid involved in planning the toddler’s murder. It was all premeditated. They had some kind of sick club, apparently. Forensic psychologists pored over the evidence, tried to get Evan to talk. Those two kids were born murderers, Jen. Born evil. It was disgusting. But Evan Locke always denied anyone else was involved, taunting the police and the court from what I’ve read.’

  ‘OK,’ Jen says. ‘You probably ought to go now, Ron—’

  ‘Jen, I believe the other person involved was Jeremy.’

  Jen’s eyes grow wide. She stares at Rhonda for a moment, her only movement a swallow.

  ‘What? You really want to destroy my husband’s reputation, don’t you? Why? Because your daughter claims that he—’

  ‘Jen, no, stop. That’s not it. Of course, I’m upset and angry as hell if anything happened between him and Caitlin. She’s a child, for Christ’s sake. But this is separate. This is something different entirely. And with his passport still being here… God, none of this adds up.’

  ‘Does it need to?’ Jen says after a moment. ‘Jeremy is dead. He can’t hurt Caitlin any more, if that’s what you’re worried about. If you want to drag his reputation through the gutter, destroy Kieran’s life, my life, my baby’s life, even more than they already have been, then go right ahead. If you do, you are not the friend I thought—’

  A noise. Coming from downstairs. A crashing sound. Then a moan.

  Rhonda takes Jen by the shoulders. ‘Of course I’m your friend, Jen. I always will be, whatever has happened. I just wanted to warn you about…’

  More sounds from downstairs.

  ‘I need to sort him out,’ Jen says, her face suddenly deathly pale. ‘He’s clearly not well. I swear to God he’s leaving in the morning and we will never see him again. Do you trust me on that?’

  Rhonda stares into her eyes, then nods. ‘OK, yes. Yes, I do, but I don’t like it. Any trouble from him at all, and you call Chris. We’re just at home tonight. He’ll be round like a shot.’

  The women head downstairs and Rhonda is ushered to the front door. ‘Are you sure you don’t want any help getting him to bed?’ she says, peering through into the dining room. ‘He’s fallen onto the floor – look, for heaven’s sake.’

  Jen looks back over her shoulder, managing a laugh. ‘And that’s exactly where he’ll stay until morning. By which time, I’ll have all his stuff in his car and he’ll be gone. I’m a doctor, Jen. Trust me on this. Let me deal with it.’

  Eventually, Rhonda nods, giving her friend a kiss on the cheek before heading out of the house and driving back home to her husband.

  Forty-Three

  Jen

  I watch the tail lights of Rhonda’s car as it turns right at the end of the drive, disappearing into the night. I now have until morning to clean up this incomprehensible mess in which I find myself.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ I say when I see Scott lying on the floor, his cheek press
ed against the rug. One leg convulses and several of his fingers twitch, but otherwise he doesn’t move. His skin is now mottled and purple, his eyes glassy, and I can’t detect any movement in his chest. Bloody foam froths from his mouth.

  He is dying. Nearly dead now.

  I cover my face, letting out a sob. But I have to hold it together – for Kieran’s sake, for my baby’s sake. For my sake. I never wanted any of this to happen.

  ‘You can do this,’ I mouth behind my hands. ‘You have to.’ There’s work to be done and I need to move fast.

  Before I head outside, I check Scott’s pulse again – hardly detectable – and shine the torch from my phone into his pupils. No response. Knowing he’s not going anywhere, I grab my coat and the various keys I will need, and head out to the garage again. The kit is exactly where I left it from last time – all neatly put away, cleaned and sprayed with disinfectant just in case.

  I lift the rope, harness and other strapping from the hook on the wall, grabbing several carabiner clips too. The tarpaulin is still folded neatly on the shelf where I put it after I’d washed it down, so I take that before heading round the back of the garage to the large workshop where Jeremy kept the ride-on mower, other garden machinery and the all-terrain vehicle he loved buzzing around on. He bought one with such a powerful engine, I was concerned about the noise last time, but it seems the neighbours are too far away to hear.

  Inside the workshop, I dump the kit in the carrying compartment on the ATV and slide open the big double doors. There’s just enough light from the overhead bulb to make sure the fuel lever is switched on and the kill switch disabled. Then, getting on the vehicle, I grasp the brake safety lever and hit the power button. It takes a couple of goes but then the engine jumps into life. Jeremy was always tinkering and making sure it was in top condition.

  With the two headlamps on, I slowly trundle the vehicle across the bumpy yard and round through the paddock gate, rumbling up past the pond where we held Jeremy’s memorial. Briefly, I stop and stare at the water, the strings of lights up in the garden reflecting off its surface.

  Shuddering, I rev the engine and continue up the paddock, opening the five-bar gate and heading up the lawn towards the house. I reverse the vehicle with its rear end facing the large glass doors leading into the dining room. Scott is still lying on the floor in the same position. I’m pretty certain he will be dead now.

  I can’t help bursting into tears. It feels as though I’ve been holding them in for decades – not just the last couple of months. I cover my face with my hands, allowing myself a few moments to get it all out – but when I open my eyes again, blurry from crying, all I see is Jeremy lying splayed out on the floor instead.

  I’d been towel-drying my hair after my shower that night when I’d screamed. I’d not expected to see Jeremy standing in the bedroom, looking like death warmed up. He was swaying and his eyes were bloodshot and all I wanted was to get him into bed in the hope that he’d sleep so deeply he’d miss his flight the next day.

  ‘Christ, you made me jump,’ I’d said.

  ‘I need to pack.’ Almost tripping over his own feet, he’d gone to the wardrobe then, but he was all over the place and in no fit state to do anything. I obviously hadn’t given him enough drugs. ‘Passport… I need to find my passport,’ he’d said.

  ‘Isn’t it in your study cupboard where you usually keep it?’

  ‘Study… yeah…’ he’d repeated, staggering off towards the stairs, leaving me to get into bed, trying to figure out what to do. I couldn’t stand the thought of him going away with Madeleine.

  And that’s when I heard the terrible noise – crashing and thudding and yelling, the floor vibrating as I dashed onto the landing to see what had happened.

  Jeremy had fallen down the stairs.

  Those wretched, dangerous, over-polished stairs that I’d always hated, but never got around to sorting out.

  ‘Jeremy!’ I’d screamed, charging down after him as quickly as I could without falling myself.

  Dark blood was already pooling on the hallway tiles around his head, and instantly I saw it wasn’t good. The gash on his temple from hitting the sharp corner of the big wooden chest at the bottom of the stairs was deep. I hardly dared move him, given the angle at which he was lying. I was concerned about cervical vertebrae fractures, along with other possible spinal injuries.

  ‘Oh my God, no, Jer…’ I’d screamed, dropping to my knees beside him. If he hadn’t been in his drugged-up, confused state, he’d never have fallen. He was always so careful. It was all my fault.

  And that’s when everything became a blur – as the consequences gradually dawned on me, submerging me in an irreversible nightmare. I don’t know when, exactly, the myocardial infarction had begun – before or after he fell down the stairs. I’ll never know, either, if the heart attack he suffered was triggered by the shock of the fall or the cocktail of drugs and alcohol I’d given him, or even if he already had an undiagnosed heart condition. Even several months later, my stupidity doesn’t make sense to me – a doctor, a trusted GP – allowing jealousy, rage and obsession to make me behave in such a way towards the man I loved most in the world.

  ‘Jeremy!’ I’d screamed, thankful Kieran wasn’t around to witness everything. He’d gone to stay at a mate’s, having already said goodbye to his dad earlier, wishing him a good trip.

  I checked Jeremy’s pulse, ran for my stethoscope and listened to his heart, knowing from the unusual rhythm that things were not good. I did everything I should have done first-aid wise in those early minutes – including prolonged CPR when his heart stopped until the sweat poured off me. But it was having no effect. I ran for my phone to call an ambulance, not able to locate it at first, charging around the house like a madwoman. I don’t even remember how long it took me to find it but, when I knelt down by Jeremy again just before I dialled 999, I checked his pulse, his breathing, his pupil response. I listened to his heart from every angle I could reach.

  Nothing. My husband had died at the bottom of the stairs. And I knew nothing would bring him back.

  Deciding what to do had not come from a rational place. Kieran would be back in the morning. If I called an ambulance, there would be enquiries into his death at the hospital, perhaps a police investigation, toxicology reports, a thorough forensic examination of my house. When they found out what I’d done, my life as a doctor, as a mother to Kieran, would be over.

  Jeremy’s life was already over and nothing would change that.

  It took me about an hour to decide how to dispose of his body. It’s the sort of thing you read about in the newspapers or crazy stories online, never believing it would ever happen to you. But everything I needed was to hand – the all-terrain vehicle to move him, ropes and tarpaulin sheeting in which to wrap him to protect the ground from contamination as I dragged him down to the large pond, using the winch on the back of the quad bike. Sliding his body through the house, avoiding doorways and moving furniture took the longest, but the winch was designed to pull weights far greater than a human body, so eventually I got him outside, temporarily tied the tarp around him and dragged him down to the pond in the dark. It seemed to take forever.

  And all the while, I had absolutely no idea I was being watched.

  Rain was sheeting down around me, making the ground muddy and my vision blurry as I’d got closer to the water. I’d driven the vehicle onto the jut of land sticking out into the water, getting Jeremy as near to the edge as I could. Attaching weights to him was almost the point at which I’d given up, handed myself in, but I knew that decomposition and bloating would have him floating on the surface before long and, despite all the weed, it was a risk I couldn’t take.

  It was about four thirty in the morning when I finally drove the ATV a few more metres and watched my husband sink into the depths – all of it captured on Scott’s camera as, unbeknown to me, he lurked close by. And all I could think of as Jeremy’s face disappeared out of view, shrouded by the mur
ky water, was poor little Lenny Taylor.

  Now, as I stand beside the quad bike, watching the same scene unfold, it’s Evan Locke’s face sinking beneath the murk as he joins my husband in the silt at the bottom of the big pond in the paddock. It’s way deeper than it appears from above – at least twenty feet in parts. No one will miss him – not since he was given a new, protected identity a few years ago following his final release. And he has no relatives who’ll miss him either. According to the paperwork in Scott’s belongings, his probation days are in the past, and unless he were to reoffend, there’s no one wondering where he is, no one out looking for him. Plus I’ll lock his car up in the workshop for now, hidden under a tarpaulin. It can stay there until I decide how to get rid of it – the paperwork is in his box of stuff. From what Scott said, I believe he’d been watching me for a long time, having tracked me down early last year, but it had taken him months to build up the courage to engineer a meet when I was away in Oxford.

  A couple of days after Jeremy’s death, the avalanche in Zermatt had come on the news – the same place in Switzerland where my husband had booked to go. Six people missing, presumed dead, with only three bodies recovered. Of course, everyone believed that Jeremy had gone on the skiing trip – my cover until I figured out what I would tell people when he didn’t return. Our marriage ending was the most obvious reason, yet wouldn’t explain his absence from Kieran’s life – so the avalanche, while tragic for those actually involved, provided me with the perfect story. From that moment on, Jeremy was one of the six.

  After I’d cleaned up the house and packed away all the equipment, it had grown light. A new day. Jeremy should have been at the airport by now so when his mobile phone rang, I knew I had to answer it.

  Madeleine.

  ‘Jeremy is not coming on the trip,’ I told her. ‘And you can stay away from my husband. I know you’ve been having an affair and he wants nothing more to do with you. He wants to be with me, so leave us alone. If you contact either of us again, I’ll be calling the police.’