The Wife’s Secret: A gripping psychological thriller with a heart-stopping twist

by Kerry Wilkinson

  ‘Family meal,’ Rafi adds. ‘Mum goes ballistic if we’re not all there by twelve.’

  We all stand and shake hands. What else is there to do?

  ‘Sorry about… well…’ Raj tails off.

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Let me know when Charley gets home. It’s probably a misunderstanding or something…’

  It’s at the point where I’m not sure what sort of misunderstanding could lead to a bride disappearing on the night of her wedding. It’s not like Charley could’ve forgotten which hotel everything was happening at.

  Rafi apologises, too – and then I’m saying sorry to them. I don’t even know what we’re all apologising for, but we’re British and that’s what we do. The brothers head out the front door muttering to themselves, leaving me standing in the centre of reception.

  It’s all very upmarket: vases, big bunches of flowers, pillars for the sake of pillars, rugs. Lots of rugs. They’re everywhere.

  Emily and Mum arrive together, but Em is keen to get her back to the care home. That sounds awful, but it’s so hard spending a whole day with our mother. It’s rewarding and devastating all at the same time. After a few hours, there’s an emotional tiredness that trumps anything physical. As if every waking moment is on edge in case Mum says something offensive or hurtful. A constant battle to hang onto an already frayed temper.

  ‘I’ll email you over some photos later,’ Emily says. She can’t even force a smile.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Mum jabs a finger towards me, shouting loudly. ‘You! Where are we going?’

  ‘We’re taking you home, Mum,’ Emily says.

  ‘I don’t want to go there. Not with you.’

  Emily manages to usher her out through the doors as I help with the bags. The last I see of them is Em helping Mum into the passenger seat of her car and then being hit in the head when she tries to clip in the seat belt.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, but I’m not sure Emily hears. With a scuff of tyre on gravel, they’re on their way.

  Before I can head back inside, Mason is making his way down the steps, Daisy and Dillon scrambling around his feet as they wheel out their suitcases. Daisy’s is pink and fluffy, in the shape of a piglet. Dillon’s is some sort of robot.

  ‘Where’s Auntie Charley?’ Daisy asks. She’s one of those kids who has no shyness around adults. Everything’s an upfront question: Why this? What’s going on with that? She’ll be some sort of superstar scientist one day. Question everything, believe nobody, treat authority like the joke it is.

  There’s an awkward moment in which Charley’s brother-in-law catches my eye with a silent apology. He doesn’t know what lie to tell or, perhaps, whether to lie at all.

  ‘She’s had to go,’ I say. ‘She did tell me to thank you for being her bridesmaid, though. Everyone thought you looked wonderful yesterday.’

  Daisy examines me with those big green eyes that run in her family. There’s a hint of Charley in them.

  ‘Can we go?’ Dillon moans, taking a couple of stomping steps towards the car park.

  ‘Where has she gone?’ Daisy asks.

  ‘She’s probably gone for a rest,’ Mason says quickly. He shrugs behind his children’s backs, but we’re not kidding little Daisy.

  ‘Why would she need a rest?’ Daisy asks. ‘It’s morning.’

  ‘Sometimes adults need to rest during the day,’ her father says.

  Daisy shakes her head. ‘I want to say goodbye…’

  ‘I’m sure she wants to say goodbye as well,’ I say. ‘Um…’

  Mason has no idea how to explain everything and neither do I. Luckily, Dillon is kicking up enough of a fuss that Mason manages to shuffle them off towards the car park without either of us needing to give a better explanation.

  He mouths a ‘sorry’, but again I find myself shrugging.

  I give Alice some help in loading the leftover food into her van and then she kisses me on both cheeks, says sorry and then disappears. That’s my family, Charley’s family and each of our best friends all gone.

  Not me.

  There’s a new woman on the reception desk when I head back inside. Older, more of an authority type, who punctuates the word ‘Sir’ with a smile that has a distinct ‘go away’ vibe. I ask if the manager’s in yet and she squints at me as if I’ve asked for her first-born.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ she says.

  ‘I’d rather talk to the manager, if that’s okay…’

  Her expression tells me that it’s very much not okay, but she punches a number into her phone anyway and then mumbles something into the handset before smiling extra sweetly and telling me it’ll be a couple of minutes.

  The manager is one of those bounding enthusiastic types. All short hair and sharp suit. The type who enjoys team-bonding sessions and writes long emails for all members of staff. He already knows who I am and ushers me into a back office that’s filled with coats, a pair of cluttered desks, a microwave and a kettle.

  ‘I’m sorry about everything that’s happened,’ he says and we’re back to apologising to one another.

  ‘I was hoping you could help me,’ I say.

  ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘Could you possibly let me look at the security footage from last night?’

  A shake of the head. Not that keen to help, after all. ‘I’m afraid that’s out of the question,’ he says. ‘We have many guests staying with us and we have to abide by confidentiality laws.’

  It sounds suspiciously like he’s making it up.

  ‘Are you married?’ I ask.

  ‘No… but I’m not sure what that—’

  ‘I am. I got married yesterday afternoon, but my wife disappeared a few hours after the ceremony. All I’m asking is if I can see whether she walked out of the front door. I know there are cameras out front and more in the car park. If she went out that way, then at least I’ll know.’

  The manager purses his lips and then clucks his tongue. He clicks his fingers and then pistols a single finger towards me. ‘You’ve got it, pal.’

  He leads me through the hotel corridors, past a pair of cleaning carts and the toilets until we reach an unmarked door. He pushes a key card into the lock and then holds the door open for us to head inside.

  It’s barely bigger than a cupboard, but the wall is a mass of monitors, with a bank of whirring computers stacked on the other side. There’s only just enough room for the pair of us to squeeze inside, not enough space to sit.

  The manager asks me about the time and then jabs a few buttons on a keyboard before loading the footage onto the monitor in front of us. Most of the CCTV that turns up on the web or in police appeals is grainy and near useless – but this is high-definition and clear. There is one camera pointing directly at the steps in front of the hotel, two more covering the car park and another at the front gate.

  He scrolls through the timestamps of the camera covering the front steps, making an hour skip through in a couple of minutes.

  People head outside for smoke breaks, while guests arrive for both evening receptions. The concierge helps someone lug a giant gift inside, the other groom nips out for a cigarette. A teenage couple leave together and then make a beeline for the bushes on the other side of the fountain.

  No Charley.

  ‘Are there any cameras at the back?’ I ask.

  ‘It wasn’t considered cost-effective.’

  ‘What’s out there?’

  ‘A small photo garden and staff parking.’

  ‘What about the land beyond that? The woods and that lane.’

  The manager clicks away from the footage and the screen goes blank. ‘Those woods are general land – nothing to do with us – and the track leads to a country road. We use it for service deliveries mainly, plus staff get in and out that way.’ He waits for a few seconds and then adds: ‘I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.’

  ‘If she didn’t leave through the front door, is it only that back door she could’ve gone through?’r />
  A nod. ‘There are fire exits. Anyone could’ve left and then gone out on the service lane.’

  ‘Can you show me the footage of her arriving on Friday afternoon? She was with her friend, Alice. They checked in together. I think it was about four o’clock.’

  ‘Any reason?’

  I sigh, shake my head. ‘I guess I just want to see her.’

  Six

  15 Years Ago

  Charley Willis, 13 years old

  ‘Where’s the farm?’

  Martha is busy paying the driver but then clambers out of the black cab onto the pavement. ‘What?’ she asks.

  ‘I thought you lived on a farm?’

  There’s a long row of three-storey houses on the side of a wide pavement, a bumper-to-bumper line of parked cars and then a park on the other side of the road.

  The taxi zips off into the distance as Martha wrestles my bag onto the pavement.

  ‘Why did you think I lived on a farm?’

  ‘You always said you lived in Chalk Farm.’

  ‘This is Chalk Farm,’ Martha says. ‘It’s not a farm, it’s an area of London.’

  I turn in a circle, bemused at the whole thing. Why call it a farm if it’s not? Why did I spend so many years thinking my sister lived on a farm?

  Martha pulls my bag onto her shoulder. ‘Let’s get inside in case there are any paps about.’

  ‘Paps?’

  ‘Men with cameras. Scum of the earth.’

  Martha digs a key out of her jacket and heads down a set of concrete steps to a basement I hadn’t noticed. The front door is hidden in an alcove barely noticeable from the street. She twists and turns the key, muttering a bad word under her breath before finally shouldering her way inside.

  ‘Sorry for the mess,’ Martha says.

  It doesn’t take long to see what she’s talking about. Mama and Father always kept everything spotlessly clean – or the cleaner did – but Martha doesn’t care about any of that. The door leads directly into her kitchen and there is a stack of pans in the sink. A half loaf of bread has been abandoned on the side and has started to crust with mould.

  It’s been two days since I sat on the grass talking to that police officer. In the end, they put us in some sort of ‘sheltered accommodation’, as they called it. Somewhere safe until they said we could come here. I think a lot of it was down to Martha. She was always arguing with someone in the other place, telling them we should be allowed to come here. It’s the first time I’ve been to her flat, the first time I’ve been to London. I only saw bits and pieces from the back of the cab, but that was enough for now. So many people. Cyclists, skateboarders, pedestrians, people in suits, people in shorts, bright red buses, jet black taxis, cars everywhere. It was making me dizzy.

  Martha leads me through the kitchen into a dim hallway. There are three doors and she nudges open the first with her foot. ‘This is your room,’ she says. ‘Well, it’s my room technically, but I’ll take the couch. Don’t worry about it.’

  My sister drops my bag onto the bed and then crouches to pick up a pair of boxer shorts. Definitely not hers. She frowns at them and then throws them into the overflowing bin in the corner.

  ‘Who do they belong to?’ I ask.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean up in here properly in a bit. New sheets and all that.’

  The dresser is cluttered with all sort of random junk, including a long, thick glass tube. It’s like a chimney with an extra pipe off to the side.

  ‘What do you do with that?’ I ask.

  Martha snatches it away. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Is it a bong?’

  She stares at me: ‘How do you know about bongs?’

  ‘Someone at school was talking about them.’

  ‘You’re too young for that stuff. I’m gonna need a proper clear-out in here…’ She looks up. ‘Do you want to go and watch TV or something in the other room? I might have to go out to get bin bags.’

  Martha shrugs off the tatty cardigan she’s been wearing. It’s like something Mum would throw out, but it suits my sister. Because she hasn’t lived at home in a long time – and because Mum would argue about it – this is the first time I’ve ever seen the full extent of Martha’s arm tattoo. It stretches all the way from her shoulder to her wrist, a long vine of ivy intermingling with various symbols and letters.

  ‘Did it hurt?’ I ask.

  Martha bites her lip piercing and grins: ‘What d’you reckon?’

  ‘Mum reckoned you were doing it to embarrass her and Dad.’

  There is the merest glimmer of a smile. ‘Yeah, well. Mum reckoned a lot of things…’

  Martha twists so I can see the tattoos a little better.

  ‘How long did it take?’ I ask.

  ‘About nineteen hours in total. My mate Xavier did the first bit a couple of years ago – you remember that? He’s been adding to it ever since.’ She points at a swirl a little below her elbow and then I realise it’s not a swirl at all. It’s a letter C. ‘That one’s for you,’ she says.

  I reach out and take her arm, running my fingers across the smooth skin. There’s no bump at all.

  ‘Why’d you get it?’ I ask.

  ‘Because you’re my sister, Char. Because this is one fu— frigged-up world and sisters have to look out for each other.’

  I let the grin creep across me.

  ‘“Frigged” is not a bad word,’ Martha says. ‘Besides, even if it was, you can say what you want now you live here.’

  She holds the door open and leads me into the living room. There’s a TV on a scratched cabinet, a sofa with foam spilling from the sides and a cream carpet that’s peppered with inky brown stains. It smells a bit funny, almost fruity.

  ‘Coffee,’ Martha says, nudging a toe towards one of the stains.

  There’s another bong on the window ledge and Martha scoops that up, leaving the room and then returning empty-handed.

  ‘I don’t want to leave you alone, but I’ve got to go to the shops,’ she says. ‘I need bin bags to clean up this mess, plus there’s no food in the fridge. It’s better to leave you here than take you with me in case there is a pap out there.’ She pauses breathlessly and then adds: ‘Is there anything you want me to bring back?’

  ‘Carrots…?’

  Martha has a hand on her hip and tilts her head sideways. ‘Carrots?’

  ‘Or peas.’

  ‘You’re thirteen years old, Char. Peas and carrots? Nobody likes vegetables – not even adults. People only eat them because they think they should. You can have whatever you want. Ben and Jerry’s? Chocolate gateau? Jaffa Cakes? Don’t give me all that peas and carrots nonsense.’

  She’s smiling, but there’s something else there. It sounds like she’s annoyed with me.

  ‘Anything you want,’ she adds.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But you like ice cream, right?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘I’m sure I can find something.’

  She has one hand on the door, but then steps back into the room.

  ‘Char…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re going to have to be careful about telling people your name. It won’t be long before someone finds out where I live. Our faces are going to be on TV, in the papers, the magazines.’ She bites her lip. ‘Maybe not yours. There are laws about under-sixteens. I’ll have to look it up – but people will know who I am. We could do without getting any hassle from the neighbours. If anyone knocks on the door, ignore them. I’ve got my key and can let myself in.’ There’s a metallic cluck as Martha plays with her tongue piercing. ‘I’ll pick you up a phone,’ she says.

  ‘Mum said I’m too young for a phone of my own.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re here now and I want to know you’re safe. I’ll get you one like mine. You can play games and all sorts. I’ll get enough food so we can bunk down for a couple of days and not have to go out. Hopefully everyone will leave us alone.’


  Another break, another tongue clink.

  ‘Do you need any more clothes? Underwear? Anything like that?’

  I think of my room back at home. The wardrobe full of dresses, smart skirts and tops. The high socks, the shiny shoes. Mum always wanted me to look my best. ‘How can you feel good inside if you don’t look good outside?’ she’d say.

  ‘You can’t ever go back there,’ Martha whispers. She’s read my mind.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You know why, don’t you? They’ll say you can, but you can’t. This is a new start, Char. You and me.’

  She smiles, but it’s sad and distant, as if there’s something she wants to add but she doesn’t know the words.

  ‘How about I just get you a few basics,’ she says. ‘That’ll get us through the week, then, when everything goes a bit quiet, we can go shopping properly. You can pick out your own clothes.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Martha nods, then steps out of the room. She bobs back and forth, but then disappears along the hallway. She does something in her bedroom and then calls out ‘see you soon’ before heading out the door.

  I slouch onto the sofa, sitting and listening for a few moments. There is the faintest sound of traffic, but it is otherwise quiet. This is the type of silence Mum or Dad constantly wanted. It’s strange that the three of us lived in that big house where they could never seem to get it – and yet, here, in this small one-bedroom basement, everything is still.

  There’s a part of me that wants to go hunting through Martha’s stuff before she gets back. The boxer shorts and bongs hint at so much more and yet I’m not sure I want to know. Martha had her life before what happened to Mum and Dad, and I had mine. Now it has all changed and we’re here together.

  There is one thing, though.

  During our time in the sheltered accommodation, I was never alone. If Martha wasn’t with me, then the family support officer was. If I went to the toilet, someone would sit outside. They said it was ‘standard procedure’, but I’m not stupid. Not that stupid anyway. It was protection. I heard the whispers late at night. They talked about ‘the killer’ and whether he was out there.