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

by Kerry Wilkinson

  I do… sort of. I find myself patting her gently on the back as if she’s a puppy wanting reassurance.

  ‘You’re useless,’ she says, smiling kindly when she pulls away.

  ‘It feels weird,’ I reply, not only meaning the hug.

  ‘Are you going to be all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  What else can I say?

  Emily steps away and then nods at the Post-it note that’s still on the side. ‘Are you going to call her?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Be careful,’ she says.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘I don’t know, little brother. But I do know that people like that don’t take on jobs unless they think they’re getting something in return.’

  Twenty-One

  Pamela the publicist might be many things, but she’s definitely not a person who hangs around. Within an hour of me talking to her on the phone, she’s driven to my house, parked, marched up the driveway as if it’s her place and then breezed inside.

  I can imagine she was quite something in her youth because she’s got a no-nonsense air about her now, even though she’s got to be sixty years old. She has big platinum blonde curly hair, expensive clothes, high shiny heels despite being inside, plus bright red lips and nails with matching thick-rimmed glasses. When she talks, the words flow into one another as if she can’t get her thoughts out quickly enough. I feel exhausted simply being in her presence.

  Apparently she doesn’t do soft furniture, because she’s taken one of the hard-backed chairs at the dining table, onto which she’s unpacked an A4 diary planner.

  ‘I think the best thing for now would be a public statement,’ she says, not bothering with the preamble. ‘If Charlotte is watching, perhaps that would persuade her to come forward. If the worst has happened, it can’t do any harm.’

  She speaks matter-of-factly, no concern about what ‘the worst’ could be.

  ‘The police assigned me a family liaison officer,’ I reply. ‘Should I tell them?’

  ‘You can – they’ve got their own media team, but the thing to remember is that the police will always look out for their own.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I’ve seen individuals who’ve been completely unprepared. They’ve been put in front of cameras, nervous and stumbling over their words. That creates an impression in the minds of the public.’

  ‘What impression?’

  Pamela looks up from her book. ‘That you’re guilty, darling.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘But that’s the problem. It’s doesn’t necessarily matter whether you’ve done anything. If the police stick you on camera and you’re sweating like a baboon and babbling incoherently, people are going to make up their minds.’

  She smiles as if this is the simplest thing in the world. I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t this.

  ‘I just want Charley to come home,’ I say and then add: ‘She prefers Charley.’

  ‘That’s what we all want, hon. I’ve known her since she was an infant. I was there when Annie and Paul brought her home from the hospital, God rest their souls.’ She crosses herself. ‘You might have seen some of the old photo spreads…?’

  I haven’t. Seeking them out to goggle at pictures of my wife as a newborn would be weird.

  ‘Such a tragedy everything that’s happened in that family. Lovely people, too…’

  ‘She’s not dead.’

  Pamela peers over her glasses at me. ‘Of course not, darling. I’m not saying that. I’m thinking of you.’

  In a weirdly warped way, I believe she actually is thinking of me. I remember some of the press conferences or interviews I’ve seen over the years. Unconvincing family members shuffling around and making themselves look like closet serial killers. Perhaps it is a police ploy to hang people out to dry. Make them look guilty and let the nation decide. You only get one chance with the public – look at Christopher Jefferies. That poor sod hadn’t done anything wrong, but the public and media decided he looked a bit eccentric so probably had murdered Joanna Yeates in Bristol.

  ‘Charley never wanted the attention,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, I don’t blame her – not after what happened. Poor girl.’

  ‘She liked living away from everything where nobody cared who her parents were. If I do an interview, it’s going to bring everything up again.’

  Pamela fixes me with that stare which makes me feel like I’m a schoolkid about to be told off for not understanding something simple.

  ‘It’s already out there, Seth. Did you not see the stories today? What do you think people will be saying tomorrow? Or the next day? It’s not a case of bringing it all back to the surface – it’s already there. There are two ways to do this. One involves letting things spiral potentially out of control. Before you know it, people will be looking into your past, talking to school friends, finding anyone who’s ever had a bad word to say about you.’

  ‘What’s the other way?’

  ‘That’s where you get to tell your side of things in a controlled environment. No dodgy police press conference where some pea-brain with a pencil asks if you murdered your wife.’

  ‘Murder? She’s not dead. I’ve not murdered anyone!’

  I didn’t mean to, but I’m actually shouting. Pamela’s directness has brought up those dark feelings deep down. That tiny voice telling me that she is dead. That somehow it will be blamed on me, or, worse still, that I’m somehow responsible indirectly. Perhaps I said something? Did something? At the time, I thought it was innocent, but Charley took it the wrong way?

  ‘I’m not saying you did, honey. I’m not saying she’s dead – I’m telling you what other people will be saying. What they are saying.’

  Pamela is right, of course. It was only a few hours ago someone was online implying I was shagging my sister. Nobody takes time to check anything nowadays – and once it’s on the internet, it’s already too late.

  ‘I’m not sure you realise how big this could be…’

  Pamela is talking to me as if she’s my mother. I’d naturally take against this, wanting to go against advice if only to make a point.

  A stupid point.

  The problem is that she’s right – again. I have no idea what the police are doing. Fiona herself admitted I wouldn’t usually be assigned a liaison officer – but then she appeared. Who’s to say she wasn’t sent to keep an eye on me? Perhaps I was followed to the service station? Maybe they’re listening to my phone calls? Checking my emails? Following Emily? It might not be a missing persons case at all, they could already be thinking murder.

  ‘What do you get out of this?’ I ask. ‘I don’t have money. Neither does Charley.’

  ‘Consider it a family favour.’

  ‘But you don’t know my family. You and me have only just met.’

  Pamela smiles and there’s a moment where our eyes lock. She’s being genuine and I’m not sure this happens too often.

  ‘Do you know, I actually cried when I found out what happened to Annie and Paul.’ She crosses herself once more and then points to her eyes. Caked-on make-up has largely covered her wrinkles, but it’s there that I realise her age for sure. Sixty is probably underplaying it. ‘Actual tears,’ she adds. ‘I’ve had so much Botox I doubt my tear ducts work nowadays, but do you know how many times I’ve cried since I started doing this job?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Twice. Once for Princess Diana; once for Annie and Paul Willis.’

  Another time, another place and I’d be laughing. Pamela is deadly serious, though. I believe everything she’s told me. She doesn’t seem the joking type.

  ‘Look,’ she says. ‘You have every right to be suspicious – but after what happened to Annie and Paul and then poor Martha, this was always going to be big. You might not know it, but your life has changed. It might not be baseball cap and sunglasses in public, but there’s no point in pretending everything ca
n carry on as normal. If you put your story out there, that’s it done. If you don’t, the papers, the radio stations, the news channels; they’ll go searching. They’ve got pages and time to fill – and everybody has skeletons. You might think you’ve gone through life making no enemies, but there’ll be someone in your past who remembers you. Someone who didn’t get as good a mark as you at school; some kid on the football squad who couldn’t get in the team because of you; someone at uni who wanted to go out with a girl, but you got there first. There’s always someone. You’ve got the choice to either let the public hear from that nutter, or hear from you.’

  After she’s put it like that, it doesn’t seem like there’s much of a choice. I can’t think of anyone off the top of my head, but she’s right. Sometimes I wonder if there’s more nutters than normal people.

  ‘What do I do?’

  She claps her hands and then writes something in her giant book. ‘Ten o’clock tomorrow morning,’ she says.

  ‘Isn’t that a bit soon?’

  She checks her watch. It’s a little over thirteen hours away. ‘Not really. I could get people here within the hour if I wanted.’

  Pamela removes one phone from an inside pocket and a second from her bag. She checks both, mutters something I don’t catch, and then puts both on the table.

  ‘You know Diane Young, don’t you?’

  ‘Who?’

  She gives me that scolding look again. ‘Diane Young. This is right up her street. She’s got a nightly news show. Well-respected, intelligent, loves her gin… and she owes me one.’ Pamela is already reaching for the phone. ‘She used to know Charley’s parents, too. I think she was an entertainment reporter back in the day. Anyway, she’ll be very sensitive to you and your needs, she won’t ask anything you’re uncomfortable with.’ Pamela flicks through the pages in her book, then picks up both phones and starts to stand. ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken, and I’m never very much mistaken, I think Diane was one of the reporting team who covered everything that happened with the sister.’

  ‘Martha?’

  A nod. ‘She’s familiar with the family history and the… um… well, you know…’

  ‘Know what?’

  Pamela lowers her voice, as if saying it too loudly will make it true. ‘The curse.’

  Twenty-Two

  4 Years Ago

  Charley Willis, 24 years old

  Mason looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. His skin is so pale, it’s practically grey. The only colour in his face is the black of the crow’s feet around his eyes. The poor guy is drifting around as if he’s floating, dead-eyeing everyone as he shakes their hands and thanks them for coming.

  Nobody can think this is a good idea.

  Everybody’s giving it the usual bow of the head. The condolences. One after the other. Over and over and over.

  I’m sitting on the floor in the corner of the hall, knees to my chest, watching the human wall of black mooch around the scratched wooden floor.

  The kids who’ve been dragged along have no idea how to behave. They’d rather be playing, but their parents have instead kitted them out like they’re extras in an emo band and then given them nothing to do. A few have made a brave break for it, heading to the buffet and piling up their plates.

  A small ginger lad I don’t know spots me watching and offers a bashful flat smile. He’s ignored the savoury and gone straight for the cake. His plate has Battenberg, mini Swiss rolls, three chocolate biscuits and a couple of cream puffs loaded on top of each other.

  I return his acknowledgement with one of my own and then he spins and carries his plate off to the far corner, where some of the kids have created their own little eating circle on the floor.

  There’s a large part of me that wants to join them. Kids don’t flannel around with their choice of words. None of this ‘sorry for your loss’ BS. It’s all upfront. What happened? Why? Oh.

  Done.

  That’s so much easier. Then it’s back to PlayStation or kicking a ball around.

  That was Martha’s way, too.

  When Mason has finally finished thanking everybody, he turns in a circle. At first he stares past me, then he realises I’m the one in the corner wearing black like everybody else.

  He floats across, scuffing his feet aimlessly. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he says. It’s only us in the corner. I don’t have to reply because he instantly adds: ‘Sorry. As if you’d be anywhere else. I’m thanking people out of habit.’

  His chest rises dramatically as he takes a deep breath. His bottom lip bobs but he just about holds it together.

  ‘How have you been?’ he asks.

  ‘Awful.’

  ‘Me too.’

  He lowers himself onto the seat next to me, offers me his hand and I take it. He’s cold.

  ‘Martha really loved you, Little C,’ he says.

  Loved.

  Past tense.

  ‘She would’ve done anything for you.’

  ‘I know.’

  We sit like this for a few minutes, his hand in mine; me on the floor, him on the chair. He’s sobbing softly but I’ve done my crying.

  ‘I don’t believe what they’re saying about her,’ I say. ‘There’s no way she’d leave you behind, no way she’d leave Dillon and Daisy.’

  Mason sighs, his heading dipping to his knees.

  Dillon and Daisy are on the other side of the room with Mason’s mother. Daisy is sleeping in a car seat, oblivious to the fact she’s at her own mother’s wake. She’ll never remember this. Probably not Dillon, either. He’s only three and yet they’ve found him a dinky little suit. He’s so bloody gorgeous – and yet I can barely look at him because the suit represents the occasion.

  The back room of the pub is very Martha, I suppose. Low ceilings, cheap booze, cakes at the buffet. All a bit grimy, just the way she likes it.

  Liked it.

  Mason slips his hand out of mine and rubs his eyes. There’s colour in his face now – scrubbed red skin around his eyes and nose.

  ‘Did she say anything to you about why she was at your parents’ house?’ he asks. He’s questioned me before, but if repeating himself is the only way he can rationalise what happened, then I’d have to be quite the cow to deny him that.

  ‘Nothing,’ I reply.

  ‘Did she say if she was unhappy?’

  ‘The opposite – she was really happy. She was looking forward to you all going to Cornwall. She’d sent me a link with photos of the cottage.’

  ‘It’s just you hear these thing about postnatal depression and all that.’

  ‘If she had a problem then she never mentioned it – and she never showed it. She was tired, but that’s not the same.’

  ‘But why would she be at your parents’ house at all?’

  Mason looks up finally, throws both hands into the air. He’s been asking this question over and over. It will be what keeps him awake every night.

  I know.

  That’s what I’m thinking when I’m staring at the ceiling at three in the morning.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I tell him. ‘It’s been in limbo for eleven years. Uncle David keeps filing slightly different legal disputes. I’d pretty much forgotten about it. I don’t know why she’d go there now.’

  His body is arching up and down as he breathes in and out. All I can do is rub his back, hoping he knows that he’s got to keep it together for another hour or so, if only for the kids.

  ‘Have you seen what they’re saying?’ he breathes.

  I don’t point out that I was the one who said I didn’t believe it. No point. ‘I’ve seen it,’ I reply.

  ‘How can someone say that? Why would they think she burned the house down?’

  That’s the problem when it comes to speculation. It’s always from those who know a person only through the picture that’s painted. Martha is, and always will be, the wild child, even though she was never like that. Not really.

  But the wild child broke into our parents’ old
house and set it on fire. She either got caught inside, or that was how she chose to commit suicide.

  Choose one.

  Except there’s no way that’s what happened.

  The people who know her… who knew her – Mason and me – know she wouldn’t do that. She wasn’t the wild child. She was a wife, mother and sister and, my God, did she love those kids.

  None of that matters because it doesn’t fit what people want to believe. The Willis Curse; The Cursed Family; The Mysterious Willis Family. Take your pick.

  There are photographers at the gate of the pub hoping for the money shot. They didn’t get their photo of me crying eleven years ago and they’re sure as hell not getting it now.

  Liam’s nowhere to be seen. I’m not sure why I thought he might show up. I’m the only Willis here. The last one standing.

  I’m staring at the floor because I know everyone is looking at me. Mason’s friends and family. Martha’s friends. The ones I’ve never met – which is all of them. I can feel them watching. It’s not Mason, it’s me. My damned family. My damned curse.

  Mason stands, turns to the corner to try to compose himself.

  ‘Please stay in touch,’ he sobs. ‘Dillon loves you. Daisy will, too. You’re the only link back to their mother.’ He coughs. ‘It’s only you left.’

  Twenty-Three

  Now

  Seth

  Five in the morning.

  Again.

  I’ve slept on the sofa once more, still in yesterday’s clothes. There are empty Stella bottles on the floor and I know the filthy spaghetti plate is still in the kitchen sink. It’s probably beginning to crust. Emily would be furious. Mum, too, if she knew who I was.

  The red digits on the satellite box beam across the room and the sun is already on its way up, shining through the open curtains into the living room.

  Why am I awake?

  It’s not as if the sofa is particularly comfortable, certainly not as much as the bed… but that’s our bed. Charley and I bought it when she was moving in. An IKEA special. If a relationship can handle a trip to a giant Swedish warehouse, it can handle anything.