The Wife Before Me: A twisty, gripping psychological thriller

by Laura Elliot

  Elena Langdon, alone in the cottage, searched for the truth and has now unveiled it. The façade of a marriage laid bare. Children stream from the small school towards the bus that will carry them to outlying farms and bungalows.

  ‘Mammy, look. I made this card for you.’ Kayla proudly shows off her handiwork. The youngest pupil in her small class, she is surprisingly talented at drawing for her age. Two figures, one small, one tall, one pale, one olive-skinned. Always alone, mother and daughter. She turns the car round and begins the steep drive upwards.

  Forty-Six

  ‘Uncle Mark is here. He’s here.’ Kayla dances on her toes and spins away from the window, where she has been waiting for the first sight of his car. Down the front path she runs and straight into his arms.

  Mark swings her into the air. ‘Who are you?’ he asks. ‘I came here specially to see Kayla, not a big, beautiful, grown-up girl like you. What’s your name, big, beautiful girl?’

  ‘You’re a silly billy.’ She giggles. ‘I’m Kayla.’

  ‘That’s not possible,’ he gasps. ‘Kayla is just a titch. At least she was the last time I saw her.’

  ‘I’m Kayla,’ she repeats and smacks his head. ‘Where’s all your hair gone, Uncle Mark?’

  ‘I sold it to the fairies to weave into a coat of gold.’

  ‘That’s a big fib. Your hair was black.’

  ‘Haven’t you heard of black magic? It turns to gold when a fairy is the weaver.’ He throws her over his shoulders and marches towards the front door.

  ‘Is it gold like Mammy’s hair?’

  ‘Even more golden. Where is she?’

  ‘She’s baking cupcakes for you. I had two. They’re yummy.’

  ‘Yummy yum yum,’ he chants as he marches towards the front door, where she stands waiting for them. ‘Annie! Why didn’t you tell me Kayla had changed from a titch into a giant toadstool?’

  ‘It happened overnight,’ she replies. ‘I was as surprised as you were when I saw her the next morning.’

  Kayla giggles and wriggles her legs as Mark lowers her to the ground. ‘I’m going to find Bluey,’ she shouts and runs out the gate. ‘I want him to meet Uncle Mark.’

  ‘Bluey?’ Inside the cottage, he hangs his jacket on a hook. ‘Who or what is that?’

  ‘A lamb,’ she replies. ‘He’s an orphan. His mother died giving birth. Kayla has adopted him. She’s supposed to feed him from a bottle five times a day but you don’t have to be a genius to guess who does the six-in-the-morning feed.’

  ‘Ouch!’ He takes her hands and holds them tight. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

  ‘You too, Mark.’ She tilts her head, quizzingly. ‘Have you been burning the midnight oil?’

  ‘Do I look that bad?’

  ‘Just tired. Otherwise you look wonderful. How’s Graham?’

  ‘Good. He shaved off my hair. Said he refuses to live with a combover.’ He runs his hands self-consciously over his scalp. ‘I’m still getting used to it.’

  ‘It suits you. Adds character to your face.’ The chicken casserole she has prepared is ready to serve, the table set.

  ‘I told you to keep Bluey outside,’ she says as Kayla enters the kitchen, a small lamb with a blue patch on its back at her heels.

  ‘I want to show him to Uncle Mark.’

  ‘After dinner.’ She carries the casserole dish to the table and shoos the lamb away. ‘Now, do as I say and wash your hands.’

  Kayla chats throughout the meal and the lamb, staring through the glass patio door, bleats piteously.

  ‘She’s obviously devoted to the little fellow,’ Mark says when Kayla has filled a baby’s bottle with warm milk and headed out to feed Bluey.

  ‘He’s a substitute for friends,’ she replies. ‘We live a quiet life here. So far, she hasn’t realised what’s she’s missing. It’ll become more difficult when she grows older and wants her friends to visit.’ She bites the edge of her nail, unaware that she is doing so.

  ‘Jay was in touch last month. Back on his annual visit to his father. We had lunch together.’

  ‘How is he?’ she asks. Outside, Kayla sits on the edge of a wooden picnic bench, the lamb feeding greedily from the bottle.

  ‘He’s in good form. Travelling a lot. High-pressure but he’s coping. He spoke about her.’

  ‘You didn’t―’

  ‘Of course not,’ he says quietly, reassuringly, and opens his laptop.

  ‘What have you managed to do so far?’ she asks.

  ‘It took a lot of figuring out but the fact that I restored his database once makes it slightly easier to gain access to his computer.’ He hits the keyboard and numbers flash onto the screen. ‘His assets are well protected and that money is buried so deep it’s going to be one hell of a job to trace it. I have to be careful.’

  ‘If it puts your job in jeopardy…’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m being cautious.’

  This virtual world was once unknown to her. A language she believed she would never understand or be interested in acquiring. Now, watching his fingers fly across the keyboard, she can see what he has achieved as he hacks into firewalls and breaches dark secrets in Panama, the Cayman Islands, Jersey, Puerto Rico.

  ‘Will it work?’ she asks when she has seen everything.

  ‘Yes.’ He sounds grimly satisfied. ‘But I need to move slowly and not alert his suspicions. I’m worried about you.’

  ‘I can look after myself.’

  ‘Don’t be foolhardy. You should consider moving somewhere less isolated. If Nicholas discovers―’

  ‘He won’t. Have you spoken to Elena?’

  ‘Briefly by phone,’ he replies. ‘I’m meeting her on Friday evening.’

  ‘I showed her the studio.’

  ‘Can I see it before I go?’

  Each time she opens the studio door, she imagines suspended animation; a fairy story where all the characters are caught in a spellbound sleep.

  ‘Do you believe she’s at peace?’ she asks.

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘I dream about her sometimes. Really vivid dreams. We’re children again, or teenagers, always the four of us.’

  ‘They were good days,’ he says. ‘Or am I sinking into the mire of nostalgia?’

  She laughs, shrugs. ‘Probably. I’m told it’s a disease that gets worse with aging. But one dream was different. She was on her own in a garden. The flowers and bushes, the waterfalls and trees shimmered, as if they were made from glass. She was standing at a bridge with steps leading up to it. In my dream she was at peace but when I woke up, I knew she was not at rest.’

  ‘That’s because you can’t let her go,’ he says. ‘Your feelings keep getting in the way. Maybe that dream is her actual reality.’

  ‘Mammy? Uncle Mark… where are you?’ Kayla’s cries draw them to the window. She runs towards the studio, her black braid clattering, the lamb, round-bellied, padding behind her.

  * * *

  Darkness is beginning to settle over Mag’s Head when Mark says goodbye. Before leaving, he takes her hair in his hands and lifts it from her shoulders, pushes her fringe back from her forehead. She resists the urge to pull away from his gentle touch. Apart from Kayla, she has become unaccustomed to human contact and is uneasy under his scrutiny.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ he says and kisses her forehead. ‘To know you haven’t changed and never will.’

  When he releases her hair, she gathers it around her like a cloak.

  ‘Goodbye big, beautiful, grown-up Kayla,’ he shouts from the car. ‘Goodbye Annie.’

  * * *

  She stands with her daughter at the gate and waves until he is lost from sight.

  Forty-Seven

  Mark Patterson is waiting for Elena in Neary’s Bar. He has found a quiet corner where they won’t be overheard but she remains uneasy. Nicholas could be nearby, watching, waiting for her to drop her guard. The pub is busy, noisy, people milling around the bar and spilling outside onto the pavemen
t. She is unable to pinpoint anything to confirm her suspicions and, gradually, she relaxes. She liked Mark from the moment he spoke to her in the cemetery and felt his light, reassuring grip.

  He talks about Woodbine. How the door was always open to Amelia’s friends. John Pierce was like a second father to him. To the four of us, he adds. He remembers the horror of his death, Amelia supported from the church by Nicholas, who formed such a protective barrier around her that her friends were excluded from her grief. That was the beginning of the change but they, like Amelia, were hardly aware of it until it was too late.

  He remembers her checking her watch constantly when he met her for a drink or a meal, evasive when he questioned her about Nicholas, interrupting conversations to read texts from him, always the first to leave because he was outside in his car, waiting to drive her home. Elena could be listening to her own story. She thinks of her friends, how she allowed them to slide from her life and how invaluable their support is now, when she needs them. He tells her why Leanne changed her name by deed poll to Annie Ross as soon as she moved to New York. An act of defiance against her father. And Jay – Elena remembers him from the photographs, striking dark eyes and skin, dreadlocks, a rangy teenager who fell in love with Amelia.

  Dropping his voice ever lower, as if the walls can eavesdrop on them, Mark outlines what he has been doing. As he reveals the information he has uncovered about Nicholas’s financial transactions, Elena begins to fidget.

  ‘Mark, I need some air.’ She finds it impossible to sit still and listen to how she has been defrauded. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

  He nods, appreciating her distress. The glasses wobble when she stands up and her knees knock against the table.

  Outside the pub, she leans against the wall and breathes deeply. Couples stroll arm in arm along Chatham Street. Flower sellers entice passers-by to purchase tiger lilies and brown-eyed sunflowers from their stalls. Elena is unaware of all this sound and movement. Nicholas ruined her. Coldly, calculatingly, he destroyed her only means of independence. Financial control led to mind and body control; and she allowed it to happen. She isn’t interested in hindsight or excuses. She remained silent when she should have spoken out. Named it for what it was and named him for being the perpetrator of that violence.

  She pleaded guilty at her court arraignment. In two months her trial will begin. Post-partum depression. But she is not depressed. Instead, she is possessed by a raw, red fury that causes her body to tremble uncontrollably.

  ‘Are you all right, dear?’ An older woman, her expression concerned, taps her arm.

  Unable to reply, Elena gazes blankly at her.

  ‘Are you feeling all right? the woman repeats. ‘Is there anything I can do to help you?’

  I’m beyond help, she wants to shout but the woman gestures towards an empty seat outside the pub. Elena slumps down on the chair. The woman removes an unopened bottle of water from a small backpack and twists off the cap. The cold water revives Elena. She attempts to hand the bottle back but the woman declines it with a shake of her head.

  ‘You keep it, dear. The colour is coming back to your cheeks again. This humid weather, it’s affecting us all and Neary’s is always so crowded.’

  ‘You’re very kind.’

  ‘Not at all. Happy to help.’ She is a wiry woman with tightly permed hair and an inoffensive expression. ‘You remind me of my daughter.’

  ‘How so?’ Elena asks.

  ‘You’re both very pretty and, like Danielle, I suspect you’re finding life difficult at the moment.’

  Elena looks away, uneasy under the woman’s scrutiny. The strains of a guitar being played by a street busker reach her. The woman is waiting for a reply but she feels no inclination to answer her.

  ‘Thank you.’ She stands, her legs steady again. ‘I’d better go back and join my friend. He’ll be wondering what’s happened to me.’

  Forty-Eight

  Standing outside Clearwater, the woman looks undecided as to whether or not she should open the gate. Having made up her mind to enter, she stops for a moment to admire the garden. Her knock on the door is gentle, as if she is reluctant to disturb the owner. Kayla runs around from the side of the cottage to see who is calling. She is dressed in a bikini and droplets of water drip from her hair, shimmer on her arms.

  ‘Can I speak to your mother or father?’ The woman smiles apologetically. ‘I’ve lost my way and need directions.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To the summit. I’ve been told the view from there is magnificent.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Kayla doesn’t share her enthusiasm. ‘Sometimes, there’s mist.’

  ‘Not today.’

  Kayla nods. ‘I’m playing in my paddling pool.’

  ‘You’re a lucky girl to have your own swimming pool.’

  ‘It’s not a real swimming―’

  ‘Is your mother at home, dear? Or your father.’

  ‘Mammy’s working.’

  ‘Are you all alone then?’

  ‘No, she’s inside. I’ll get her.’

  ‘Mammy… Mammy!’ she shrieks. ‘A woman at the door wants you.’

  ‘I’m in here, Kayla.’ Another lost tourist. Reluctantly, holding tightly to her daughter’s hand, she walks to the front door.

  ‘I’m sorry to take you away from your work but the road seems to be impassable from here on.’ The woman, who had bent to admire a cluster of purple heather, straightens. Her face is flushed and beads of perspiration have gathered above her upper lip. She dabs at her mouth with a tissue, then smiles apologetically. ‘The journey up Mag’s Head is more arduous than I thought. Can you tell me where I went wrong?’

  ‘About a half a mile back you’ll find a fork on the road. That leads directly to the summit, where there’s a viewing platform.’

  ‘I saw that fork.’ She smacks the side of her head. ‘As usual, I made the wrong decision. Story of my life.’ Her walking boots have a lived-in shape and her trekking poles suggest she is a seasoned hillwalker.

  ‘It’s an easy mistake to make.’

  ‘You have a beautiful garden,’ she says. ‘I love how you’ve cultivated those wildflowers yet allowed them to flourish in their natural surroundings.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m sorry to intrude further on your time but could I ask you for a drink of water?’ This time, she mops her forehead with the tissue and sways forward. Her grey roots are growing out and her curly hair is limp from the heat.

  Work has been difficult this morning, a constant flow of emails demanding attention. She hesitates, reluctant to waste any more time, but this woman with her faded blue eyes looks as if she’s about to collapse on the doorstep.

  ‘You’d better come in and sit down for a few minutes.’ She opens the door wider. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

  In the kitchen, the woman introduces herself as Moira Ward and offers a moist handshake.

  ‘Annie Ross.’ She extricates her hand and resists the urge to wipe it on her dress.

  ‘Annie? What a sweet name. Have you always lived here?’

  ‘Not always.’ Already, she is regretting the decision to invite Moira Ward into her home. She switches on the kettle and wonders what they will talk about as she waits for it to boil.

  ‘Do you mind if I use your bathroom, Annie?’ Moira’s flushed features have faded to a pallid grey that is probably her natural complexion.

  ‘It’s the last door at the end of the hall.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Taking her handbag with her, she leaves the kitchen.

  Outside, Kayla, back in the paddling pool, is trying to persuade Bluey to join her. The lamb ignores her pleas and nibbles contentedly at the bark of a fallen branch. The cottage feels contaminated by the stranger’s presence. She knows this is an overreaction, yet she is unable to dispel it. Moira is taking too long to return to the kitchen. Could she have fainted, or is she doubled over with cramps, unable to continue her journey? Ala
rmed by this possibility, she checks the hall. Moira is standing opposite a table of photographs. She turns quickly, her phone in her hand.

  ‘I was just admiring your photographs.’ She points to a framed selfie, taken on Mark’s recent visit. ‘Is this gorgeous man your husband?’

  ‘No,’ she replies shortly. ‘He’s a close friend. Your tea is ready.’

  ‘You’re so kind. Thank you.’

  Back in the kitchen, she slowly sips the tea, her bird-like eyes darting around the room and then to the window. Outside Kayla is teaching her doll to swim.

  ‘What a charming child,’ she says. ‘What age is she? Five? Six?’

  ‘She’s almost turned five.’

  ‘She has amazing eyes. Just like yours. Does she go to school locally?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You wouldn’t imagine there’d be enough children living around here to keep a school open.’

  ‘You’d be surprised.’

  ‘I spoke to a man in the grocery store. He said you work with stained glass.’

  ‘I’m sure he told you I’ve closed down my studio.’

  ‘No, he didn’t mention that. How very disappointing. I collect stained-glass pieces from everywhere I go.’ She butters a scone, smears it with jam. ‘Is this home-baked?’

  ‘Yes. By Lily, the woman who owns the grocery store.’

  ‘Delicious. I’d like to buy one of your designs.’

  ‘As I said, I no longer work with stained glass.’ Kayla’s shoulders are reddening. Another layer of sunscreen is needed. ‘I’m sorry. I have to attend to my daughter. She burns easily.’

  ‘Of course, I’m delaying you. You’ve been so kind. I’ll say goodbye to Kayla and be on my way.’ She opens the back door and steps down into the garden. ‘I’m off, Kayla. It was a pleasure to meet you.’

  Kayla stands, water streaming from her. ‘Are you going to the summit now?’

  ‘As soon as I take a photograph of your lamb. What’s his name?’