The Wife Before Me: A twisty, gripping psychological thriller

by Laura Elliot

  ‘Thank you.’ He does not hesitate as he walks past her and enters the living room. His confidence is threatening, as he intends it to be. ‘Nice décor.’ He stares around him, slowly turning to take in every detail. ‘It reminds me of somewhere. Can you enlighten me as to where that could be, Elena?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ She will play his cat and mouse game, if that’s what he wants. ‘This cottage belongs to Annie Ross. I’m afraid you’ve missed her. She’s in New York.’

  Ignoring her, he rests his hand on the mantlepiece. ‘No photographs? I would have thought this was the ideal place to display them.’

  ‘There’s no accounting for taste, Nicholas.’

  ‘I agree. I must say you’re looking well for someone who has just jumped bail.’

  ‘I’m still in one piece, as you can see. Not a single bruise. How amazing is that?’

  ‘Don’t get too used to it. Your luck won’t last long when you’re sent down. Are you looking forward to your first night on remand? Women prisoners are more vicious than men, I’m told, and they enjoy the taste of fresh meat.’

  ‘After living with you, jail will be a walk in the park.’

  ‘You do realise there’s a warrant out for your arrest?’ he says. ‘Unfortunately, the gardai are searching in the wrong direction. Not for long, though. They were afraid you might have taken your own life rather than serve a long jail sentence. They’ll be relieved to know it’s the latter.’

  ‘If anyone is going to jail, it’s you.’

  ‘A sense of humour was never your strong point, Elena. Where is this so-called Annie Ross?’

  ‘I told you.’

  He lifts an eyebrow, smiles his disbelief. ‘You could never lie, Elena. Another one of your weak points.’

  ‘You were good at pointing them out,’ she retorts. ‘How come you never looked at your own failings?’

  ‘What would they be?’ He spreads his fingers and taps on them. ‘Helping you through your depressions? Loving you, even though you did your utmost to make that impossible? Dealing with your obsessive jealousy? Your pathetic whining? Your constant demands? Would you like me to continue?’

  ‘Why not? You’re on a roll.’

  ‘I came here to talk about her, not you. Where is Leanne Rossiter?’

  ‘I don’t know anyone―’

  ‘Don’t play games with me. Annie Ross, Leanne Rossiter… it did take some figuring out but then Leanne always had a problem with her identity.’

  ‘You won’t find her here, Nicholas. I told you, she’s in―’

  ‘Yeah… yeah. I know. The Big Apple. Is her charming daughter with her?’

  ‘She doesn’t have a daughter.’

  ‘To be honest, I did find it difficult to envisage Leanne as a mother, considering her predilection.’

  She meets his challenging gaze and holds it. His stance is relaxed, a half-smile playing across his lips. The silence stretches, taut enough to snap.

  ‘Nothing to say.’ He laughs, shrugs. ‘That makes a change.’

  ‘I have the evidence I need to put you behind bars, Nicholas. Letters Amelia wrote to her friend. She told Leanne everything about your so-called love. That page you shredded? Imagine the information it contained, multiplied many times. I’ve left her letters with a solicitor. If anything happens to Leanne or to me, they’ll be handed over to the gardai immediately.’

  ‘Really? You should know by now that I don’t scare easily.’

  ‘Did you ever love Amelia?’ she asks. ‘Or was that just another way to dominate me?’

  ‘I loved her,’ he said. ‘You, however, were a pathetic substitute.’

  ‘Yet you used your fists on both of us.’

  ‘Sarcasm? You have grown up. There’s not one scintilla of evidence to prove I ever laid a finger on Amelia, except in love.’

  ‘Love?’

  ‘We’ve talked enough, Elena. For the last time, where is she?’

  ‘In New York.’

  He points his index finger at her mouth. ‘Frankly, I couldn’t care less whether Leanne Rossiter is hanging out in New York or is six feet under. So, let me put my question another way. Where is my wife?’

  There it is. The words she has been waiting to hear since his arrival are out in the open at last.

  ‘Your wife is dead,’ Elena replies. ‘I know you find it difficult to accept that Amelia preferred death to living with you. Only I can understand why she would make that choice.’

  ‘My wife didn’t drown. She’s here, hiding out with her bastard child.’ He grabs Elena’s shoulders and shakes her. ‘That’s the truth, isn’t it… isn’t it?’

  ‘If you lay one finger on me, those letters will be read,’ she warns him. ‘I strongly suspect the evidence of your brutality will persuade the gardai to investigate her drowning. If they search hard enough, they’ll know you had everything to do with it.’

  He ignores her threat, his tone robotic and certain. ‘This subterfuge has gone on long enough.’ He releases her so abruptly she staggers and almost overbalances. He pulls a photograph from his inside pocket and shoves it under her nose. ‘Does Amelia really believe I wouldn’t recognise her? Or that I’ll leave here without finding her?’

  ‘I don’t care what you do or don’t believe.’ Elena pushes the image away. ‘I’ve stared at enough photographs of Amelia to know that the woman you’re looking at bears no resemblance to her.’ She encircles the room with her arm. ‘If you’re so convinced she’s here, why don’t you search for her?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I intend to do.’

  He rampages through the cottage, banging doors, opening wardrobes, climbing into the attic, exploring the studio and the outhouses, checking any space where he thinks it would be possible to hide. Eventually, he returns to the living room. He appears unperturbed but his thin veneer of calm is belied by the stretching of the tendons in his neck.

  ‘I want the truth now,’ he says. ‘I’m tired of playing games with you.’

  She is conscious of the hairs rising on her arms, on the nape of her neck, a cool breath on her face. Not so long ago she would have believed it was Amelia linking with her from some transcendental sphere. Now, she knows that what she is experiencing has nothing to do with benign spirits and everything to do with terror.

  ‘You killed her father.’ The accusation flies from her like an arrow, fired too fast. She watches him falter as it strikes him. Their conversation has gone beyond dangerous. Not that she has felt safe for an instant, but she has stepped over a line now and it’s too late to pull back.

  ‘I never understood why you were allowed bail, Elena. Your psychiatrist will be disappointed when he discovers you’re still as crazy as ever.’

  ‘I have proof, Nicholas.’

  ‘How can you have proof of something that never happened? John Pierce’s case was closed years ago. He died in a hit-and-run―’

  ‘Which was never solved. Billy Tobin gave me enough information to put you behind bars for life.’ Coldly, using all her reserves of courage, she continues. ‘As you also killed Billy, I have to be his voice. You are a murderer, a wifebeater and a rapist. I think that should quality you as a psychopath.’

  ‘If that was true, you should be very, very afraid.’

  ‘Why should I be afraid? I will do everything I can to bring you to justice. Think carefully before you lift your fists, Nicholas. If anything happens to me, those letters will be opened by the gardai in Rannavale.’

  ‘Bitch! You’re bluffing.’ He shouts the accusation so suddenly that Elena jerks back, convinced he is going to slam his forehead against her face. ‘I’m not prepared to waste my time on this bullshit. Where are―’

  ‘You killed John with your Harley. Billy knew―’

  ‘Bill knew fuck all and you know even less.’ His fist moves so fast she is unable to evade the blow. She reels backwards but manages to keep her balance. The sensation of teetering on the edge of a cliff is sickeningly familiar but she avoids shrinking
into the familiar posture of self-survival.

  ‘You can silence me but that won’t stop the truth coming out. You killed those men and you would have killed Mark, only your luck ran―’

  This time he brings her to the floor. Struggling for breath, she coils away from him in a vain effort to avoid being kicked.

  ‘That fucking paedophile had it coming to him, and so have you. I’m going to shut your mouth once―’ He stops in mid-movement, the admission he has made freezing him into a shocked silence.

  She is dragged upright and shoved against the wall. He runs his hands roughly over her. The coldness of his touch against her skin is petrifying as he searches for the wire he believes she is wearing.

  ‘You lying, vicious bitch,’ he whispers. ‘Where is it?’

  She has trained for this moment, dreamed of it, visualised it in her imagination. When she drives her knee into his groin and his body doubles over, his lips puckering with pain, she feels a brutal rush of satisfaction. Is that what compels him to behave so monstrously? The intoxicating sensation of being able to reduce someone to a whimper or to absolute silence?

  When he straightens, his hands pressed against his testes, she drives her fist into his chin with such force that his head snaps back. She only has an instant to push her advantage before he retaliates, and he is too fast for her. She staggers back, her ears still ringing from his earlier blows, and falls clumsily against the stacked logs. They clatter as they roll over the floor and he, startled by the noise, bends to pick up a log. He remains in that crouched position, his eyes fixed on the wall, his head moving closer to study it, his breath whistling through his teeth as realisation dawns on him. Triumph blazes through his pain as he grips the log and stands. She lifts her arms to protect herself and manages to blunt the force of the blow to her cheek. Her eyes roll as red stars spin. She knows what he is going to do. Helpless to intervene, she watches as he presses the switch and the panel begins to slide across.

  He calls out to Amelia. Her name on his lips becomes a moan, fury and longing dragging the harsh sound from him. He will recognise her instantly. The fall of her hair and its unusual blonde sheen diminishes her features but he will identify the oval sweep of her face, her almond-shaped eyes, her nose with its slight tilt, the full lips he kissed so often. Elena pitches into unconsciousness, or so she believes, as the room darkens and he is lost from sight. But how can this be oblivion when the pain in her face is too severe and her fear too overpowering?

  She tries to concentrate. This must be an electrical outage. Amelia had spoken about them, how their unpredictability often hampered her work. She hears Nicholas curse as a log rolls under his foot. The thud of his body when he falls. He is close to her. She smells his sweat, shot through with his aftershave, a sharp citrus scent that he orders from abroad. He scrabbles across the floor, trying, like her, to find his bearings in this impenetrable blackness. Blood streams from her nose and bubbles in her mouth. Silently, afraid to make a sound in case she draws him to her, she tries to prevent her stomach from retching. Her cheek is swelling rapidly and tightening her skin. She suspects that he has broken her cheekbone. Does terror have its own unique smell? If so, he will be upon her soon. Nicholas does not need light to kill.

  Sixty

  The gardai are on their way from Rannavale. Amelia phoned them as soon as Nicholas admitted he had murdered her father. But they will arrive too late. She tests the tip of the knife against her finger. It is the same knife she placed on the table when Elena first came to Mag’s Head. It’s impossible to see in front of her but she heard the soft whirr as the panel slid across. Her hiding place has been discovered. She expects the light to return at any moment and expose her. When that happens, she will plunge the knife through his heart.

  Elena is in danger. Amelia heard her cries but she has been silent since then. Which way to turn? She keeps a store of candles and a storm lantern for such emergencies. Usually when there is an outage she can find her way to the sideboard where she keeps her supplies, but she is lost in this darkness, unable to make out anything familiar that will guide her towards Elena and away from Nicholas.

  Her task had been to record him, Elena’s to goad him into an admission. The eerily familiarity of his taunts, as fresh as yesterday, had stirred up emotions she believed she had overcome. That fucking paedophile had it coming to him… those words pound inside her head. She had hoped desperately that, somehow, Elena had got it wrong when she came to Mag’s Head the second time with her horrifying revelations. To believe that her father was struck down by the man she had married seemed too heavy a burden to carry. Now, she has recorded the truth. Enough proof to put him behind bars and give her the freedom to reclaim her life.

  She takes one step forward but stops short when she hears Elena moan.

  ‘Damn you, where is she?’ Nicholas shouts. ‘If you don’t tell me where she is I’ll… I’ll…’

  She hears his panic, his fear that his threat will be recorded. He is disorientated also but he has found Elena. His hands are clasped round her neck – Amelia recognises that strangled wheeze and is horrified by the thought of knowing he can take Elena’s breath away if he decides to apply more pressure.

  ‘I’m here, Nicholas,’ she says. She grips the knife tighter and raises it. ‘Leave her alone and I’ll come to you.’

  ‘Amelia.’ He doesn’t sound surprised. ‘I knew I’d find you, even if it took a lifetime to do so.’

  ‘Elena, are you okay?’ she calls into the darkness. She imagines Nicholas straining blindly towards her voice.

  Elena doesn’t reply but her abrasive breathing is still audible.

  ‘Switch on the light, Amelia.’ He has moved closer to her.

  ‘I didn’t create the darkness,’ she says. ‘You did, as soon as you came into our lives.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me.’

  ‘The electricity has gone. I can’t fix a power failure.’

  ‘But it wasn’t beyond your power to come back to life. Or to carry another man’s bastard to full term. Whore.’

  A citrus scent cloys the air. On a weekend trip to Paris, she had bought the aftershave for him in an exclusive men’s boutique. He had liked it enough to continue ordering it. Now, she recoils from the scent and the memory it stirs.

  The shutters rattle as the wind sweeps in from the ocean. They are normally secure enough to withstand the weather and the sudden noise startles her. It also offers her a sense of direction. If she moves to the left, she will reach the window and from there she can feel her way to the door. If only she can find Elena and bring her to safety.

  She has always believed that the thick, stone walls of Clearwater would protect her, that if danger threatened her it would come from outside. At night, lying in bed and listening to the pitch of the wind, she would compare it to the exultant strains of an overture but, now, it is a gale of unconstrained fury. The walls shudder from its force. She feels the vibration in her feet and wonders if the floor has been charged with electricity. The glass panels of the front door shatter. This is not a gale, Amelia thinks. It’s a tornado roaring through the hall and twisting its way towards them. The living room door bursts open. She braces herself against the onslaught. Objects fall around her, crashing, clanging, thudding. She hears Nicholas grunt and the dull thump of his body as he hits the floor. She drops to her knees and crawls forward. Her hand touches something soft. Flesh, stubble. Nicholas is flat on his back and silent. She touches his closed eyelids, feels the rise and fall of his chest. Her arm is steady when she lifts the knife.

  The wind dies away as suddenly as it whipped up. Someone or something has entered the room. A new energy is breaking through this rage that has consumed them all. Elena moans. The anguished sound stops Amelia, forces her to concentrate. She lowers the knife and the urge to kill her husband passes from her like an exhausted sigh.

  The outage is over. Light floods the room. Books have been blown from their shelves, cushions and throws scattered, pictures til
ted. A hand sculpted in glass, palm curled in supplication, lies beside Nicholas’s shoulder. The wind must have hurled it from its position on the windowsill and smashed it against his forehead. She is amazed it did not break when it fell. His eyes are closed, his mouth a rictus of shock and pain. The swelling on his left temple shows where he took the blow. Up close to him, she sees that he has changed little over the years since she left him, yet she notices, as she never did before, the dominant thrust of his eyebrows, the aggressive slant of his chin. Now he is unconscious and unable to project his charm, the finely chiselled lines of his face map his true personality.

  Her only concern is escaping from him before he recovers consciousness, and bringing Elena with her. She kneels beside her and feels her pulse.

  ‘Elena. Elena… can you hear me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Elena’s voice rasps as she slowly uncurls from her foetal position. Her face is streaked with blood. She struggles to open her eyes but the swelling on her cheek has already closed the left one.

  ‘Can you stand? Amelia whispers to her.

  Elena nods, but cries out when Amelia helps her to her feet. ‘Have you got the evidence?’ She is still dazed and disoriented, yet aware that this is all that matters.

  ‘It’s on a memory key,’ Amelia reassures her. ‘I’ve contacted the gardai in Rannavale. They’re on their way but it’ll take time to reach us. Lean on me. We have to get out of here before he comes to.’

  The feel of the knife in her hand repulses her. She stretches up to the top shelf of the bookcase and shoves it out of sight. The hall door is still open. Shards from the shattered glass panels crunch under their feet. One glance at the gate tells them that escaping in her jeep is impossible. Nicholas has blocked their exit with his BMW.

  ‘I’ll have to go back and get his keys.’ Amelia tries to disguise her fear, yet it ripples from her to Elena.

  ‘You can’t,’ she whispers. ‘He’ll kill you. Leave me here and find somewhere to hide. I’ll only slow you down―’ She presses her hands to her head and staggers, almost falling before Amelia steadies her.