The Guilty Wife

by Elle Croft

  She stopped typing, fingers hovering over the alphabet. I watched her recoil as she considered the possibility that we could be in even more trouble than we’d imagined.

  ‘I have no idea,’ she admitted. ‘But if he does, I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.’

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  I watched the players from behind the safety of a tree, trying to decide what to do next.

  Jason played five-a-side every Saturday, so when he’d announced at 7:32 a.m. – a time that I dutifully recorded in my ever-growing, absolutely useless memo of his movements – that he was off to play football, a thrill of realisation had whipped through me. As soon as he left I ran to the door, counting to ten before following him.

  I was almost too far behind Jason to tail him, but caught a glimpse of his sports bag entering the train station as I rounded a corner. Jogging to keep up, I stayed as close as I could without being seen.

  I watched him get onto the second train that arrived on the platform, and hurried onto the carriage next to his just before the doors closed. I hunched low into an empty seat, my scarf concealing my face, eyes on Jason.

  I still had no idea if Jason was the killer, and I was tired of having the same argument in my head, but whatever the correct answer was, I needed to know. Following Jason could prove nothing, or it could prove everything. And I couldn’t just sit at home and wait. I had to do something before meeting Vincent that evening.

  After a few stops Jason got off the train. I waited until the jingle sounded to warn of the closing doors and dashed onto the platform behind him.

  Crossing my fingers that this wasn’t a waste of time, I swiped out of the barriers and into the morning’s cool, fresh air. I stopped in my tracks, ducking behind a pillar. Jason was talking to someone. I caught a glimpse of dark hair, muscular legs, an Arsenal tattoo on his left bicep. Steve.

  I sighed, deflated, and added a line in my notebook:

  7:58am. Jason meets Steve at Battersea Park station.

  There was no proof they really were about to play football though, despite the presence of a black-and-white ball in Steve’s arms and long socks on both of them. They turned to walk away and I counted a few beats before following them under the pedestrian bridge and then right along the road that led to the park.

  Feeling more and more foolish as we approached the gates to the vast green space along the river, I considered turning around and going home, hiding under the duvet in shame. But there was still a chance – a minuscule one, even I’d admit that – that following my husband would lead to a clue. And so I tailed him until finally, standing behind a tree and watching him kicking a ball to Steve and laughing with a bunch of other guys, I had to admit that my husband was, in fact, just playing football.

  8:34am. Jason playing football with Steve and the guys.

  I’d come all this way now, there didn’t seem much point giving up. I decided to wait it out, follow him home, see if he took any detours along the way.

  I strolled along the path, avoiding joggers and mums with prams, trying to find a seat that was within earshot of Jason’s game, while staying out of sight.

  As I walked, I remembered that Alex should have met with her policeman friend by now. I hadn’t had an update yet, which was strange. I turned on my phone and dialled her number, but after a couple of rings it went to voicemail.

  ‘Call me. I want news.’

  Finding a bench, I glanced around to make sure I wasn’t being watched, but the only person in sight was a jogger, shrouded in rainproof layers, staring at her watch. I sat down and pulled the letters from my bag, deliberately reading each one again, looking for clues in the loops and curves of the letters. I slowly read the words over and over until they started to look like hieroglyphics on the thick, cream-coloured paper. It was a weird choice of stationery. According to my television education, notes of a threatening nature were supposed to be composed of letters cut out of magazines and newspapers, then pasted onto a plain white sheet. Regular thickness. Regular size.

  These small, sturdy notes would look more appropriate saying words of thanks to the host of a fancy dinner party or a passionately penned declaration of love. I knew for a fact that Jason didn’t own paper like this. Not at home, anyway. His usual writing tools included whatever pen he could fish out of the second drawer in the kitchen, and the back of a stray receipt or envelope. His writing was methodical, perfectly even and unwaveringly legible. I supposed it wouldn’t be too hard to fake terrible handwriting, though. I’d searched Mark’s home for luxurious stationery, too, but there had been nothing even remotely similar in sight.

  I stuffed the letters back into my bag. Staring at the evidence had only brought up more questions, and no answers.

  Answers. I still hadn’t heard from Alex. Unless something had gone horribly wrong, she shouldn’t still be in the meeting with the policeman. I tried her again but after just one ring her voicemail picked up. I pressed the end call button. One ring. Did that mean she was blocking my calls? Perhaps Alex had received another note – another threat. The one she’d already received was pretty personal, but considering that the sender had planted a murder weapon in my living room, I knew that it could get worse.

  An alert flashed on my screen, and I gasped.

  Trying to read the tiny words that had appeared just seconds ago, I willed my hands to stop shaking so violently.

  But steady hands wouldn’t change the headline. It was the latest breaking news story on the BBC.

  It was the photo of me holding the knife, right underneath the headline, Wanted for Bradley Murder: Photographer Bethany Reston.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  My heart lurched.

  I tapped on the headline, feeling sick.

  This was it. The scenario I’d dreaded was no longer confined to paranoid nightmares. It was real.

  Panic lurked at the edges of my vision, and I pinched my arm, hard, to make myself focus.

  Poring over every word in the article, I learned that an anonymous source – I didn’t need any guesses to know who that would be – had simultaneously sent the image to the police and the media, and that I was now the centre of a large-scale manhunt across the capital.

  Terror took over as I imagined hundreds of police spread out around the park, waiting, ready to pounce.

  This was the end. I was going to be found – it was only a matter of time – and then the whole world would think I was a murderer. I had no evidence that could point to anyone else. Not even Jason. I’d been perfectly framed, and once I was in custody there would be nothing I could do to find the truth.

  I leaned across the bench and heaved until my ribs ached and I was reeling from the force of it.

  Wiping my mouth, I dialled Alex again.

  ‘Bethany,’ she said, her voice stern and flat.

  ‘You’ve been avoiding me.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘Yeah. I couldn’t talk when there were people around. Have you seen the news?’

  ‘I just did.’

  ‘Oh God, Bethany. I’m so sorry.’

  I wheezed out a question.

  ‘What do I do?’

  ‘I don’t know, but the news is saying that the police don’t have a motive yet. So I guess that’s good. But listen, they’re going to go to your house, probably your office. They’ll question Jason and Fran. And me, I’d imagine. You’ve got to lie low, stay out of sight. Just try to be inconspicuous while I find out whatever I can. I’ll call you later, but keep your phone off and just check it in a few hours. If they’re not already monitoring it, I’m sure they will be soon.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, unable to conjure up anything more sophisticated.

  ‘I love you,’ Alex said, hanging up.

  I stared at my phone for a few seconds.

  ‘I love you too,’ I whispered to the screen.

  So this was it.

  I’d known this was coming from the moment that CCTV footage had been released, but with every day th
at I hadn’t been arrested I’d tried to convince myself that I’d be fine. That I’d got away with it.

  But now I could see how delusional that had been. Now I was on the run from the law.

  Adjusting my scarf so it covered my hair and half my face, I dug a pair of sunglasses out of the depths of my bag and hoped that the effect screamed glamour rather than cheesy disguise.

  I didn’t know where to go while I waited for Alex to call me back, so I decided to stay close to the river. Here, runners focused on their breathing and dog walkers powered past, eager to make it to the end of their journey without having to use the little plastic bags they’d brought along. They barely glanced up, which suited me perfectly.

  Stopping at the water’s edge, I leaned across the railing and stared at the murky water, trying to think clearly. I couldn’t see beneath the surface, but I didn’t need to. I already knew that, weathered by hidden currents and covered with sand and algae, lay thousands of years of secrets, treachery and despair. And a murder weapon, dumped by Alex and me.

  I wondered briefly what it would feel like to drown. To suck the filthy water into my lungs and just stop being Bethany.

  I settled on relief. Being me was a burden I was getting tired of carrying. I was nothing but a danger to myself, and to the people I loved. I’d never wanted to hurt anyone, not really, but without trying I’d left nothing but destruction and pain in my shadow.

  Calum had died because of me. Claire was a widow because of me. Jason might have killed someone because of me. Alex had been threatened because of me. The whole police force was wasting weeks of valuable time and resources, all because of me.

  I wondered what the appropriate number of casualties was for a person to amass before it became apparent that they should no longer be a burden on society. I was pretty sure I’d exceeded my limit.

  I stared at my distorted reflection as it morphed grotesquely in the current beneath me, mesmerised. My phone vibrated. I glanced at the screen, which alerted me to a new text from a withheld number.

  I should have turned off my phone as soon as Alex had hung up, but my mind wasn’t working rationally. I felt dazed, like I’d just woken up from a deep sleep. I considered throwing the handset into the middle of the river, making the Thames my evidence depository, but this was my only link to the few people who still believed in me. I couldn’t get rid of it altogether. Besides, how would Alex get back in touch with information if I couldn’t be reached?

  I held my thumb on the home button, wondering if phone tracking could be done through text messages. Perhaps this was some kind of police lure, a way for them to find me and arrest me.

  And then the message appeared on my screen, and the police suddenly felt like the least of my problems.

  I know all about the little photo shoot you did for Mr Bradley, and I know the evidence is still out there. Don’t think for a second that I won’t find it.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  I wanted to scream.

  I knew I should have found a way to get to that memory card when I first remembered it. But I’d been so confident that the killer would be found before anyone could do a thorough search of Calum’s apartment that I’d convinced myself it wasn’t worth the risk of trying to destroy it.

  Stupid, naive Bethany.

  I could talk my way out of that murder weapon photo. Without the actual knife, they couldn’t possibly prove it was the same one that had killed Calum. And the photo of our argument could have just been a heated conversation about the project. But there was no way I could talk myself out of the evidence we’d created on the day of that photo session. It gave them a motive. My case would be open-and-shut, a drawer looked into for the briefest of seconds and closed again.

  The police hadn’t found the memory card yet. They probably didn’t know of its existence, or I’d have been headline news a long time ago. But the killer knew. How did he know?

  I hadn’t told anyone about Calum’s birthday present. Not even Alex. The only way that anyone could have known is if Calum had said something, which went against all of his principles, or if the killer had seen our photo shoot for himself.

  The day of our argument, someone had been in the building next to Bradley Enterprises, watching us, documenting what we did. I had hoped it was the only time, but the killer must have been watching before that, too. He must have seen enough – obviously not everything, or he’d just have taken his own incriminating photos – to know what was happening. I’d set up the camera next to an enormous window to get the best lighting, so even without getting his own photos, he’d have known that we had some of our own.

  I had to get to those photos before he did, destroy the images, keep alive the faint hope that I could walk away from this thing. The rest of the evidence was circumstantial, perhaps not even enough to charge me with murder. I didn’t know for sure, but I would be willing to take that risk, knowing that the only real thing linking Calum and me as a couple was gone.

  I prised myself away from the lapping water and walked nervously towards the bus station. I tried to keep my head down, to act naturally, but every person I passed was a potential risk. I didn’t want to catch the Tube, where I would be trapped and easy to arrest. A bus could be exited quickly, and people paid less attention to fellow bus passengers than they did on the Tube. Buses attracted the crazy types. You didn’t want to risk looking at the wrong person in the wrong way. The consequences could range from uncomfortable to dire.

  I paid cash for a new pay-as-you-go Oyster card and took a seat at the back of the top deck. I had a plan. I didn’t know if it would work, but it really was the only option I could come up with. I needed to get into Calum’s apartment, which meant being added to the receptionist’s carefully checked list of visitors, and getting past the building’s various security measures.

  There was only one person who had the clearance to do both. And that meant I’d have to trust someone who could be Calum’s killer.

  I jumped off at High Street Kensington and fished my phone out of my pocket, scrolling to the number I needed while hunting down a payphone near the entrance to Kensington Gardens. I lifted the receiver to my ear. Nothing. Swearing, I moved to the only other booth in sight. This one had no receiver at all. I silently cursed the rise of mobile phones and walked a little further along the edge of the park, trailing my hand along the black metal poles of the fence as foliage blinked in and out of view. Eventually I found a payphone that worked and dialled the number.

  ‘This is Mark.’ The brusque voice on the other end of the line was all business.

  ‘Mark. It’s Bethany,’ I said.

  ‘Bethany? Where are you calling from?’ he asked, confusion making his voice become shrill.

  ‘Oh, my phone’s not working,’ I lied. ‘So I’m using a landline.’

  ‘Is everything OK?’

  I had no idea if Mark thought I was guilty, or even knew that I was wanted. More to the point, I didn’t know if he was guilty. I had no idea if I could trust him, but at this point I didn’t have a choice. He was my only chance of getting into Calum’s building without being arrested on the spot. If he was behind all of this, then I risked giving away the location of that memory card to the only other person who knew it existed. But as much as I strained to come up with a better plan, I couldn’t think of another way. I ran my nail up and down the thick metal phone cord, carefully constructing my next sentence.

  ‘Well, that kind of depends. Have you been … I mean, have you seen …?’ I let my unfinished query hang in the air. If Mark had seen the news, which was probably everywhere by now, he’d know exactly what I meant.

  ‘Yes,’ he said dully. ‘And the police called me to find out whether you had an appointment with Calum that night. I didn’t know what to do, so I just told the truth, that your last appointment had been on the Tuesday.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said, trying to sound reassuring. ‘You know I had nothing to do with it though. Right?’

  I coul
d hear the desperation in my own words.

  ‘Of course,’ he said immediately, vehemently. ‘Of course I know that. But why don’t you just talk to them, straighten it out?’

  ‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘It’s not that simple. I wish I could explain it, but I can’t right now. Not today.’

  He sighed heavily.

  ‘So what do you need? I assume this isn’t a social call.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, knowing that if Mark was innocent, I was about to put him in a horrible position. I felt like I had a kind of reverse Midas touch: everyone I came into contact with turned into a target. Of course, if he was the killer, I was about to give him exactly what he was looking for. This wasn’t going to end well for one of us. Or maybe both of us. But my hand was being forced, and I was out of time.

  ‘I need a favour. It’s a big one. I could make something up, but I’m just going to be honest with you. Basically, I need to get into Calum’s apartment to get something. I can’t tell you what, but it could help prove my innocence.’

  My pulse pounded against my throat. If Mark was the one who had just texted me about the photo shoot, he’d know exactly what it was that I needed to get. And once he hung up the phone, he’d go straight there and search. I felt like I might suffocate on my own fear.

  ‘Bethany …’ Mark’s voice trailed off.

  ‘Mark, please,’ I begged. ‘I wouldn’t ask unless I really needed this. I know it’s a big favour, and I’m sorry to put you in this position, but I swear it won’t take long. Please.’

  Silence stretched down the phone line as Mark considered my request.

  ‘Fine,’ he said after what felt like minutes. ‘But this is how it’s happening.’

  Chapter Forty

  Walking towards Knightsbridge, I visualised Calum’s apartment and knew exactly where I needed to go, in and out, to get that memory card and be rid of the evidence for ever. I needed to destroy it straight away.

  I’d considered getting a taxi to the river and throwing it in, but I could get stopped along the way, and water might not damage it beyond repair anyway. I’d once dropped a memory card in a cup of tea and it had been fine after a panic and a wipe-down. Perhaps fire would be a better option. Or breaking it into little pieces that I could scatter in different places so they could never be put back together again.