The Mother-in-Law

by Sally Hepworth

  About The Mother-in-Law

  Someone once told me that you have two families in your life – the one you are born into and the one you choose. Yes, you may get to choose your partner, but you don’t choose your mother-in-law. The cackling mercenaries of fate determine it all.

  From the moment Lucy met Diana, she was kept at arm’s length. Diana is exquisitely polite, but Lucy knows, even after marrying Oliver, that they’ll never have the closeness she’d been hoping for.

  But who could fault Diana? She was a pillar of the community, an advocate for social justice, the matriarch of a loving family. Lucy had wanted so much to please her new mother-in-law.

  That was ten years ago. Now, Diana has been found dead, leaving a suicide note. But the autopsy reveals evidence of suffocation. And everyone in the family is hiding something...

  From the bestselling author of The Family Next Door comes a new page-turner about that trickiest of relationships.

  Contents

  About The Mother-in-Law

  Title Page

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Acknowledgements

  About Sally Hepworth

  Also by Sally Hepworth

  Copyright

  To my mother-in-law, Anne, who I would never dream of murdering.

  And for my father-in-law, Peter, who, on the odd occasion, I have.

  1

  LUCY

  Iam folding laundry at my kitchen table when the police car pulls up. There’s no fanfare—no sirens or flashing lights—yet that little niggle starts in the pit of my stomach, Mother Nature’s warning that all is not well. It’s getting dark outside and the neighbours’ porch lights are starting to come on. It’s dinnertime. Police don’t arrive on your doorstep at dinnertime unless something is wrong.

  I glance through the doorway to the living room where my slothful children are stretched across different pieces of furniture, angled toward their respective devices. Alive. Unharmed. In good health, apart from, perhaps, a mild screen addiction. Seven-year-old Archie is watching a family play Wii games on the big iPad. Four-year-old Harriet is watching little girls in America unwrap toys on the little iPad. Even two-year-old Edie is staring, slack-jawed, at the television. I feel some measure of comfort that my family is all under this roof. At least most of them are. Dad, I think suddenly. Oh no, please not Dad.

  I look back at the police car. The headlights illuminate a light mist of rain.

  At least it’s not the children, a guilty little voice in my head whispers. At least it isn’t Ollie. Ollie is on the back deck, grilling burgers. Safe. He came home from work early today, not feeling well apparently, though he doesn’t seem particularly unwell. In any case, he’s alive and I’m wholeheartedly grateful for that.

  The rain has picked up a little now, turning the mist into distinct raindrops. The police kill the engine but don’t get out right away. I ball up a pair of Ollie’s socks and place them on top of his pile and then reach for another pair. I should stand up, go to the door, but my hands continue to fold on autopilot, as if by continuing to act normally I will make the police car disappear. But it doesn’t work. Instead, a uniformed policeman emerges from the driver’s seat.

  ‘Muuuuum!’ Harriet calls out. ‘Edie is watching the TV!’

  Two weeks ago a prominent news journalist spoke out publicly about her ‘revulsion’ that children under the age of three were exposed to TV. Like most Australian mothers I was incensed by this and responded with the predictable diatribe of, ‘What would she know? She probably has a team of nannies and hasn’t looked after her children for a day in her life!’, before swiftly instating the ‘no screens for Edie’ rule, which lasted until twenty minutes ago when, while I was on the phone to the energy company, Edie decided to try the old ‘Mum, muuuum, MUUUUUM . . .’ trick, and I relented, popping on an episode of Play School and retreating to the bedroom to finish my phone call.

  ‘It’s all right, Harriet,’ I say, my eyes still on the window.

  I hear the thump of her footsteps and then Harriet’s cross little face appears in front of me, her dark brown hair and thick fringe swishing like a mop. ‘But you said . . .’

  ‘Never mind what I said. A few minutes won’t hurt.’

  The cop looks to be mid-twenties, thirty at a push. His police hat is in his hand but he wedges it under one arm to tug at the front of his too-tight trousers. A short, rotund policewoman of a similar age gets out of the passenger side, her hat firmly on her head. They start up the path side by side. They are definitely coming to our place. Nettie, I think suddenly. It’s about Nettie.

  It’s possible. Ollie’s sister has certainly had her share of health issues lately. Or maybe it’s Patrick? Or is it something else entirely?

  The fact is, part of me knows it’s not Nettie or Patrick, or Dad. It’s funny sometimes what you just know.

  ‘Burgers are up.’

  The flyscreen door scrapes open and Ollie appears holding a plate of meat. The girls flock to him and he snaps his ‘crocodile tongs’ while they jump up and down, squealing loudly enough to nearly drown out the knock at the door.

  Nearly.

  ‘Was that the door?’ Ollie raises an eyebrow, curious rather than concerned. In fact, he looks animated. An unexpected guest on a weeknight! Who could it be?

  Ollie is the social one of the two of us, the one who volunteers on the parents and friends’ committee at the kids’ school because ‘it’s a good way to meet people’, who hangs over the back fence to say hi to the neighbours if he hears them talking in the garden, who approaches people who look vaguely familiar and tries to figure out if they know each other. A people person. To Ollie, an unexpected knock on the door during the week signals excitement rather than doom.

  But, of course, he hasn’t seen the police car.

  Edie tears down the corridor. ‘I get it, I get it.’

  ‘Hold on a minute, Edie-bug,’ Ollie says, looking for somewhere to put down the tray of burgers. He isn’t fast enough though because by the time he finds som
e counter space, Edie is already jumping for the doorhandle.

  ‘Poleeth!’ she says, awed.

  This, of course, is the part where I should run after her, intercept the police at the door and apologise, but my feet are concreted to the floor. Luckily Ollie is already jogging up behind Edie, ruffling her hair playfully.

  ‘G’day,’ he says to the cops. He glances over his shoulder back into the house, his mind caught up in the action of a few seconds ago, perhaps wondering if he remembered to turn off the gas bottle or checking that he’d placed the burger plate securely on the bench. It’s the classic unassuming behaviour of someone about to get bad news. I actually feel like I am watching us all on a TV show—the handsome clueless dad, the cute toddler. The regular suburban family who are about to have their lives turned upside down forever.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Ollie says finally, turning his attention back to the cops.

  ‘I’m Senior Constable Arthur,’ I hear the woman say, though I can’t see her from my vantage point. ‘This is Constable Perkins. Are you Oliver Goodwin?’

  ‘I am.’ Ollie smiles down at Edie, even throws her a wink. It’s enough to convince me that I’m being overly dramatic. Even if there’s bad news, it may not be that bad. It may not even be our bad news. Perhaps one of the neighbours has been burgled. Police usually canvass the area after something like that, don’t they?

  Suddenly I look forward to that moment when I know everything’s fine. I think about how Ollie and I will laugh. You won’t believe what I thought, I’ll say to him, and he’ll roll his eyes and smile. Always worrying, he’ll say. How do you ever get anything done with all that worrying?

  But when I edge forward a few paces I see that my worrying isn’t unnecessary. I see it in the sombreness of the policeman’s expression, in the downward turn of his mouth.

  The policewoman glances at Edie, then back at Ollie. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk . . . privately?’

  The first traces of uncertainty appear on Ollie’s face. His shoulders stiffen and he stands a little bit taller. Perhaps unconsciously, he pushes Edie back from the door, behind him, shielding her.

  ‘Edie-bug, would you like me to put on The Wiggles?’ I say, stepping forward finally.

  Edie shakes her head resolutely, her gaze not shifting from the police. Her soft round face is alight with interest; her chunky, wobbly legs are planted with improbable firmness.

  ‘Come on, honey,’ I try again, sweeping a hand over her pale gold hair. ‘How about an ice cream?’

  This is more of a dilemma for Edie. She glances at me, watching for a long moment, assessing whether I can be trusted. Finally I shout for Archie to get out the Paddle Pops and she scampers off down the hallway.

  ‘Come in,’ Ollie says to the police, and they do, sending me a quick polite smile. A sorry smile. A smile that pierces my heart. It’s not the neighbours, that smile says. This bad news is yours.

  There aren’t a lot of private areas in our house so Ollie guides the police to the kitchen and pulls out a couple of chairs. I follow, shoving my newly folded laundry into a basket. The piles collapse into each other like tumbling buildings. The police sit on the chairs, Ollie and I remain sharply upright, stiff. Bracing.

  ‘Firstly, I need to confirm that you are relatives of Diana Goodwin—’

  ‘Yes,’ Ollie says, ‘she’s my mother.’

  ‘Then I’m very sorry to inform you,’ the policewoman starts, and I close my eyes because I already know what she is going to say.

  My mother-in-law is dead.

  2

  LUCY

  Ten years ago . . .

  Someone once told me that you have two families in your life—the one you are born into and the one you choose. But that’s not entirely true, is it? Yes, you may get to choose your partner, but you don’t, for instance, choose your children. You don’t choose your brothers- or sisters-in-law, you don’t choose your partner’s spinster aunt with the drinking problem, or cousin with the revolving door of girlfriends who don’t speak English. More importantly, you don’t choose your mother-in-law. The cackling mercenaries of fate determine it all.

  ‘Hello?’ Ollie calls. ‘Anybody home?’

  I stand in the yawning foyer of the Goodwins’ home and pan around at the marble extending in every direction. A winding staircase sweeps from the basement up to the first floor, beneath a magnificent crystal chandelier. I feel like I’ve stepped into the pages of a Hello! magazine spread, the ones with the ridiculous photos of celebrities sprawling on ornate furniture and on grassy knolls in riding boots with Golden Retrievers at their feet. I’ve always imagined this is what the inside of Buckingham Palace must look like, or if not Buckingham, at least one of the smaller palaces—St James’s or Clarence House.

  I try to catch Ollie’s eye, to . . . what? Admonish him? Cheer? Quite frankly I’m not sure, but it’s moot since he’s already charging into the house, announcing our arrival. To say I’m unprepared for this is the most glorious of understatements. When Ollie suggested I come to his parents’ house for dinner, I’d pictured lasagna and salad in a quaint blond-brick bungalow, the kind of home I grew up in. I imagined an adoring mother clasping a photo album of sepia-coloured baby photos, and a brusquely proud but socially awkward father clasping a can of beer and wearing a cautious smile. Instead, artwork and sculptures are up-lit and gleaming, and the parents, socially awkward or otherwise, are nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Ollie!’ I catch Ollie’s elbow and am about to whisper furiously when a plump, ruddy-faced man rushes through a large arched doorway at the back of the house, clutching a glass of red wine.

  ‘Dad!’ Ollie cries. ‘There you are!’

  ‘Well, well. Look who the cat dragged in.’

  Tom Goodwin is the very opposite of his tall, dark-haired son. Short, overweight and unstylish, his red checked shirt is tucked into chinos that are belted below his substantial paunch. He throws his arms around his son, and Ollie thumps his old man on the back.

  ‘You must be Lucy,’ Tom says after releasing Ollie. He takes my hand and pumps it heartily, letting out a low whistle. ‘My word. Well done, son.’

  ‘It’s nice to meet you, Mr Goodwin.’ I smile.

  ‘Tom! Call me Tom.’ He smiles at me as though he’s won the Easter raffle, then he appears to remember himself. ‘Diana! Diana, where are you? They’re here!’

  After a moment Ollie’s mother emerges from the back of the house. She’s wearing a white shirt and navy slacks and brushing nonexistent crumbs from the front of her shirt. I suddenly wonder about my outfit choice, a full-skirted 1950s red and white polka-dot dress that had belonged to my mother. I thought it would be charming but now it just seems outlandish and stupid, especially given Ollie’s mum’s plain and demure attire.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says from several paces away. ‘I didn’t hear the bell.’

  ‘This is Lucy,’ Tom says.

  Diana extends her hand. As I reach for it, I notice that she is almost a full head taller that her husband, despite her flat shoes, and she is thin as a lamppost, apart from a slight middle-aged thickening at the waist. She has silver hair cut into an elegant, chin-length bob, a straight Roman nose and, unlike Tom, bears a strong resemblance to her son.

  I also notice that her handshake is cold.

  ‘It’s nice to meet you, Mrs Goodwin,’ I say, dropping her hand to offer the bunch of flowers I am carrying. I insisted on stopping at the florist on the way over, even though Ollie said, ‘Flowers aren’t really her thing.’

  ‘Flowers are every woman’s thing,’ I replied with a roll of my eyes. But as I take in her lack of jewellery, her unpainted nails and sensible shoes, I start to get the feeling I’m wrong.

  ‘Hello, Mum,’ Ollie says, pulling his mother in for a bear hug, which she accepts, if not quite embraces. I know, from many conversations with Ollie, that he adores his mother. He practically bursts with pride as he talks about the charity she runs single-handedly for pregnant refugees
in Australia. Of course she would think flowers were trivial, I realise suddenly. I’m an idiot. I should have brought baby clothes, or maternity supplies.

  ‘All right, Ollie,’ she says after a moment or two when he doesn’t let her go. She pulls herself upright. ‘I haven’t even had a chance to say a proper hello to Lucy!’

  ‘Why don’t we head to the lounge for drinks and we can all get to know each other better,’ Tom says, pink-cheeked and smiling, and we all turn toward the back of the house. That’s when I notice a face peeking around the corner.

  ‘Nettie!’ Ollie cries.

  If there is a lack of resemblance between Ollie and Tom, there is no doubt Antoinette is Tom’s daughter. She has his ruddy cheeks and stockiness, while at the same time being endearingly pretty. Stylish too, in a grey woollen dress and black suede boots. According to Ollie, his younger sister is married, childless, and some sort of marketing executive who speaks at conferences about women and the glass ceiling. She’s thirty-two years old, only two years older than me, and I found her career a little intimidating, but this is immediately forgotten when she comes right over to me and greets me with an enormous hug. The Goodwins, it appears, are huggers.

  All of them except Diana.

  ‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ Nettie says. She links her arm with mine and I am engulfed in a cloud of subtle, expensive-smelling perfume. ‘Come and meet my husband, Patrick.’

  Nettie drags me through an arched doorway, past what looks like an elevator—an elevator!—past framed artwork and ornaments, and photos of family holidays on the ski slopes and at the beach. There is one photo of Tom, Diana, Nettie and Ollie on camels in the desert with a pyramid in the background, all of them holding hands and raising their hands skyward. Growing up, I went to the beach town of Portarlington for holidays, less than an hour’s drive from my house.

  We stop in a room that is roughly the size of my apartment, filled with sofas and armchairs, huge expensive-looking rugs and heavy wooden side tables. A gigantic man rises from an armchair.

  ‘Patrick,’ he says, offering his hand. His handshake is clammy but he looks apologetic so I pretend not to notice.

  ‘Lucy. Nice to meet you.’