The Serial Killer's Wife

by Alice Hunter

  I believe in sparks.

  ‘They are lovely, Poppy,’ I say, bringing my attention back to the moment. ‘I must find out what they are.’ It’s only been two years, I add to myself. Two years, almost to the day, since we moved in, and not long afterwards that I began my pottery café business – a dream I would never have thought possible when I was working as a recruitment consultant in the heart of London. I can’t believe how everything has aligned so we can have this life. It’s very nearly perfect.

  But there’s always something more, isn’t there? Something else to strive for. Perfection is a state which is always at least one step ahead of where you already are. A completeness that’s not really achievable. Flawlessness rarely is.

  ‘Morning, Lucy,’ I call as I walk into Poppy’s Place half an hour later. I’d wanted to call it ‘Poppy’s Pottery Place’, but Tom said it was alliteration overkill.

  I hear a distant, muffled ‘morning’ from out the back. Lucy must be taking out the now-cooled glazed items from yesterday’s painting session from the kiln.

  After dumping my stuff in the break room, I take one of the posters I made up at home and pin it on the noticeboard. I’m excited about starting up the book club here again, but nerves aren’t far beneath the surface. I’m not entirely sure how it’ll go down; I don’t want people to think I’m trying to jump into Camilla’s shoes. A shiver runs down my back. It’s been nearly a year, though – I’ve given it a respectful amount of time after her passing, haven’t I? She was such a hugely popular member of the village, among the mums especially. There might be some who think it’s inappropriate I’m taking over something she started. The effects of her sudden death are still felt – the aftershock rippled through the community, because she left a two-year-old without a mother. Little Jess is almost three now, the same age as my Poppy – I can’t even think about leaving her; it’s too heart-breaking. Camilla’s husband, Adam, must have gone through unimaginable pain. Probably still is doing.

  I shake my head; I don’t want to dwell on the tragedy.

  ‘We all set?’ Lucy’s voice makes me jump. I spin around to see her, apron on, all ready to open up. Her long, auburn corkscrew curls are bundled up in a loose bun, a blue, flower-print bandana headband fixing the rest in place. She’s only twenty-three, but she is confident, hard-working and trustworthy – and the kids (and adults) love her bright, cheery demeanour and the way she sings while they paint. Mainly it’s songs from Disney films, but she pops in the occasional show song for the adults. She was a great choice when the café got popular enough for me to need someone else to help. She prepares the café and ensures all the machines are on and the fresh pastries and cakes are displayed, while I drop Poppy to nursery. Then she holds the fort while I leave to pick her up. She even opens up from nine until midday on Saturday mornings to serve hot drinks and snacks – my weekends are always reserved for family time; I was adamant about that right from the start. Lucy basically does all the hard work – something she jokingly tells me on a daily basis. Then I tell her she’s paid well, and we laugh and carry on.

  ‘We are indeed. Let today’s fun commence,’ I say, rubbing my hands together.

  If only I’d known the day would end on such a serious note.

  Chapter 3

  BETH

  Now

  My hands tremble as I pour a glass of Pinot Grigio. DI Manning and DS Walters have taken Tom with them to the police station in Banbury.

  ‘Does he need a solicitor?’ I’d asked, cautiously, as they led him out.

  Manning had used the same phrase, ‘It’s just a few questions at this stage’, before thanking me for the tea and turning his back. It was surreal – my mind was two steps behind. I’d watched helplessly as Tom had left, only moments after he’d returned home. I’d had no chance to talk to him; ask how his day had been; ask why he was late. His shocked expression is imprinted on my mind.

  But was it something more than shock I saw fleeting across his face?

  I push the thought aside.

  Oh, God. Poppy.

  Poor little mite – I’d said I’d be up in a minute when the detectives first arrived, and that was over half an hour ago. Leaving my glass on the worktop, I run upstairs to check on her. Through the crack in the open door, I can see her, sound asleep, her hands lying over her chest. My heart melts. So innocent. The closest thing to perfection we’ve ever achieved, I think, as I gently close the door. My sleeping beauty.

  All I want is the best for her; the best I can ever give.

  I won’t abandon her the same way I was as a child. I’m still haunted by the memories of my father not loving me enough to want to stay. My mother sank into depression and later, alcoholism, leaving my nanna to practically bring me up. She did her best, but the damage was done. It still affects so many of my decisions.

  Poppy won’t have a bad childhood; I refuse to let that happen to her. She has to have a happy, secure home with loving parents who will never let her down.

  I drain the glass, then open the fridge, grab the wine bottle and refill. As I take another large mouthful, an image of my mother flashes across my mind.

  Don’t be like her.

  I pour the remaining liquid down the sink and put the glass in the dishwasher. I need to stay clear-headed. It’s only been half an hour since they took Tom; they’ve probably only just got to the station. He could be hours yet. Maybe I should try and settle in front of the telly – or even go to bed. Although I’m fairly certain that’ll be pointless; I can’t quell the tumultuous thoughts racing around in my head now, let alone if I lie down in a quiet room.

  A murder enquiry, Manning had said.

  Whose? Where? When? How?

  And what makes them think my Tom will know anything about it?

  Chapter 4

  TOM

  Now

  I call my solicitor, Maxwell Fielding, en route to Banbury police station. I don’t believe there’s any such thing as an ‘informal chat’ where police interviews are concerned, and although I’m not being arrested or detained, according to DI Manning, I’m not taking any chances. Whatever this is about, I’m assuming they think I’m connected to the murder victim, so until I find out more, I want someone present who can advise me.

  The fluttering in my chest intensifies as we reach the station.

  A chill wind whips across the open space as the three of us walk from where DS Walters has parked his vehicle to the entrance of the police station. I shiver, cursing myself for not grabbing a coat before leaving the cottage – I had to leave my suit jacket in the car. I cross my arms firmly as I stride, stopping when I realise I’m too far ahead of the detectives. I’m not that eager to get inside. If I think I’m chilly now, I imagine it’ll only get worse once they start on me.

  Don’t jump to conclusions: you’ve not been arrested.

  My mind flits around as I attempt to predict the who, what and where. I’m shown into a small room inside the station and told to sit and wait. These kinds of delaying tactics are employed to make you nervous. Edgy. Cause adrenaline to pump around your body while you sweat about what’s to come.

  Maybe I’m overthinking it. I hope against all hope they really are just asking a few questions about someone who I’ve not seen forever – or even better, have never actually met. Maybe I don’t even know the person. The victim. It could all be some tenuous link, like we went to the same gym, or they’re an old banking client of mine. Yes, that’ll be it.

  I take a slow, long breath in, trying to compose myself.

  I don’t want to appear guilty before I’ve even opened my mouth.

  My mind wanders to Beth’s face as I left with the detectives. Her mouth agape, all colour drained from her pretty heart-shaped face.

  She looked afraid. Like she had reason to be.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve been in a police station, but it is the first time I’ve been interviewed in relation to a murder.

  I clench my fists under the rectangu
lar table. My wedding ring digs into the flesh of the neighbouring fingers. I will my hands to relax again, pulling my arms from beneath the table and resting them loosely in front of me. I’ll come across as less stressed if I do that. I close my eyes lightly, blocking out the dull yellow, windowless walls. The room is claustrophobic, airless, and that’s without other bodies in here. Why couldn’t they ask their questions in the comfort of my own home for God’s sake?

  Because it’s bad, the voice in my head answers.

  Oh, God. What’s coming?

  My eyes spring open at the sound of the door.

  I guess I’m about to find out.

  Chapter 5

  BETH

  Now

  The mattress dips, shifting my body only slightly, but enough to wake me; I’d only been in a light sleep.

  ‘Tom? What time is it?’ I sit up, blinking rapidly.

  ‘Shhh. Don’t worry, go back to sleep, love,’ he says. He swings his legs in under the duvet and cuddles up to me. His skin feels cold against mine and I shiver. ‘Sorry, Beth,’ he breathes into my neck.

  ‘Sorry for being cold?’

  ‘No. You know what I mean. I’m sorry for tonight – for being late, then … well, the rest.’

  ‘Is everything sorted now?’ Tiredness has drained me; my voice is a whisper.

  ‘We’ll talk in the morning.’

  ‘But we never have time for that,’ I say, groggily.

  ‘Well, never mind – don’t worry about it now.’

  Being told not to worry about something tends to have the opposite effect.

  ‘We’ll talk now,’ I say, pushing myself up on my elbow and looking at Tom. The moonlight creeps in through a gap in the curtains, but it’s not enough to see any of his features. I flip over and turn on the bedside lamp.

  ‘Oh, Beth! Not now.’ He shields his eyes.

  ‘It has to be now. There’s too much going on tomorrow – I’ve got to prepare for a birthday party and then collect Poppy from nursery and take her back with me as the party starts at four—’

  ‘It is tomorrow,’ he groans, cutting me off. ‘There’ll be time in the evening. Now try and settle back down.’ He begins to turn away from me.

  ‘No, Tom. Sit up, please. I need to know what happened at the station,’ I plead. ‘Were you able to help them with their enquiries? Who is it they were asking about? Someone you know? Please tell me it’s nothing bad.’

  He relents, huffing as he stacks his pillows up against the headboard and leans back into them. I hear a long puff of air expelling from his nostrils. My pulse bangs in my neck as I wait for the answers.

  ‘It was about Katie,’ he says, simply.

  ‘Shit.’ He doesn’t need to say more than her first name. I know who she is. Katie Williams was Tom’s girlfriend just prior to meeting me. As far as anyone knew, she went off to travel the world, or something like that. I knew she’d broken Tom’s heart – he’d told me on our first date. But we’d only ever spoken about her once since then. Tom doesn’t dwell on the past. You have to keep looking forward, he always says.

  ‘Yes. Shit.’ He lowers his head, his chin almost touching his chest. I move close to him, laying one arm over his stomach, my fingertips circling the hair around his belly button.

  ‘Right. That’s a shock. When did they find her?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Tom says, shaking his head. ‘They haven’t. They only suspect she’s come to harm.’

  ‘Well, that’s good, then,’ I say, optimism filling my voice.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘They only wanted to talk to you because you’re an ex-boyfriend, then. Did they ask if you’d spoken to her recently?’

  ‘That sort of thing, yes.’

  ‘Which means you couldn’t really help them, then. Seeing as you haven’t.’

  ‘Exactly. So, nothing to worry about. I’ve done my bit. Now, go to sleep, Beth. You’ll be knackered when the alarm goes off.’

  ‘I’m always knackered – it’s my default setting,’ I say, attempting a smile.

  ‘I’ll fill you in properly tomorrow.’

  For the moment, I’m satisfied. I switch the light off, wriggle down the bed and lay my arm across Tom’s waist. I want to let him know I’m there; the supportive wife. My mind doesn’t want to settle, though, and it goes into overdrive, thinking about everything I know about Katie – which isn’t a whole lot. She’d been on the scene not long before me and had been besotted with Tom. She’d spent all her free time with him.

  I think about how charming Tom was; how easily I fell under his spell. And how I remained under that spell, too. Katie only lasted six months. He’d been burned by her, he’d said – she’d changed, wanted different things.

  I got to marry him. Have his baby.

  I always considered myself the chosen one.

  Chapter 6

  BETH

  Now

  I hear the jets of water hitting the shower screen and lazily turn over to face the en-suite. Tom’s left the door open, as he always does, and I can see him through the glass, gel lathered all over his torso, shampoo running down from his head. I watch intently, all the while wondering exactly what DI Manning asked him last night and how Tom responded. He appeared calm when he got into bed, so maybe that’s the end of it. I tear my gaze away from him and rather than attempt to fall back to sleep, I get up.

  He was right: I am knackered. I catch the dark circles beneath my eyes as I look towards the mirrored wardrobe. I’m going to need a trowel and heavy-duty concealer and foundation to cover those up this morning, plus a vat of coffee to perk me up. I’ve a busy day ahead and a child’s party to get through. It’s not until four p.m. and it’s only for ten people – a handful of three- and four-year-olds and their parents – but it’ll still take time to set up and I know the hour-long session will feel double that. I wasn’t sure it was a good idea agreeing when Sally, the mum, had asked to book. Younger children are generally more difficult to cater for: their attention spans aren’t quite long enough; they aren’t so keen on sitting down for longer than five minutes. I was about to say no – but she mentioned Jess would be coming with Adam, and a twinge of guilt turned my no into a ‘yes, of course’. How could I say no once I knew they would be coming?

  Poppy’s footsteps pad across the landing.

  ‘Morning, my little one,’ I say, sweeping her up. She squeezes me with her chubby little arms. ‘And how did you sleep?’

  ‘I had a long sleep, Mummy.’ She beams at me, then suddenly scowls. ‘But Daddy was naughty.’

  ‘Oh, was he now?’ I know what’s coming.

  ‘Yep.’ She pouts. ‘He didn’t kiss me goodnight.’

  The shower screen creaks, and within moments, Tom is out, his lower half wrapped in a towel. ‘I’m so sorry, Poppy poppet! Daddy is a silly man, isn’t he?’ he says, grinning and reaching for her, his arms outstretched.

  She giggles as he splashes her with droplets of water.

  ‘Daddeeee!’ she squeals as she dives behind me.

  ‘Just let me get dried and dressed, then I’ll give you the biggest bear hug ever to make up for it. Okay?’

  ‘O-kaay,’ she says, running out of the room. ‘I going for my bekfast now, Mummy.’

  ‘I’ll be down in a second,’ I call after her. ‘Just wait at the table.’

  ‘I know you’re going to start on me straight away, Beth, but we really don’t have the time now. Look, I’ll give you all the details when I get back later, okay?’

  ‘I’m not Poppy. Don’t speak to me as though I’m a bloody kid, Tom.’

  ‘Darling,’ he sits on the bed beside me, taking my hand in his. ‘I’m not. We will talk about it, but you know our mornings are hectic. There’s honestly not much to say. And definitely nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Really? Nothing?’ I hear the incredulousness in my tone. Tom straightens, moving away from me.

  ‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ he repeats, his eyes cold and serious. ‘Like Ma
nning said, it was just some questions.’

  ‘Fine.’ I let a long, slow breath out. But I can’t shake my unease. Or the uncomfortable feeling that I don’t believe him.

  The walk to nursery is slow, with Poppy stopping every few steps to admire something she’s spotted: a tabby cat; some flowers in a garden; a snail on a wall. We bump into Shirley Irish from the pub, who asks me about the book club.

  ‘I was surprised to see your poster when I popped in for my order yesterday afternoon,’ she says, her pointed nose wrinkling as though she’s caught a waft of something unpleasant.

  ‘Oh, really? I wouldn’t have thought a book club was much of a surprise in a community such as ours, Mrs Irish,’ I say, lightly. I always call her Mrs Irish to her face for some reason, despite her telling me to call her Shirley.

  ‘Well, no. But you do remember it was Camilla Knight’s book club before, don’t you?’

  I bite the inside of my lip to prevent myself saying I don’t think she’ll mind, now. It’s not as though she’ll know. Instead, I smile and tell her I thought it would be a nice nod to Camilla, and that she’d have loved to know the villagers were continuing something she’d started. Shirley bobs her head several times, her sheer, silky black hair swinging each side of her face in what I assume to be agreement, and I escape while I can. Is everyone going to be against me starting it up again?

  ‘I didn’t think I was ever going to get here this morning,’ I say when I finally make it into the café.

  ‘I was beginning to wonder if something was wrong,’ Lucy says.

  ‘Oh, no. Nothing wrong,’ I say quickly. Too quickly. ‘Just that Poppy was on a go-slow and then I ran into Shirley, from the pub.’