by Alice Hunter
‘There you go. The best cookies from Poppy’s Place,’ I say, brightly, as I place two plates in front of the detectives and turn back to fetch the tray of drinks.
‘So, this Poppy’s Place is your café?’ DC Cooper asks.
‘Yes, it’s a ceramics café – you can paint pre-made bisque pieces, like plates, mugs, animals and things, and have a coffee and cake while you do it. Then it’ll be popped in the kiln and I fire them overnight and the pieces are collected the next day, or I can deliver them. I opened it not long after we moved here, and it’s been amazing. It’s so well supported …’ I tail off as I realise I’m already doing it: chattering away, when really I could just have said, ‘Yes, I own the café.’
It’s fine. Now I’ve got my jitteriness out the way, maybe I’ll be able to answer their proper questions with more brevity.
‘Sounds … interesting,’ DI Manning says, giving his colleague a sideways glance. I want to add that it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but I bite my tongue.
‘How are you doing, Mrs Hardcastle – given your husband is in custody?’ Imogen Cooper asks, before taking a sip of coffee. I feel it’s a trick question. She’s asking it nonchalantly, no pen in hand, all to make me think this is breezy and conversational. Trying to put me at ease, perhaps. Or that’s what she wants me to believe.
I wish Maxwell hadn’t come here yesterday now. He’s managed to get me so worked up I’m overthinking the simplest questions. I force my shoulders down, and consciously relax my muscles. I’m going to do this my way.
‘Not great, really. As you can imagine this has come out of the blue. A lightning bolt, if you will. I just can’t understand it if I’m honest. How can you think Tom is involved in this woman’s disappearance?’
‘I’m sorry this has all come about so suddenly, Mrs Hardcastle—’
‘Please call me Beth, DC Cooper. Such a mouthful to always refer to me as that,’ I say with a smile.
‘Beth, I understand you’re shocked by your husband being taken into custody. We have reason to believe he was the last person to see Katie Williams, so of course, he is of interest. Often it’s been the case that the last person to see the missing individual was the one to have a hand in the disappearance.’ Now Cooper takes her notebook and poises her pen. She looks to DI Manning and he leans forward, placing his mobile phone in between us, ready to begin his questions.
I lick my lips, trying to lubricate them, but there’s little available moisture. I take a quick gulp of coffee.
‘For the benefit of the recording, DI David Manning and DC Imogen Cooper are interviewing Bethany Hardcastle at her home address …’
I feel myself zoning out as he continues to talk ‘for the recording’. There’s a rushing noise in my ears: a high-pitched squealing which is about to tip me into panic mode. I wasn’t expecting this. The pens and notebooks were already enough to make my nerves multiply.
He starts talking to me, rather than the phone. His voice brings me back from the edge, and I pull myself together.
‘You lived in London prior to moving here?’ he asks, looking directly into my eyes.
‘Yes, that’s right. We had a flat in Bethnal Green. Well, it was Tom’s flat – I moved in with him then we got married. When I fell pregnant, we realised we’d need to move at some point as it wasn’t big enough for a growing family. But once I had Poppy it wasn’t the right time, then when I returned to work from maternity leave, I got a promotion. So, we stayed a while longer. I knew within months it wasn’t what I wanted, though.’ I stop talking. One, to take a breath, and two because I know I’m doing the dead opposite of what I’ve been instructed to do.
Brief answers. For God’s sake.
I lay my hands in my lap, grasping them together and squeezing my fingers until it hurts. I purse my lips together to prevent more word vomit.
‘Where and when did you meet?’ he asks. He sits back in the chair, and it crosses my mind he’s settling in for another novel-length answer.
‘It was seven years ago. I remember it clearly, because it was my twenty-fifth birthday: Saturday April the fifth. It was outside Sager + Wilde. I was sitting on the terrace with my friends,’ I smile at the memory and stop speaking. Manning raises his eyebrows and sits forward to scribble something. I wonder why he’s bothering to take notes if it’s being recorded. To convey the seriousness of the visit? To ensure I’m as fully on-edge as possible?
‘Did he tell you about his previous relationship with Katie Williams?’
‘He did – that night, in actual fact. I remember him saying how his heart had recently been broken and he wasn’t expecting to meet anyone and get such an instant connection as he had with me. He said it in a jokey way in that moment, really. But when we were going out together and things were getting serious, he did confide in me that he’d been pretty gutted about Katie’s sudden departure. He’d not expected her to up sticks and go abroad like she did.’
‘Gutted enough to try and prevent her leaving?’ Cooper says.
I turn to look directly at her. ‘No. Tom was honestly heartbroken because she left. She’d gone. He didn’t stop her. And you know, after you told him the other night about your suspicions something had happened to her, he was devastated. All the years he’d assumed she was living her dream life abroad and you destroyed that belief. He might’ve been the last to see her in this country, that you know of, but surely someone saw her afterwards?’
Both detectives look down at their notepads, neither responding. I’m guessing they haven’t found anyone else who says they saw her. They still have Tom as the last person. Which is why they’re still holding him. But if that’s all they’ve got, that proves nothing. They aren’t going to be able to charge him, there’s no way.
‘In the seven years you’ve known Tom, have there been any times he’s shown aggressive behaviour towards you? To your daughter?’
I shake my head and sigh. Maxwell had said this would be an angle they’d take, but I’m appalled now that they’re actually asking. ‘No. Absolutely not. He’s the most gentle, kind and loving man, and he loves Poppy more than life itself,’ I say. ‘Ask anyone,’ I add.
‘A good, family man,’ Manning mutters.
‘Yes, exactly. Which is why this is all such madness. You’re wasting your time looking at Tom. Wherever Katie is, Tom doesn’t know. She could be living off the grid?’ It’s a hopeful suggestion. I want to ask why they’ve suddenly decided she’s come to harm almost eight years after she left the country, but they aren’t going to tell me. Let them ask the questions; no point riling them while they have my husband locked up.
‘We’ll be the ones to formulate the theories, if you don’t mind,’ DI Manning says, flatly. I mumble an apology.
‘How would you describe your relationship?’ he asks.
‘Great, thank you,’ I say, a little too abruptly. ‘We’re very happy. We’ve carved out the perfect life for ourselves here.’
‘You both appear to work very hard, Beth. Must be difficult to find time for each other, especially with a toddler. Relationships often struggle to stay on the straight and narrow when there are demands placed on them from every angle.’ It’s Cooper who says this, and it’s clear she’s digging. I’m not having that. As she hasn’t directly asked a question, I remain silent. Maxwell would be proud. She seems to realise this is what I’m doing, and asks, ‘With you immersing yourself in your new business as well as looking after Poppy, and with Tom spending a lot of his time at work, or commuting, how has that impacted on you both?’
I’m careful to take my time in answering, drinking some coffee while I think. I am aware of their eyes looking expectantly at me.
‘Of course it’s inevitable you move through different stages in a healthy relationship, and Poppy coming along took some adjustment. But she’s the best thing ever to have happened to us and we both adore her. Tom is besotted,’ I say, smiling. ‘We’ve learned to adapt, and we’ve managed to keep our marriage fresh. Tom alway
s ensures we have some “us” time in the evenings and we have wonderful weekends together.’ I think that’s a fair assessment, give or take.
‘Tom gets home from work at what time?’
‘Around six p.m. – earlier if he can leave work promptly. He likes to spend some time with Poppy and read her a bedtime story. He arranged slightly different working hours with the bank so he could do that.’
‘Right,’ DC Cooper says, looking down and flipping through her notebook pages. She lifts her head and for a moment says nothing as she keeps my eye contact, her lips tightly pursed. I push down on my bobbing leg underneath the table. ‘As you have a “great” relationship,’ Cooper does annoying air quotes with her fingers, ‘I assume you share everything? You know, as in, there are no secrets between you?’
It’s a trick question. Every couple has at least some secrets, surely? But if I say that, she’s going to twist it and make out I’ve lied about how good our relationship is.
Play it safe.
‘We share everything, yes.’ I keep it brief. My counselling from Maxwell is paying off.
‘So, you know why he was late home on Monday evening then?’ Her gaze doesn’t waver from mine.
Shit. I don’t. I never got the chance to ask him. I’ve fallen into her trap with this. Now’s the time to simply state the truth.
‘No, I never got the opportunity because DI Manning dragged him away the moment he got home.’ I shoot Manning a caustic smile.
‘He came home again later that evening, though. Did you not discuss it then?’
‘I was in bed, and then he left for work early, as usual.’
Cooper nods, slowly. ‘Really?’ she says.
My heart rate picks up. ‘Yes, really,’ I say. I hear the quiver in my tone. No doubt they caught it too. Cooper sits forward, her face close enough now that I can smell the coffee on her breath and see the intensity of her eyes: the flecks of blue against the steel grey.
‘Would it surprise you to know he didn’t go to work the following morning?’ she says.
I unconsciously gasp. What? Tom didn’t go to work on Tuesday?
I’ve no way of coming back from the shocked reaction I’ve just displayed. And I can’t think of anything to say in response.
‘I’ll take that as a yes, then.’ Cooper’s eyebrows shoot up and her lips form a line as she scribbles. The noise of the pen scratching over the paper is the only sound in the room.
Chapter 22
BETH
Now
My chest is tight as I walk towards the nursery; each shallow breath seems to catch in my lungs. I have to make an official statement at the police station in Banbury as soon as I can. The seriousness of the situation has finally penetrated my brain and I’m going into self-preservation mode.
Tom has lied to me.
Manning and Cooper left me with little doubt about that. They can’t be lying about Tom not going to work. Under certain circumstances I’m sure they must play around with how they put information to people they interview, but this doesn’t appear to be one of those instances. They said they’d checked CCTV footage and Tom wasn’t seen getting a train to London, and he never showed at the bank. The fact I didn’t know will go against Tom. But I’m guessing the cause for his absence from work is going against him far more. Do the detectives already know the reason why? Although I can’t see how it would link to something that happened eight years ago anyway.
The question needles at my brain: what was he doing, if not working? He left at his usual time; he was wearing a suit; he took his briefcase as normal.
He wasn’t wearing his suit jacket when he came home on Monday evening. I recall it now, and I also remember the sour smell when I hugged him. I hadn’t given it much thought, as everything had got away from me once the detectives took him. But what was that? Sweat? Tom isn’t a particularly sweaty person unless he’s been on a long run.
Why couldn’t he trust me enough to tell me why he was late, and where he really was on the Tuesday? Perhaps he was more worried about having been pulled in for questioning than he was willing to let on to me. Or perhaps past memories being dragged up had upset him. I wonder if he’s given a thought to how upset I am about all of this. How sad his daughter will be when he’s away for yet another night. If I get the opportunity to talk to him on the phone, will all the questions flood out? Or will an angry tirade erupt from me instead? After the latest revelation, I don’t think I even want to hear his voice. Hear more lies.
‘How are you, sweetie?’ The voice, though quiet, makes me jump. I look up sharply. I’m at the entrance gate to the nursery.
‘Sorry, mind was elsewhere,’ I say to Julia, attempting a smile but failing.
‘I hope things haven’t got worse?’ she says, one perfectly neat brow arched. I think they’re microbladed. Unsure what to say, I merely let out a long stream of breath.
‘Oh. Dear. Well, look – if you need to talk, please give me a call, won’t you?’
‘I don’t have your number,’ I say, instantly.
Julia gives a nervous little laugh. Maybe she’s just realising she’s never really given me much time before Tom and I became the focus of juicy village gossip. She pulls a card out of the side pocket of her Gucci handbag and hands it to me.
‘Anytime, day or night,’ she says. She sounds genuine. I turn the card over in my hand. Gold-embossed script adorns the front – Julia Bennington, Beauty Therapist. Ah, that explains it – I can’t believe I missed what she did for a living. I wonder how she does it all with triplets; she is basically Supermum.
‘Thank you,’ I say. My voice breaks, tears springing to my eyes.
‘It’ll be all right, sweetie,’ she says, rubbing my arm as we head inside. Poppy’s face lights up as she sees me, and for a moment my anxiety melts away. She runs over awkwardly, a painting in her hands.
‘Mummy! I made it for you,’ she says, thrusting the still-damp picture towards me.
‘Oh, that’s wonderful, darling.’ I hold back more tears as I see three different-sized blobs with stick-like arms and legs. ‘Me, you and Daddy,’ she points.
My heart breaks a little.
Oh, Tom. What have you done to us?
Chapter 23
BETH
Now
Friday mornings are when I usually deliver any fired pottery items to those unable to pick up from Poppy’s Place. I’ve arranged for Lucy to do it – it’ll take her several trips on her bike, so she can open the café later as a one-off. A shiver runs through me as I think about it – opening late will no doubt cause tongues to wag. I dropped Poppy to nursery without bumping into Julia, which was a relief as I was too nervous to stand and chat. I have to be at Banbury station by ten – I’ve had even less sleep than normal, because my mind wouldn’t stop going over and over the statement I’m about to make.
Now, as I park at the back of the police station, I realise I can’t recall a single thing about the journey here. I used to think I dealt with stress well – I have always been in control of it, not the other way around. Today, the gnawing pain in my lower abdomen, the searing white-hot headache, the trembling hands, are all signs I’ve lost the fight with it this time. This stress is different, though. So much hangs in the balance.
Checking my appearance in the visor mirror, I make a silent deal with myself, then get out of the car and walk confidently to the entrance.
I have given my official statement, but surprisingly, not to DI Manning or DC Cooper, as I’d assumed. Maybe that’s because they got what they wanted yesterday, and the paperwork gets left to the lower ranks. Or perhaps it’s because I’m not important enough. Admittedly, it helped me a bit to have less pressure. But I’m still not confident I came across well – since being told that Tom didn’t go to work on Tuesday, my mind has been all over the place, and my unease must’ve shown, despite all my overnight rehearsals.
I glance around the station before I leave, wondering where exactly Tom is. DS Walters, the dete
ctive who came to the cottage on Monday night, catches my eye and walks towards me. My immediate instinct is to leave quickly before he reaches me, but my feet refuse to move.
‘You know your husband has been moved, don’t you?’ He narrows his eyes.
‘No? What do you mean moved?’
‘I’m sorry, I thought you’d been informed by his solicitor. Because it’s a Metropolitan Police case, Detective Inspector Manning and Detective Constable Cooper are continuing questioning at their command unit in London.’ He smiles sympathetically as he delivers this new information.
‘Right,’ I say, dropping my gaze to the floor. I don’t want him to catch the look in my eyes. ‘Have they …’ I cough to clear my throat, ‘have they charged him, then?’
‘No, not yet, Mrs Hardcastle. They’ve got until tomorrow evening and I think they wanted him on their turf to continue questioning.’
Walters’ wording makes me think they might go to great lengths to ensure they charge Tom. I can’t stop myself conjuring images of Tom being ‘interrogated’ like they do in some films. I imagine him being waterboarded, beaten until he admits guilt just to stop the pain. So that the copper can get his man, regardless.
Back in my car, I sit for what feels like an hour. I can’t drive while I feel this nauseous. I didn’t eat breakfast, which isn’t helping. My stomach groans and lurches as I grip the steering wheel, taking deep breaths in through my nose and out of my mouth to overcome the sickness. I hadn’t anticipated the fallout; hadn’t allowed my mind to really go there. But now, I must begin to prepare for the strong possibility that Tom isn’t coming home.
