by Alice Hunter
Today is the day.
Eleven hours to go.
Maxwell calls to ‘prepare me’ for either outcome: Tom coming home, or Tom being charged with murder. Strangely, I’m equally scared for both eventualities. Maybe it’s not so strange. I should give myself a break – these have been the most stressful and difficult days of my adult life; of course I’ll be feeling uneasy, nervous – whether he’s released without charge or not. Maxwell also says that, in theory, they could charge him and still release him on bail until his trial. This to me seems the worst option. How would we cope? How would we be as a couple if he’s back home, but charged with Katie’s murder? I can’t even begin to imagine how our usual day-to-day routine would be upended, or what conversations we’d have. I ask Maxwell if, given the nature of the charge, they’d even consider bail. Surely they’d detain him immediately? A man accused of murder would be deemed be a risk – to himself, if not to others?
‘It could go either way, Beth,’ he says. ‘It’s an historical crime and Tom has no criminal record: no previous convictions; nothing that’s brought him to the police’s attention prior to this. The man has never even had so much as a bloody parking ticket. He’s squeaky clean.’
‘Apparently he isn’t, Maxwell, or we wouldn’t be in this situation, would we.’ My throat tightens. How can he be glossing over the facts that, one, Tom was arrested, therefore the police must have some form of evidence against him; and, two, that he lied about going to work. And about God knows what else.
‘Well, I was about to add a caveat. As I mentioned before, Beth, the detectives are holding back certain evidence and it’s possible that whatever that is might lead to bail being denied.’ Maxwell’s voice sounds strained. Why do I get the impression he’s the one holding something back, not the police?
‘Has Tom asked you not to tell me everything because he’s worried I won’t cope with the truth? Are you sure there’s not something I need to know about him?’
‘He’s your husband, Beth. You should know him best.’ I catch a hint of sarcasm, maybe even an accusation, buried within his words. He’s right, of course. I should know him better than anyone else. The fact I’m not jumping up and down in protest – shouting about the travesty of his arrest, adamant about his innocence – doesn’t look good. Doesn’t show what a wonderful, supportive wife I am.
‘I do know him, Maxwell. And he’s a good husband and father,’ I say, firmly. ‘I told the detectives that when they first spoke with me, and I’ll tell anyone else who asks the same thing. Tom wouldn’t have done anything to Katie.’ My conviction seems a little too late; I hear a deep sigh from Maxwell on the other end of the line.
‘Then trust in the justice system, Beth. If Tom is innocent the evidence can only be circumstantial at best.’
My heart dips. Alarm bells ring in my head. ‘If he is innocent? Don’t you believe he is?’
‘Of course, of course. I’ve known Tom a long time and he’s given me excellent financial advice. He’s never come across as someone capable of causing serious harm. But they’re still investigating and judging by what they say they have on him, and what they’re still looking into, I’ve no real way of telling which way this will go. But, rest assured, he’ll be given the best legal counsel, whatever happens later.’
I hang up and pace, wringing my hands, which are unsettled and fidgety like my thoughts. I just want this evening to hurry up – I need this to be over. I wipe down the kitchen table and take Poppy upstairs to get her dressed. Then, while she’s playing animal hospital with her toys, I slump down on the sofa in the lounge and put the radio on for background noise. The morning news is a welcome distraction. Other people’s problems, not my own. Although, as the newsreader’s voice becomes ever more serious, I think it’s possibly not the best type of distraction. A walk around the outskirts of the village would be a better option and the fresh air would be good for me and Poppy. If, of course, we aren’t stared at. Everyone in Lower Tew must be aware of Tom’s arrest. It’s humiliating.
I rarely give a thought to my previous life in London, but right now I have a craving for the anonymity being in the huge capital offered. Yes, I had friends and colleagues who knew me, and knew a bit about what was going on in my life, but there wasn’t widespread interest in my business. Mostly, nobody was bothered about what I was or wasn’t doing. Lower Tew is the opposite. Although, hearing about the regular deaths in the city – on the news bulletin now there are reports about the fatal stabbing of a teenager, the body of a sex worker being found, and yet another a hit-and-run – I do know I’m lucky to be here, in the relative safety of a village. I have to forgo anonymity for a safer environment for Poppy. We made the right decision moving here, regardless of my current ‘celebrity’ status.
I pray the focus is taken off me by the end of the day. But mud sticks, as they say. Is the fact Tom was arrested going to be forgotten, even if he’s not charged? I imagine if they charge someone else, then it might. If not, the finger of suspicion may always point at my husband. Poppy’s life here might always be blighted by this.
Will we have to move again?
Chapter 29
BETH
Now
Poppy walks with a comical wobble – the bright yellow anorak that matches my own is tight around her little body and her wellies reach to her knees; both constrict her movement. The rain has been falling heavily overnight so there’s an abundance of decently sized puddles, and I’ve let her walk a little ahead of me so she can be first to reach them. The joy on her little face as she jumps and splashes in the water-filled dips in the lane brings tears to my eyes. I must protect her, no matter what.
She begs me to join in – and for a glorious moment, I forget the surrounding gloom and just enjoy being with our bright, beautiful three-year-old as we race to each puddle and scream when the water erupts around us.
Then the clouds in my mind descend once more, and the burning, knotted ball of anxiety lying dormant in my stomach awakens.
Six hours to go.
To anyone watching us, we would seem perfectly happy right now – and indeed, Poppy is – but for me, the knowledge of what might come holds this brief happiness hostage. I look up at the dark-grey clouds, heavy with rain, rolling across the sky, threatening to break at any moment. I can’t help but think it symbolic.
‘Time to go home, my Poppy poppet,’ I say. She doesn’t whinge; just holds up her hand for me to take in mine. I think she’s tired. I certainly am. We turn around and head back through the village, thankfully seeing no one. I couldn’t cope with polite conversation; or worse, people avoiding me altogether. The only person I wouldn’t mind bumping into is Adam. At least I know he hasn’t judged me over this mess. Yet.
Five hours to go.
Warm and cosy, back in the security of our home, Poppy and I snuggle on the sofa and watch Twirlywoos. It’s about the only level of telly programme I can take right now. Poppy is enthralled by the brightly coloured bird-like characters, and while she is quiet, I find my eyelids closing under the weight of my exhaustion.
Four hours to go.
A ringing sound startles me out of my nap. Poppy is no longer beside me. I leap up, momentarily dazed and disorientated. I relax as I see her sitting cross-legged on the carpet, inches from the television screen, her face upturned. Was it my mobile? Or the house phone? It’s stopped, anyway. I rub at my eyes, lick my dried lips and tell Poppy I’m getting us a drink. My body aches as I walk into the kitchen; everything feels stiff from falling asleep on the sofa. I glance at the kitchen clock. Five fifteen – I nodded off for longer than I thought. I may as well start cooking something for dinner.
Less than three hours to go.
I try my best to read Poppy’s story with the voices she loves Tom using. She laughs, and I know it’s because I’m making a hash of it, but she doesn’t tell me that this time. I tuck her in, leave a nightlight on and kiss her goodnight. My heart sinks as she asks again when her daddy is coming home. In
a short while, I’ll know myself. I’m counting down the minutes.
One hour to go.
My mobile rings. It’s too early to hear from Maxwell, but adrenaline shoots through my veins nonetheless. The pounding in my chest begins to subside when I see the caller ID.
‘Hey, Adam. Everything all right?’
‘I rather think it’s me who should be asking you that question. Have you heard anything yet?’
‘I’m expecting a call at around eight. Their time is up then. But I guess they could charge or release him at any time, so—’
‘Oh, gosh, yes. I should free up the line, sorry,’ he says. ‘I have such terrible timing.’ I can sense his embarrassment and I feel bad for him.
‘No, really, it’s fine. If I’m honest, I could do with the distraction – today has dragged enough, but this last hour is going in reverse, I swear. It’s killing me,’ I say.
‘I can imagine. Time has a habit of doing that when you are desperate for it to whizz by. Then, when you want to breathe and take stock, or enjoy a moment – keep it going for as long as possible – it ticks away at twice the speed of light.’ His voice is soft, and I can tell he’s talking about his experience with losing Camilla. ‘I’m aware that doesn’t make sense. I’m crap at analogies.’
‘Oh, trust me, it makes perfect sense. What have you been up to today?’ I ask, to change the subject and try to bring him, and me, out of the depths of misery.
We’ve been talking for what I think is about ten minutes, but as I wander into the kitchen to get a drink, I glance at the wall clock and panic grips me. ‘Adam! I’ve got to go, sorry. It’s gone eight!’
He gives a gasp, says a brief ‘Good luck!’ and hangs up.
Shit, have I missed the call? How could I have let that happen? I hastily check my mobile. No missed calls. I slam the phone on the kitchen worktop and steady myself. The taste of bile is strong in my mouth; I haven’t eaten all day, there’s nothing but acid in my stomach.
Please hurry up and get this over with.
Eight eleven.
My phone remains stubbornly silent. Unlike the whooshing noise in my ears. I’m afraid to think what my blood pressure might be. At this rate I’ll have a heart attack or a stroke before I know about Tom.
‘Ring already!’ I tell my phone.
And then it does.
I want to cry – the tension is too great. For a few seconds I just stare at the screen. Maxwell’s name fills me with fear.
I want to know, yet I don’t.
Once I answer, everything will be different. Our lives will be altered whatever the outcome. We’re cats in Schrodinger’s box.
For the minute, Tom is both innocent and guilty. Am I ready for the reality of which it’ll be?
With a deep breath, I stab the button to accept the call.
‘Beth?’
The coward in me wants to immediately hang up. ‘Ye–yeah, it’s me,’ I say, surprised at the weakness of my voice.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘I have some news.’
The world stops spinning; dizziness overcomes me. I’m going to fall off.
‘Breathe, Beth.’ Maxwell’s voice sounds distant. I do as he says.
‘Go on,’ I say, sitting down before I faint.
The next words out of Maxwell’s mouth will determine my and Poppy’s future.
Chapter 30
BETH
Now
‘I’m so very sorry, Beth. Tom has been charged with the murder of Katie Williams.’
Everything else Maxwell says is drowned out by the frantic beating of my heart. Opposing thoughts collide in my mind; emotions crash together and splinter: I have no idea what to do; how to react; what to say. I catch the words ‘denied bail’ before a splitting pain in my head takes over everything, paralysing me, and I hang up without responding. Without asking Maxwell what happens next.
I couldn’t even ask for an explanation or ask to speak to Tom.
I need to lie down in a darkened room.
‘Mummy!’ Little hands nudge my shoulder and I open my eyes.
Oh, no – how long have I been asleep? Disorientated, I slowly sit up. ‘Poppy, darling, why aren’t you in bed?’ It can’t be morning already. The striking pain in my head has dulled, but nausea hits me – the acid is churning, threatening to expel itself.
‘You didn’t come when I called,’ she says. My bedside lamp illuminates her tear-stained face. I don’t remember turning it on, don’t remember climbing into bed even. I try to assimilate my last memories and the recollection of Maxwell’s call comes crashing back.
Oh, God. What will I tell Poppy?
‘I’m so sorry, sweetheart – did you have a bad dream?’ I swipe my hand under Tom’s pillow, take my mobile phone and check the time. It’s not quite midnight. ‘Do you want to jump in bed with me?’ I pull back the duvet on Tom’s side.
‘Where’s Daddy?’ Poppy rubs at her eyes, her mouth formed into a pout.
This is it. This is where I need to tell her something more solid than ‘away working’. But I’m not alert enough to think up anything better. Anything that’s closer to the truth.
‘He’s not going to be home for a bit, Poppy. He’s got important work to do,’ I say, reaching out and lifting her into the bed. We snuggle down and I stroke the delicate skin on her cheek. ‘Go back to sleep, my poppet.’
For now, she appears content with the brief explanation, but I know it won’t last. I have no idea what she’ll pick up on once she’s outside of these four walls. Whether the news of Tom’s charge, his possible conviction, might impact on her beyond his absence from home. Sleep will be impossible now; I can’t silence my worries. When the sun rises, will everyone be waking to the news that Tom has been charged with murder? Will Julia and the mums, Lucy, Adam, be as supportive when they find out? I’ve been lucky to have started to make closer friendships in the village, but it’s still early days and it might not be enough now. It’s not as though they were the kind of deeply meaningful friendships that could take the strain of such a revelation.
They’ll be kind for Poppy’s sake, though, won’t they?
Chapter 31
Smooth, unblemished hands grip her throat. Tighter and tighter, until she can draw no more breath. His weight begins to crush her; his straddled legs press in hard against her sides – but the air already in her lungs has nowhere to go. It remains trapped, burning inside her weakening body. She imagines her lungs bursting like overinflated balloons. The sensation, which at first she’d found almost pleasurable, is now painful. She wriggles harder beneath him; reaches a hand to push at his chest. His grasp doesn’t loosen.
He’s going to kill her.
Her bulging eyes stare at the damp spot on the ceiling. Will this be her last image? This isn’t how it was meant to be.
The edges of the jagged mark above her blur. Darken. She drifts.
A gasp.
Light floods her vision as air is released, then is quickly sucked back into her lungs – again and again, until she is able to speak.
‘What the fuck was that?’ she screams, rubbing at her throat.
He smiles.
‘Seriously, don’t ever do that again. Why didn’t you stop?’
‘Sometimes I don’t know how to,’ he says with a shrug, as he removes himself from her and sinks down on the bed. ‘You enjoyed it though. Every bit as much as I did.’
As her breathing regulates, she thinks about his words.
No. There’d been no enjoyment for her.
For the first time, she’d been afraid.
A few more seconds and she might not have recovered.
He gets up and heads to the bathroom. She hears the shower start up.
This is the last time she should allow him to go that far.
She can no longer trust him.
Chapter 32
TOM
Now
This is a living nightmare. How the hell can they say they’ve enough evidence to bring charges?
They haven’t even found a body, it’s fucking ridiculous. And Maxwell just sat there, taking it all in. Said nothing. Did nothing. Pathetic.
The duty officer’s face looks as though a swarm of bees has stung it. I stare at him blankly as he reads the charges. The words, ‘You will be remanded in police custody until you are taken for your court appearance,’ go unprotested by Maxwell and, despite my shock and disbelief, by me. Their meaning slowly sinks in.
I’m not going home.
I’m not going to see Beth or Poppy.
Not making bail is partly my fault, I know. Maxwell did say that remaining silent about my whereabouts on Tuesday would go against me – that it added another strand for the police to investigate – but I had no choice. That’s probably why bail was denied, not because of the evidence they have. Maybe they think I’m a flight risk.
Christ. I could go to prison for life.
Don’t think that way.
Maxwell will build a solid case in my defence. Beth will help him. It will be all right in the end. This is a short-term predicament. I can’t possibly be found guilty of murder. Placing me at Katie’s last known location, linking me with some random emails, the word of her poxy friends and her dad – her dad, who had barely anything to do with her in life – might be enough for the CPS to allow the police to charge me, but it won’t be enough for a jury. It won’t stick. Beyond reasonable doubt. That’s what they have to prove. They have to prove I actually committed the offence, and they won’t have jack shit. And I have Beth; she’ll throw me a lifeline.
But she can’t provide an alibi.
They haven’t got a body, though. They have no idea about time of death, so I don’t need an alibi.
These thoughts consume me as panic rises. My chest tightens, my hands tingle.
‘I don’t feel well,’ I say, doubling over. I’m probably having a heart attack.
‘Come on, fella,’ a voice says, as hands reach under my armpits and I’m pulled upright and dragged to a nearby chair. ‘Put your head between your legs – you’re faint is all. No need to panic.’
