The Serial Killer's Wife

by Alice Hunter

  I can’t see Julia’s expression clearly, but her lack of affirmation tells me she thinks they might.

  ‘If it’s not looking great, text me after lunch and I’ll bring her back for you too.’

  ‘Thanks so much, Julia.’ I blink rapidly. ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’ I force myself to smile. ‘Have a good game, Poppy! Mummy will see you in a little while.’

  ‘Shhh, Mummy. I’m hiding,’ I hear her little voice say. I’m glad she really does think this is a game, because I’m not finding it fun at all.

  ‘Speak later,’ Julia says. ‘And take care. Maybe ring that solicitor and see what he can do.’

  I tell her I will. I hear rustling leaves on the other side, footsteps growing fainter. I wait until I can’t hear them at all, then fall back against the wall, tilting my head up to the sun. It’s quiet out here. Perhaps I should stay here all day and avoid reality.

  It’s a nice thought, but I know I can’t. I’ve things to organise.

  I go inside, ask Alexa to play my uplifting playlist, and cry along to the songs.

  Chapter 48

  BETH

  Now

  My own car’s blocked by the mob of journalists, but Tom’s is still sitting outside the gateway. The detectives searched it at the same time as the cottage, but they mustn’t have found anything of interest because it wasn’t impounded. I’m free to drive it. If I want to leave the house without being hounded, I think it’s wise to take it. They can still follow, of course, but at least I’ll be cocooned inside a metal shell. Windows up, doors locked. Safer than walking.

  I peer out through the slit in my bedroom curtains. The crowd has thinned out; some of them have clearly got bored and have better stories to chase. Good. The remaining reporters and journalists are relaxed, off-guard, lolling around, their cameras inactive. If I go out the back door and creep around the front, I should be able to get into the car before they notice me. I can avoid the worst of their ‘investigative’ tactics. For today, anyway.

  But what about tomorrow? The next day? The next week; month? How long will this go on for? I dig my nails into my palms, hard. Tears sting my eyes. Maxwell seems to think I should be worried about Tom, alone in a cell, anxious about what his future holds. And I am worried about him. The uncertainty of what the police have against Tom is a huge weight on both our shoulders. He must be feeling so isolated and afraid; it’s not unheard of for an innocent person to be found guilty and imprisoned. But I’m afraid too. Right now, I’m the centre of attention – the focus is on me. Tom is safe, at least. He’s not the one dealing with the locals. He doesn’t have to keep showing his face knowing people are talking behind his back. And he’s not the one the journalists are scrambling to get a glimpse of; take photos of. He’s not being followed.

  He’s left me to deal with this alone with a three-year-old.

  He’s left me.

  The thought hits home; it’s a smack in the face. It doesn’t matter how, or why – what matters is he’s abandoned me, just like my father did.

  He’s abandoned Poppy.

  I run downstairs, snatch Tom’s keys from the pot, sneak out of the back door and dart around the front to the car. I don’t stop to think – I just act. If I hesitate, then they’ll spot me and I’ll have to scurry back inside like a mouse into its hole. I open the passenger side, as that’s closest, and scramble across the seat. I’m on the driver’s side, central locking activated, by the time one of the journos clocks what’s going on. I accelerate hard and speed away, my tyres screeching like a scene from Starsky and Hutch. The journos scatter, probably afraid I’ll mow them down. Let them be afraid. They shouldn’t be in the road in the first place. Idiots.

  My entire body shakes as I continue to drive, slowly now, through the village. I don’t want to go to Poppy’s Place – they’ll assume that’s where I’m heading and be there within minutes, and I can’t have Lucy getting stressed out about the attention. I carry on driving, out of the village, taking a right onto the main road. I’ve no idea where I’m going, but I am compelled to keep going. Anywhere out of Lower Tew will do.

  It’s times like this I wish I had family I could drop in on. A safe haven to crash at, even if only for a few hours. Having no one wasn’t an issue when I first met Tom – he took the place of my family. He was my everything. I didn’t need anyone else. Tom would tell me that all the time. He said I was all he needed, too.

  But I don’t think that was entirely true.

  I’m in Banbury before I know it, parking up at the train station.

  This is part of Tom’s daily commute. Perhaps I’ll follow his steps – the ones I thought he took on Tuesday morning. Why was Tuesday different? It can’t have been a coincidence that he chose the day after he’d been questioned about Katie to take the day off. Perhaps he just couldn’t face work after a long, emotional night. I’ve no reason to think he hadn’t planned to go to work as usual when he left me and Poppy at six fifteen that morning. Perhaps he got here and decided in that moment to go off and spend time alone.

  Did he drive, leave his car at Banbury, in this car park, then take a different train somewhere for the day? DC Cooper said they’d checked CCTV and they hadn’t seen him getting a train into London. And surely, if he’d driven somewhere, they’d have picked him up on a camera – they have those ones that automatically recognise number plates, so they would’ve checked, wouldn’t they?

  After sitting contemplating, watching people head to and from the station, I make my mind up. I’m going into London. I’ll drop into Moore & Wells myself; see if anyone there will tell me why Tom didn’t show for work on Tuesday. Someone must know. I’m not entirely sure why I’m doing this – I think I just need to find out what Tom’s been hiding from me. If I know, I can protect myself. Protect Poppy. Because in my gut I know he wasn’t just taking a bit of time out. He was up to something. And he didn’t want me to find out what.

  Chapter 49

  TOM

  Now

  The initial hearing, a formality, is over. Maxwell had already explained my case would be referred to the Crown Court and that I wouldn’t be bailed because their enquiries regarding my whereabouts on Tuesday are ongoing, so there were no surprises. I’m being taken to Belmarsh prison to await my trial. A remand prisoner. My stomach rolls and twists. I don’t want to spend a single night in a prison cell, let alone years. Maxwell has reassured me I won’t be treated as a convicted prisoner. Yeah, right. I might not have to follow the usual regime or wear prison issue clothing, but I’m going to be incarcerated. With convicted criminals.

  I can have a one-hour visit three times a week.

  Please, Beth. You must see me. I need you.

  Chapter 50

  BETH

  Now

  The train rattles into Marylebone station and I rush to exit before I get caught up in the crowd, weaving my way towards the Bakerloo line. It’s been a long time since I’ve used the underground: I’d almost forgotten how busy and congested it could be.

  I don’t have a lot of time to spare. I called Julia while I was travelling, explaining the situation. She kindly agreed to collect Poppy for me and look after her until I get home. It seemed a big ask, but she didn’t hesitate – she said she was expecting to pick her up anyway after this morning’s escapade.

  Nerves take root as I think about what I’m doing. Why do I think I’ll find out what Tom was doing on Tuesday from one visit into London? If the police haven’t uncovered his whereabouts, I doubt I’ll have better luck. But I have to try. I have to feel like I’m doing something. If I do discover where he was, though – what he was up to – what am I going to do with the new information?

  It depends what you find out.

  I’m carried off the tube with a dozen other passengers. We all surge to the door at once, then along the platform and up the escalators. My body goes with the flow. It feels I have little choice in the matter. When I finally break away from the river of people, I stand on the p
avement outside the station, taking a moment to gather my thoughts and to figure out exactly where I am. My starting point has to be the bank. I can’t remember the last time I set foot in there. I can barely recall any specific names or conjure any faces in my mind’s eye, but hopefully there’ll be a name that rings a bell. Someone willing to talk to me about Tom.

  As soon as I’m through the main door of Moore & Wells, I begin scanning the lobby floor for an employee I recognise. For an uncomfortable moment I think I might have wasted my time, but relief washes over me as I’m approached by a familiar-looking man dressed in a charcoal-grey suit. A flash of recognition passes across his face, too.

  ‘Good morning,’ the man says. His eyes are wide-set, the bridge of his nose spread – a boxer’s nose. It’s that which has sparked a memory. ‘Do you have an appointment here today?’

  I gaze at the silver name badge on his lapel. Andrew Norton. Andy. New to the banking business when I was last invited to one of the firm’s dinners. I got stuck chatting to him about investment banking – an exhilarating conversation it was not. I won’t forget having it, but I would never be able to recall a single thing he’d actually said if questioned. Several hours of my life I’ll never get back.

  I’m reminded now of how Tom always talks about his day in relation to how he felt about it, rather than specific details, precisely because he’s aware of how dreadfully boring banking talk is to anyone other than a banker.

  ‘Hi, Andy,’ I say, raising my eyes to his. ‘Beth. Tom’s wife?’ I wait for a beat. ‘I don’t have an appointment – I was only dropping in as I was close by.’

  ‘Ah of course,’ he says, enthusiastically. ‘I thought I knew your face.’

  ‘Are any of Tom’s usual colleagues about?’ By usual colleagues I’m meaning those he considers his mates, but I don’t say this explicitly as, for some strange reason, I don’t want to hurt Andy’s feelings by assuming he’s not one of them.

  ‘They very rarely come down to this level,’ Andy says with one brow arched. He’s clearly fully aware he’s not ‘one of them’. ‘I’ll take you through security and get you a visitor pass, then if you go up to level three you’ll be able to find someone who can help.’ His face darkens suddenly, his eyes flitting around. ‘I’m … er, sorry. You know, to have heard about his—’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ I interrupt quickly, not wishing to hear him say the words. ‘As you might expect, it’s come as rather a shock.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I can imagine.’ His eyes widen. He looks as though he’s about to add something, then thinks better of it and closes his mouth again. He remains silent as he escorts me through the barrier and sees me into the lift. ‘I’ll let them know you’re on your way up,’ he says, giving me a lop-sided smile. ‘Nice to see you again.’

  ‘You too, Andy. And thanks.’

  The lift doors close. I look out the corner of my eye at the mirrors – they’re on every side of the lift, so it’s difficult to avoid my reflection entirely. I pinch the material of my blouse at the shoulders, lifting it and straightening it, then run my fingers through my hair and pat to neaten it. I don’t have time to reapply my lipstick before the door swishes open.

  ‘Beth! This is a surprise.’ I’m greeted before I’ve fully stepped out of the lift by a thick Scottish accent. Tom’s boss.

  Thankfully his name comes to me as soon as I see him. ‘Hello, Alexander,’ I say. ‘It’s been a while.’

  ‘Look, I’ve got several appointments, but I can fit you in quickly – as it’s you,’ he says, laying a large, purplish hand on my shoulder and guiding me across the floor to his office. I can feel the heat of his palm through my blouse and I twist slightly to escape it. Why must he touch? I remember that from the last dinner, too.

  ‘Do take a seat. Drink?’

  I’m about to decline, but then I decide it might be a good idea as it will buy me some extra time to grill him about Tom. ‘Yes – white coffee, no sugar, thanks.’ I sit with my back to the door at his heavy wooden desk. I smile to myself as I note he has his name engraved on a mahogany and brass desk sign: Alexander Robertson, Director of Portfolio Management – with a bunch of letters after it. So old-fashioned and conceited. From what Tom has told me, he’s quite the chauvinist, too.

  Alexander strides to the machine in the corner of his office and sets about making two drinks. I’m almost surprised he hasn’t called for a female colleague to come in and do it for him.

  ‘I wondered if you’d pop in,’ he says. His back is to me while he stirs a wooden stick in the cardboard cups. ‘After the detectives showed up and began asking questions, I imagined you’d be close behind.’

  ‘Oh, really? Why?’

  ‘I know you, Beth. Or, rather, I know what Tom tells me. I had a feeling a determined woman like yourself wouldn’t take any of this lying down.’

  I find it odd that this man, who – bar a few social gatherings – is a stranger, is talking about me in this way. I suppose Tom has probably talked about me – maybe about my determination in setting up the pottery café – but I’m doubtful it would equate to enough for Alexander to think he knows me, or what I’d do in this situation.

  I don’t know how to act in this situation. How could he?

  ‘If I’m honest, Alexander, I have literally no idea how to take it. Lying down or otherwise. It’s why I’m here, really. To try and fill a few … well, gaps.’

  ‘What kind of gaps?’ He places a cup in front of me and then sits in his chair, shuffling it forwards. ‘You know the police have already been here, and we weren’t able to help them past the basics – the hours he worked, who he was pally with – that sort of thing.’ He steeples his fingers together, elbows on his desk.

  ‘That’s fine. Basics are a good place to start.’ I lean towards him. ‘Starting with Monday. He was here then I believe – what hours did he work that day?’

  ‘The usual – he gets in for half eight, leaves at half four, so he can get back to see Poppy before she goes to bed. He arranged those hours when she was born and always makes up any shortfall by working from home, as you know. He’s very much a creature of habit, Beth. I told the detective woman that.’

  ‘Yes, which is why it’s odd that he was late home that evening. But even more odd that he didn’t show up to work at all on Tuesday.’

  ‘As far as we knew, Beth, he was taking the day off sick. He called in at eight thirty to say he’d been taken ill on the journey and was going back home.’

  ‘The police didn’t tell me,’ I say, more to myself than to him. He wasn’t at home that day – I know because I stopped by at the cottage to pick up more cakes before collecting Poppy. ‘He didn’t go home again, Alexander. Did he speak with anyone else here that day?’

  ‘He didn’t actually speak with me at all. It was Celia who took his call and passed the message on to the team.’

  ‘Is she here today?’ I turn in my seat, craning my head to see through the glass partitions of his office to the wider floor.

  ‘Hang on, I’ll grab her.’ Alexander gets up and beckons to a smartly dressed woman in her forties standing on the far side. She immediately stops her conversation and heads over.

  ‘Yes, Alex?’ she says, popping her head and shoulders around the doorway. Her eyes narrow when she sees me.

  ‘Come in, Celia; close the door,’ Alexander says. ‘Beth is Tom’s wife. She’s wondering what Tom said to you, exactly, when he called in sick last Tuesday.’

  ‘Oh. Well, not a lot really. He was very abrupt. I had to tell that to the police, too, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Why are you afraid?’ I ask, unable to stop myself.

  She blushes. ‘Well, I mean, I had to say how he came across. Like there was something bothering him. And I realise it might’ve added to their … concern, I suppose.’

  ‘Why did you think he sounded as though something was bothering him? If he told you he’d come over ill, didn’t you think it was just that?’

  ‘I’ve worked wi
th Tom for a number of years now, and I picked up that something was a little off in his tone. It didn’t seem like it was because he felt unwell. He sounded panicked.’

  ‘Did you happen to pick up anything useful? Like where the hell he was?’ I squeeze my hands together, focus on gripping them to try and distract myself from my rising frustration. Celia looks taken aback at my abruptness. She licks her lips and swallows. Pushes her shoulders back.

  ‘I could only hear what sounded like a radio in the background. So nothing helpful. He could’ve been anywhere.’

  ‘A car radio?’

  ‘Well I assumed at the time he was driving back home, so yeah. Must’ve been.’

  Celia shrugs then ducks back out again, and I watch her through the glass as she returns to her desk.

  I know Tom didn’t return home – the police seemed certain of that. Was he driving somewhere else?

  Was my husband having an affair? The thought makes me sick. No. He wouldn’t do that.

  ‘How has he seemed to you, lately?’ I turn back to Alexander who I catch in a yawn. ‘Sorry, am I keeping you up?’ I smile.

  ‘Had a long, sleepless night.’ He sips from his cardboard cup. ‘He’s always kept pretty much to himself, Beth. You know how he is. Rarely shares anything too personal with us lot – he tends to just talk about you and Poppy. Jimmy might know more; he chats with Tom more than anyone else.’

  I recall Tom talking about Jimmy on several occasions, sharing funny anecdotes and office banter. It would be fair to assume that if Tom confided in anyone here, it would be him. ‘Great, can I have a quick word with him?’

  ‘Not in. He’s on annual leave until Friday – in Cornwall with his wife and kids. Sorry.’

  ‘No worries.’ I sigh. I can’t say I was expecting much really, but I’m disappointed I will leave here without a single lead as to what Tom was up to on Tuesday.

  ‘Maybe you’re looking for something that’s not there, Beth.’