The Serial Killer's Wife

by Alice Hunter

  ‘Been tied up.’

  She doesn’t elaborate, and the line goes quiet. Odd – she was the one to call me. I stay silent, waiting for her to speak again. I want to know what’s going on, but I’m hesitant to ask. I wait out the silence.

  ‘Where are you right now?’ Imogen asks. She sounds tired – her voice is strained.

  ‘I’m just at home, packing a bag ready to stay at Adam’s for the next few days. Why?’ My mouth goes dry. I wonder if I’m still under some suspicion. Did Imogen believe me? My reasons for not telling her sooner about Tom’s confession? She could be gathering evidence of my involvement, or getting ready to arrest me for perverting the course of justice. I only have her word that what I divulged wouldn’t be used against me. If they’ve found a third victim, she might easily retract that. My pulse quickens. I look out of the bedroom window, half expecting to see police cars screeching to a halt outside.

  ‘I’m on my way to you,’ Imogen says, then hangs up.

  Am I right? Could she be on her way to arrest me? Serial killer couples have been known before – might the detectives be thinking that Tom and I are the new Fred and Rose West?

  I pace the room as my thoughts spiral.

  Relax. They can’t have any proof of wrongdoing by me.

  Apart from the fact I knew he’d done his victims harm and I didn’t tell anyone. That’s clearly bad enough.

  Do they think I know the most recent victim? Perhaps that’s why Imogen is coming here.

  With a thumping heart, I realise someone might have been killed while Tom’s been in custody. In which case, will they think it’s me?

  No, of course they won’t.

  I have an alibi for the last two weeks – I’ve been seen every day by someone, and there’s a mob of reporters documenting my every move. Well, almost every move. I must calm down. I haven’t done anything.

  I stuff a few more items into my holdall, then go into Poppy’s room to pack her things. She’s happily playing. She’s so independent; I love that about her. She’s content with her own company. A thought creeps into my mind. Tom is a killer. Do these tendencies run in families? Will Poppy have inherited the genes that could make her a killer too?

  No.

  She hasn’t experienced trauma, or abuse, or any of the factors attributed to people who kill later in life. With my help, she can get over the loss of her father. I didn’t have a loving, caring mother to make up for my dad walking out and abandoning me, but she has. I will make this right – she’ll have a secure, loving upbringing and she’ll be a well-adjusted, emotionally stable adult. I’m determined she will.

  The banging at the door makes me jump.

  ‘Just stay there and play for a bit, Poppy. I’ll be back in a minute to help you pack some toys.’

  She doesn’t look up from her animals, all lined up in size order, but she says brightly, ‘Okay, Mummy.’

  I rush down the stairs, almost forgetting to duck under the wooden beam in my haste – knocking myself out now would be bad timing. Although missing all this drama might have its advantages. I swallow hard and take some deep, steadying breaths before I greet Imogen. I catch a glimpse of flashing cameras before I close the door quickly behind her.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask immediately.

  ‘Why don’t we take a seat?’ Imogen walks directly into the kitchen. I feel a twinge of annoyance that, yet again, she doesn’t wait to be asked.

  ‘I need to check on Poppy first.’ I force myself to walk calmly back up the stairs. I know I don’t really need to look in on her again, but I’m being a coward. Poppy is playing with her café set and kitchen now, making food for each of her animals. She’ll be fine upstairs on her own for a little while longer.

  ‘Right – I have some news,’ Imogen says as I return.

  I nod, momentarily mute. Anxious.

  ‘When you mentioned Tom’s suspected affair earlier, a few things slotted into place. Two weeks ago, on Wednesday, a body was found in a flat in central London. From the post-mortem it was concluded the victim had been killed sometime between four and ten p.m. two days previously.’

  ‘Monday,’ I whisper.

  ‘Yes. The Monday Tom was late home.’

  ‘H– how did she die?’

  ‘Strangulation.’ Imogen delivers this information abruptly, with no attempt to soften the blow. ‘Crime scene investigators collected various samples. We’ll be able to see if any DNA matches with Tom’s.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I manage. My whole body feels weak; tiredness is swooping in to steal what little energy I had left.

  ‘It is, and it isn’t,’ she says, her brow knitting together. ‘The victim was a sex worker.’

  I shake my head. A sex worker? Why on earth do they think Tom killed her? I remember hearing the news about it now – and how it had made me glad to be out of London and in safety in Lower Tew. Yet here I’ve been all this time, living with a murderer.

  ‘And you think Tom killed her?’

  ‘I do, yes. The location is close to Tom’s workplace, so he’d be able to visit her in lunchbreaks. Or, if he left earlier than he told you, after work too. CCTV in the surrounding area will be able to confirm. And from the bank statements, we think we can link a regular payment to the victim.’

  Those missing bank statements from the kitchen drawer. I’d always assumed Tom didn’t use the account, so I’d never checked them. ‘So that’s what you meant,’ I say. ‘When you said you thought Tom wouldn’t see it as an affair. If it was just sex and he wasn’t emotionally involved.’

  ‘Yes. And the fact he’d been seeing a sex worker fits with the profile.’

  ‘The profile?’

  ‘The profile of the type of killer we think Tom is,’ Imogen says. Her eyes soften. It’s almost as though in this moment she feels sorry for me.

  She shouldn’t.

  ‘He’ll be charged with this murder, too I assume. That’s definitely enough evidence to be convicted then, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, that’s where it’s not as cut and dried as one might hope. As I say, the victim was a sex worker and that brings its own challenges. Not least the amount of DNA retrieved from the scene. It won’t just be Tom’s. And if he was careful, her body itself might not provide conclusive evidence that he was the perpetrator.’

  ‘Oh, God. So back to square one, really, then. All this circumstantial evidence but nothing a good lawyer wouldn’t be able to explain away. He’s a vile, cheating husband, but not necessarily a killer.’ Hearing these words as they leave my mouth shocks me – something about putting Tom’s actions in a nutshell like this leaves me cold.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re right. We still have a strong case – there’s a lot of circumstantial evidence stacking up. I’d rather have conclusive proof, though. Make it watertight. Your husband shouldn’t be allowed out of prison for the rest of his life.’

  Strangely, I still have the urge to defend Tom. ‘But he was seeing someone for sex, and I imagine it was to act out the fantasies I was never keen on – so that he wouldn’t hurt me. He was trying to protect me and Poppy from himself.’

  ‘Maybe, yes. It’s possibly why he went so long without committing another offence. But, ultimately, it seems his urge to kill became too great. He lost control.’

  ‘He only ever lost control when he felt let down, though. Phoebe and Katie made him feel worthless. And Tom said their deaths were spur of the moment accidents. Strangulation doesn’t strike me as accidental. Why would he kill this woman if he was only seeing her for his sexual fantasies?’

  ‘I think he’s the only one who can answer that now.’

  A thought catches me. ‘Could it have been a sex game gone wrong?’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’ Imogen doesn’t add anything. She probably knows more from the post-mortem than she’s letting on.

  Part of me is shocked at hearing Tom had been paying for sex, but the other part feels a pang of guilt. I don’t know whether to count this as an affair
. I’d believed he was cheating on me, so I acted out of anger. I’ve betrayed his trust and led the detectives to more incriminating evidence. And it seems he was doing it out of love for his family instead. To keep himself from hurting me.

  Now, though, there’s only one way to go. I’ve come this far – I need to give Imogen everything. I take a deep breath.

  ‘I think I know where Katie Williams’ remains might be,’ I say.

  Chapter 79

  TOM

  Now

  Nerves consume me.

  They’ve linked me to Natalia. I knew her body would be found, but was confident they wouldn’t look at me for it.

  I’d left her flat and gone home afterwards, assuming no one would find her before I returned the following day to properly clear up. At the time, I’d been more concerned about ensuring the arrangement she’d made with her friend to meet the following day wouldn’t go ahead – I’d used her finger to access her phone and sent a message to Mandy cancelling their shopping trip. Natalia had told me about her day off before our session.

  Having been questioned about Katie’s presumed murder that evening, it was a huge risk to go back – but I couldn’t chance leaving the scene as I had. Couldn’t leave her as I had.

  I’d planned to dispose of her body as I had Katie’s. I’d gone to see Oscar at his garage – I gave him some story about my car having a flat battery and needing one ASAP to get to work. He let me borrow a car that was due to go to auction. I was going to bundle her into the boot and drive somewhere remote, but once I got to her place, I didn’t fancy my chances. It was daytime in a busy London borough – there were people everywhere. So I’d bottled it. It’s not as easy to get away with things in this digital world. There’s CCTV everywhere, and people with mobile phones posting anything that looks remotely unusual to social media. It’s not like it was back when I’d killed Phoebe, or even Katie. Life is more complicated now.

  Or maybe I’m not as daring. After all, I’ve a family to consider.

  Going through my actions for the millionth time, I conclude there should be nothing to say categorically that I’d been the one to kill Natalia. Any DNA evidence only confirms I’ve been there, at her flat – touched her, had sex with her – just like the half a dozen or so other men she’d had that day. Of course, if the police manage to track these other men down, they may well have alibis for the time of death, which would leave just me. But I’ll bet they won’t easily trace them – the draw of seeing Natalia was that she wasn’t your standard sex worker. It was all very private – she didn’t flout her wares, didn’t advertise what she did – it was through word of mouth only. No details, nothing traceable. Unless she told someone, like her friend, about the men she had visit her, no one would know. She managed herself; didn’t have someone looking out for her.

  Her mistake.

  But she did scratch my neck.

  The recollection makes my pulse rise.

  No. I cleaned her body, scraped her nails – I’m sure.

  Breathe.

  I should try and stay calm. Maxwell will be able to get me off the hook with this one easily enough. Everything is explainable.

  Of course, now I think about it, I wasn’t so careful with Katie. I suppose the adrenaline, the sexual gratification I experienced when killing her, took over my senses. I think I’d probably call it a crime of passion.

  I hadn’t been thinking as clearly when I disposed of her. I hadn’t worn gloves; I hadn’t bleached her body. But it would be badly decomposed by now – possibly only a skeleton – so that won’t matter. What I buried with her, on the other hand? That will be crucial evidence; might tip the balance towards a guilty verdict. That was my mistake. Among others.

  The knot in my gut suddenly intensifies.

  Beth has supposedly given the detectives evidence to help their case against me. She’s handed over the sweatshirt in an attempt to link me to Phoebe’s death.

  What if she leads them to Katie’s body?

  Breathing slowly, I try and keep in control of my emotions. I didn’t outright tell her where I’d buried Katie, although from what I did say, it wouldn’t take much to figure out. But she’s never been to the location, so even if she does betray me, they might not find it. I hold onto the hope that Beth still has love for the father of her child. That she wouldn’t put our family life, our future happiness – Poppy’s security – in jeopardy.

  If she does talk to them about it, and if they do find Katie – and prove I killed her – I will make sure Beth pays for her betrayal. I’m not letting her have a future with my daughter if I can’t.

  Chapter 80

  BETH

  Now

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’

  The three words cut through me – Imogen speaks them with disbelief and exasperation. Her lips purse together tightly and her eyes narrow as they lock with mine. She’s not as happy about this information as I’d hoped. I thought the news of a possible location for Katie’s remains would outweigh her anger towards me not having disclosed this at the same time as everything else. I’d been holding my suspicion back, partly because it was only a hunch, but partly out of fear. Imogen’s expression makes me realise that was a huge mistake.

  I’ve judged this badly.

  ‘I was scared, before, to say anything. I’d already given you the sweatshirt – if Tom got off, he’d come back and kill me for going against him,’ I say in a garbled rush.

  ‘No, Beth. You were scared you’d be hauled in and charged too, weren’t you? And let me guess – you thought you’d keep the whereabouts of Katie Williams’ body from us because you figured by holding it in reserve you could make a deal so you would get off lightly.’

  Imogen’s revulsion is plain to see. It’s too much for me to bear: the emotions of these past weeks pour out of me. I try to stifle my sobs; I don’t want Poppy to hear me and be scared. ‘I – I … I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure enough …’ I get up and tear off a piece of kitchen roll to blow my nose, and then I pour a glass of water, taking sips to calm myself down. ‘Imogen, I swear I only want to help. You’re right, I did hold back – because I’m only going on something Tom told me and he wasn’t specific. I didn’t want to send you off on some wild goose chase.’

  ‘But you’re telling me now. The goose chase could be the same, so why bother? Guilty conscience?’

  ‘Tom manipulated me for so long, I suppose I’ve become expert at keeping my mouth shut. This whole thing has been my worst nightmare, Imogen. For a while after finding out, I was afraid of what he’d do to me if I stepped out of line. Can you imagine being told by your husband – the father of your child – that he killed two women prior to meeting you? I was so shocked that for a while I blocked it out. And then shock gave way to fear.’

  ‘I understand the fear, Beth – trust me on that one. But you should’ve disclosed everything that you knew when you told me about the sweatshirt. That was the time to tell me. That was your opportunity to make sure he doesn’t ever come back to hurt you. Didn’t you see that?’ Imogen’s hands slam down repeatedly on the table as she speaks. I blink at each slapping noise.

  ‘I saw my life falling apart,’ I say, my voice thick with tears. ‘I saw Poppy’s future in ruins, with abandonment issues just like I had, if I was taken from her too. I panicked! And the thought he could still be released and come back here to make my life a living hell – or worse, kill me – well, it made me hold back. I’m so very sorry I didn’t tell you everything, I really am.’

  ‘You’re going to have to come in and be questioned and give a new statement, Beth.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. Fresh tears blur my vision. ‘Will I be charged with anything?’

  Poppy runs into the kitchen and flings herself at me. ‘When is Daddy coming home?’ Her big, round blue eyes are glistening as she looks up to me. I catch Imogen’s expression out of the corner of my eye; she’s watching this moment intently.

  ‘A little while yet, Poppy.’ I try and hide my tear-str
eaked face.

  ‘You stay with me, Mummy, won’t you? You won’t go away.’

  I glance at Imogen and see her stiff posture give a little.

  ‘I’ll always be here for you, my little Poppy poppet.’ I give her a hug, then ask her to go and play in the lounge for a moment and that I’ll join her in a minute.

  Imogen waits for Poppy to toddle back off before speaking again.

  ‘Right, Beth. You’d best tell me where you think Katie is.’

  Chapter 81

  BETH

  Now

  Adam knocks on the door at dead-on six.

  It takes a few minutes to load his car, then half an hour to fill him in on the day’s developments. We sit in the car in silence once we get to his place, Poppy and Jess jabbering away in their car seats behind us. I gather from this that he’s still in shock about me knowing, or at least thinking I know, about the location of a murder victim’s body. My husband’s victim. His second of a suspected three.

  That we know of.

  Imogen had been keen to point out that if Tom is capable of three murders, there’s no telling if there have been more. He chose to tell me about the two ‘accidents’, she had said, probably because I’d forced his hand by finding Katie’s email account on his iPad. I know now that she’s right. Tom wouldn’t have ever confided in me if I hadn’t rocked the boat. If I hadn’t confronted him with what I’d found and pushed him into a corner.

  To have killed people and – up until now – got away with it, shows he’s good at lying. Good at covering his tracks and getting on with a normal family life. He manipulated me. Everyone. If it hadn’t come to light now, when would it have done? Next year? Five years? When it was too late to start my life over? When it completely ruined Poppy’s too?

  I was stupid to have kept my suspicions about Katie’s body from the detectives. It’s a move that could cost me a lot. But I hope Imogen will keep her original promise; that the mitigating factors still stand. She strongly hinted that they’d protect me and Poppy, as long as I gave them everything to make sure Tom could be put away for life.