Rhonda hesitates. ‘There, look. Someone’s clearly got their arm around her. You can just see a hand on her shoulder. But it looks as though the person beside her has been cropped out.’
I lean in closer. She’s right. And it’s a man’s hand. I hadn’t noticed before.
‘But don’t read too much into it. It could be anyone,’ Rhonda adds.
I study the photograph intently, hugging myself, suddenly freezing cold.
‘The ring,’ I say, barely able to get the words out as I stare at it glinting in the sunshine. On the little finger of the mystery person is a gold signet ring – nothing flash, but it was vintage and the perfect size for my husband when I bought it. I gave it to him several Christmases ago and he hadn’t taken it off since. ‘It’s Jeremy’s,’ I say, staggering backwards to lean against the wall.
Nineteen
Then
‘Look who it is,’ the girl says, leering at Evan as she bursts through the boys’ toilet door, slamming it back against the wall. The other three girls snigger as they follow in behind her, flanking her. ‘If it isn’t Fathead.’ Her eyes dip down to his groin. ‘Go on, let’s see it, then.’
Evan feels his face burning beetroot as he stands beside the urinal, just about to unzip himself. The girl’s hands are clamped across her chest, making her breasts show in the neck of her blouse, the first few buttons undone.
She steps closer, shoving him in the shoulder. ‘I said let’s see it, Fathead.’ Her nose wrinkles up as she looks him up and down.
Evan shakes his head, picking his backpack up from the floor. The girl kicks it out of his hand, sending it skidding over towards one of the empty cubicles. There was no one else in here when he came in.
‘Why did you shit in my locker?’ she says to him. ‘You gonna clear it up, idiot?’
‘I never,’ Evan says weakly, catching sight of a few boys gathering behind in the toilet doorway to see what’s going on. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘Aww diddums, is Fathead gonna cry? You want your mummy, loser boy?’ The girl prods him in the chest again. Ripples of laughter come from behind her.
Evan shakes his head, staring at the floor.
‘You gonna pee in your little girl’s pants?’ she says, shoving him again. Then she reaches down for his school bag, unzipping it and tipping the contents all over the floor. That’s when Evan sees his mum has put a Penguin biscuit in there. He didn’t know she’d done that. The girl crushes it with her foot.
Evan doesn’t move. He can’t. He just stands there, his arms dangling by his sides as he wishes he was dead. No, wishing she was dead.
‘If you don’t show me your nasty little thing, I’m gonna tell on you for shitting in my locker, Fathead.’
‘But I didn’t,’ Evan says weakly, feeling the tears welling up in his eyes. His entire body is shaking and he can’t stop it.
‘Right, I’m gonna tell the head right now what you did,’ she says, turning to go. ‘Come on, girls.’
‘Wait,’ Evan says, panicking. ‘I’ll show you, then,’ he says, hating that he even said the words. But if his mum gets called in and finds out, then Griff will get mad as hell and he’ll get a beating even worse than this.
The boys standing behind the mean girl start cheering, thrusting their arms in the air.
Get it out! Get it out!
Slowly, his head hanging down, Evan unzips his flies an inch. He stops.
‘All the way, Fathead,’ the girl says. A few boys whoop and jeer.
Evan undoes his zip all the way.
‘And the button,’ the girl demands.
He does as he’s told, but before he knows what’s happening, she lunges forward and yanks both his trousers and underpants down around his knees, just as the pee starts dribbling out. He can’t help himself, especially not when he hears the peals of laughter from the other faces leering at him.
‘What’s going on in here?’ a deep male voice suddenly booms.
When he looks up, Evan sees the deputy head standing there, glaring at him.
Then the girl lets out a piercing scream, covering her eyes and turning away, making a fake sobbing sound. There’s a scuffle as the boys run off.
‘We… we… just came in here by mistake, sir,’ she pants hysterically. ‘And then he… he flashed us,’ she sobs, hugging her girlfriends for comfort. ‘I can’t believe he did it, sir. He’s a pervert.’ More sobs.
‘No I never!’ Evan pleads, pulling up his clothing.
‘Go to your classrooms, girls, while I deal with this,’ the deputy head says, glaring and jabbing a finger at Evan. ‘Cover yourself up, boy,’ he barks, before dragging Evan away by the arm.
‘That’s her,’ Evan says at break time, pointing across the playground after he told Mac what happened. He’s still shaking. ‘The bitch.’ He’s sitting with Mac up on the mossy bank at the back of the playground, each of them irritated because the tin of snacks is empty. Someone had cut off the padlock and stolen all their stuff – three chocolate bars and a packet of chewing gum missing. Mac had kicked the old cash tin hard, scanning around to see who might be watching.
‘Her? That’s Gem,’ Mac says, eyeing the girl. ‘She’s in my class. She doesn’t like me either.’
As usual, she has a huddle of girls around her and a few satellite groups of boys loitering, hoping she’ll notice them. Evan’s heart races as she looks their way.
Earlier, in the toilets, Evan had pleaded with the deputy head, telling him over and over that the girl had made him do it. Lucky for Evan, the deputy just gave him a detention and said he wouldn’t call his mum this time, but if he ever did it again, he’d be in deeper trouble.
‘What kind of name is Gem anyway?’ Evan asks sourly. ‘She’s no gem.’ He remembers his mum calling him a gem once, but that was a long while ago now, and not since she got with Griff.
‘She’s called Jennifer Mason really. She’s new and made everyone call her “Jen M” to avoid confusion. But then Mr Bradley, the PE teacher, called her “Gem”, which she really liked but only ’cos all the girls have a crush on him. I reckon she’s snogged him, dirty bitch.’
Evan doesn’t know anything about crushing – apart from insects, of course – nor why anyone would confuse that horrid girl with anyone else, let alone want to snog her. He knows that’s kissing, which means she’s probably pregnant. Dirty cow.
‘Reckon it was her who nicked our sweets,’ Evan says, retrieving the tin from the ground. He closes the lid and tucks it inside Mac’s school bag while they wait for the school bell to ring. ‘You wait,’ he says, staring across the playground at her. ‘One day, I’m gonna get her back for what she did to me. Even if it takes the rest of my life.’
The sun beats down on the lanes, on the scorched fields, on the village, on the estate – on the whole world, Evan reckons. His mum called it an Indian summer, but he doesn’t know what that is. All he knows is that he hasn’t stopped sweating for three days and now, as his legs pedal until they burn, desperately trying to keep up with Mac, he realises just how dry his mouth is. He thinks he’ll pass out if he doesn’t get a drink soon.
‘Come on,’ Mac says, stopping up ahead on his bike, one foot on the ground as he twists around. Evan finally draws up alongside him, his head thrumming as if his brain has somehow got too big for his skull.
When they reach the gateway, they hide their bikes in the ditch and follow the nicks in the trees to get to the den. Over the last couple of weeks, they’ve secretly brought up supplies, including a tarpaulin sheet that Mac had found in his garage, along with a tiny camping stove.
Evan runs ahead to the den, tripping on a couple of roots. He’s got that bottle of water on his mind, the one they didn’t finish last time they were up here a week or so ago. Ducking down under the tarpaulin, he grabs it from beneath the roof of branches and leaves, twisting off the cap and gulping it down. And that’s when he sees it.
‘Mac, quick!’ he calls out. ‘This is major.’ A strange feeling s
wells inside him – pressure in his chest.
Mac drops the bundle of twigs he’s collecting for the fire and gallops over to the den.
‘Whoa!’ he says as he draws up, halting suddenly when he spots it.
‘It’s dead,’ Evan exclaims, daring to prod its head with the toe of his shoe. ‘Wicked.’
They stare down at the foot-long creature lying prone amongst the leaves and scrubby ground of the wood. Dried blood mats its once-soft fur, making Evan want to pick it up and snuggle it against his neck.
He nudges it again with his shoe, rolling it over so its stiff front limbs stick up in the air. Mac leaps back at the sight of its eviscerated belly, which dances with something creamy and beige, like its insides are still alive.
‘Yuk!’ Mac squeals, cupping his hand over his mouth, making a retching sound.
Evan doesn’t say a word – he can’t. He’s transfixed by the maggot-filled rabbit, thinking it is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
Twenty
Now
Rhonda
‘You going to stare at that thing all night?’ Chris says, shifting his position on the sofa.
‘Sorry,’ Rhonda replies, still scrolling on her phone, her eyes glued to the screen.
‘You’re missing the movie,’ he adds. ‘Shall I pause? Get some more beers?’
‘Huh?’ Rhonda says without looking up. ‘Mmm…’ she adds vaguely. Suddenly her head flops back against the sofa as Chris withdraws his arm from around her shoulders. ‘Hey…’ she grumbles, play-kicking him with her foot. Their legs are intertwined on the footstool in front of them, tangled together beneath the fleece throw. Saturday-night tradition when Chris isn’t working – pizza, a few beers and a movie.
‘Right, Miss Antisocial. I’ll be back in five.’ Chris hoists himself from the sofa, leaving Rhonda still staring at her phone, her mind whirring.
‘I didn’t know you had Instagram,’ he says when he returns, dropping down into the nest of cushions they’ve made. He pops the tops off a couple of Beck’s – non-alcoholic for him and a regular for Rhonda.
‘I have now,’ she replies, taking the bottle from him without looking up, propping it between her legs. ‘Downloaded it tonight.’
‘Please tell me you’re not going to be broadcasting our every move to the world.’
Rhonda laughs. ‘Your disgusting habits are safe with me,’ she says, prodding him in the side. ‘But look. Guess who this is?’ She holds her phone between them and scrolls down the reel of pictures.
‘Some woman who likes taking selfies?’
He’s not wrong, Rhonda thinks. Though there’s something else about Madeleine Lacroix – something beguiling, youthful and innocent-looking almost, though the way she looks up at the camera makes her seem anything but. Her full name is on her bio, as well as her phone number and a link to her LinkedIn profile. Her Instagram grid is that of a cool, hipster, carefree, independent and professional young woman. She’s all wavy chestnut hair effortlessly styled around her slim face, and her eyes are made up in each of her photos to look sultry and smoky. With pale-pink glossy lips and highlighted cheekbones, everything about her gives the impression of being natural and un-staged, even though it must have taken huge effort.
‘Living her best life,’ Chris says through a snort. He swigs from his bottle, keeping one eye on Rhonda’s phone screen. ‘Who is she? Some influencer?’
‘No. Jen showed me her profile earlier,’ Rhonda admits. ‘You’ll think I’m crazy, but ever since I saw her face, something has… unsettled me. And I think I know why.’ Rhonda thrusts the phone closer to Chris, making him recoil. ‘Are you sure you don’t recognise her?’
Chris takes the phone, zooming in on Madeleine’s face. He shrugs. ‘Hashtag vegan, hashtag eatnatural, hashtag lovemyfriends, hashtag apresski… Christ on a bike,’ Chris says, pausing on a photo of Madeleine sitting at a mountainside bar, mirrored sunglasses perched on her head, her slim body wrapped up in a blue and white ski suit. Her straight, white smile is as dazzling as the snow behind her. ‘Hashtag beer and pizza, I say.’ He leans forward and grabs another slice of cheese and pepperoni from the box, a string of mozzarella trailing behind.
‘And that, DS Christopher Prior, is why I love you.’ Rhonda taps off Instagram and goes to her camera’s photo stream. She quickly scrolls back through her pictures, stopping when she gets to a certain point. ‘Do you think this is the same woman?’ she asks, zooming in to the left of a group of people, their backs mostly turned to the camera.
‘That one?’ Chris asks, pointing at a woman standing almost out of shot, away from the main gathering. Her face is small and barely visible, her head shrouded by a patterned scarf. ‘Isn’t that Jeremy’s memorial service?’ he notes, recognising the large pond at Swallow Barn. All the attendees were dressed in black or grey – dark overcoats and boots against the January cold as they stood at the top of the paddock. In the photo, Jeremy’s elderly parents are standing side by side at the water’s edge, their heads bowed, their shoulders hunched. They barely said a word the entire day, crippled from grief.
‘Mm-hmm,’ Rhonda adds. ‘Is it the same woman, do you think?’ She zooms in further on her face. ‘And why is she standing away from everyone else, amongst the trees and almost hidden?’
‘Do you have any more photos with her in?’
‘A couple. But even better, I have this.’ Rhonda taps play on a video clip. ‘It’s only short as I wasn’t sure if it was really the right time to be filming. When Jen came down to the lake, I switched it off. I didn’t want to upset her. Take a look – just as Jen comes into shot, the woman darts back into the trees.’ She presses play, starting from the beginning again. ‘She doesn’t appear in any of the other photos I took, and she certainly wasn’t in the house afterwards for the food and drinks.’
Rhonda thinks back. It wasn’t raining, but it was chilly and overcast. Since the news of Jeremy’s death, she’d helped Jen plan a fitting way to say goodbye – something that would mark his passing. It was as much closure as she was going to get without a body. In the end, Jen had opted for a more private and personal gathering at home.
‘Jeremy would have bloody hated a miserable send-off in a chapel, everyone weeping, morose music, some vicar who didn’t even know him spouting off about what a great man he was.’ Jen had said it fondly, mimicking Jeremy’s tone, trying to imitate his voice – often loud and, to anyone who didn’t know him, almost intimidating – though he was far from that. Beneath the posturing exterior, he was a lamb – a kind-hearted man who would do anything for anyone.
Rhonda wipes a finger under her eye.
‘Play it again,’ Chris says, watching intently. He taps pause when the woman comes into view. Taking the phone from Rhonda, he screenshots the video frame and then enlarges it. ‘There’s Caitlin, look,’ he says. ‘She’s noticed something. See how she’s turned round and is staring right at the woman?’
‘Glaring at her, more like,’ Rhonda says.
‘Plus, look at her scarf,’ Chris continues, tapping back to Madeleine’s Instagram feed. ‘Bingo,’ he adds, pointing at a photograph of her posing on a Boris bike in a London park. The same scarf, with its unusual green and black zigzag print, is loosely wound around her neck. ‘It certainly looks like the same woman, but the scarf seals it for me.’
‘Nice work, Detective Sergeant,’ Rhonda laughs, resting her head on his shoulder.
‘Elementary,’ he says with a wink. ‘Why do you want to know, anyway? Who is this Madeleine person? She doesn’t look much older than Caitlin.’
Rhonda hesitates, having already noticed how fresh-faced and young she seems. ‘Keep it to yourself, but Jen is convinced she and Jeremy were having an affair. They sometimes worked together, hence her being on the New Year skiing trip with him.’
‘Christ on a bike again,’ Chris says. He shoves the remains of the pizza slice in his mouth. ‘So you think Madeleine secretly gatecrashed Jeremy’s memorial?’
> Rhonda nods. ‘Jen certainly didn’t invite her.’
‘Maybe she heard about it from mutual colleagues,’ Chris suggests, staring at the phone. ‘It was certainly a special day. If we hadn’t said goodbye in some way, it wouldn’t have felt right.’
Rhonda nods pensively. She was quietly pleased with her idea for everyone to write private notes and memories of Jeremy on little pieces of biodegradable paper. The guests had gathered at the edge of the large pond – almost a small lake – on Jeremy and Jen’s land and scattered the notes into the water after Jen had said a few poignant words. She’d not been keen on the idea at first, but knowing the lake was one of Jeremy’s favourite places on their property, where he’d come to sit and contemplate, she had eventually agreed it would be a fitting thing to do.
‘But more to the point,’ Rhonda goes on, ‘if Madeleine was at the memorial, then she clearly isn’t dead, as Jen believes.’
‘She thought they’d both been killed?’
‘A fair assumption,’ Rhonda says. ‘Jen hated the idea of them being “frozen in time” together, as she put it. She’s been eating herself up over it.’
‘Will you tell her?’ Chris asks. ‘That we believe Madeleine is alive?’
‘I don’t know.’ Rhonda flops her head back on the cushions. ‘I’m worried that Jen will go and confront her.’ She glances up at Chris, mirroring his concerned expression. ‘As it was, I had to talk her out of contacting the Swiss authorities for information.’
Chris wipes a hand down his face, sighing through a pained expression.
‘Anyway, on another note, it turns out Jen had some guy stay over with her last night.’
‘A guy guy? Or just a friend guy?’
Rhonda shrugs. ‘A friend of Jeremy’s, apparently. But I’ve never heard of him before. I got a funny feeling about it, Chris. Something was off.’ They exchange glances again, each of them considering what it means. ‘When I went to the loo, I crept upstairs and poked my head around the spare bedroom door. The bed was messed up, as if it had been slept in.’
The Trapped Wife: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a mind-blowing twist Page 13
