The Trapped Wife: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a mind-blowing twist

by Samantha Hayes

  ‘Sounds like one seriously messed-up, personality-disordered, evil freak,’ Rhonda whispers to herself, spotting his full name printed beneath his mugshot. ‘Evan Locke,’ she reads, almost tasting the evil in his name.

  She’s about to fold up the clippings but stops. She stares, wide-eyed, at the boy’s clothing in the mugshot, squinting, thinking she’s probably just mistaken. But to double-check, she photographs the image on her phone, like Chris did the other day, which allows her to zoom in on the distinctive badge that Evan Locke has pinned to his T-shirt.

  It’s grainy, but… ‘But I swear I’ve seen that somewhere before,’ she says, frowning and shaking her head, unable to place it. Thinking she’s probably getting freaked out and carried away by the macabre story, she shoves the clippings aside and gets on with sorting through the photographs. She wants to find all the pictures with Jeremy in so that she can give them to Jen later.

  Thirty

  Jen

  ‘I’m so glad you texted,’ I tell Rhonda when the teens have gone to help themselves up at the restaurant’s salad bar. ‘I really needed to get out.’ She doesn’t know how much I mean that.

  ‘You haven’t been answering my calls,’ she replies. ‘I was worried I’d done something.’

  I shake my head. ‘Oh God, no… no. I’m so sorry. It’s not you.’ I tap my phone, sitting on the table beside me, thinking up an excuse. ‘It keeps going onto silent mode for some reason. And my landline has been playing up.’ I roll my eyes, trying to make light of it. I can’t tell her that I think Scott has been trying to isolate me, prevent me from talking to family or friends. The moment she suspects I don’t want him there, that I can’t get rid of him, she’ll tell Chris. And I know for certain he’d intervene – and I can’t have that. So I smile at Rhonda, pretending everything is fine.

  ‘Is Scott still staying with you?’

  ‘Yes, I said he could stay a bit longer. He’s had a run of bad luck.’ I take a big swig of my drink to prevent myself from saying anything I’ll regret.

  ‘It’s just… I’m a bit confused about why he said he didn’t know Jeremy.’ Rhonda snaps a breadstick in half and takes a bite. ‘Doesn’t that seem weird to you?’

  It’s the tone of her voice that tells me she’s already suspicious about his presence – that, and the way she glances over at the kids to check if they’re coming back to the table. She wants answers before they return.

  ‘Oh… um… I have no idea why he told you that. Maybe you heard him wrong? I told you how they met… on set during the filming of a documentary.’ I nod, even convincing myself it’s true as I take another large sip of my orange juice, wishing it was something stronger.

  Rhonda frowns. ‘I see. And you’ve definitely met him before?’

  ‘Of course. In a bar like he told you, and… and he’s been to our place loads of times.’

  ‘Jen…’ She places a hand on my arm. Looks behind me to the salad bar again. ‘I’m getting a really bad vibe about this. Something’s not right.’

  ‘There’s no need to worry. Scott had lent Jeremy some money for… um… a film project ages ago that didn’t get off the ground. He doesn’t want people to know that Jeremy never paid him back.’ I grab a breadstick and take a bite, instantly wishing I hadn’t. My mouth goes so dry I can hardly swallow. I let out a cough, glugging down more of my drink. ‘It’s pure coincidence he moved to the area recently, so he decided to look me up. And he’s been so kind saying I don’t have to pay him the money back, which is why I’m doing him… the favour in return.’

  The sudden flush in my cheeks, the way I’m fiddling with my hair, touching my nose, clearing my throat and swallowing don’t help my credibility. Rhonda’s expression tells me she doesn’t believe me for a second.

  Thankfully, a waiter comes, leaning over Kieran’s chair as he delivers plates of dough balls, several pizzas and extra cutlery. We move things about to make room on the table, and then Rhonda bends down to pick up Kieran’s jacket when it gets knocked onto the floor. As she’s shaking it out, something falls out of the pocket, clattering and skidding under the table. She bends down to retrieve it just as the kids come back to the table, their plates piled high as they chatter between them. Probably the only two teenagers in the place discussing Arthur Miller.

  ‘Could you fit any more food on your plate, Kier?’ I nudge him as he sits down.

  ‘Probably,’ he says with a laugh as he bites into a piece of garlic bread. It’s as Rhonda is sitting up again that Kieran spots something in her hand and lunges at her, swiping whatever it is that she’s found, his face burning beetroot as he shoves it back in his jacket pocket behind him.

  ‘Thanks,’ is all he mutters, clearing his throat and dropping his head forward so his eyes are hidden behind his curly, wayward fringe.

  I glance at Rhonda as she watches my son, her eyes boring into him. If it’s anything worrying, I know she’ll tell me later.

  As I tuck into the pizza, Kieran’s embarrassed expression reminds me of last summer, when we were all down at Croyde for those couple of weeks. I didn’t expect to find the envelope of pictures under Kieran’s mattress when I stripped his sheets. He’s a sixteen-year-old lad, and I’m not so naive to think that he wouldn’t be interested in images like those, but I’d assumed that teenagers these days got their exploratory kicks online. I figured if he was going to do it, then actual photos were probably a gentler option with nothing to click on leading him down a darker path, though I was concerned about the girls’ ages.

  They were posing provocatively in low-cut crop tops and shorts and, at a push, they could pass as eighteen, I supposed. While I wasn’t comfortable about them being in his possession, I wasn’t about to tear a strip off him on holiday. I’d planned on offering a few motherly words at a more appropriate time, when we were back home. Meantime, I decided I’d take the pictures and keep them in my room.

  But then Kieran had walked in on me and caught me red-handed.

  ‘What the fuck, Mum?’ he’d said, slamming the bedroom door shut as he’d come inside. The wooden walls of the Cape Cod-style property shook.

  ‘Sorry, love,’ I’d said, smiling so he didn’t feel embarrassed. ‘Just thought your sheets could do with a wash.’ But it hadn’t come out right, and he’d snatched the pictures and the envelope from me.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ he’d said tearfully. Not the reaction I’d expected. His face was a mix of teenage angst and anger as he tried to contain his emotions.

  ‘Believe me, as a doctor and a mum, I do understand, love.’ My voice had been calm and soothing. I didn’t want to send him into a tailspin of guilt, and certainly not on holiday.

  Kieran shook his head vigorously. ‘No, no, you don’t. You can’t possibly. I don’t look at them. It’s not like that. I think… I think they’re disgusting. It’s sick. So fucking sick you wouldn’t believe.’

  And then he’d turned away and covered his face, letting out a series of frustrated sobs – something I’d not seen him do in a long while. I’d wondered if I should get Jeremy in for a chat with him, hoping father to son would feel more appropriate for Kieran. But Jeremy had taken Caitlin on a bike ride to the local fish shop to get supplies for dinner.

  ‘The pictures aren’t sick, Kier,’ I’d said, going up to him and wrapping him in a hug. ‘It’s natural to be curious. But they’re perhaps a bit inappropriate, especially if you don’t know the girls’ ages, or whether they properly consented to having them taken or shared.’ I’d waited for a response then, but he was silent. ‘Do you know them? Are they from school?’ I felt him shake his head against me. The envelope was in his hand, dangling down by his side. Slowly, I reached down and teased it from him. He relinquished it without question.

  ‘I’ll look after them for now, OK?’ I’d said and, after trying to lighten things up with talk of beach games later, I’d taken the envelope to my bedroom and hidden it in the lining of my suitcase. I’d not thought much more of it and, as fa
r as I know, it’s probably still there.

  ‘Penny for them,’ Rhonda says now.

  ‘Holidays, actually,’ I say, which gets the teens’ attention too. ‘I was just thinking back to last year, all of us in Devon.’

  Rhonda gives a little nod as she takes another slice of pizza. ‘Good times,’ she says, knowing as well as I do that if or when we do it again, we’ll be a man down.

  ‘I think we could all use another holiday this summer. How about it, guys?’ I ask, thankful the conversation has veered away from Scott. ‘A trip down to the beach house?’ I think I can manage that, think I can force myself to do it for Kieran’s sake. It’ll be something to look forward to again once his exams are over. And by then, I’ll have somehow got rid of Scott.

  ‘Sounds wonderful,’ Rhonda chips in. ‘I know Chris would be up for it.’

  ‘Did you and Jeremy go away together when you were at school?’ Caitlin asks me.

  ‘We weren’t actually friends at school, not like you two,’ I reply, adding a laugh as I think back. ‘That only happened once we got to university. And to be honest, it was a case of a familiar face in a sea of thousands. We were the only two from our year who went to Leeds, though we were on very different courses. We met at the Drama Society.’

  ‘Sounds like you were any port in a storm, if you ask me,’ Caitlin replies in a low voice. ‘Ouch!’ she then squeaks, as Rhonda gives her a nudge under the table.

  ‘Think before you speak, Caitlin,’ Rhonda says, rolling her eyes and mouthing Sorry at me.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say, though I wonder how much truth there is in what Caitlin said. Jeremy and I had never really had much to do with each other at school. But he must have known the company I kept back then, the kind of girl it turned me into. And if I’m honest, it left me with a bad taste in my mouth. If I met my younger self now, I’d be giving her a very stern talking-to about how to treat people, who to mix with, about not taking advantage of those who clearly didn’t fit in. Truth is, I am ashamed of my younger self.

  ‘So,’ Rhonda says, lifting a piece of pizza high off the tray until its strings of cheese break. ‘After this, how about we all go back to your place, Jen, and play a couple of games. You know, like we used to.’

  It’s true – it’s what we did when things were right, when things were normal. A few drinks, some music on, silliness and chatter, and Rhonda would stop over the night.

  ‘Sure, that’s a great idea,’ I say immediately – mainly because it diverts the conversation, but also because it’s what I need. And then I remember Scott.

  Thirty-One

  Rhonda

  Rhonda watches Jen as she gets out of her car once they’re all back at the barn, unable to decide if she looks as though she’s going to implode with stress or burst from relief. Noticing that Scott’s car isn’t here, Rhonda suspects it’s the latter. The more she thinks about it, the more uncomfortable she feels about him staying with Jen, what his intentions are. Something doesn’t add up. And she wants – no, needs – to find out what it is.

  But also preying on her mind is what fell out of Kieran’s jacket pocket at the restaurant. It was only after she’d picked it up off the floor that she’d got a glimpse of it – just for a second or two before Kieran had snatched it from her. The badge looked shockingly familiar – the distinctive gold eagle, the red background – though she couldn’t be totally certain. She knew Jeremy was into militaria and had a collection of items, making her wonder if Kieran had looked through them and found the badge, wanting a memento so he had something of his father’s to keep close. It made sense, and was most likely why she’d recognised it earlier from the newspaper photograph. She’d perhaps seen Kieran wearing it somewhere before, but hadn’t thought anything of it at the time.

  But then that left the question: why was Jeremy in possession of a badge that she believed to be identical to the one Evan Locke was wearing in his police mugshot?

  ‘You can have a small one, surely?’ Rhonda says, bottle of wine in her hand as they gather in the kitchen.

  ‘You’re supposed to be my guilty conscience, not the devil on my shoulder,’ Jen replies. But she takes another wine glass from the cupboard anyway, indicating about an inch with her fingers. ‘I’m enjoying not drinking. Gives me a clearer head.’

  ‘I’ve got something in the car you might like to see,’ Rhonda continues. ‘I didn’t want to bring them in in front of Kieran, not until I’ve shown you first. Hang on a minute.’ She puts down her glass and goes out to the drive, beeping her car unlocked and retrieving the box of photos that she’d sorted through earlier. Back in the kitchen, she dumps it on the worktop. Jen is tapping something on her phone, a frown on her face.

  ‘All OK?’ Rhonda asks.

  ‘Yes, yes… fine.’ Jen is still distracted.

  ‘I was going through some old school archives. Well, old school crap mostly. But there were some absolute gems in there.’ Rhonda pats the top of the box.

  ‘Some whats?’ Jen’s head whips up.

  ‘Gems. You know, treasures.’

  Jen stares at her until Rhonda feels uncomfortable. It’s as if she’s torn between reacting to whatever she’s doing on her phone and what Rhonda has just said. Perhaps bringing the photos here was a bad idea, she thinks. But it’s too late now, Jen’s hand is inside the box.

  ‘Yes, yes of course,’ Jen says, clearing her throat as she takes out some pictures without looking at them. Her stare is still fixed hard on Rhonda. She shakes her head. ‘Sorry, I thought you meant something else.’

  ‘I just meant the photographs, Jen, that’s all. I found them at school,’ Rhonda says in an uncertain voice. ‘I thought you might want some – but of course, I don’t want them to upset you. Look…’ Rhonda takes one of the photos from Jen’s fingers and points to a face in a class photograph. ‘It’s Jeremy.’ She laughs. ‘That hair,’ she says. ‘Unmistakable.’

  Jen takes the photo again and holds it close, wiping a finger under her eye. ‘Christ…’ she says. ‘This takes me back.’

  ‘Good memories, I hope?’ Rhonda says, wondering if she’s done the wrong thing.

  ‘Little did we all know,’ she whispers, looking through more of the pictures and shaking her head. ‘God, I remember him,’ she says. ‘He was a maths genius. And that girl was amazing at art. I wonder what happened to them all.’

  ‘You’re in a couple of the class photos somewhere,’ Rhonda says. ‘And one of the cross-country running team.’

  But Jen isn’t listening. She’s pulled the newspaper clippings about the murder from the bottom of the box that now, Rhonda thinks with hindsight, she should really have left at home. Being reminded of a gruesome death from her schooldays probably isn’t helpful.

  ‘I’ll take those back for the school library to deal with, I think,’ Rhonda says about the cuttings.

  ‘No… no, I want to read them,’ Jen says, sitting down at the breakfast bar.

  ‘Did you know him?’ Rhonda asks, pointing to the mugshot of the child killer. ‘Evan Locke?’

  ‘Everyone knew him,’ she replies flatly. Jen stares blankly at the picture, but then Rhonda sees her eyes skimming across the piece in the local paper. ‘Or rather, they knew of him,’ she adds. ‘He was one of those… loner types. Didn’t really have many… friends.’

  Rhonda nods, thinking about it, wondering what it takes for a teacher or a parent to notice evil in a child. She wonders where he is now, if he’s since been released, perhaps given a new identity, a new life, allowed to get on with his days while the dead child’s family will never stop suffering.

  ‘Look at Jeremy in this photo,’ Rhonda says, hoping to distract Jen away from the gory details. She’d read through all the cuttings earlier and felt sickened. A three-year-old lured away from his gran’s back garden, taken down to the reservoir where he was beaten before being dumped in the deep water. One newspaper report after the trial implied Evan Locke had had an accomplice, but that he had consistently re
fused to say who, almost as if he wanted to keep the ‘glory’ of his crime to himself.

  Jen looks up when Rhonda flaps the photo about, insisting she take notice.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Jen says, her tone sounding brighter again. ‘That was on our last sports day. They used to do a fancy dress race for the seniors’ last year. Jeremy kept that kilt. It’s probably still in the house somewhere, maybe the loft,’ she says, pointing at him wearing it. ‘Just look at his skinny legs!’

  ‘So was Jeremy actually Scottish, then?’ Rhonda asks, remembering how he’d sometimes put on a funny accent, not least when under the influence of a few drams.

  ‘His father and grandparents were,’ Jen explains. ‘He had a bit of an accent at school, but it wasn’t from living in Scotland. He liked to ham it up, put it on and make everyone think he was from the Highlands just to be different. Pure Jeremy,’ she says fondly. ‘He really should have been on the stage.’

  ‘C’mon, hurry up you two,’ comes a voice from the doorway. It’s Caitlin and she’s holding the lid for the Cards Against Humanity box.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ Rhonda says, sliding off her stool. She tops up her wine before following her daughter. ‘Come on, Jen,’ she says, turning back to her friend. ‘Put that stuff aside for now. You can look at it another time.’ And in her head, she makes a mental note to take the cuttings with her when she leaves tomorrow.

  Rhonda watches her friend, a warm feeling growing inside her. Though it could be the wine she’s consumed, or the heat from the fire as she sits on the rug around the coffee table with the others. But for the first time in a long time, Jen seems relaxed. Both Kieran and Caitlin are rolling around on the rug, tears streaming down their faces. It’s good to see Jen forget everything, even if just for an hour or two.