‘The thought of you kept me going, Jennifer. Day and night, it was you who was on my mind. I’d never have got through all those years of being locked up in those wretched places without you. I was transferred several times, but you were always right there with me.’ Scott yawns, drinks more wine. ‘How things were at school…’ He smiles at the memory. ‘I had a long time to think about everything after the trial, and figured it probably meant you liked me. What do they call it – pigtail pulling?’ A dreamy look comes over his face and I’m not sure if it’s from what’s in the wine or the memory.
I fight back the fear creeping up my throat. Whatever he thinks about me – then or now – it doesn’t matter. I just need the diazepam to hurry up and kick in, for him to fall asleep.
‘Why don’t you sit in the armchair by the glass doors?’ I suggest. I’ve already turned the central heating thermostat up to its highest setting in the hope that will help. ‘You look done in.’
Scott nods, standing up. He grabs hold of the table as he wobbles and sways. ‘Christ, did I have that much?’ he says, slurring as he drains his glass. ‘I feel so tired.’ A sheen of sweat covers his face.
‘I’ll go and wash up and then we can watch a movie, or maybe get an early night.’ I force myself to kiss the top of his head as he drops down into the chair. Before I gather up the plates, I drape a tartan blanket over his knees.
‘The lights,’ Scott says, half raising his hand and pointing down to the garden. ‘Magical…’ His eyes roll back in their sockets as he tries to focus, squinting then growing wide again. ‘Any more wine?’ he asks and, naturally, I oblige.
After I’ve cleared the plates, Scott doesn’t notice that I slip back through the dining room into the hallway and back into Jeremy’s study. I can’t allow myself to dwell on what I’m about to do – only that, ultimately, I am preserving life, even if it goes against everything I trained to do. Over the years, I’ve become adept at blocking things out, parcelling up things in neat compartments in my mind, getting on with things in my ordered and precise way. I wouldn’t have coped otherwise.
I grab my doctor’s bag, thankful for the home visits I make – always keeping a supply of essential items to hand just in case. I take out two of the largest syringes I have and set them out on Jeremy’s desk. Then I grab the container of antifreeze I brought in from the garage and pour a large measure of the bright-blue liquid into a whisky tumbler. On the desk, I open the first syringe packet, my hands trembling as I take off the needle cap and stick it in the fluid. Then I pull out the plunger, slowly drawing up the liquid into the barrel. I do the same with the second.
‘No…’ I whisper, thinking out loud. ‘I need to be certain.’ Knowing I won’t get a second chance, I head out of the study, opening the door just a crack at first, listening out. But everything is quiet – apart from the soft classical music I’d put on at low volume in the dining room. I creep into the downstairs toilet just off the hallway and open the cabinet under the sink. I take the bottle of bleach back into the study, lock the door behind me and remove two more syringes from their packets, filling them up in the same way.
‘Dear God, forgive me,’ I whisper, every cell in my body shaking. I know if I don’t do this, then not only is my life over, but Kieran’s will be too. He’s already lost one parent, and I can’t allow him to lose me as well.
I touch my stomach. ‘Nor you, little one,’ I say quietly. ‘I’m so sorry…’ I add. If I hadn’t discovered Scott’s – Evan’s – badge, realised who he was, then I’d have taken the tablet and then, later, the second abortion pill. My pregnancy would have terminated shortly after. I shudder at the thought, putting the needle caps back on all four of the syringes and tucking them in the large pockets of my cardigan.
I take a breath and head out of the study, trying to appear normal in case Scott is somehow still awake. Along with the diazepam, I’d added several crushed zopiclone to his food too, stirring it into the sauce after I’d served mine.
‘Hey, hey, sleepyhead,’ I say, walking up to Scott. I stand over the armchair, slightly angled towards the large glass doors leading out to the terrace and beyond.
Nothing.
I stare at his chest, rising and falling slowly. Breaths per minute are low. I take his wrist, floppy and heavy, and feel for his pulse. Again, it’s slow and weak. Just how I need him.
‘Scott, are you awake?’ I say loudly, crouching down beside him.
Still nothing.
I lift one of his eyelids and see his pupil slowly react, but he stares straight through me. The drugs in combination with a large amount of alcohol have done their work – for now. But whether they mask the sting of a needle is yet to be seen.
I give him a shake, purposefully shoving his bad shoulder to see if that will rouse him. A low moan comes from his throat and his lips part, but that’s it. No other movement. I do it again, prodding him harder, but not even a moan this time. He’s out cold.
Before I can change my mind, I take the syringes from my pocket and place them on the side table next to the chair. His shirtsleeve is rolled up, sitting neatly above the crook of his elbow, exposing the paler flesh of his inner arm. A blue-grey vein stands out, the tight fabric of his shirt having acted like a tourniquet, saving me a job. I take the cap off the first syringe and, out of habit, I give it a tap to dislodge any air bubbles, pressing the plunger slowly until a drop of liquid dribbles out of the end. Not that it matters.
Slowly and gently, I insert the fine needle into his vein, my eyes flicking between his skin and his face to check for any reactions. I’ve always prided myself on giving painless injections. I bite my bottom lip, concentrating as, finally, I’m satisfied the needle is positioned correctly. Then I gently press the plunger, watching the blue liquid inside the barrel diminish as the antifreeze enters his body.
Scott doesn’t make a sound, so I continue, injecting the poison into his body, watching the barrel drain. All the while, in my head, I’m telling myself I have to do this, that if I don’t then my son’s life, and mine, as we know it, will be over. After a few more seconds, I slowly withdraw the syringe and then do the same with the one containing bleach. Then I repeat with the other two, having delivered what will undoubtedly be lethal amounts of chemicals – especially without immediate medical treatment.
Scott will never wake up. And everything inside his head will disappear with him.
Without looking back, I scramble to my feet, gathering up the syringes and dumping them in the kitchen bin until I can dispose of them properly. Then I retrieve Scott’s phone from the kitchen and go back to the dining room, taking his hand, peeling his forefinger away from his palm to imprint on the home button, unlocking the device.
Shaking, I go to his photo stream and delete the folder containing all the pictures of me – photos and videos I had absolutely no idea he was taking – both from his phone and from the cloud storage.
For a moment, I stare out at the lit-up garden, two long strings of lights trailing down towards the paddock, remembering that terrible night – the night when everything changed. How Scott could have taken those pictures, I have no idea, but he did – and all without me having a clue. My mind was elsewhere at the time.
I shudder. There’s no time for regrets or memories, past or present. I must only look forward now, for Kieran and my baby’s sake. And there’s still work to be done.
I slip the phone into my pocket, feeling under Scott’s jaw. Ever so faintly, I detect the erratic tick of a faint pulse. If he were conscious, he’d be in agony. The chemicals will destroy his blood cells and, before long, after other irreparable organ damage, his heart will stop beating. It may take a little while yet but, meantime, I’ll make preparations. As a doctor, I’m no stranger to dealing with dead bodies – when, eventually, he’s dead.
‘You look so peaceful,’ I say, standing up, hating him for everything he’s done – to poor little Lenny Taylor, to Lenny’s mother and Elsie, as well as to me. I’m about to fol
d his arms across his body, but I freeze. I heard a noise – the familiar sound snapping me back to reality.
The front door.
Opening and closing.
Then I hear a voice.
‘Hell-ooo…?’
And when I swing round, Rhonda is standing in the doorway, her smile falling away as her eyes flick between me and Scott.
Forty-Two
Rhonda
‘Jen, hi…’ Rhonda stops, glancing between Scott and Jen. She tries to hide her disappointment that he’s here still, but Jen knows her so well, she’ll see it written all over her face.
‘Ronnie…’ Jen’s voice is flat and broken.
‘Am I interrupting?’ Rhonda says, coming further into the dining room. ‘Sorry, the front door was slightly open so I thought I’d let myself in.’
‘It was?’ Jen says, clasping her hands under her chin. She steps in front of where Scott is sitting or – taking a nap, by the looks of it. ‘I… I went out to the garage earlier. I must have forgotten to lock it.’
‘That’s not like you.’ Rhonda takes off her coat and hangs it on the back of a dining chair, keeping hold of her handbag. She feels the pressure in her chest building to an almost unbearable level. Deep breathing on the drive over hadn’t helped, and she’d played out a dozen or more times in her mind how she was going to tell Jen everything she knew. Probably just spitting it out was best. After everything else, the poor woman was probably immune to shock.
‘Is he asleep?’ Rhonda whispers, coming up closer. If he is, she doesn’t want to wake him. She needs to talk to Jen in private.
‘Um… yes, yes he is,’ Jen blurts out quietly. Her eyes are red and bloodshot and Rhonda can’t help noticing that her entire body is shaking. And she looks pale – so thin and gaunt.
‘Are you… are you OK?’ Rhonda mouths, beckoning with her head towards the kitchen.
Jen shakes her head, but then nods vigorously with a look of regret sweeping over her face. Her mouth hangs open. Rhonda reaches out and takes her hand, encouraging her to follow.
‘What’s going on, Jen?’ Rhonda says in a more normal voice, shutting the kitchen door behind them. ‘Is everything OK with Mr Cocklodger in there? He looked a bit wiped out. Is he drunk? Giving you a hard time? You don’t look at your best if I’m hon—’
‘Shut up,’ Jen spits through tight lips. She grabs hold of the worktop to steady herself, her breath heaving in and out of her chest.
Rhonda recoils. ‘Jen, what the hell’s going on? Do you want me to call Chris to come round? If Scott is giving you a hard time, he’ll get rid of him. He’s just picking up a takeaw—’
‘No!’ Jen snaps, covering her mouth. ‘I… I’m sorry, Ronnie. I’m just a bit tired. You know, hormones. It’s probably best if you go now.’
Rhonda looks at her, her eyes narrowing, trying to read the situation. ‘No,’ she says quite calmly. ‘I’m not going anywhere, Jen. And if needs be, I’m stopping the night. Take it from me, you do not look well. Is everything OK with your pregnancy?’
‘Yes, yes, the baby’s fine,’ Jen replies, glancing back at the door. ‘Scott and I… we just had a bit of a tiff, that’s all. He had a bit too much to drink, said some things he regretted and now he’s sleeping it off. I’ve asked him to leave. He’ll be gone in the morning, you’ll see.’
Rhonda stares at Jen, frowning, trying to read her, trying to figure out if she’s telling the truth. She wonders if now is the best time to deliver the bombshell she’s about to drop, but by the looks of it, Jen could hardly feel much worse. Perhaps it’s best to get it out of the way.
‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ Rhonda suggests, doing it anyway. ‘What about one of those nice calming night-time teas you have?’
Jen doesn’t say anything, rather she sits down, perching on the edge of a stool, watching Rhonda as if she’s not really there. Her eyes seem vacant and frightened, as though she’s empty inside.
‘Here,’ Rhonda says, handing her a mug a few minutes later. She sits down on the stool beside her, sliding her handbag within reach. ‘While he’s sleeping it off in there, there’s something I need to run by you, Jen. It’s a bit delicate, actually.’
Jen slowly looks across at her friend. To Rhonda’s surprise, a smile forms – a lopsided one, exposing her teeth. And then she laughs – just a quiet, barely audible laugh, making her seem slightly irrational. Rhonda reaches out and touches her arm, a quizzical look on her face.
‘I washed Caitlin’s jeans earlier. For the party,’ Rhonda begins. She sees Jen is listening, even though there’s a faraway look in her eyes. ‘And I found something in her back pocket.’ Rhonda reaches into her bag and takes out the memorial note and lays it on the worktop between them. ‘Do you remember these?’ she says, sliding it over.
Jen peers down at it, giving a little nod. She wipes her nose on the cuff of her cardigan sleeve.
‘Caitlin wrote this note. To Jeremy. I’m really sorry, Jen. I think…’ Rhonda trails off. She has no idea what Jen is thinking as she reads the words.
‘Missy?’ Jen finally says, looking up at Rhonda.
‘It’s… it’s a nickname Caitlin liked him to call her. I think… oh God, this is going to sound awful, Jen, and I don’t even know how to say it, but I think Jeremy and Caitlin were… I think he…’
Jen says nothing. She takes a sip of her tea, wincing as she burns her lips, but that’s it.
‘I found this, too. Tucked inside Jeremy’s manuscript. Do you remember, he gave it to me to read last year? To be honest, I’ve not had much of a chance to get stuck in, but this was between the pages and…’ Rhonda silences herself, taking out the letter from her bag and also laying it out between them.
Again, Jen’s eyes skim over the words and Rhonda can’t be sure she’s actually reading them. But her finger comes up and touches the ‘M’ signed off at the end.
‘Is this Missy too?’ Jen asks a few moments later, implying she understands exactly.
Rhonda nods, grasping Jen’s hand. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispers.
Jen laughs again, hysterically this time, tipping back her head to expose her sinewy neck and protruding collarbones. ‘I already knew,’ she says, her voice suddenly calm. ‘Kieran showed me a couple of photographs on his phone earlier… from Caitlin.’
Rhonda doesn’t understand.
‘He’d asked her if she had any pictures of his dad from our holiday at the beach house last summer,’ Jen continues. ‘I don’t think Caitlin realised she’d sent one particular photo to Kieran or, if she did, she hadn’t twigged that it was actually a mini video clip. It was of Jeremy and Caitlin on the beach.’
Jen falls silent for a moment, but then her sharp voice cuts through the kitchen.
‘When Kieran showed me the clip, they were kissing, Ronnie. On the lips. A proper kiss, like between adults. She slides off her stool and walks over to the sink, pacing back and forth. She swings round, spit collecting in the corner of her mouth. ‘Except one of them wasn’t an adult, was she?’
Rhonda shakes her head. ‘No, Jen. No, she wasn’t.’
‘My husband and your daughter were having an affair, Ronnie…’ She covers her face. ‘How could I have been so bloody stupid?’
‘Jen—’
Suddenly Jen’s fists are clenched together into tight balls and she lets out a piercing scream, her head tipped right back. She screws up her eyes and stamps her feet and then her arms flail out, swiping across the worktop, sending jars and spices and oil bottles skidding onto the floor. She kicks at them in rage.
‘Hey, hey… come on now,’ Rhonda says, reaching out and trying to stop her in case she hurts herself. ‘Don’t blame yourself. It wasn’t Madeleine like you suspected,’ Rhonda says. ‘And please don’t hate me, but I went to meet with her. Turns out that she also knew about Caitlin… everything she said added up. I believe her.’
Rhonda waits as Jen absorbs the news. ‘Come and sit down, Jen,’ she says firmly. ‘I’ll clean the
mess up in a bit. I’m afraid I found out something else. Something that I can’t actually figure out. It makes me concerned for any… well, perhaps any plans Jeremy and Caitlin may have cooked up together. And are perhaps still plotting.’
Rhonda’s heart thunders in her chest. She’s heard of such stories – in one case, it was a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl who’d run off with a forty-year-old teacher, fleeing to the Continent proclaiming their love. Her parents were powerless and Rhonda never found out what had happened to the girl… but she doubted it was a fairy-tale ending. She didn’t want the same for her daughter.
She reaches into her bag and pulls out Jeremy’s passport, laying it down on the counter. ‘I’m so very sorry, Jen, but I don’t believe Jeremy went to Switzerland for New Year at all.’
‘What…?’ Jen glances at Rhonda then back at the passport. She picks it up, her hands shaking, licking her chapped lips as she flips through the pages. ‘Jeremy’s passport?’ she says, her words barely audible. ‘Where the hell did you get this?’
‘Shoot me down for snooping, Jen, but it wasn’t what I was even looking for. I was searching for another letter I believed Caitlin had written to Jeremy. I figured it was hidden in his study somewhere and I didn’t want you to find it and get upset.’
‘You were in Jeremy’s study? But I keep it locked.’
Rhonda hangs her head. ‘And I know where you keep the key. Look, I was only trying to help, Jen. But I think we’ve got way bigger problems than that now.’
Jen pauses, thinking, then lets out another unhinged laugh. ‘No, Rhonda. No. I think you’ve got a big problem. With your daughter. You leave my husband out of this. You know nothing about him. He… he had two passports. One… one of them got lost, so he applied for another, then he found the first. He must have been travelling on his other one when he left.’
Rhonda can’t help but notice the tears in Jen’s eyes, the unconvincing way she says it, trying to defend her husband at all costs.
The Trapped Wife: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a mind-blowing twist Page 27
