‘Shall we go together?’ she asks.
‘Go where?’
Harriet nods towards Gemma’s house. ‘There are police officers in there.’
I take a step backwards. ‘I’ve got to get home,’ I say.
She watches blankly, as if this is what she expected. ‘No problem,’ she replies. ‘I’m sure it can all be explained.’
I almost ask her not to but she’s already turned and levered open the gate at the end of Gemma’s house. I wonder if she only recently arrived, or if she was waiting for me to appear. She could have told this to the police at any time – and it didn’t have to be in person. It’s like she wanted me to know.
As she knocks on the door, I turn and walk back the way I came. One of the women waiting outside the house calls after me but I keep walking, pretending I’ve not heard. By the time I get to the start of the hill and the arcing bend, I’m almost at a jog. I want to get home, to where Richard’s car is surely sitting on the driveway and he’ll have a perfectly reasonable explanation for where he’s been all night. He certainly wasn’t at the petrol station outside Leavensfield and of course Alice didn’t get into his car.
It’s not possible.
The chilled air burns the back of my throat as I gasp for breath. I’m not used to exercise, let alone at this time of year. When I get back to the house, it feels as if my lungs might burst. The cold scratches at me with lengthy talons and I can feel each tendril of air clawing its way into me.
Richard’s car is not sitting outside the house.
I hunch over, trying to catch my breath as I stare at the space where it should be. There’s no explanation for anything that’s happened in the last half-day or so. Perhaps it’s this, or maybe the cold has woken me, but there’s something about the name of the person Richard was visiting that starts to come back to me. K-something. Maybe Kevin, or Kristian, or…
Keith.
He told me yesterday that he was off to visit an old colleague named Keith.
I hurry inside and lock the door, then head upstairs to where Richard keeps the bulk of his work things. It’s the smallest room in the house and, although we both call it an office, it’s more of a dumping ground for books and folders that Richard has the urge to keep. He’s not a hoarder, not quite, but he does seem to keep everything and anything that relates to his work.
I have to shove the door in order to enter the room and, when I get inside, I realise it’s because there’s a box full of cardboard folders in the way. There is something on every surface and most of the floor is covered with either books or printer pages.
As well as the rainforest of papers, there’s also a small table, on which sits an old desktop computer. Every time Richard turns it on, the fan at the back of the main unit whirrs so loudly that it echoes through the floor and I can hear it when I’m in the kitchen. It’s like a helicopter taking off, although Richard refuses to replace it because he doesn’t want to have to learn how to use a new one. I’ve offered to teach him some things on the laptop I use to run my website and write articles, but he insists that he’s got by for long enough with how things are, so there’s no need to learn anything new. I’ve never pointed out that he would be incredibly unhappy if any of his students used the same argument…
Next to the computer is a rolodex of address cards. Every card has been organised in alphabetical order by last name. There are phone numbers and addresses listed in neat block-capital letters, although I can’t claim to know many of the people named. I flip from page to page, skipping over someone named ‘Miller, Keith’ because I’m almost certain that the name my husband mentioned yesterday morning was longer than that.
I have to go through almost the entire circle of people, starting again at the letter ‘A’ until I stumble across the name ‘Etherington, Keith’. Considering the name was lost among my memories barely an hour ago, it now feels so clear and close that this was the person Richard said he was visiting.
There’s a phone number listed, although it’s an 01 landline, instead of an 07 mobile. Not surprising, really.
I call the number from my mobile and listen as it rings six or seven times before the call drops with no hint of an answer machine. I scan the rest of the card. There’s an address listed, although it’s around a ninety-minute drive away.
I’m considering whether I should get in my car and head out that way when my phone starts to ring with the same 01 number I’ve just called. I press to answer.
‘Hello…?’
It’s a man’s voice. ‘Who’s this?’ he snaps.
‘Is that Keith?’
There’s a momentary pause and then a snipped: ‘Who’s this?’
‘My name’s Madeleine King. My husband is Richard and—’
‘You’re Dickie’s wife?’
‘Right…’
The nickname sounds unfamiliar, largely because nobody I know ever calls Richard ‘Dickie’. I’ve heard it before – but only ever from some of his older work friends. It feels like it belongs to a person I don’t know and certainly not the man I married.
‘How is he?’ Keith adds. ‘I’ve not heard from him in donkey’s years.’
The room feels like a freezer. I try to reply but nothing comes out.
Keith must sense the confusion because he quickly comes back with: ‘Oh, he’s not um… is he?’
It takes me a moment to understand what he’s talking about – and then I realise that he thinks I’m calling to say that Richard has died.
‘No, nothing like that,’ I say. ‘Richard’s fine. I’m just clearing up his contact numbers and have been calling around to check everything’s still up to date.’
There’s another pause and I wonder if Keith thinks this is as unconvincing as it unquestionably is.
‘This is still my number,’ Keith says.
‘Excellent. I’ll make a note of that.’
Another gap. It’s certainly an odd conversation.
Keith clearly decides that I’m wasting his time as he offers a short: ‘Make sure you say hello to Dickie for me. Tell him it would be great to get together some time.’
‘I will.’
We say goodbye to one another and then I hang up. I’m not sure what makes me do it, other than that it feels important – but I use my phone to take a photograph of the card before flipping around the rolodex until I reach Keith Miller’s entry. I consider calling him, wondering if I’ve mixed up the name, but I know I haven’t. Richard definitely said he was off to visit the man to whom I’ve just spoken. The man who hasn’t heard from him in donkey’s years…
I feel lost, trying to make sense of everything that’s happened. If it was only Richard missing, then that would be bad enough… but then there’s what happened to Alice. And what Harriet says she saw.
The doorbell echoes through the house and it’s such a contrast to the silence that I find myself shrieking with surprise.
It’s Richard.
I’m halfway down the stairs when I remember that I’ve been here before – when Atal was at the door last night. I thought then that Richard might have misplaced his keys. I was wrong then and, deep down, I know I’m wrong now.
I already know who’s at the door moments before I open it. That is why it’s no surprise to see a man in a suit with a long knee-length coat over the top standing on the doorstep.
‘Mrs King?’ he asks.
‘That’s me.’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Dee Knee. Can I come in?’
Five
I hold the door open, allowing the inspector into the house. He passes me a card that shows his name is Detective Inspector Brian Dini, even though I would never have guessed the spelling of his last name from the way he said it.
As I close the door, he wipes his feet studiously on the mat and then asks if he should take off his shoes. I pass him back his identification and tell him he should. I’m not particularly bothered and Richard never does – but there’s something about the way he speaks with au
thority and confidence that leaves me feeling cornered. At least this is one way for me to maintain some degree of control.
It’s hard not to notice the shine of Dini’s shoes as he removes them and, though I’m no detective myself, it seems clear he can’t have been trampling around fields all morning.
Once he’s done removing his shoes, Dini edges further along the hall and looks up and around the walls.
‘Nice house you have,’ he says.
‘Thank you.’
His focus switches back to me. ‘Is Mr King around?’
‘Richard’s out at the moment.’
Dini nods, although it’s with an assurance that I suspect means he already knows. He’s probably a little older than me, although that’s more of a guess from his swept-back grey hair. There’s a brightness to his brown eyes that could easily mean he’s younger. He’s one of those men that are likely better-looking in their forties or fifties than they ever were in their twenties and thirties. Some men grow into their looks… like Richard, I suppose.
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘No… he, um… he went out yesterday and isn’t back yet.’
Dini makes a point of removing a notepad and pen from his inside pocket. He opens it and then scritches something before looking up once more.
‘Does he often stay out for a day or two at a time…?’ He’s wearing a fixed, unassuming smile. The type somebody might offer when trying to sell a used car.
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ I ask. ‘I was about to make one for myself.’
Dini stares for a second and then takes a step back, giving me a clear passage through the hall. ‘Lead the way,’ he says. ‘I’d love a brew. It’s been a busy morning.’
I almost say ‘I’ll bet’ but hold the words as I pass him and edge through to the kitchen. He probably realises this is an excuse for me to try to think of something to say that doesn’t make it sound like my husband and I are strangers.
After filling the kettle, I flip it on and then fiddle around with a pair of mugs from the cupboard. I even drag down the teapot, which only usually comes out when we’ve had people over for dinner. There’s no way he could know this, but Dini chuckles, ‘I feel blessed’ as I fiddle with the tin of loose leaves and the strainer. I ignore him and continue working, trying desperately to think of something that doesn’t sound like it’s incriminating my husband.
I can sense Dini watching my every move but I ignore the stare that’s boring into my back. When I eventually turn and settle with two mugs and the teapot, Dini is sitting at the kitchen table with his knees crossed and the notepad in front of him.
‘This is very kind of you,’ he says.
‘No bother. I was going to make one for myself anyway. Do you want a biscuit?’
He pats his belly. ‘Not for me.’
We sit for a moment, staring at the teapot.
‘It should only be another minute,’ I add, which is a guess.
Dini is unmoved momentarily, before he picks up his pad. ‘Where were we…?’ I remain silent until he follows it up with: ‘Your husband…’
‘What about him?’
‘Does he often stay out for a day or two at a time…?’
‘No.’
That gets a nod. ‘When are you expecting him back?’
‘I’m not sure. He didn’t say.’
‘And where was your husband yesterday?’
I take the moment to pick up the teapot and fill both our mugs. I cross to the fridge and grab the semi-skimmed, then dribble a little into my mug before holding it over Dini’s.
‘Go crazy,’ he says.
I dump in as much as can fit into the mug and then return to the fridge. ‘Sugar?’ I ask.
‘Not for me.’
Back at the table and there’s nothing more I can do to stall – not unless I want to bake a tray of cookies in an attempt to avoid the questions. I’m not sure Dini’s patience would stretch that far – and it’s not as if any of the delaying has done me any good. Everything to come is still going to sound awful.
‘I don’t know where he was yesterday,’ I say – which is the truth.
Dini notes something on his pad. ‘Didn’t he tell you where he was going?’
‘He said he was visiting a friend.’
‘Did he mention which friend…?’
Dini has a way of phrasing things that makes it sound as if he not only knows the answer already – but that anything I might have to say should be met with maximum scepticism.
This is the moment in which I have to decide whether to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Because he did tell me. It’s loyalty to my husband, or it isn’t.
‘I don’t think so,’ I say.
‘You don’t think he told you who he was visiting?’
‘I wasn’t really listening.’
Dini notes something on his pad and then spends a few seconds tapping his pen on the paper. He screws up his lips and then puts down the pad before having a sip of his tea.
‘That’s perfect,’ he says as he places the mug back. ‘Just how I like it.’
I don’t reply. I’ve crossed a line, even though I haven’t, strictly speaking, told a lie.
Dini examines me over glasses he’s not wearing and it feels as if he can read my mind. It’s like he can see into my soul. ‘Just to clarify,’ he says. ‘Your husband said he was going to visit a friend, didn’t tell you which one, and then you’ve not seen him in a day…?’
There’s a pause and then I answer his question. ‘Richard might have said where he was going – but he’s a lecturer and knows a lot of people. I wasn’t really listening.’ I try to match Dini’s expressionless face with a breezy smile. We’re both people here, y’know?
‘When did your husband leave yesterday?’
‘Between ten and eleven o’clock.’
Dini shuffles up his sleeve to look at his watch. ‘A little over twenty-four hours…?’ There’s a hint of something accusatory in his voice.
‘I’ve been worried. I thought about calling you but didn’t know how long you’re supposed to leave it.’
‘So you think he’s missing…?’
Everything’s a question with Dini. It all feels like a trap, as if there’s no correct answer and that anything I might say could be twisted to mean something else.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did your husband drive to visit this friend?’
‘Yes.’
‘What car does he drive?’
I know the answer – I look at it every day – and yet, in the moment, on the spot, I’m lost. I can’t even remember my own make and model of car, let alone Richard’s.
‘It’s, um…’
Dini is on me right away: ‘You don’t know what car your husband drives?’
‘I do, it’s just…’ The words don’t come and I’m so flustered that I can’t even remember the colour. ‘Can I check my phone?’ I ask.
‘Of course.’
I unlock my phone and flip through the photos until I arrive on one that shows an image of Richard’s car. It was taken when we had a drive out to the cliffs last summer. There’s a car park that sits almost on the edge and Richard parked there. We stood at the side as a passing couple took our photo. It was Richard’s idea, and completely unlike the kind of thing he might usually suggest. He’s the opposite of the Snapchat generation.
The photo is a wash of colour. There’s the blue of the sky and the ocean, which is offset by the lush green of the grass and Richard’s black car.
It’s black. How could I have forgotten?
I slide my phone across the table so that Dini can see the photo.
‘That’s his car,’ I say.
‘Looks like a Toyota,’ he says.
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Could you send me that photograph? I gave you my card, right?’ He makes it sound like there’s no choice, though it’s not as if I’d say no.
I use the information from his
card to text him the photo. It’s only when that’s done that I realise he now has my number.
Something beeps from within Dini’s pockets, though he doesn’t acknowledge it.
‘What was your husband wearing when he left yesterday?’
This is a harder question than the car, although the answer comes more easily. ‘I can’t say for sure – but he tends to wear the same thing most days.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘Black trousers, with a jacket.’
Dini adds this to his pad, without looking up. ‘Was he wearing some sort of shirt?’
‘Of course.’
‘What colour?’
I almost say white – although I know it wasn’t. ‘Pink.’
Dini looks up. ‘What colour was the jacket?’
‘Maybe grey? I don’t know for sure.’
I figure he’s going to press the point, although he doesn’t. That offers no assurance because I genuinely can’t remember and it feels as if he knows when I’m offering the whole truth and when I’m not.
‘Does anybody else live at the house?’ he asks.
‘Just us.’
‘No kids…?’
I pick up my mug and hide my mouth behind it for a moment as I inhale the sweet, slightly floral fumes.
‘I have a daughter,’ I say.
Dini nods once more, though he doesn’t write anything. The endless sense that he already knows all this leaves me feeling enraged. I’ve done nothing wrong and yet he’s examining every part of my life.
‘Where does she live?’
‘She’s eighteen and she’s at Liverpool University. I don’t know her address off the top of my head.’
He waves a hand as if to indicate that he doesn’t need to know – and then, unexpectedly, he puts down the pad and presses back into the seat with his fingers looped through the mug. ‘My boy’s in his second year at City University,’ he says. ‘It’s his first time away from home – and he loves it. Probably too much.’
I don’t want to smile at this but it’s impossible to resist. Suddenly the anger I felt moments before has evaporated as if it was never there. ‘It’s Kylie’s first time, too,’ I say.
What My Husband Did: A gripping psychological thriller with an amazing twist Page 4
