What My Husband Did: A gripping psychological thriller with an amazing twist

by Kerry Wilkinson

  ‘Is that your daughter’s name?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Are you a Neighbours fan?’

  ‘More her music.’

  Dini nods along and, for a moment, he’s no longer a police officer in my kitchen. It feels as if we’re friends here for a catch-up.

  ‘I thought my lad would be home last summer but he’s enjoying London too much,’ Dini says. ‘He ended up staying there for work. I only saw him for the long weekend at the end of August.’

  I find myself nodding in acceptance of this. ‘Kylie’s coming home for Christmas,’ I say.

  ‘You sound like you’re looking forward to it…?’

  His gaze pierces towards me and I wonder if there’s some sort of second meaning to this. Whether I’ve given away something that I shouldn’t have.

  ‘I am,’ I say – and it’s probably the first time that I’ve admitted to myself how much I miss my daughter. We’ve spoken and we’ve texted – but I’ve not seen her in three months. It’s the longest we’ve been apart since she was born.

  Dini seems to sense the dead end, or perhaps it’s something else. ‘Tell me about your husband’s job,’ he says.

  It’s only now that I realise Dini hasn’t actually told me why he’s here. The reason is obvious, given what Harriet said about seeing Richard at Fuel’s Gold with Alice – although he hasn’t brought it up. Until he got here, he wouldn’t have known for sure that Richard was missing. He’s managed to keep himself unerringly cool.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ I ask.

  He breathes in and then leans forward to put the mug back on the table. I’m not sure he drank from it. ‘Because, late last night, a twelve-year-old girl was found face-down in a stream – and we have a report that your husband was the last person to be seen with her.’

  I breathe and take this in. Stay calm. It’s not how it seems.

  ‘I was there when she was found,’ I say.

  ‘I know.’

  He eyes me but I have to turn away. There’s nothing suspicious about Atal knocking on my door, nor with me going to the field. My house is the closest to where Alice was found – and Atal knows me. It shouldn’t feel as if I’m guilty of something, even though it does.

  ‘Richard’s an English language lecturer,’ I say. ‘He works at the University of the West of England.’ I pause and, when Dini doesn’t reply, I find myself talking for the sake of talking. ‘I wanted Kylie to go there.’

  ‘So that she’d be closer to home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She didn’t want that?’

  ‘I think she wanted the whole student experience. Hard to get that if you’re living at home.’

  Dini hasn’t written anything on his pad in a while. ‘What about your job?’ he asks.

  ‘Is that important?’

  ‘Not really. I’m curious.’

  I consider telling him that I have nothing left to say, though worry that it would only make me seem guilty of something. I haven’t done anything.

  ‘I work from home,’ I say. ‘I have a food blog and write reviews and recipes for some of the papers.’

  There’s the merest hint of a raised eyebrow. ‘I’ll have to look you up. Sounds like the type of thing my wife’s into.’

  He says this with a smile, although I don’t take any bait. I suspect he knows this already. I doubt there’s much about our life of which he isn’t already aware.

  ‘What did you do yesterday?’ he asks.

  ‘I had a bit of work to do. I was in most of the day, then I was at a meeting at the pub in the evening about the winter ball.’

  There’s the briefest of nods. ‘When did you last hear from your husband?’

  ‘When he left.’

  ‘He didn’t call?’

  ‘Phones aren’t really his thing.’

  ‘Did you try to call him?’

  I nod. ‘Lots. He didn’t pick up. I texted him too. I was worried.’ I pause and then correct myself. ‘I am worried.’

  Dini gives himself a second but little more. ‘Did you argue before he left?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘How’s your relationship?’ It’s a rat-a-tat-tat of questions.

  ‘Fine… normal.’

  Dini doesn’t react to this. He inhales a shallow breath and takes me in, eyes narrow and piercing. ‘Do you know Alice Pritchard?’

  I need a moment. Hearing her first and last name feels so much more impactful than the ‘Little Alice’ stuff going around.

  ‘Not really,’ I say, truthfully. ‘I know her to look at. I know her mum – that sort of thing. I’ve done a few cookery classes at the primary school – just basics, nothing serious. Alice is in that class, so that’s probably the most interaction we’ve ever had.’

  It’s only once I’ve said it that I realise Alice is probably too old to go to primary school now. It’s at least a year since she would have been in one of those cookery sessions, probably longer.

  Dini picks up his pad. ‘Does your husband know Alice?’

  It’s impossible to stop myself from shivering. It’s not the cold: it’s the feeling that a person has which my dad used to say was someone walking on your grave.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I say.

  Dini writes something on the pad and then sits with the pen poised over the paper. ‘Do you have any idea why she might have been seen getting into his car?’

  ‘No.’

  It feels like the betrayal I’ve been trying to avoid. I should be fighting back by saying that Harriet has it in for me and that she’s a liar.

  It didn’t feel as if she was lying, though. As much as I don’t want to believe it, I think she did see Alice getting into Richard’s car.

  Dini nods along with this, though his eyes never leave me until he re-pockets his pad. Once he’s done that, he slides back his chair and stands.

  ‘I think that’s everything,’ he says. ‘If your husband returns, he must contact us right away.’

  I look from him to the mug and almost say that he’s barely touched his tea. As if that matters. As if anything that trivial is important.

  ‘Should I be worried?’ I ask.

  Dini gives a grim smile. ‘Let’s hope not.’

  He takes a step towards the hall and I push myself up, before moving past him and guiding the way towards the front door.

  When I turn, Dini has stopped next to the grandfather clock. There are two rows of vinyl records on shelves that are built into the wall. He runs a hand across the spines and crouches to take in the titles. ‘Impressive,’ he says. ‘My son started collecting vinyl, even though he’s a teenager. Funny how these things go in cycles.’ Dini stands and turns to me with a smile that’s undeniably friendly. ‘Makes you wonder if tapes will come back,’ he says. ‘Or eight-tracks, or VHS cassettes.’ He laughs gently, although it’s impossible to join in.

  ‘They’re all Richard’s,’ I say. ‘He’s been collecting his whole life. There’s more upstairs. He’s got all sorts going back to doo-wop from the fifties.’

  Dini crouches lower and scans the collection from left to right. ‘Alphabetical order,’ he says.

  I don’t reply because there’s no question there. Dini doesn’t need to know, but there are three record players around the house, with one in the living room and two more upstairs.

  On the day I moved in, Richard had ‘Why Do Fools Fall In Love?’ echoing around the house. I knew the song but only found out later that I’d never heard the original. I asked Richard if he’d put it on purposely and whether it was supposed to be a message for us. He laughed and told me it was his favourite song. He was playing the version by The Teenagers, which came out in the 1950s, before either of us were born. I always thought ‘The Teenagers’ was a bit say-what-you-see in terms of names for bands.

  I’m not sure why that fact stuck with me – Richard is full of music trivia from decades back and most of it washes over me. As I stand near the door, I feel transported back to that day
, with the youthful oooh-wahs booming through the house as it played on a loop. We must have listened to that song at least a dozen times in a row. Sometimes, I will still awaken to hear the strains of it seeping up the stairs from where Richard has got up before me.

  ‘You all right…?’

  I blink back into the hall and realise that Dini is now standing and facing me. He’s moved across the hall without me noticing.

  ‘Just worried…’

  I can’t read Dini’s expression. I know how it looks. A girl seemingly got into my husband’s car, despite having no connection to him. She’s found bloodied and face-down in a stream, while Richard is now missing. It couldn’t be much worse.

  But then I know what can happen when a person is assumed to be guilty…

  ‘If…’ I say. Dini cranes his neck backwards a fraction, confused. ‘You said “if” my husband returns, you want him to contact you…’

  Dini doesn’t acknowledge this as he crouches to put on his shoes. When he next stands, I shuffle to the side and open the door for him.

  ‘Call me if you think of anything,’ he says – and then, without a backwards glance, he heads out to the marked police car.

  Six

  The grim sensation continues to grow within me. It’s not just that there’s something wrong, it’s that there’s something catastrophically wrong.

  I’ve felt this before… but it’s been a long time.

  I think it’s the knowledge that, regardless of what happens now, the world is tilting and life cannot be the same again.

  Richard has never been gone for this long before, not unless I already knew the reasons. He’s been to conferences and there was a work retreat he had about a year ago. He’s had paying engagements to speak at workshops in various corners of the country but, even with that, there was never a time when we wouldn’t end up speaking on the phone at some point. He’s not the type of person to simply take off.

  I have no idea who to contact. Richard’s never been one for ‘friends’, as such. He lived in Leavensfield before me and never seemed to have any close relationships with the people here. I don’t know for sure but I think he might have been something of a loner in village terms. To a degree, he still is.

  He’d socialise with his colleagues on odd occasions out of work – but it wasn’t often and I don’t know many of them myself. It’s around an hour’s drive to where he works at the university and having to make that journey twice a day meant he rarely hung around before driving home. The semester ended on Friday, so there was no expectation that he’d be back at work today. I fully expected him to be home last night and then to spend much of today either sorting through his records, or working on something in his office.

  When I check my phone, there’s a message from Theresa that arrived while I was in the kitchen with Dini.

  Theresa: Have you seen on Facebook? There’s a village meeting at the hall for midday.

  The idea of a meeting for the whole village seems like something quaint, from another age. The sort of thing that might have happened before the internet, perhaps even before phones became widespread. By the time something might be said in a public place, someone else has tweeted it out for the rest of the world to see.

  It’s almost half-past eleven and the morning has disappeared into an ocean of unanswered questions. I clear the kitchen, partly for something to do, and then put my coat and hat back on before walking down the hill into Leavensfield for the second time today.

  There’s no mini crowd outside Gemma’s house this time – although a single police car remains in place. I hurry past until I get to the obelisk that signals the centre of the village. It’s a tall stone monument, with a circle intersecting a high cross. It sits in the place where three roads join and, if anyone is driving through, there’s no way out without passing.

  A little past that is Leavensfield Village Hall. It is essentially a blocky, grey, stone building with a pair of spires at the front. It looks a lot like a traditional school, with lots of smaller windows around the edge and one large room on the inside.

  Off to the side is the village Christmas tree. It’s taller than the hall and decorated with lines of coloured bulbs. Nothing too extravagant, although that’s likely because Harriet delegated it to someone else.

  I don’t have to cross the car park to hear the hum of voices from within the hall. It reaches a peak as I get inside to be met by a mass of fifty or sixty people.

  It’s a Monday but seemingly nobody is at work. Even the children appear to be off school, judging by the number of young people doing knee skids close to the door. By the time they get to eleven or twelve, they’re all bussed to the out-of-town comprehensive that serves the surrounding villages. That’s if Mummy and Daddy haven’t packed them off to a private school by that point.

  The bitter smell of instant coffee hangs on the air as I press through the crowd, looking for Theresa. There’s no sign of her – but it’s easy enough to spy Harriet. She’s still in her all-black mourning outfit from earlier, and is up on the stage at the front, a metre or so higher than anyone else. She’s standing next to her husband, Gavin, who is the type of clean-cut generic white bloke that I could easily see losing his deposit in an ill-judged attempt to run for Parliament as a UKIP member.

  I don’t know a lot about Gavin, other than that he works in ‘finance’. Every time Harriet speaks about him, it seems as if he’s just earned some bonus, or a pay rise. Whenever there are news stories about mass financial fraud, or investors losing all their savings, I wait for the name Gavin Branch to pop up.

  Alongside village power couple #1 is one half of village power couple #2. James Overend is some sort of corporate lawyer, although I’m not completely certain what that means. He probably sues chronically ill children for having the temerity to drink the water poisoned by the companies he represents. There’s no sign of his wife, Sarah, who was also missing from the meeting last night. Also on the stage are both couples’ children. They each have one boy and one girl. Xavier and Beatrice for Harriet; David and Sophie for Sarah. Both boys are seven and the girls are six. It’s almost like they planned their copulation dates, or that they did it side by side to try to get their delivery dates to match.

  It’s little surprise that these two power couples have seized control of the village. Locals, especially the women, do look up to Harriet and – to a lesser degree – Sarah. They also want financial advice from Gavin, or ask legal questions of James.

  With that in mind, it’s normal for Harriet to be leading this meeting. There is a good proportion of people who will want to hear from her.

  After saying something to her husband, she steps across to the microphone and taps it. There’s a whine but it’s enough to get everyone’s attention and for the chattering to subside. The only indication of dissent comes from the boys at the back, who are still sliding across the varnished floor on their knees.

  ‘Hi, everyone,’ Harriet says. ‘Thanks for coming. I called this meeting because I wanted to reassure everyone, our children especially, that Leavensfield is safe. I’ve been talking to the police this morning and they’re looking into whatever happened to Little Alice last night. They’ve asked me to say that if anyone has anything to share on that, then they will treat the information in the strictest confidence.’

  This gets nods of approval around the room, even though Harriet has literally said nothing that couldn’t be figured out with the merest amount of thought.

  She reaches and takes her husband’s hand and then turns back to the microphone. ‘We’ve not told the police this yet – but Gavin and I are personally donating five thousand pounds to help find the person that hurt Little Alice.’

  This sets off a chain of mutterings from the assembled mass, although it is entirely in keeping with what I assume to be Harriet’s philosophy: that money solves everything.

  ‘How is she?’

  I don’t catch who shouts up, though it’s a man’s voice.

  Harri
et acknowledges whoever it is with a solemn nod. ‘I’m not sure how Little Alice is yet,’ she says. ‘Gemma’s off at the hospital and the only information for now is that Alice is very poorly. As a community, for now I think we need to be coming together to support Gemma.’

  The speech continues but I’m distracted by a shuffling of people next to me as Theresa appears alongside Atal. Theresa and I nod to one another and then she angles her head towards the stage. We both know what the other is thinking – that it’s entirely typical that Harriet has taken over something that doesn’t concern her.

  Atal doesn’t appear to notice as he mutters a low ‘hi’. I reply with a quick ‘You okay?’ and he nods, although doesn’t elaborate.

  We’re not friends as such, it’s more that Atal is Theresa’s husband. If Theresa and I were to fall out, I doubt Atal and I would have any reason to remain in contact. He is a focal point for the village, however – and not only because he owns one of the two restaurants in the area. He’s a Sikh and, with his dark skin and turban, he’s perfect to fit Harriet’s metropolitan elite quota. The way Harriet courts him to visit her various dinner and garden parties is a long-running joke between Theresa and me. There’s even a photo of Atal on the website of Gavin’s law firm, which was taken when there was a fundraiser a couple of summers ago. It’s almost beyond parody, or it would be if I hadn’t overheard James telling Sarah not to invite the ‘raghead’ to their anniversary party last July.

  ‘How are you doing?’ Theresa whispers.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  She leans in to talk into my ear, so that only I can hear. ‘Atal barely slept last night. Even Lucky seems down in the dumps. I can’t believe you were the ones who found her.’

  I don’t reply because I don’t know what to say.

  Theresa continues talking anyway: ‘Alice always seemed so happy when I saw her around. She was on the playground a few days ago with some of the other girls.’

  I still have no idea of how to reply. I’ve seen Alice around the village as well – but Leavensfield is so small that I’d likely be able to say the same about any of the young people who live here. I nod up towards the stage instead, where Harriet is still talking. ‘Where’s Sarah?’ I ask.