The school’s staff car park is next to the main building and it’s only half full when I take the spot furthest away from the school, leaving those closest for the teachers. That means waddling awkwardly across the frost-dusted tarmac with my overflowing bags for life.
Because I’ve been doing this semi regularly for the past year and a bit, the school issued me a swipe card to get in through the staff door. I think the main reason was that it saved the secretary having to come down two flights of stairs to let me in. There’s also the logic that nothing bad ever happens in Leavensfield, so why would it be a problem for me to let myself into the school?
There are probably only a hundred or so children at this school and it serves Leavensfield and a handful of other local villages and hamlets. It’s the type of place that might be hard for someone to imagine if they’re used to inner-city schools with thirty kids in a class. As with many things around here, there’s a cosy safety that inhabits everything about the school.
I balance the bags with my knees and fish around my pockets for the swipe card, before letting myself in. The walls are plastered with drawings and posters created by the various year groups as I follow my way around the corridors to the reception area of the school, where the students enter. It’s there that I have to stop to put everything down.
One of the teachers, whose name I can’t remember, is standing near the doors while tapping something into her phone. She turns at the sound of me nearly dropping the bags, and then catches my eye.
‘What class are you with today?’ she asks.
‘Year threes.’
That gets a nod before she twists back to the front – and does a double take that’s so pronounced that it’s impossible to miss.
I follow her eyeline out towards the playground. There are children towards the back running around with a ball – but, away from them, off to the side, it’s as if a pause button has been pressed. The kids have moved away, forming a path through which Harriet is descending the steps to the playground. She’s in full goddess mode today, in some sort of matching all-white outfit, with a furry collar. Like a snow queen descending from her throne. She’s even wearing a pair of huge sunglasses, the type of which are usually only seen among celebrities who allegedly don’t want to be spotted.
Xavier and Beatrice are walking in front of her and they’re all keeping pace so perfectly that I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve practised this beforehand.
That’s not why the teacher did a double take, however.
Walking at Harriet’s side is Gemma.
The toll of what happened with Alice hangs in every step that her mother takes. Harriet walks tall but Gemma is slumped, with her shoulders drooped and low. Her skin is pale, while her dark hair hangs loose and unwashed. She’s in leggings, with a tatty coat – a complete contrast to what Harriet has on.
None of that is surprising – but the fact Gemma’s here genuinely is. Alice is surely at the hospital and yet her mother’s at the school her daughter is too old to attend.
Harriet and Gemma stop at the bottom of the school steps – which is when I realise a pair of photographers with long lenses and camera bags are with them.
I follow the teacher out onto the playground as the photographers’ camera shutters click away in rapid succession. The two women are suddenly inseparable and, though Gemma had been looking to the floor, she blinks upwards to take in the attention. Other parents have gathered and the children at the other end of the playground have stopped running and started to mass.
There are people I assume to be journalists holding their phones at arm’s length out towards Gemma and Harriet. By entering the staff car park, I seemingly missed the beginnings of whatever this is.
Harriet is treating it like an impromptu press conference. She holds up a hand and there’s instant silence. This would be impressive anywhere, let alone at the edge of a school playground.
‘Gemma won’t be answering questions today,’ Harriet says. ‘She is asking everyone to respect her privacy. This is all she has to say on the matter.’
If it wasn’t here, in this moment, it would be laughable. Harriet’s been watching too many court dramas.
Other teachers have joined the huddle, although they’re looking to one another with something approaching confusion. This probably shouldn’t be happening, let alone on school property – but there are cameras and reporters here. Who would be brave enough to step in?
As Harriet speaks, Gemma continues to look around the gathering. She’s suddenly standing taller and she starts to smooth down her hair. I can picture her as that teenager who’s picked on by the cool kids but who then gets a chance to join the gang. Her daughter is in hospital and yet I can see how a part of her must be flattered by whatever it is that Harriet is doing here.
Some people think that others can only be traumatised if they’re crying into their hands, or hiding away. Anything less than that means they’re guilty of some sin, imagined or otherwise.
Harriet takes a step forward and rests a hand on each of her children’s shoulders. Gemma shifts ahead, too. It’s as if there’s an invisible shield around them – and people keep moving as Harriet edges towards the school. Gemma keeps pace as they get closer to the main entrance.
I only realise what’s about to happen when it’s too late. I’m frozen on the spot as Harriet stops a few paces away from me. Gemma is staring, wide-eyed, as if she’s prey and I’m the lion.
I shouldn’t be here. It was a massive misjudgement to think that I was up to this – or that anyone would want me to be here.
It’s not only Gemma who is staring. Xavier and Beatrice are both open-mouthed, as are, seemingly, all the other children and adults. I’m a pheasant in the crosshairs as Harriet clears her throat dramatically.
‘Well,’ she says, ‘this is awkward.’
Thirteen
Harriet nods past me towards the school beyond. ‘Are you sure this is the best place for you to be today, Madeleine?’
It’s a question, but it’s not. It’s also none of her business – but it is. She says my name like my dad used to do when I was in trouble. I was ‘Mads’ when things were good, ‘Maddy’ at other times – and then ‘Madeleine’ if I’d overstepped the line. Nobody ever calls me that nowadays. I don’t think I’ve ever introduced myself to a person using my full name. Now there’s Dini and Harriet in the space of a day.
Harriet takes a moment to stop and make a deliberate point of looking to the surrounding children, as if I’m some sort of danger. None of the watching journalists, parents or teachers say anything. We’re all in Harriet’s thrall.
Children are massing around me now. It’s as thrilling as it is frightening to see adults argue. I should go. Except the image of my father drops into my head and I know I can’t let it go like this.
‘Are you accusing me of something?’
Harriet opens her mouth and then closes it again. She won’t be used to dissent, let alone directly to her face while people are watching. She’d have expected me to meekly fold away and disappear.
This is probably why she takes the moment to play the trump card with which I can’t argue. She turns sideways to look to a muted Gemma. ‘I just think that with everything that’s happened to Alice and with the fact that your husband is missing – plus everything else – that a school might not be the best place for you.’
‘Why?’
Harriet stares at me. I’ve surprised myself by standing up to her. What’s she going to do? Accuse me of beating a child half to death and leaving the body in a stream? Harbouring an attempted murderer? Not even Harriet will go that low.
It’s Gemma who speaks. Her voice is croaked and it sounds like she has a cold. ‘Do you know where your husband is?’
It feels as if everyone is looking at me. As far as I know, it’s not been reported that Richard is missing, nor that there’s any connection between him and Alice. That makes no difference in a place such as this, though. Once one person
knows, everybody does. Everyone around me, probably including the children, will know that Alice got into Richard’s car. She was dumped in a stream, while he’s not been seen since.
‘No,’ I say, although I’m unable to meet Gemma’s stare. ‘If I did, I’d say.’
I glance up and Gemma has turned sideways towards Harriet.
‘Maybe we should take this inside?’ Harriet says. ‘We’ll talk to the headmistress.’
She sounds polite – but only in the way somebody does when they’re calling a new haircut ‘brave’. What I didn’t realise until now is that the damage has already been done.
It’s unclear who says it – but the voice belongs to one of the group of women standing directly behind Harriet. ‘I don’t want her alone with my kids.’
‘I’m not—’
‘Someone call the police.’
‘You don’t—’
‘Paedo!’
I’m left in a spin, trying to see who’s talking, while also attempting to reply. The final word leaves me stunned. I’ve no idea who said it, other than that it was a woman. I don’t know everyone here – and parents do drive their children in from other places – but this is my home. I’m a part of this community.
Or I used to be.
One of the teachers begins to speak – but Harriet talks over her.
‘I’m sure Madeleine isn’t involved in any of this. I don’t think we should be throwing around words like that.’
The chattering around her subsides – but it’s not lost on me that she’s the one who whipped it up in the first place. Like someone shouting ‘fire’ in a cinema and then admonishing people for not forming an orderly queue to leave.
There’s a hand on my shoulder and someone at my side. When I turn, it’s Louisa – Mrs Peartree – the teacher with whose class I’m supposed to be helping. I can see in her sad but firm expression that I wasn’t expected today, despite the scheduled class. That I shouldn’t be here.
‘I thought someone had called you,’ she says softly.
I’m defeated, with nowhere to go from here.
‘I just need to get my stuff from inside,’ I say.
Louisa nods a solemn acceptance before Harriet steals the final word.
‘Madeleine…?’
‘What?’
‘I was thinking it’s probably best if someone else takes care of the flowers for the winter ball…’
I stare towards her. I’d forgotten about the job she’d given me. The one I didn’t want. I also can’t believe her stupid event is still taking place considering everything that’s happened. It’s systematic of the hypocrisy in the village. My husband’s suspected actions have left me ostracised, even though I’ve done nothing. Meanwhile, nobody is questioning why Gemma’s daughter was free to walk across darkened fields in the middle of winter.
‘You know what, Harriet? You can take those flowers and shove them right up your—’
Louisa grips my shoulder a little harder this time and I stop. Tears feel close again and there’s no way I’m going to cry in front of a crowd. Louisa guides me inside and I let her. She leads me towards my bags and picks one up, leaving the other for me.
‘Where are you parked?’ she asks.
‘In the staff car park.’
She nods. ‘I’ll show you out, then.’ There’s a momentary pause and then: ‘Perhaps it’s best if I take your pass, too.’
Fourteen
The house is cold and desolate. Sometimes the central heating turns itself off for seemingly no reason. Richard says it only happens when I set it. He perhaps has a point – but he’s never gone out of his way to show me how it all works.
I’ve already taken off my coat when I decide to put it back on again. I leave the bags in the hallway, unable to deal with putting anything away quite yet. Who cares about a stupid pantry? I almost wish the police were back to do another search because at least there would be someone here.
I consider calling Theresa but don’t. It’s the daytime and she has her own things with which to be getting on. Word will go around about what happened at the school anyway. Chances are, she’ll call me at some point.
I think about contacting Kylie but don’t do that either. She doesn’t deserve any of this to be dumped upon her, although I should tell her about Richard before any of this reaches the wider news cycle.
I need to first find out where Richard was on Sunday. He lied to me but there has to be a clue somewhere – even though the police took many of his things. The only items left in his office are some random books and stationery. When I find nothing of note there, I go into our bedroom and hunt through the pockets of the jackets and trousers still hanging in the wardrobe. There are receipts that go back years, £40 in notes spread across three jackets, a comb, a pair of nail scissors and a random key that looks like it should fit our front door, even though it doesn’t turn when I try it.
It’s as I’m dropping the banknotes into the spare change pot that Richard and I share that I have an idea.
Richard and I have had a joint bank account and shared credit cards since around a month before we married. We also each have our own savings accounts that date back to before we were together. I’ve never felt the urge to ask about his and he’s never asked about mine. He’s more old-fashioned than I am when it comes to money. He prefers to use cash and deal with any issues in a branch. I can’t understand why more places don’t let me tap my card, while I use online banking for as much as I can.
I retrieve my laptop from the kitchen and log myself into my bank’s website. I check the credit card first – although there have been no transactions since I filled my car with petrol on Friday. I almost close the tab – but then remember that Richard uses his debit and credit cards interchangeably. They’re both the same colour, so it’s not entirely his fault – although it can be annoying when he pays for something expensive that takes us either overdrawn or close to it.
A single click of the tracker pad and there it is.
I stare at the transaction from Sunday, knowing it was nothing to do with me. Richard spent £38 at somewhere called The Willow Tree. I’ve never heard of it, but, when I google it, I find the place immediately. It’s a country pub with an attached restaurant that is around twenty miles away.
Although I’ve not heard of the pub by name, I know where it is. I’ve probably driven past it once a month or so when heading for the motorway. One of those places to which I’ve never paid attention. I close the laptop, grab my car keys, and then head out once more.
It’s hard not to feel edgy as I drive past Fuel’s Gold on the route away from Leavensfield. I slow without meaning to when I’m near the tarmacked area a little away from the forecourt. This is where Alice and Richard were pictured together. There’s a tall, metal clothes recycling bin off to the side, with some sort of large, rusting, cylindrical fuel tank behind that.
If I’d been thinking straight this morning – and there hadn’t been the crowd – I might have asked Gemma if she was working on Sunday. I could have found out if she knows why Alice was out here, or why her daughter might have got into Richard’s car. The police will have asked those questions but they’re hardly likely to share the answers with me.
I’m only aware of the car in my rear-view mirror when it swerves onto the other side of the road and disappears into the distance with a honk of the horn. It spurs me back to the present and I accelerate away and towards the deepening shadows that criss-cross the road. The hedges are higher the further I get away from the village. Evergreens sway low across the lanes, with overgrown branches scraping across the roof of the car. The verge soon disappears as the road narrows to little more than a single track. I have to pull in a couple of times in order to let someone pass who’s coming the other way but, other than that, the route is deserted.
The Willow Tree sits at the bottom of a valley, close to a stone bridge that crosses a river. There is even more green out here than there is around Leavensfield. The fields stretch
to the horizon and beyond before melding with the blue of the sky. The pub is in the middle of nowhere – although that’s part of the appeal. People will travel from miles around to eat here.
The first indication that there’s something wrong is the near-deserted parking area. There are only another two cars anywhere in sight and they’re close to the bridge, meaning they probably belong to hikers or dog-walkers who’ve parked up and then headed off along the river bank.
It’s only as I spot the closed doors at the front that I realise I’m far too early. The lack of sleep and premature start to the day has me feeling like it’s mid-afternoon, even though it’s only a little after half-past ten. When I check the sign next to the door, it says that they open at twelve, which leaves me a fair bit of time to kill. Going home, sitting for fifteen minutes and then coming back makes no sense and, given that I don’t really know this area, I don’t seem to have a lot of options.
As I’m pondering my choices, someone in a grubby hatchback pulls up close to the river. A man opens the back of the car and a huge dog that might have been cross-bred with a pony leaps down. The dog seemingly knows where he or she is because, without prompting, it starts cantering along the riverbank with the owner trailing behind.
Because I don’t know the way, I follow them, although the dog and owner are both walking faster than me and it doesn’t take long for them to disappear into the distance.
There is something about this area that feels very Richard. He’s not a big walker when it comes to things like fields and trees – but he likes the views. Being in the Cairngorms with its steepling mountains and mind-blowing valleys is entirely the sort of break I know he’d enjoy – as long as there was a B&B room in which to sleep at the end of a day. I can also easily picture him ambling along this riverbank while saying hello to the various dogs that pass. He could have come here for some peace and a walk, before getting himself a bit of lunch at the end of it.
What My Husband Did: A gripping psychological thriller with an amazing twist Page 10
