When my husband told me he was visiting a man named Keith, he was instead here with a woman.
I have very little to go on, other than that my husband was arguing with a woman who might have had dark hair and was definitely wearing a hat. They were sitting outside in the cold, so it’s no surprise she had that on. She was likely in a coat as well. It’s interesting that they chose to sit outside, despite the temperature. I wonder if there was a specific reason. I’m also curious as to whether the police know who the woman is. They’ve had a day longer than me to process this.
I don’t want to judge Richard quite yet, not after what happened to Dad.
By the time I realise where I am, I’m almost home. I’ve been driving along the lanes on autopilot. I’ve already indicated to turn onto my driveway when I notice someone sitting on the wall at the front of the house. There’s a moment in which my heart surges and I think it’s Richard. He’ll be able to explain everything and people will find out that none of this is what they’ve been speculating it to be. They can cancel those magazine covers about how I was oblivious for the past three years.
It’s not him, though. It’s not even a man.
It’s Sarah Overend.
Harriet’s meeting about the winter ball on Sunday night seems like half a lifetime ago, even though it wasn’t even forty-eight hours. Sarah would usually be Harriet’s right-hand woman – but she was away and Theresa reckoned she had a chest infection. We’re no more friends than I am with Harriet, so I have no idea why she’s here.
I park the car and then wait by the driver’s door as Sarah makes her way along the drive towards me. She’s in a thick woollen coat, with fluffy snow boots that I’d swear are the same ones Harriet has.
She says my name as she reaches out her arms towards me. Before I know it, she’s pulled me in for a hug and it’s too late to avoid it. I have no idea what’s going on: we’ve barely exchanged more than a handful of sentences in the entire time I’ve lived in the village.
‘I heard what happened at the school,’ Sarah says. ‘I hope everything’s okay with you…?’
I almost tell her that of course it isn’t. I was called a ‘paedo’ in front of the village. My husband is missing. A girl nearly died. How is that okay?
‘I guess so…’
Sarah sets off towards my house and I feel compelled to follow. I don’t invite her in, but she essentially does that herself by trailing in behind me after I open the door. I could tell her to leave but it’s a bit late now. I’m not sure what’s happening.
Even though I don’t post much on Facebook myself, I am friends with both Harriet and Sarah. I even have alerts set up for whenever they post – because, when they do, it’s gold. Sarah once took a selfie of herself giving a homeless person a sandwich. She posted it to Facebook and, within two hours, there were over a hundred likes – plus almost as many comments from people saying what a caring person she is. The lack of self-awareness is barely believable.
We’re not friends – and I very much doubt we have anything significant in common.
We’re standing in the hallway where the bags of unpacked baking ingredients still sit. There’s a twinge of embarrassment that I haven’t tidied it all away.
‘Let me put the kettle on for you,’ Sarah says. ‘Which way’s the kitchen? Down here?’ She points in the correct direction and so I let her lead me through to my kitchen. She wanders around, pointing to various appliances and saying how wonderful it all is. Anyone would think she’d never seen a mixer before. I let it all play out, mainly because I’m interested to find out where this is going.
By the time she’s filled the kettle and fiddled around with the teapot, she’s used the word ‘fantastic’ four separate times, including to describe the spice rack.
It’s as we’re sitting at the table, each with a mug in front of us, that she gets to the real reason she’s here. She isn’t even subtle about it.
‘I was wondering if you’d heard anything?’ Sarah says.
‘About what?’
‘About Richard.’
I assume she’s fishing on behalf of Harriet – and that whatever I say will be on the village grapevine within minutes of her leaving. I should tell her to get lost, but burning bridges in a place like Leavensfield is rarely a good idea. Sooner or later, there will be no people left. Because of that, I decide to go with it.
‘Nothing,’ I say.
‘What about from the police? I heard they found his car.’
‘I think you’re asking the wrong person. Why would the police tell me what they’re up to?’
Sarah stirs her tea absent-mindedly but I can see something twitching around the corners of her eyes as the thoughts swirl. She must’ve missed out on the Botox session when Harriet went.
‘Fair point,’ she says. ‘They probably think…’ She stops and stares off into nothingness.
‘What?’
‘I probably shouldn’t…’
I know what she’s doing but it’s hard to resist joining in. ‘Shouldn’t what?’
‘Will you promise you won’t get mad?’
I stare at her and it’s like we’re hormonal teenagers. This is ridiculous, but it’s the game we play. ‘I won’t.’
Sarah looks at me earnestly, with wide, concerned eyes. No wonder she and Harriet are such great friends. ‘They probably think you’re a suspect.’
It sounds like she thinks this should be some major revelation to me. As if the thought never occurred that, with my husband seemingly involved, the police might think I could be, too.
‘Probably,’ I reply, drily.
‘I heard that Alice walks across Daisy Field to Fuel’s Gold most weekends when her mum’s working.’
‘Was Gemma working there on Sunday?’
‘I think so. That’s what somebody said. I thought it was odd for a twelve-year-old to be walking in the cold across the field when it’s dark. I wouldn’t let my two do that.’
For the first time since she arrived, it sounds like Sarah’s saying something that isn’t geared towards getting information from me. Kylie was fifteen when we moved to the village and I don’t think I’d have let her traipse across fields by herself in the dark. That’s not to say I don’t understand why it could happen. It’s a shortish walk from the village to the petrol station – and Leavensfield is remote enough that the chances of anyone noticing would be low.
Still, Alice is twelve.
‘Sophie’s not sleeping,’ Sarah says, talking about her daughter.
‘Because of this?’
‘She’s worried that someone’s going to leave her in the stream. I’m not sure that David’s taking it too well, either. He says he’s fine but he was sleepwalking last night and he’s not done that in a couple of years. It’s got to be hard for the kids, hasn’t it…?’
I nod along. Sarah’s right – except that this is the type of thing she might share with another mother who has children the same age as hers. Or something she might talk about to a friend. Why me?
‘Have you spoken to Gemma?’ I ask.
This gets a partial arching of the eyebrows and a blank gaze. ‘Gemma?’
‘Harriet was with her this morning at the school. I assumed you were all friends now…?’ Sarah’s eyes narrow. ‘You said you’d heard what happened at the school…?’
We stare at one another and it’s as if we’ve been speaking in different languages.
‘I did,’ she says. ‘I just didn’t realise it was Gemma…’
‘Harriet never told you she was there with Gemma…?’
Sarah shakes her head slowly and I get the sense that I’ve missed something. Perhaps she has, too. Even with everything that’s happening, there’s a small stab of satisfaction that everything might not be paradise between the village’s two power couples.
‘How’s the chest infection?’ I ask.
Sarah blinks and touches her chest delicately. ‘I’m still a bit husky,’ she replies – although she doesn’t
sound it. ‘You know what it’s like.’ She sips her tea and then licks her lips.
It could be nothing, it probably is, but there was something about the confident way she entered the house with me…
‘Have you been here before?’ I ask.
She looks up to the ceiling, avoiding me. ‘Once.’
‘When?’
‘James and I came for lunch one time with Richard and, um…’
‘You can say her name.’
She gulps. ‘…With Richard and India.’
‘Did you know them well?’
From being in charge of the situation, Sarah suddenly seems caught out. She picks up her cup and holds it to her mouth. She doesn’t drink, she simply holds it in place while she looks anywhere except at me. It is a few seconds until she puts it down again.
‘Not really. Richard has lived here forever. I was more friends with India. James and I came along because she invited us as a couple.’
‘When was that?’
A shrug. ‘Years ago. Long before she, um…’ She tails off and then adds: ‘I still can’t believe what happened to her.’
It sounds like a figure of speech but I wonder if there’s something factual there. Whether she literally doesn’t believe the story of how India died.
It’s like she’s drifted from the room but then, in a flash, she’s back and alert. ‘Not that it’s anything against you.’
Sarah sits up straighter, perhaps remembering why she’s here. She reaches into her bag and then passes across four rectangles of card.
‘Tickets for the ball,’ she says.
I scan the calligraphy on the front. ‘Why are there four?’
‘There were some spares and I figured you can bring anyone you want.’
‘I can’t believe it’s still on. Even if it is, I’m not sure if it’s the best thing for me to go…’
Sarah bites her lip and then leans in. ‘I think we should be better friends going forward, Maddy.’
‘There’s not a long line of people who want to do that at the moment.’
‘Which is exactly why we should spend more time together. We should do this regularly.’
I wonder if there’s some sort of sarcasm, or a joke I’ve missed. She seems genuine – although I’m not convinced anything I could say to her wouldn’t end up back with Harriet.
‘We’ll see…’
It’s not a commitment – but Sarah doesn’t seem to mind. She finishes whatever’s left in her cup and then returns it to the table.
‘Harry’s full steam ahead for the winter ball,’ she says. ‘She’s going to run it as a fundraiser for Gemma and Alice. Well, assuming Alice is okay…’
‘Do you know how Alice is?’
A shake of the head. ‘I heard she was in a bad way – but that was yesterday.’
We sit and ponder that for a second. There’s a twelve-year-old girl fighting for her life in hospital and I realise I’ve let much of that pass me by because I’ve been consumed by my own problems.
‘It was Harry’s idea,’ Sarah adds.
‘What was?’
‘To make the ball a fundraiser.’
I don’t reply because I don’t know what to say.
Sarah waits a moment and then nods. She glances up past me towards the clock and then slides her chair backwards. ‘I should probably go.’
I stand as well and, as we get into the hall and she finishes putting on her coat, Sarah stops to rub my arm gently. I might have been annoyed at this two days ago, but the human contact is undeniably welcome.
‘If you need a friend, or whatever, you’ve got my number,’ Sarah says.
‘It’s in my phone.’
That much is true – except we’ve never contacted one another. Phone numbers do the round for everyone on the village’s various committees.
Sarah puts a hand on the door but doesn’t open it. ‘Do you think they’ll find out who hurt Alice?’ I’m unsure what to say but Sarah isn’t done yet anyway. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t Richard…’
‘Who’s saying it was?’
Sarah starts to say something but stumbles over herself and ends up going silent before she’s made any sort of reply.
‘I should go,’ she says – and then, after one more long and deliberate sigh, she does.
Sixteen
I’m not sure how I missed it before. It’s only when Sarah talked about lunch with Richard and India that I realised we’ve never had couples over since I moved in. Some of that might have been because Kylie was living here – but there must be more to it than that.
There is another thing that’s been niggling me. Richard told me he was visiting his old colleague, Keith – but I wonder why he specifically chose that name. It might have been random – but why would he have been thinking of an old work friend he’d not seen in years?
I consider calling Keith a second time but, by now, I suspect the police will have paid him a visit. He probably told them I called him with some nonsense story about updating Richard’s contacts list, though there’s not a lot I can do about that now. He likely won’t be receptive to a call.
When I check the photograph on my phone of the rolodex card containing his name and number, I again take in the address. I eye the bagged baking items in the hall, knowing I should put things away. I also have work to do, although I can’t imagine writing a piece on something as trivial as a bakeware set at the moment. Instead, I head for the car and enter Keith’s address into my phone. The directions say it should take eighty-three minutes in current conditions and, seeing as I have nothing better to do, I set off into the country lanes once more.
The blue skies of the morning have faded to something closer to a light grey, while the air is clammy and dank. It feels like it could rain again soon. There is no sign of any vehicles up on the farmer’s track any longer, nor of any police cars at all. The road out to Fuel’s Gold is clear and I resist the urge to slow this time. The image of Alice getting into Richard’s car is burned into my mind anyway.
One clue as to why Richard might have chosen to tell me he was visiting Keith is because the route I’m sent on by my phone takes me past The Willow Tree pub. If for any reason someone had reported back to me that he’d been seen here, he could have easily said they were meeting in the middle.
I’ve never thought of him as conniving – but perhaps that says a lot more about me than it does him.
The phone directions take me over the road bridge and through the winding roads, out towards the coast. The further I get from home, the more the wind picks up until it’s buffeting the car on a series of wide-open straights.
Keith Etherington lives on the outskirts of a typical British seaside town. There’s a pier and a row of shops along the front that sell fish and chips or ice cream. In the summer, it will be packed; at this time of year, it’s a ghost town.
There’s one road in and out, so I drive along the front to get out the other side – and then continue up towards the cliffs. Keith’s home is a cosy cottage that sits by itself in a dead end near the base of the rock face. There’s nowhere to park, other than on the side of the single-track road. Whether he likes it or not, this means Keith has been blocked in.
The wind is so strong that it almost blows my door closed as I get out of the car. I have to fight to hold onto it and nearly trap my fingers in between the frame and the door. As I’m doing that, a gust grabs my scarf and partially unwraps it. By the time I’ve finished battling with the gate to Keith’s cottage, I’m exhausted.
A ‘sea view’ is supposed to be one of the things that people crave while looking for somewhere to live, or retire. Although Keith technically has that, the current sight is of a raging torrent of foamy water a couple of hundred metres from his house. The sea roars as the wind howls – and a sea view feels like the least appealing thing going.
The doorbell is one of those that offers no indication it’s actually gone off. I press the button twice in quick succession but hear nothing. It’s as
I’m about to try the bell a third time that a light goes on beyond the front door. Moments later, the door swings open to reveal a familiar stranger of a man. We’ve never met and yet, on first glance, it feels as if we have. He dresses like my husband, with cord trousers and a blue jacket atop a shirt that’s too big. Even without entering the house, I can see the crammed bookshelves that stretch along the hall.
‘Are you Keith?’ I ask.
His eyebrows are bushy and overgrown. They meet in the middle when he frowns towards me. ‘And you are?’
‘Madeleine,’ I say. ‘We spoke on the phone yesterday.’
His expression softens – but not by much. ‘Dickie’s wife…?’
‘That’s me.’
He puts a hand on the door frame. ‘I don’t think we should be doing this.’
‘Have the police been?’
Keith has started to close the door but stops. ‘Did you know? When you called me, I mean. Did you know what they’re saying he did?’
I shake my head. ‘Not then. Later.’
He eyes me with suspicion – and I don’t blame him.
‘Can we talk?’ I ask.
‘About what? I’m nothing to do with whatever this is.’ He sounds cold and uncomfortable, which is perhaps not a surprise.
‘I think Richard might have involved you whether you like it or not…’
He stares at me, one eyebrow twitching and his hand still on the door. The stand-off lasts a few seconds until he sighs and pushes open the door wide enough for me to enter.
As soon as I get inside, I see that the hall is far more cluttered than it first appeared. Not only are there filled bookcases running the full length of the wall, there are dozens of small piles across the floor. It’s like a tornado hit a library.
He leads me into a living room, where there are even more books around the walls and on the floor. There are pulp paperbacks, chunky hardbacks and weighty textbooks. Some look old and handed-down, others are near enough new. There seems to be no order to any of it. There are no photographs on the walls to indicate a family, nor anything to show anyone lives here other than Keith.
What My Husband Did: A gripping psychological thriller with an amazing twist Page 12
