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

by Kerry Wilkinson

  And then it comes.

  It’s not what people think.

  Me: So where are you?

  I can’t say – but I need your help.

  I stare at the words and they feel dangerous. There’s a choice that’s coming which involves picking between my husband and the law.

  I don’t reply straight away and, as if he’s sensing my hesitation, another text joins the previous.

  I need you.

  It’s such a powerful word. He doesn’t want something from me, he needs it.

  Me: Please tell me where you are.

  I wait and wait. Five minutes pass this time – the longest gap since we started messaging.

  When it comes, the reply doesn’t answer my question.

  Please trust me. I’m safe – but I need you to put some of my clothes and a coat in a bag and leave it at the end of the lane, behind the village sign. Please.

  I read and reread the message. Richard has to be nearby if this is what he wants. Has he been hiding this whole time? Perhaps living in the woods atop Leavensfield, or somewhere else that’s seemingly far-fetched? I wouldn’t have thought him capable – and yet I also cannot explain why Alice got into his car.

  The phone beeps again – and this time there is no request.

  I love you whatever you do.

  Twenty-Three

  Whenever I see those men or women in front of a board emblazoned with the police logo, I wonder why they blink so much. Now I know. It’s because the lights are as bright as the sun.

  This is despite the fact that, as Dini promised, it is not a major event. I’m at the front of a small room with the customary backdrop. Dini is sitting in front of me, along with three people who are presumably journalists. At my side is Liz, the media relations officer who spent fifteen minutes telling me what not to say. I’m still not completely sure why that was needed, because she’d already pre-written a statement into which I’ve had limited input.

  Other than that, there’s a camera pointing directly at me, which Liz says is being used to live-stream the conference.

  Liz is one of those people who is ruthlessly efficient to the point of seeming rude. She rattled through everything I might want to know, asked if I had any questions, and then, when I hesitated for a moment, said ‘That’s great,’ before moving onto the next thing. They should put her onto curing cancer, or something like that.

  With everyone in place, she leans into the microphone and angles it towards her. ‘Madeleine King is about to read her statement. I’d like to reiterate to you that there will be no questions afterwards. Thank you.’

  Liz twists the microphone back to me and then presses back into her seat. When I look up, the three journalists and Dini are all watching me – although, of the four, I’d guess it is Dini who has the most intense stare.

  I expected the journalists to be here with pads and pens – but all three simply left their phones on the desk in front of me and are now sitting and watching. I guess that’s all it takes nowadays.

  I read the statement more or less as it’s written. Much of it was put together by Liz before I arrived – although there was little to object about. A lot of it is listing facts, such as when I last saw Richard. Even the personal bits don’t sound like me. I say I’ve been missing him and that I’d like him to come home. The house isn’t the same without him. It’s a direct me-to-him speech – except that we’d never talk to one another in such a formal way. I even say ‘I’m worried about your well-being’, even though I’m sure nobody uses the word ‘well-being’ in real life. It’s one of those officialdom words that have seeped into the public’s consciousness.

  The main thing is that the speech doesn’t mention Alice Pritchard, even though everything under the surface is about her. I know the biggest reason the police want me to appeal for Richard to come home is that they’re desperate to know why she got in his car. If they already knew – or had any idea where he was – there’d be no need for any of this.

  By the time I’m done, I can tell the journalists are confused because of the way they each turn to one another. Like people who have gone to a heavy metal gig, only to find some bloke with an acoustic guitar.

  Liz stands and says ‘That’s it’ because nobody seems clear – and then she scuttles to the back of the room to stop the camera. As she does that, each of the journalists head to the front to retrieve their phones. Liz meets them and starts to usher them towards the door, before one of them turns to Dini.

  ‘Is that really it?’

  ‘That’s it,’ Liz insists.

  ‘What about Alice Pritchard?’

  Dini continues to sit, not acknowledging any of them. For a moment, I fear they’re about to charge towards me in protest – but a small room at the back of a police station is probably not the best place for that. In the end, despite the temporary stand-off, Liz manages to usher them all outside, leaving Dini and me alone.

  ‘You did great,’ Dini says, although it’s more of a mumble.

  ‘You’re a terrible liar.’

  He doesn’t acknowledge this and the truth is that I suspect he’s a fantastic liar. I imagine he’s told a few mistruths to me in the past two days. He’s so good at it that he deliberately made this lie sound like one in order to make his others seem truthful.

  ‘I’ll get a car round the back shortly,’ he adds quietly. ‘Then I’ll be in contact if anything comes from this.’

  I nod towards the door. ‘Were they expecting something else?’

  Dini shakes his head but he doesn’t speak and he’s not hiding the fact that he’s unhappy about something. It’s entrenched in the way he’s hunched forward, with angular shoulders and his clenched jaw.

  ‘I have to go,’ he says. ‘Liz will be back in a moment.’

  He strides for the door and closes it behind him, leaving me alone. I focus on the camera at the back, wondering if it might still be on, even though Liz went to turn it off. Would there be some sort of benefit to that? I’m not sure who I trust in all of this – but it’s definitely not Detective Inspector Dini, not even with his mates’ rates for fixing windows.

  I’m about to get up to look more closely at the camera when the sound of raised voices comes from the hallway. I edge closer to the door, trying to make out specific words from the muffled male voices. I’m fairly sure one of them belongs to Dini, although I couldn’t be certain. Even if it is him, I can’t tell if he’s the one being shouted at, or the one doing the shouting.

  It all lasts perhaps thirty seconds before there’s the sound of someone shushing – and then silence. I hover by the door for a few seconds more before footsteps send me scurrying back towards the desk.

  Liz steps into the room and, for a woman who appeared on top of things since the moment I met her, the pink hue in her cheeks now makes her appear slightly flustered.

  ‘There’s a car waiting at the back for you,’ she says. ‘I’ll walk you round.’

  ‘Was everything okay?’

  ‘Absolutely fine.’

  ‘It didn’t seem like it was fine. Everyone seemed confused. Did they know they were here to hear about a missing person?’

  ‘They were invited here to be given details of an ongoing case.’ The vagueness remains, I suppose. It’s all deliberate.

  ‘But they would have assumed that would’ve been about Alice Pritchard…’

  ‘I was always told never to assume.’

  She reopens the door to the corridor, making it clear it’s time to go. I feel like I’ve missed something, although I’m not sure what.

  I follow her through the corridors until we arrive at a door. When she opens it, there’s a dark car waiting, with a uniformed officer in the driver’s seat.

  ‘What happens now?’ I ask.

  ‘We’ll let you know if anything significant comes from this.’ She pauses a second and it’s as if she then remembers what we’ve just done. ‘I do hope your husband returns.’

  It sounds insincere – but that
could simply be because of the way Liz is with everything. I thank her anyway and then get into the car, where the driver checks that I’m on my way to Leavensfield, before setting off.

  The roads around the village have started to feel very familiar in the past couple of days – but it’s easier to acknowledge the sheer majesty when not having to drive. The sweeping green brushstrokes feel endless as they soar up from the road and then swoop down towards the horizon. Even the long, winding drystone walls have a degree of beauty as they criss-cross the fields with rugged precision. The fields will be filled with sheep come the warmer months but I have no idea where they are now.

  The sky is dim as night approaches, even though it barely feels like an hour or two previous that I was in the kitchen when the sun rose. The officer continues along through the roads, passing the centre of Leavensfield and then continuing up the hill towards my house. He slows as he nears the drive but I ask him to keep going.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asks.

  ‘I like walking,’ I reply, ‘and I need a bit of exercise.’

  He doesn’t query this and shifts gears as he continues up the winding road until the village sign is in sight.

  ‘Here is fine,’ I say.

  The driver indicates and pulls over to the side, where I clamber out of the car and then straighten myself as he takes an age to move. I start walking slowly down the verge, waiting for the car to disappear around the bend. As soon as it’s out of sight, I turn and head in the other direction, hurrying this time until I get to the base of the sign. It’s more than the usual black-on-white ‘Welcome to…’ notice that’s at the entry to almost all places around here. At some point, the parish council found the money to pay for a solid, permanent structure that’s around two metres high and five or six wide. Someone painted the welcome message in large, colourful letters, with a selection of bright flowers around the edges as decoration. It’s undoubtedly impressive – and very on-brand for the village.

  I’m not here to admire the handiwork, though. Instead, I move around to the back of the sign – where there’s a clear patch of grass, making it apparent that the bin bag full of clothes I left hours before has now gone.

  Twenty-Four

  I turn on the phone that’s been concealed in my bag throughout the time I was in the police station. The logo swirls until the menu screen loads – and then I wait to see if there are any new messages. When nothing arrives immediately, I start down the hill towards the house. By the time I arrive, there have still been no new messages, so I return the phone to my bag.

  I’m not sure if I can explain why I did as asked and left those clothes. I suppose the biggest reason is that Richard’s ‘Not what people think’ feels so real to me. Whenever someone would ask about my father being in prison, I’d use those exact words. There’s every chance he was doing a kind act in offering a twelve-year-old girl a lift home when it was dark and cold. What responsible person wouldn’t do such a thing? After that, something clearly happened – but that doesn’t mean it was anything sinister, or down to him.

  I look up to the woods that sit above where Richard’s car was found and wonder if he might be in there somewhere. Wilderness living does not seem like something of which my husband would be capable – but all sorts of people are capable of all sorts of things when pushed to their limits. The bigger question might perhaps be how he’s evaded any police attempts to find him. I consider walking up the fields towards the woods myself and calling his name, except if he wanted me to know where he was, he could have told me in one of his texts.

  As I approach the front door, I can immediately see that the glass has been fixed. I even think Dini’s brother-in-law might have given the whole frame a clean, because it’s gleaming in a way that matches nothing else at the front of the house.

  I let myself in and then follow the voices along the hall into the kitchen, to where Theresa and Kylie are sitting at the kitchen table. They go silent as I enter and, though it might have a bet-you-think-this-song-is-about-you vibe, the guilty looks they’re both wearing make me feel sure they were.

  ‘I came by to see how you were,’ Theresa says, before nodding towards Kylie. ‘I didn’t realise this one was back.’

  Ever since they met, Theresa and Kylie have had an easy relationship in the way a girl might have with an aunt or a grandparent. Someone who is close to the mother–child dynamic but slightly off to the side. There were times a little over a year ago when I felt jealous of it. Kylie and I might argue about something silly and I’d find out that she’d ended up getting a freebie at Atal’s restaurant, while talking everything through with my best friend. Much of it was nerves ahead of exams or coursework. Few, if any, of Kylie’s actual college friends live in Leavensfield, so I think Theresa became a default.

  ‘I didn’t know she was coming,’ I say.

  Theresa moves on and I guess they’ve already talked about this. ‘You should’ve said you were doing an appeal for Richard. I could have come with you.’

  ‘That came up quickly, too. Did you see it?’

  ‘Not live. There’s a video on one of the news sites that someone linked to on Facebook. I can show you—’

  ‘I don’t think I want to see it.’

  Kylie and Theresa exchange a glance, before both settle back on me.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  It’s Kylie who replies. ‘Have you heard about the march?’

  ‘What march?’

  Theresa picks it up: ‘Perhaps it’s more of a vigil. Harriet sent out an email to the planning committee this morning – and it’s on the village Facebook page. There’s going to be a march through the village later today to support Gemma and Alice.’

  ‘That makes it sound like she’s dead.’

  ‘Critical condition is what people are saying. Not much progress since you and Atal found her.’

  Theresa and Kylie swap another look and I don’t need to ask what about this time – because Kylie says it out loud.

  ‘Theresa thinks we should go…’

  ‘I’m not sure about that—’

  Theresa interrupts me: ‘For solidarity,’ she says. ‘You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of and you don’t have to interact with Harriet, Gemma, or anyone else.’

  ‘I still think it’s a bad idea.’

  ‘It might look worse if you don’t go…’

  I don’t have an answer for that.

  ‘Harriet left you off the email chain, even though it went to everyone else on the committee…’

  Theresa doesn’t need to say more. There’s little chance that was an accident, which means there is every chance Harriet is trying to set me up to look terrible. It happened last year, with the summer fete. She sent an email to Pam knowing she was in Malaysia with limited internet access. Then, at the following meeting, when Pam hadn’t ordered a pair of signs, her reasoning was that she hadn’t checked her email while away. She’d arrived back just forty-eight hours previously and hadn’t had time to sort anything. Harriet had, of course, already done the job and turned herself into a hero at Pam’s expense. That’s how she works.

  ‘I think we should go,’ Kylie says. ‘I’ve not been out since I got back.’

  She makes it sound like some sort of fun party, though I suspect she’s been away from the village for too long.

  ‘The three of us can go together if you want,’ Theresa adds.

  ‘When does it start?’

  ‘Sundown.’

  I glance towards the window and it’s more or less already dark. ‘We better go now, then.’

  While putting on my coat and other winter items, I take a moment to check the phone that came through the letter box. There is still no follow-up to the earlier requests for the clothes – and no confirmation they were taken, even though I know the bag has gone.

  After that, Theresa, Kylie and I hurry down the hill into the village. A glimmering orange radiance makes it easy enough to spot where the march is beginning, even from a distance. Despite th
e endless social occasions, a march doesn’t feel like the sort of thing people do here. Protesting injustice is the sort of thing people do through flowery posts online, instead of actually taking part.

  Not today, though.

  When we close in on the pub car park, I can see that the glow is from all the adults, who seem to be clutching a lit candle. I have no idea where they’ve come from but, if nothing else, Harriet is resourceful. It’s well within her means to have found a hundred or so candles with accompanying holders in an afternoon.

  Theresa goes to grab us some candles from a large box that’s resting on a wall at the front. In the gloom of the night, and with the commotion over people collecting candles, it’s easy enough to slip around the crowd relatively unnoticed. In doing that, I spot Harriet at the front, alongside Gemma, who still seems to be wearing those fluffy boots that I’m now certain are Harriet’s. That’s mainly because Harriet is wearing a relatively normal pair of black boots that can’t be anywhere near as insulated for these conditions. Even by Harriet’s standards I’m surprised at just how easily she’s managed to put herself front and centre in this.

  Harriet’s husband, Gavin, is a step or two behind her, next to James – as well as their combined four children. Power couples stick together. Curiously absent is Sarah once more. I haven’t seen or heard from her since she showed up at the house saying we should be better friends.

  I spot Zoe and Frankie about two-thirds of the way back in the crowd. Frankie is carrying a candle but Zoe isn’t. She gives me a small wave, which I return.

  Theresa soon finds Kylie and me again near the back of the crowd – and she has Atal with her this time. It’s far too solemn an occasion for extravagant welcomes but he gives Kylie a brief hug and a thumbs-up – which is very him. Kylie did a few shifts at his restaurant last year when he was busy over Christmas and he told her she could have a job with him any time she wanted.