The Wife’s Secret: A gripping psychological thriller with a heart-stopping twist

by Kerry Wilkinson

  ‘Have you seen her?’ I ask.

  There’s a pause. A long pause. You get used to them with Mum. Sometimes it happens in the middle of a sentence. She’ll start saying something, bringing up a TV programme she watched, something on the radio, or remembering the glimmer of an encounter from years ago. Then she’ll stop herself mid-sentence and stare at the wall. Sometimes she’ll pick up from where she left off; most times, that’s it.

  ‘She was in the hall,’ Mum says.

  ‘Charley?’

  ‘In the hall.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I was going to the toilet and she was by those nice French windows at the back. The ones with the lilies on the other side.’

  I blink. She’s never usually this clear. People and places blur into one. Forty years ago is now. She thinks I’m my father; she forgets Emily’s name.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Not long ago.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I remember her pink dress.’

  I stare at her, but she’s only got eyes for her Polos. She slurps on one and smacks her lips.

  ‘Charley was wearing a white dress,’ I say. ‘We got married today, remember?’

  There’s a pause as she continues to suck the mint. ‘Of course I remember!’ She slaps the table. ‘I said I saw her in the white dress.’

  The viciousness is a recent thing. Sometimes she snaps at Em or me and it’s hard to know what to do. It’s not her fault her mind plays tricks, that sometimes she needs a coaxing, cajoling presence and other times that very thing infuriates her. Em gets it the worst, but then I always was the favourite. Dad once said that Mum would have kept having children until she had a boy. They only stopped at two because I came along.

  ‘Sorry, I must have misheard,’ I say, not that it matters because she’s back to staring at the wall. ‘Do you want anything?’ I ask. ‘Another drink? Some food?’

  ‘Don’t be so silly,’ she scolds – and that’s that. Like someone’s pressed a reset button in her head. There’s no point in asking about Charley again and this conversation is over.

  Alice presses through the doors as I head towards them. We each stride into the corridor, moving away from the battering thump-thump-thump of the music across the hallway. Her face says it all.

  ‘You’ve not found her?’ I ask.

  ‘She’s nowhere,’ Alice says. ‘I checked the toilets upstairs and down. Your room, my room.’ She hands back my key card. ‘I even checked the car park. Tried calling her again but there was no answer. You’d have thought someone might notice the woman in the wedding dress.’

  ‘Mum says she saw her by the French windows.’

  They’re a little way along the corridor, floor-to-ceiling doors that open out onto a small garden at the back of the hotel. It’s where we had some of the wedding photos taken. I’ve never looked up why they’re called windows and not doors.

  We continue along the corridor until we’re at the right spot. There’s a separate mat scuffed with dirt on top of the carpet. As Mum said, there are lilies on the other side of the glass. Perhaps she was right about seeing Charley?

  ‘Here?’ Alice asks.

  It’s only a word, but I sense the hesitation behind it. My mother might have seen Charley here – but there is a stronger chance she either imagined it or confused herself. Alice and I stand together staring at the doors. They’re closed, children’s fingermarks all over the lower panes.

  ‘Perhaps Charley wanted some air?’ Alice says.

  We head outside into the cool summer evening. The sun has dipped past the trees in the distance, but it’ll still be light for a while yet. Tiles are arranged in a swirling circle underfoot, with a sundial in the middle and clipped grass outside that. There’s a cut-through to a car park beyond.

  ‘Char?’

  Alice’s voice is crisp against the silence. There’s no reply, only the faint thump-thump-thump from inside.

  We edge further outside and I head for the car park. It’s a small gravelly area, probably where the staff leave their vehicles. All the guests park at the front.

  ‘Charley?’ I call.

  Nothing.

  At the back of the car park is a gap in the hedge and a gritty road that leads to who knows where. Other than that, it’s green with hedges, overgrown fields and trees. Very Escape to the Country. Very British.

  Charley’s name is pinned at the top of my contacts list but it doesn’t even ring when I try calling. I try three times back to back, waiting for the ‘sorry, your call cannot be connected’ message before hanging up.

  Once more for luck. Except there is no luck and there is no answer.

  It’s my wedding day. Our wedding day – and yet my wife is gone.

  Two

  Five in the morning.

  I’m not sure quite what I expected from a wedding night but it definitely wasn’t a pair of brothers sleeping top-to-tail in the marital bed. I consider taking a photo on my phone. Once Charley’s back and explains how this is all some strange mix-up, we’ll laugh at this.

  Raj is still in the full suit: waistcoat, shoes and a handkerchief in the pocket. There’s crusted dirt at the bottom of his trousers and a scuff along the back of his jacket. I have no idea how he got so filthy as he wasn’t any help when I went out to the woods at the back of the hotel to look for Charley. I don’t actually blame him for his state. He even asked if I minded him having ‘a few drinks’ earlier in the evening. No one expected the bride to disappear.

  Rafi has his feet on the pillows. He’s the bigger of the two brothers and has been snoring like a bear for most of the night. Despite the annoyance, there’s a melodic hypnotism about the way his chest rises and falls, all accompanied by the type of noises more usually associated with a strangling. As I stand at the end of the bed and watch, he snorts, holds his breath and then gags on something before rolling onto his side and draping a hand across Raj’s lower back.

  What a shambles.

  I check my phone again. No missed calls, no texts. Nothing. In the phone menu, Charley’s name is at the top with a neat little (63) at the end. If she wasn’t my wife and she wasn’t missing, this would be classic stalker behaviour. I turn the (63) unanswered calls into (64) and then stare at the screen, willing something to happen. Nothing does, so I make it (65) before putting it back into my pocket.

  The hotel’s corridors are quiet as I mooch through them, taking the stairs instead of the lift. The other wedding party finished a couple of hours ago and even the stragglers have drifted back to their rooms or off home.

  On the ground floor, the sign reads: ‘Fire door, keep closed’, but the door has been wedged open and a trio of empty wine bottles have been left on the floor, along with a condom wrapper. At least someone had a good night.

  The girl on reception has been there all night. As she sees me approaching, she tugs the single earphone out and smiles apologetically. She’s only late-teens or early-twenties, probably left with the shifts no one else wants.

  ‘Any sign?’ she asks.

  I’m not sure if she’s amused or bemused by the whole situation. If she’s worked here for any length of time, she’s probably seen more than her fair share of weird, but I doubt the hotel has ever lost a bride before.

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t suppose anyone’s reported anything…?’

  ‘Sorry. The bride from the other wedding party came through here a couple of hours back, but that’s it.’

  She’s giving me the closed-lip I-don’t-know-what-to-tell-you smile, which is fair enough. She’s been working all night and the least I can do is give her an hour or two of peace. Husbands and wives walk out on each other all the time, don’t they? Admittedly, it’s not usually a few hours after the ceremony, but she probably thinks we had some kind of drunken fall-out. There’s usually a viral story or two like that each year. Drunken bride arrested after glassing groom.

  Alice is on the first floor and opens her door after the quietest knock I coul
d manage. Her face is full of hope that instantly fades when she sees me. ‘No sign?’ she asks.

  ‘I was hoping you’d heard something…?’

  She shakes her head but nods me into the room anyway. Her hair is down and she’s changed out of her bridesmaid dress into fleecy bunny rabbit pyjamas.

  ‘Did you get any sleep?’ I ask.

  ‘Twenty minutes or so. I thought I heard my phone ringing, but I must’ve imagined it.’

  Alice plops herself down on one of the two double beds and I sit on the other. She fights a yawn and then points at the caked soil on the bottom of my trousers. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘I went out to the woods at the back of the hotel in case Charley had gone for a wander and fallen into a hole or something. It’s too dark to see anything, but if she is out there, then she’s not answering.’

  A yawn burns through me before I can even think about fighting it.

  ‘You should get some sleep,’ Alice says.

  ‘The best man and his brother have the marital bed.’

  ‘Oh…’

  ‘The sun’s on its way up, so I’m going to head back out. Should be a bit easier in the daylight. There might be footprints or something…’

  We both sigh, knowing it’s a load of old nonsense. Why on earth would anyone leave their own wedding reception to go for a wander through the woods; heels, dress and all? It’s something to cling onto, though.

  ‘She never said anything, did she?’ I find myself asking. ‘About not going through with it. Did she mention second thoughts?’

  Alice turns to face me and she has the same apologetic smile that the girl on reception was wearing. ‘She seemed nervous the night before – but that’s normal, isn’t it? Everyone’s nervous before a wedding. I was, worrying about the food and all that. Hoping I didn’t trip over my dress.’

  ‘But she never mentioned not going through with it?’

  ‘She did go through with it.’

  It takes me a moment to realise that Alice is right. Charley and I did get married. We are married. It was only after that she disappeared.

  ‘I don’t understand what’s happened.’

  We sit in silence for a moment. The bag that contained Charley’s dress is on the bed behind me, so are her regular clothes. There’s a make-up bag that’s hers on the side table. Her phone charger. If you were planning to leave, wouldn’t you take a phone charger?

  ‘Do you think we should call the police…?’

  Alice’s question might as well be my own.

  ‘Isn’t it twenty-four hours for missing people?’ I reply.

  ‘I think that’s a myth. You’re supposed to let them know as soon as you’re certain there’s a problem.’

  And that’s the thing. When I call the police, that’ll be admitting that this is a problem and not a misunderstanding.

  I push myself up from the bed and tell Alice I’m heading back outside. ‘She might be stuck somewhere, unable to shout for help,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah…’ She doesn’t sounds convinced.

  ‘Either that or someone took her.’

  Alice is blank. ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. Someone.’

  She bites her lip and then lets it go. I think she might say something, but then she glances away to the door. She’s Charley’s best friend, business partner and bridesmaid. Alice knows my wife as well as anyone.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  She shakes her head. ‘Nothing. I think I’m going to try to get a bit of sleep before checkout.’

  Back in my room, Raj and Rafi have moved onto spooning, but I’m not sure who’s getting the better end of the deal. Both are now upside down, feet on the pillows, with Raj snuggled into the back of his brother. I think about waking them to ask for help, but it would only ever be a waste of all our time. Charley isn’t in the wooded area at the back of the hotel. She’s not in the adjacent field, nor the gravelly car park. She’s not in Alice’s room and she’s not in the evening suite.

  I head to the window, where the sun is low in the sky, casting a moody orange glow across the perfectly still garden. Charley would love this view.

  I think about calling 999 and then remember those news stories every year. There’s always some bloke who dials the emergency number because his pizza’s turned up late, or a woman who thinks she needs the police because the remote control’s stopped working.

  This isn’t that bad, but is this an emergency? I hope not. A misunderstanding, I tell myself. It’s a silly bit of confusion that’ll all work itself out.

  I find myself calling 101 anyway, waiting as the phone rings. It’s nice to hear something other than a woman’s voice telling me I can’t be connected. I expect to end up on hold, or perhaps some dodgy lift music, but there’s a click and then a woman asks for my name and wonders how she can help.

  My mind is suddenly blank and then I hear myself stammering something about my wife going missing.

  ‘How long has she been missing?’ the voice asks.

  ‘Since about eight o’clock last night. Maybe a little before. I’m not sure.’

  ‘What’s your wife’s name?’

  ‘Charley Willis. Well, Charley Chambers now, I guess.’

  ‘Where did you last see her?’

  ‘We were chatting to my sister at the reception.’

  There is a short pause and then I realise I’ve somehow forgotten a large part of the story.

  ‘At a wedding reception?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, sorry. At our reception. We got married yesterday. We were waiting for people to arrive and then she disappeared.’

  ‘Right…’

  The pause is a little longer this time. I wonder if she’s got a script and is frantically flipping through the options to where it reads ‘wedding day change-of-mind’.

  ‘Is your wife vulnerable?’ she asks.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Does she have a history of self-harming or mental health problems? Anything like that?’

  ‘No.’ It’s an instinctive answer; defensive, as if to say ‘yes’ would reflect badly on her or me.

  The handler must pick up some uncertainty. ‘Vulnerable could simply mean that she depends on somebody else…’

  ‘I wouldn’t say she’s vulnerable but she is sort of… known.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘She’s Charley now, but she was Charlotte Willis. Her parents were Paul and Annie Willis.’

  ‘Oh.’

  The hesitation is longer this time. It’s still only a second or two, but I can sense the surprise. I know what she’s thinking because I was thinking it when Charley first told me who she was. These are the types of pauses that become normal when you’re marrying into a family dynasty.

  The woman asks for Charley’s age and description, then she wants to know where I am and where we live. She double-checks my phone number and says someone will visit this afternoon.

  This is why Charley doesn’t use the name Charlotte any longer, why she doesn’t tell people her parents’ names. Older people remember who she was and younger people have learnt it.

  Charley is a horror story parents tell their children; an urban myth that’s all too true.

  And she’s missing.

  Three

  15 Years Ago

  Police Sergeant Mike Heyman, Langton Constabulary

  It’s hard to believe they’re sisters.

  Charlotte is thirteen years old, hugging her legs to her chest, all elbows and knees. Martha is nine years older, a woman not a child. There are similarities beneath the surface – mainly the green eyes – but, while Martha’s stare expectantly at me, Charlotte’s are fixed only on the floor. Aside from that, though… Martha’s hair is dyed black, loose around her shoulders; her sister’s is light and clamped back in a ponytail. Charlotte is too young, but there is a hint of a tattoo sleeve peeping out from the bottom of Martha’s top. She has one of those long pyramid earrings angled through her lobe and piercings thr
ough her nose, lip and eyebrow.

  ‘I’m Charley’s guardian now,’ Martha says, showing off a stud in her tongue. She looks me in the eye and speaks confidently.

  Charlotte doesn’t flinch. It’s no surprise. She’s in shock. This isn’t the type of thing anyone gets over with a finger-click, let alone a kid.

  It’s times like this where you think of the training. Words are hard to come by but we’re all this poor girl has right now.

  ‘Hi, Charlotte. My name’s Mike,’ I say. ‘We can give you a bit more time if you want…?’

  She looks up to me, blinks. ‘Charley,’ she says. ‘It’s Charley.’

  Her voice falters.

  ‘Sorry,’ I reply.

  Martha leans in, a hand on her sister’s knee. ‘We’ll do this now,’ she says. ‘Right, Char? While it’s fresh.’

  There’s a blink and then: ‘Yes.’

  I glance past the pair of them towards the house. It’s typically big: detached, with a long driveway that snakes away from a quiet country lane. The middle of nowhere and now a real-life horror story.

  Charlotte… Charley has refused to move from the lawn since the time we arrived. It’s not the ideal place for an interview, but Martha is right about one thing – fresh in the memory is key. The longer we wait to talk, the more she might forget.

  ‘What do you remember, Charley?’ I ask.

  She gulps and licks her lips. For a moment I don’t think she’s going to answer and then her sister squeezes her knee again.

  ‘You’re safe,’ Martha says. ‘I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.’

  Charley nods slowly. ‘I was in bed,’ she croaks. ‘I was asleep and then I woke up. I thought I heard a scream from downstairs.’

  ‘Do you know what time this was?’

  ‘It was dark… I don’t remember. I don’t think I looked at the clock.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I say, trying to be calm and assured. To pretend that I’m the grown-up here and that I don’t feel sickened by everything that’s happened. ‘Do you know if it was a man’s scream or a woman’s?’ I add.