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

by Kerry Wilkinson

  He leaves it hanging there. Not quite conciliatory, I suppose, more a polite threat. His wife is nodding along once more. Go Team David.

  ‘You’re not having my money,’ Liam says matter-of-factly. ‘No way. Do what you want with the house, but they left that money to me and that’s that.’

  Martha opens her mouth to speak, but Charlotte stuns everyone. ‘I don’t care,’ she says softly. Everyone has stopped to look down at her. She’s so small on the floor, still hugging her knees tight. ‘I don’t want their money,’ she adds.

  That’s enough for David. He claps his hands together. ‘There you go then! That’s that solved. We can take that share and split it among the nephews and nieces. You can then do whatever you want with the house.’

  ‘No.’

  Martha speaks firmly, bristling with authority that belies the fact she’s only twenty-two.

  ‘What?’ David replies. ‘You heard her. She doesn’t want it.’

  ‘She’s thirteen,’ Martha says. ‘She’ll get that money when she’s old enough. If she wants to give it away then, it’s up to her. She’s not making this decision now.’

  David turns to his wife for assurance. There’s a microscopic nod and then he pumps himself up once more. ‘What about my kids?’

  Martha steps towards him once more. ‘Perhaps they can find some parents who earn their own money and don’t spend their lives scrounging and moaning?’

  When a kettle boils on a stove, there’s always that little rattle when it’s nearly ready. A little shunt to let everyone know the water is almost done. David’s eyebrow is twitching and he’s close to popping. That vein is bulging so monumentally that I can almost see the blobs of blood flowing through.

  It’s hard not to like Martha. Perhaps it’s me, my age, that dirty-old-man thing which is hard to pretend isn’t there. I don’t know why people call it that. There’s the insult factor, of course, but what do they expect? For the most part, if a man is attracted to women, that doesn’t go away simply because they hit a certain age. At one point, it’s considered healthy and normal, a year or three later and you’re a dirty old man.

  Even with that, it’s not as if I have a thing for her in that way. There’s something fundamentally appealing about a young person who couldn’t care less about who he or she stands up to. Not attractive in a physical sense, more an admiration thing.

  David is bobbing on the tips of his toes, apparently unsure of where to go from here. Martha has already dared him once to insult her and I can’t see him taking her up on the offer.

  In a flash, he lunges for the door, pausing for a second to jab a finger in my direction again. ‘You’ve not heard the last of this,’ he bellows. His wife storms past him and then he slams the door. Or tries to. It catches on the carpet and inches slowly into place, making a gentle click rather than the ferocious bang.

  There’s a moment of silence, but the tension is still there until Liam levers himself away from the bookcase. He peers around the room and takes a breath. ‘That went better than I thought,’ he says.

  Eleven

  Now

  Seth

  It’s always the husband, isn’t it?

  That’s the way the story goes. Get married, wife has an unfortunate tumble off a cliff or something… It’s like the dodgy marriage jokes, another of those clichés. I can’t remember the stats, but when a person is killed, it’s almost always by someone they know. Ditto if someone goes missing in suspicious circumstances.

  There are two police officers. The man is in uniform, the woman in a pale grey suit. Suit means CID – a detective – but I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing. It means they’re either taking this seriously and will do what they can to find Charley… or they think I’ve bumped her off somewhere.

  PC No Hair has, well, no hair. I forgot his proper name as soon as he told me. He’s one of those who starts going bald at twenty-odd and then shaves it off to give nature a jump-start. He’s not said anything, but his colleague has the steely glare of a woman who looks like she’s seen a few things in her time. DS Stanley is late-forties or early fifties, carved from granite with grey eyes.

  I have to remind myself that I didn’t do anything wrong. That I was with people through the reception anyway. I feel guilty for no reason other than that I haven’t had many dealings with the police. I’m not even old enough to be at where it feels right nodding to a police officer if I see one on the street. When you’ve lived enough of your life that a polite nod to a member of the Old Bill is perfectly friendly and acceptable. There must be an age where it suddenly clicks into place. Forty-something, I reckon – and I’m not thirty yet.

  ‘Did you have any sort of argument in the days leading up to Ms Willis’s disappearance?’ It’s DS Stanley who’s doing the talking.

  I let the name slip go. It’s Chambers now, not Willis. Perhaps the officer said it on purpose, wondering how I’d react. DS Stanley is being polite, but I know there’s suspicion under there. I can imagine that tone dipping into something that would strip paint from a wall.

  I shake my head. ‘Nothing. I didn’t see her much on Friday because she went to the hotel with Alice. I didn’t check in until Saturday.’

  ‘But all was fine before that?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And Alice is the young woman who left as we arrived…?’

  ‘Exactly. They run a sandwich shop in town, named Martha’s. Alice was the main bridesmaid.’

  DS Stanley mutters something to PC No Hair, who asks for Alice’s details. He notes everything down and then turns back to his colleague.

  ‘Are there any other friends who might be able to shed light on what’s happened…?’ she asks.

  ‘Charley doesn’t have a lot of friends. She’s a very private person. She spends some time at her brother-in-law’s and babysits her nephew and niece now and then. Other than that, it’s mainly Alice.’

  DS Stanley looks up and I’m locked in her stare. ‘What about family?’

  That’s the question, isn’t it? What about family? It’s what Charley’s entire life has revolved around. It’s never her, it’s about her mum and dad. The family.

  ‘She doesn’t get along with her brother,’ I say.

  ‘And he is…?’

  ‘Liam. He wasn’t at the wedding – her choice. He’s married with twin girls. We visited a couple of months ago, but they’ve not been in contact since.’

  The detective nods. ‘Any particular reason why they don’t get on?’

  A shrug. ‘Family stuff, I guess.’

  I wonder if she’s going to follow it up. It’s not much of an answer, but it’s the best I have. She makes a note on her own pad and then looks up once more.

  ‘And the brother-in-law…?’

  ‘Mason Renton. He was at the wedding with his kids. There’s Dillon, who’s seven, and Daisy, who’s five. Daisy was the second bridesmaid. Charley loves those kids. There’s no way she’d have left without saying goodbye…’

  I stop myself from blurting out any stupid theories. Not yet, anyway. Time and a place and all that.

  The detective writes something else on her pad and then purses her lips into an O. There’s an obvious question, of course – Martha – but she doesn’t ask. She’d already know the answer.

  ‘Can you think of any reason why Ms Willis…’ she stops herself, flips a page, ‘sorry, why Mrs Chambers might choose to take off?’

  ‘I wish I did.’

  ‘Any clues she was unhappy?’

  ‘I found antidepressants in her things upstairs. There’s a prescription, so they’re from a doctor.’

  ‘Did you know she was depressed?’

  ‘I’m not sure…’ I look between the officers, hoping for some understanding. ‘I mean… I don’t know if she was depressed. We never talked about it.’

  The pen scratches onto the pad again. Both are writing this time. This hardly makes me sound like a loving, devoted husband.

  ‘Do you kn
ow anywhere she might have gone?’

  ‘Only the shop. Alice said she’d been there but it’s all locked up.’

  ‘What about her parents’ house?’

  It’s a direct question that leaves me gasping in surprise.

  ‘I’d not even thought about it.’

  ‘Have you ever been? It’s, what, fifteen miles away? Twenty?’

  ‘Why would we?’

  The detective nods, acceptingly. Perhaps she’s annoyed at herself for letting it slip that she knows plenty about Charley – or at least thinks she does. She knows what’s been printed about my wife, she doesn’t know the person.

  ‘Just to confirm,’ she adds, ‘you and Mrs Chambers live here?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘How long have you lived together?’

  ‘She moved in with me about a year ago. A little over. She was living in a flat in town before that.’

  I give the details to PC No Hair, who writes everything down.

  ‘Have you noticed anything missing?’ the detective asks.

  ‘No – her passport’s still upstairs, so are her clothes. Alice returned the bag she’d taken to the hotel, including the one that had her wedding dress inside.’ I point to the Halloween photo of Charley with Dillon and Daisy, alongside the one of Charley and Martha. ‘She wouldn’t have left those,’ I add. ‘The one of her with her sister is the only copy she has. She takes those photos on weekend breaks.’

  The detective pushes herself up and crosses the room, picking up the two pictures and looking at them. Perhaps it’s the shield crumbling, but she smiles.

  ‘Cute kids,’ she says.

  I try to reply but the words stick. This is Charley at her best. The Charley with whom I fell in love. I wanted to marry her, for us to grow old together. I thought that’s what she wanted, too – but now she’s gone. Did she walk away, or…

  I blink away the thought. ‘Sometimes Charley will babysit on an evening,’ I say. ‘Other times, we’ll take them out somewhere on a weekend to give Mason a break.’

  The detective nods along before returning the pictures to the side and then retakes her seat. She flips a page of her notebook and then names the hotel at which we got married.

  ‘Who chose for the wedding to be there?’ she asks.

  ‘It was a joint decision. We visited a few places. Charley wanted something away from town in case anyone got word. She didn’t want anyone from a magazine popping up.’

  ‘Do you get much of that?’

  I shake my head. ‘Hardly ever… well, never, in fact. We’ve only been together for two years and I’ve never been photographed by a paper or magazine. She’s careful, after everything that happened. Sometimes one of her dad’s shows will get repeated on cable, or some clip of her mum is shared on YouTube. One of the yoga ones, y’know?’

  The detective nods along.

  ‘Charley doesn’t use the internet much because of all that. People put comments on forums, or wherever, and she doesn’t want to see it. She’ll do some shopping on Amazon, that sort of thing. She’s got email – but that’s it.’

  I pause, but the detective doesn’t say anything. She’s waiting for the rest.

  ‘I’ve thought about pointing out that a lot of time has passed,’ I say, ‘that nobody’s bothered who we are, but she grew up with all this. Sometimes she’ll see someone with a phone or camera when we’re at the beach or a park, that sort of thing. She’ll turn her back, thinking they’re after her – but it’s just some guy or girl taking a selfie.’

  The police officers exchange a brief glance before DS Stanley continues.

  ‘So you got married at a hotel in the countryside…?’

  ‘Right. Charley only wanted a small ceremony, which was fine by me. There were only twenty-one people there and that includes the registrar, the best man and two bridesmaids.’

  I find the guest list on my phone and then pass on the details to the constable.

  DS Stanley takes a long breath, flipping through the pages of her notebook before peering up again.

  ‘You say you met two years ago?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘When did you get engaged?’

  ‘About a year back when she moved in.’

  ‘So you never knew the sister…?’

  The detective leaves it hanging there. She knows what she’s asked.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘And you’ve not experienced the so-called Willis Curse…?’

  There is an awkward silence. Both officers are watching me as I try not to squirm. I’ve not heard those two words together in a long time. It was a phrase from the news, something other people would say or write.

  ‘I, um…’

  She bats a hand. ‘Sorry, I was thinking out loud.’

  The detective bites her lip and, before I know it, I’m filling the silence.

  ‘Other people have called it that,’ I say, aware of how defensive it sounds.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Charley hated it. She said it wasn’t true.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The detective pauses again, but this time I don’t fill the gap.

  ‘What do you do?’ she asks eventually.

  ‘I’m a vet. I work at Poor Paws in town.’

  ‘How long have you been there?’

  Time to count on the fingers. ‘About four years.’

  That goes onto the pad and then it’s back to Charley.

  ‘How did you meet?’ she asks.

  ‘At Martha’s… the sandwich shop she runs with Alice. I went in for breakfast and, well… that was that, I guess.’

  ‘That was two years ago…?’

  ‘Right.’

  She gives the sort of nod people do when they’re not entirely sure if they approve. All a bit quick and that. Meet, move in, get married. Two years.

  ‘Charley likes gardening,’ I add, although I’m immediately unsure why. I suppose I want to talk about her. ‘She took it up when she moved in. I’d let the back garden get a bit overgrown, but she cleaned it up and planted vegetables out there. Peas and carrots, mainly.’

  DS Stanley is drumming her pen, then she snaps her pad closed. ‘I have to ask… but it’s common knowledge that Mrs Chambers inherited a large sum of money…’ She glances upwards, indicating the house. There’s no need to say it, because it’s obvious. This is not quite a million-pound mansion.

  ‘She gave the money away,’ I reply. ‘Before I met her. She said she used a bit to set up her shop, but that’s it.’

  ‘Who did she give it to?’

  ‘She said there’s a lump sum in accounts for when Dillon and Daisy turn eighteen – plus she has cousins on her dad’s side. I’m pretty sure they got something.’ I shrug. ‘I don’t know any of that for sure. It was before I met her. The only money we talk about is what she makes from the shop and my salary. We’re like any other couple.’

  The detective nods, but I’m not sure she fully accepts it. Who’d give away a million quid? There’s all the interest that would’ve accrued over time as well.

  ‘Charley’s not that fussed about money,’ I add.

  ‘That seems clear.’

  We talk about them needing a photo to show in case someone recognises her. I tell the officers that my sister took all the pictures at the wedding. If they contact her, she should be able to provide the most recent image possible, one that shows the dress as well. That’s what Charley left in, after all.

  The detective runs through the order of the day; the ceremony and the reception. She clarifies the last time I saw Charley and I tell her that my mother might’ve been the last person to see her. She nods with understanding when I talk about Mum’s dementia and there’s a second or two in which we definitely comprehend one another.

  I explain that I’m off work for a week, supposedly to enjoy the post-marriage glow.

  ‘No honeymoon?’ she asks.

  ‘We were going to save up and go travelling next year,’ I repl
y. ‘Charley was talking about opening a second shop first. Alice would manage one, she’d take the other.’

  ‘Business going well, then?’

  ‘You can check with Alice – but I guess so.’

  I stop, breathe in through my nose and then tears feel close. I’ve been holding it together well, stoic and all that. That’s what my dad would say. He didn’t really do tears. Stiff upper lip. The British way. It’s how I was brought up.

  ‘It’s what I don’t understand,’ I say, the words catching in my throat. ‘She had plans for the future. We had plans. Why would you talk about all that and then disappear?’

  Both officers start to stand. Their lips are tight, revealing nothing.

  ‘Someone must’ve taken her,’ I add, the thought suddenly clear as I jump up. I’m babbling, thoughts of keeping wild conspiracies to myself long gone.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ the detective asks.

  I stare at her, mouth open. ‘It’s just… why else would she go?’

  Twelve

  13 Years Ago

  Charley Willis, 15 years old

  ‘Listen to this one,’ I say, looking up to make sure I have Martha’s attention and then turning back to the laptop screen. ‘“Annie Willis changed my life. I started doing her exercises just after giving birth to my first child. Ten years on, and four children later, I’m still doing them every day”.’

  Martha frowns towards me but says nothing. I know she disapproves of me reading the tributes. It’s been two years but people haven’t forgotten. Martha is flicking through the mail, muttering with annoyance as she dumps half the stack into the bin.

  ‘Junk,’ she says.

  ‘Do you want to hear another?’ I ask.

  She looks to me, biting her tongue in the way she does. They say you bite your tongue to prevent yourself saying something you don’t mean – but it’s a literal thing with my sister. She lets the bauble piercing poke between her front teeth and jiggles it back and forth.