The Serial Killer's Wife by Alice Hunter (best romantic novels to read .txt) 📗

‘We’ll come in and wait,’ he says. He turns to the detective, who’s now back by his side. ‘Walters – check the back first,’ he demands, in his gruff voice. I log his name in my memory this time. I don’t feel I have a choice about letting them in to wait, despite my apprehension at allowing two men inside my home at this hour when I’m on my own. As if sensing my unease, DI Manning asks if I want to call the station to confirm they’re official. I give a nervous laugh, say it’s fine, and open the door wider.

I hear Poppy calling from her bedroom and shout ‘I’ll be up in a minute, sweetie,’ up the stairs. ‘Go on in there,’ I point towards the kitchen and follow behind DI Manning as he walks. His stride is long, purposeful. I check my mobile. No missed calls. No texts from Tom.

Where the hell are you?

I slip the phone into my trouser pocket. ‘Can I offer you a cup of coffee, or tea?’

‘Yes, thank you. Tea. Black, no sugar.’

My mind works overtime as I put the kettle on and take two mugs from the kitchen dresser hooks. ‘You didn’t answer me. What is this about?’ I attempt to keep my voice light – a curious tone, not a demanding one.

‘Just a few questions at this stage,’ he says, sitting heavily at my large oak farmhouse table. It was one of my favourite buys when we first moved here two years ago. I’d wanted to embrace the change, so we’d gone from modern, London furniture to the rustic Cotswold cottage look.

My pulse quickens at DI Manning’s choice of words. At this stage.

‘Oh? Questions relating to …?’

Before he can answer me, the back door into the kitchen rattles. I open the upper part of the barn-style door. DS Walters is there. He’s obviously been checking the perimeter of the cottage.

Do they think Tom is hiding? That I’m hiding him? Something close to panic rises inside me as my imagination begins to run wild. I swallow hard, trying to push it back down.

I let Walters in and ask if he wants a drink. He doesn’t speak, just shakes his head – a piece of sandy-brown hair flopping over his forehead with the motion, which he silently brushes aside with his forefinger. If they’re trying to put me on edge, they’re doing a great job.

‘You say your husband is late home from work. Do you have any idea where he is?’

‘He commutes to London Monday to Friday. He works in banking … for Moore & Wells.’ I can’t think of what else to say, so I stop talking.

‘Have you tried calling him?’

‘I did earlier, just before putting our daughter to bed. But not since, no.’

‘Could you try again now, please?’

My fingertips shake as I attempt to press Tom’s name on the ‘last numbers dialled’ display. I accidentally press Lucy’s instead and have to quickly cancel the call. On the second try, I hit the right contact. It rings twice, then goes to voicemail. Christ, he must’ve diverted it. I’m about to try again when I hear the front door.

It’s Tom. Thank God. Now whatever this is can be sorted out.

‘Tom! Where’ve you been?’ I rush up to him, pulling him towards me tightly, taking in a slightly sour smell. He isn’t wearing his suit jacket; he must’ve left it in the car. I whisper in his ear. ‘Some detectives are here and they want to talk to you.’

I pull away from him in time to see his face go pale. His peacock-blue eyes flicker – with what looks to me like fear.

Anxiety gnaws at my stomach.

‘Mr Thomas Hardcastle?’ DI Manning is standing now as we walk back into the kitchen, his badge outstretched as he approaches Tom. ‘Detective Inspector Manning, Metropolitan Police.’

I see Tom’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

‘Yes. How can I help?’ Tom says, glancing at me before returning his attention to the detective. Did I catch a tremor in his voice?

‘We believe you might be able to assist us with a murder enquiry.’

Chapter 2

BETH

Earlier

The Nespresso coffee machine whirs noisily as I dash around the kitchen trying to do three tasks at once. It’s not just because it’s a Monday; every weekday morning begins like this. Frantic, loud, rushed … and very early. Poppy was awake by five, and for about ten minutes I could hear her pottering about in her bedroom, talking to her most-prized stuffed animals – a lion, a tiger and a sloth that Tom bought her – before she came in to me, not a hint of bleariness in her pretty eyes.

Unlike in mine. I never seem to sleep for more than four hours, meaning my eyes are always bleary.

Tom was already up, showered and dressed in one of his many suits – dark grey, his colour of choice for the majority of his clothes – sitting at the farmhouse kitchen table, his nose stuck in his iPad, awaiting his coffee, and for me to cook up a quick breakfast. It’s the usual morning routine before he heads off, driving the twenty minutes to Banbury station where he’ll catch the 7.04 a.m. train to Marylebone. He has no clue what my routine is after this, but I often tell him when I kiss the top of his head, as he sits calmly sipping his coffee and eating his scrambled eggs, that it’s chaotic.

And he always smiles, looks up into my eyes, winks and says: ‘But you wouldn’t have it any other way.’

He’s right, of course. Life is great. We both get to do what we love – him a finance portfolio manager and me, finally my own boss running a ceramics café – and then we come home to each other and our little Poppy. We are the envy of our neighbours and friends. Well, I suppose I have one or two friends, anyway – Tom