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

about Tom; he knows a lot about me. But he certainly doesn’t know every little thing about me, so therefore it’s safe to assume I don’t know every little thing about him.

I’ll call Maxwell after I’ve eaten.

Tomorrow I want to go and visit Tom.

Chapter 53

BETH

Now

The hall somehow manages to smell clean and dirty at the same time. I’ve got here as quickly as I could – I set off as soon as I’d dropped Poppy at nursery. But apparently, I was lucky to be given admittance seeing as I was late and in future I have to ensure I’m here to check in between 8.30 and 9.15 a.m.

I sit gingerly on the bolted-down chair I’ve been directed to, to await Tom. I give a furtive glance around the visiting hall, filled with convicted criminals and those, like Tom, who are awaiting their fate. I can’t even do this for the next few weeks, let alone years. There are children here, but I won’t be dragging Poppy along. She’s not mingling in that play area with kids of killers and the like.

The pulses in my wrists bang against the tabletop as I lean on it to try to regulate my breathing. I’ve never been so nervous to see my own husband. How will he look? Maxwell told me he’s not sleeping and he’s unable to eat – worry must be gnawing away at his stomach. It’s been nine days since I last set eyes on him or spoke to him. What must he think of me that I’ve been unable to even accept a call from him? I wring my hands together, keep my eyes forward: I don’t want to make accidental eye contact with anyone. I could buy a drink from the tea bar, so I at least have something to keep my hands busy, but anxiety prevents me leaving this seat.

Movement at the far side catches my attention. I swallow hard. I almost don’t recognise him as he walks towards the table with slow, hunched movements. When he sits opposite me, I see his complexion is grey and his face is drawn. His eyes appear hollow. Ghostly. I look away.

‘Thank you,’ he says. Even his voice seems strange; alien to me. ‘God, Beth, you’ve no idea how desperate I’ve been to see you.’

The words I want to say – should say – are frozen inside my voice box. I force myself to look up and focus on his face, but my lips remain stubbornly tight. He frowns and I see tears gather at the corner of his eyes. Rather than their usual clear, beautiful peacock-blue, they now seem hazy and dull; staring and soulless.

Tom is allowed three visits a week and I’m here on his first day in Belmarsh. Although that makes me seem like I’m the dutiful wife – loyal and supportive – I can’t even speak. I don’t tell him I love him, or offer words of encouragement, and I know this will upset him.

‘I’m so sorry, Beth. This is the worst situation – I can’t imagine what you and Poppy are going through.’ His hands edge closer to mine, his fingertips brushing against my skin; it sends tiny electric shocks up my arms. I withdraw quickly, positioning my hands on my lap beneath the table. I was told you could have minimal contact at the beginning and end of the visit – not during. But I know that’s not the real reason I’m pulling away.

My stomach ties in knots as I see the hurt on his face.

Speak. Say something.

Tom shifts awkwardly in the chair, his eyes darting around him. Then he hunkers down, leans forward a bit more and, with his voice lowered to almost a whisper, says, ‘I should’ve spoken to you about all of this on Tuesday morning. Like you wanted. I really regret not listening to you.’ He pauses, takes a breath. ‘You’ve always known best,’ he says with a small laugh.

‘Why did you lie to me?’ I say, my eyes narrowed, the words coming out in a hiss. That flippant comment of his has sparked my anger and caused me to finally find my voice.

Confusion spreads across his face. ‘I haven’t lied.’ His cheeks flush red: he knows I’m not stupid.

‘Where did you go on Tuesday? Why did you let me think you’d gone to work?’

‘Seriously? That’s what you’re worried about? Why are you getting hung up on that? It’s not important, Beth.’

‘It’s important to me!’ I sense curious stares turning towards my raised voice, but the diversion is fleeting; heads quickly turn back as their focus returns to their own tables.

‘What have you told the detectives?’ Tom’s being defensive now; he’s scared about what I’ve let slip, no doubt. I shake my head.

‘Nothing, Tom. Because I can’t tell them what I don’t know, can I?’

Silence stretches between us, the chatter from other prisoners and visitors filling the void.

‘There’s more pressing things to be concerned with,’ Tom says eventually. He indicates around the visiting room. ‘Look where I am, Beth. I can’t be here.’

His vulnerability in this moment tugs at my heart. If the detectives hadn’t shown up on Monday evening, we wouldn’t be in this situation now. We’d be carrying on our lives as normal: a happily married couple with a daughter. Wouldn’t we?

‘Maxwell is doing everything he can,’ I say, softly. I move my hands towards his now, guilt replacing my anger, but I stop myself before they make contact. I don’t want to inadvertently break any rules and draw the attention of the prison officers. ‘He doesn’t think the prosecution will have enough evidence for a jury to convict you. He reckons he can at least show there’s reasonable doubt. You could be home within months.’

‘It feels like everything is down to chance. I don’t like that. I’ve no control over anything.’

‘I don’t know what you want me to do.’

‘You have to help me.’ His eyes plead with mine. And then he whispers: ‘We’ve been through this.