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

‘Sorry,’ he says, finally moving away from her. He leaves a damp patch on her belly which she wipes with the corner of the duvet. ‘Thanks for listening.’

‘You didn’t really say anything.’

‘I don’t have to with you,’ he says. He begins pulling his trousers back on, then tugs his shirt from beneath her clothes on the chair in front of the bedroom window. She watches him intently as he dresses, wondering if he’ll come back. A strange feeling in her gut makes her doubt it. She thinks perhaps they’ve run their course; her usefulness has come to an end today.

‘That’s why you keep coming back for more?’ she asks, softly.

He turns to her, his face solemn. ‘It helps,’ he says. ‘But mostly I keep coming back because you let me do what I want.’

His bluntness – his honesty – hurts her a bit. And he’s wrong, she thinks, because she doesn’t let him do all that he wants, sexually. But she nods, guessing he gets more from her than his wife, at any rate. She can’t blame her – it’s not everyone’s cup of tea to be strangled during sex.

‘When will you be back?’ she calls as he heads towards the door.

‘Very soon,’ he says, without looking back.

Maybe her gut was wrong then; although that’s seldom the case. He does still want to see her. She knows she shouldn’t let this happen any more. Each time, she swears it’s the last. But she can’t help but find him intriguing. It’s like being addicted to drugs – one high needs to be followed up with another – and despite the downsides; the fear he can provoke; she needs him as much as he needs her.

Chapter 66

BETH

Now

‘Adam, could you possibly pick Poppy up from nursery today?’

‘Yeah, sure – I offered to anyway, remember? Are you okay?’

I take a deep breath. ‘I’ve agreed to meet Imogen Cooper in London. I’m going to tell her.’

‘The detective? Oh, good. I’m glad. You’re doing the right thing, Beth. Really. You have to think of yourself and Poppy.’

That’s what I have been doing. All I’ve been doing since the day Tom told me.

‘Thanks for the push. I wouldn’t be able to do this if it weren’t for your support, Adam. I mean that. You’ve been amazing.’

‘Ah, it’s nothing,’ he says. I can imagine his face flushing red. ‘I’ve enjoyed spending time with you and Poppy – it’s been good for me and Jess. So, thank you!’

‘Strange how it’s two awful events that have brought us together.’ I immediately regret my wording, and stutter and stumble over my attempts at rephrasing. I didn’t mean to imply we were in any way ‘together’.

‘No, you’re right,’ he says, interrupting my rambling, saving me from further embarrassment. ‘It feels wrong that it’s other people’s misfortune now that’s finally enabled me to open up to someone again, though.’

‘Yeah, I know. Anyway, thank you again. I’ll pick her up from yours when I’m done.’

As soon as the call ends, I grab my bag and jacket, and with my head down to avoid catching the eye of any of the press hanging around outside, make my way to the car. I release my breath when I’m safely locked inside, then drive at a snail’s pace through them all to get out of Lower Tew. This trip to London means I’ve now officially been to the city more this past week than in the previous two years.

I park outside the city centre and get the tube in, reaching the coffee shop we’d agreed on a few minutes early. After a sweeping glance around to check if Imogen Cooper is already here, I find a table near the back, away from the attention of passers-by and seemingly quieter than the front. For now, anyway. We should be able to talk here with relative confidence of not being overheard.

I spot a head of strawberry-blonde hair bobbing through the customers to get to me. My stomach drops. How stupid to have this reaction when I know she’s coming to meet me. Maybe a part of me had hoped she wouldn’t show up.

‘Beth,’ she says, giving a curt nod and sitting down opposite me. She looks around, then lifts her hand to gain the attention of a waitress. She orders an espresso, I ask for a latte. Cooper asks if I want anything to eat, and I decline – I feel sick enough without adding solids into the mix. ‘Right. Let’s get down to business, shall we?’

‘Sure,’ I say, trying to force my lips into a smile. My palms are sweating, and my t-shirt clings uncomfortably to my back. The leather seat is increasing the temperature, and a layer of heat has trapped itself between it and me. I shift position.

‘No need to be nervous, Beth. You’re not in any trouble, you know.’

Not yet, I think.

An awkward silence settles. It’s Cooper who starts the ball rolling by asking me what I wanted to talk about.

‘I …’ I can’t do this. ‘It’s difficult.’ I place my elbows on the table and drop my head into my hands, fingers splaying across my forehead. I study the grain of the wooden table, debating how I should phrase what I want – need – to say.

‘I understand, Beth. It’s been a hell of a few weeks for you, I’m sure. But you obviously have something on your mind you’d rather be rid of. I can help with that. A problem shared, and all that.’

‘It’s really not like that, though, is it. You’re the police – you’ve got a job to do. You want to secure a conviction for my husband. Anything I share with you is not a problem halved – it’s another nail in his coffin.’

Cooper raises her eyebrows sharply and leans forward. ‘A nail in his coffin?’ Her interest is piqued; her pupils have dilated to twice their size. ‘How do you mean?’

I exhale loudly. ‘Hypothetically, if I were to tell you something that I already knew