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

‘What is it? What’s in your garden?’

‘Someone has erected a gallows, Imogen. Complete with hanging body.’

‘Jesus,’ she whispers. ‘How awful.’

‘Not a real one, thank God.’ As I say those words, I’m suddenly not so sure I’m right. An icy-cold sensation skitters down my spine. I hadn’t even considered that possibility. ‘I assume it’s a dummy, anyway. Surely to God no one would go as far as to hang a real person to make some macabre point?’

Imogen doesn’t respond. She doesn’t want to say it’s plausible. That she’s seen worse. The fact it’s even crossed my mind sets it racing. If this is what some people will do now, what the hell will they stretch to if they find out I did know about Tom’s past – that I knew he was a murderer?

Is the gallows a warning to me? Are they saying I’ll be the next one hanging?

No. It must be Tom they are aiming this at. They can’t get to him, so they’re targeting me. It’s a scare tactic, not a threat.

Either way, I can’t stay here alone with Poppy any more. I won’t be a sitting duck.

My next call is to Adam.

Chapter 73

BETH

Now

‘Someone went to a lot of trouble with this.’ PC Mumford walks around the gallows, his torchlight illuminating the morbid structure. He tilts the torch upwards, the beam shining on the hanging dummy. It casts an eerie, yellow light on its head. He continues to step carefully around it, and despite the darkness, I can see him frowning. I wonder if this is the most exciting incident he’s dealt with for a while. He looks sluggish around the middle, like he hasn’t had to pursue a suspect for a number of years. He was calm and effective when he turned up, though – keen to put my mind at ease. His smile was confident and warm, the opposite of his colleague PC Hopkins. She gave me the impression I was wasting police time with her slow, uninterested manner. ‘I’ll do a perimeter check,’ she had said as soon as they arrived. Didn’t even introduce herself.

‘Looks to me like potato sacks,’ PC Mumford says, poking the middle section with a gloved hand. ‘Filled with sand,’ he suggests. The relief is short-lived for me, though. Tied to the head is a laminated picture. A blown-up photo of a face.

My face.

This is about me, not Tom.

‘Why would someone be doing this to me?’ I ask the question, but I’m afraid I already know. PC Hopkins answers. She’s been looking around the outside of my cottage for the past ten minutes or so, but now she’s back standing beside me. ‘Some people get hooked on cases like this. Invested. I suspect they think you’re getting away with something.’

I turn sharply. ‘What! Me? What the hell do you mean?’

She’s not perturbed by my abruptness; her face remains stony and she merely shrugs as she begins to usher me back inside. ‘Have you got somewhere you can stay for a bit? Until this dies down.’

I almost laugh at her choice of words. ‘Yes, I’m going to be staying with a friend.’

‘We’ll take the address, if you don’t mind.’ She takes a notebook and while she leans on the hallway table, I rattle off Adam’s details. As I’d already planned to go over to his for film night, I’d asked if we could stay the night. I hadn’t needed to suggest it might be best if we stayed more than one – he extended the invitation himself.

Her gaze lifts and she eyes me questioningly over the notebook. ‘Oh, really? Just around the corner. Is that wise?’

‘I don’t know! I assume you think not.’ My stomach knots. They’re worried that the freak who’s doing this is serious. That this is a threat, not some silly prank, and that there could be more to come. This could be just the start, and from here on, the threats might become actions.

‘It’s fine. But don’t you have family elsewhere?’

‘No. No family.’ I don’t elaborate. ‘What are you going to do about that … that thing in my garden?’

‘DC Cooper has requested it be dusted for prints. It’ll be photographed in situ, then removed and retained as evidence in case it’s required at a later date.’

‘If this escalates, you mean.’

‘Yes.’ PC Hopkins is not one to sugar-coat anything, I realise. Usually, I like straight-talking people, but in the dead of night, feeling alone and scared, I really would appreciate a lighter touch, a hint of empathy. Mumford is the sensitive one in this duo. He’s older, probably has a family, whereas Hopkins is barely out of her teens by the look of her. She’s likely new to this and has less life experience – and even less police experience.

‘How long will it take? I can’t have Poppy seeing it when she wakes up.’

‘We’ll be as quick as we can, Mrs Hardcastle,’ PC Mumford says, his voice making me jump as he sneaks into the hall behind me. The name makes me feel suddenly uneasy. It’s the first time I’ve experienced repulsion from hearing the surname I’ve had for the past seven years. Right here, right now, I decide I will be changing mine and Poppy’s names by deed poll – I don’t want us to be forever associated with a killer.

‘Thank you. Can I leave you to it, then?’ I’m exhausted. I know I won’t sleep, but I need to lie down.

‘Just a few questions first, please,’ Hopkins says. I nod, rolling my neck to release the stiffness. ‘DC Cooper mentioned there’d been a few other incidents recently. Could be linked – do you know the perpetrators of those?’

‘No. There was only really the one – some guy in a white estate car wound down his window as he drove by and spat on me. He shouted something about me being “her”. My friend got a photo of the car. I could get him to send it to you.’

‘That would be helpful. Anything