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

else you can think of? Other people flinging abuse at you? Anyone from the village being particularly off with you?’

‘Not at this moment, no. Most people have been very supportive. I don’t think this would be anyone I know. Not anyone local. Poppy’s Place had a fair few new faces at the beginning of all this. Like you said, some people get invested in these stories. Like to see where the people involved live. It’s weird, but I suppose it’s like those rubberneckers who slow down to gawp at accidents.’

‘Okay, well if you think of anything, give us a call.’ She tears off a piece of paper with a telephone number and a crime report reference.

‘Thank you, I will.’

She and PC Mumford both turn to walk back outside, but Hopkins pulls up short. She watches Mumford walk up the path, then says, ‘Oh, by the way. DC Cooper said she’ll be here in the morning. You need to stay in until she’s seen you. Then you can move in with the widower.’

I’m taken aback by her tone, but too tired to counter it. I close the door, lock it and go back upstairs. I check on Poppy again before climbing into bed. In the daylight, everything will seem better. Plus, tomorrow night I’ll be with Adam.

With Adam, I’ll feel safer.

Chapter 74

BETH

Now

I peep out of my bedroom window at five a.m. The sun hasn’t risen yet, but I can tell that the hideous structure has gone. I breathe a sigh of relief that PC Mumford kept his word. Poppy hasn’t stirred yet – her disturbed night’s sleep has clearly had an effect. I pull on my silk dressing gown and pad down the stairs to switch on the Nespresso machine.

There’s a tremor in my hand as I take the cup. It’s Monday morning; I really should go to the café. Leaving everything to Lucy is unfair, and if I don’t think I can manage, then maybe I should hire someone else to take up the slack. I’ll sound her out about it once Imogen Cooper has been over.

Adam said last night he’d come over after work and help me collect enough belongings to cover me and Poppy for a few nights. This development fills me with nerves, and I know he will be battling with conflicting emotions too. It’s not as if we’re moving in together – he’s only offering a short-term solution – but I doubt others will see it that way. The village gossips will be tripping over themselves.

I notice the unread message on my mobile as I sit down to eat breakfast with Poppy. She’s as bright and alert as she usually is, so the slightly later start to her morning hasn’t affected her. I eat a croissant with one hand and open the message from Julia with the other. My heart sinks.

God, Beth, I’m so sorry. Just heard a nutter left a gallows in your garden last night. Wow – who’d even think of something so gruesome? Let alone putting your face on it! Makes me shudder – can’t imagine how you’re feeling. Give me a call if you need to chat. J xx

I reread it several times, my face muscles tense. How had she heard so quickly? The neighbours didn’t make a peep last night when the police were here. No doubt there was some curtain-twitching going on, but only one of the neighbours can see into my garden from their window, and that’s Gretchen Collins and she rarely leaves. She wouldn’t have been calling the residents of Lower Tew to share the gossip – she’s not the type.

But, then, who am I to judge?

Maybe Julia was aware of it so quickly because she knows who did it.

The thought clouds my mind while I get Poppy ready for nursery. I don’t want to get into any conversations about it when I drop her off. A weight feels as though it’s pushing down on my shoulders. If Julia knows, the others will too – and that means the press will.

I hate being right. Of course they’re here, waiting for me to give them some juicy titbit, like dogs waiting outside the butcher’s. I’ve never liked the sensationalist spin that news journalists put on their stories, but now I have a newfound hatred. Maybe today would’ve been a good day to sneak out the back way with Poppy, but it’s too dangerous without someone helping her over the wall. Besides, my anger has reached a new peak and I find myself wanting to face the baying crowd.

As soon as we open the front door, the onslaught begins. I pick Poppy up and with her on one hip, her head buried in my chest, I begin to push through them. I get a few feet from the cottage before my temper soars. Furious they have been the ones to allow some lunatic to get a photo of me, to get to me here at my home, I have the overwhelming need to yell at them.

‘It’s thanks to you lot they were able to find me! Can’t you see what you’re doing?’ My voice is high-pitched; adrenaline is pumping through my veins. Flashes blind me, a cacophony of voices and camera clicks fills my ears, and I can’t block out the loud buzzing in my head. I close my eyes, surging on through the crowd. They don’t care. They have zero respect for my privacy and my security. Perhaps they want something bad to happen to me to give them more to report – a breaking story.

‘You are animals!’ I stop walking and turn to face the ones behind me. There are some alarmed faces – they weren’t expecting me to react so strongly after my relative silence over the past week. ‘How can you sleep at night knowing you’re ruining our lives?’

‘How do you sleep at night knowing your husband murdered an innocent woman and you did nothing about it? Or don’t you care?