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

here. He is not. I check my mobile. If Tom was going to go out, surely he’d have texted? There’s a missed call from an unknown number, but zero new messages.

‘Maybe he’s gone for a run,’ I suggest to Poppy as she toddles back to me. It is possible. As we weren’t home, rather than waste his time sitting on his own, he could’ve taken the rare opportunity to run. He used to regularly, but with our busy days, he prefers to spend his time with Poppy before she goes to bed.

‘He back in a mimmit,’ she says with a shrug.

‘Yes, I expect so, sweetheart. Let’s get tea, shall we?’

As I pop my bag on the hallway table, I see the flashing red light on the answerphone. I press play.

‘I don’t want you to panic, Beth …’ Tom’s voice fills the hallway, so loud it’s distorted, the echo bouncing off the walls. I quickly tap the volume down button, blood whooshing in my ears. ‘Sorry. I’ve been brought into the station again. I might be a bit longer this time. Don’t worry, I’ve got my solicitor here with me. I’ll call again when I can,’ he says. I think he’s finished, but then I hear a sigh. Followed by the whispered words: ‘I love you, Beth.’ The line goes dead.

My arms and legs are leaden. I can’t move. What am I supposed to do? I wonder if I should call the station. Or Tom’s solicitor. Although if he’s with Tom he won’t be able to shed any light yet either.

Jesus Christ.

The detectives obviously came to the cottage to get him, because Tom’s car is here. Did the neighbours see?

A shiver tracks down my spine.

I feel light-headed.

I need to call someone. Do something. But apart from Tom, I have no one I can turn to or lean on. How did I let that happen? Too busy setting up the café. Too busy with Poppy. Too busy being a wife. Tom has always said friends are over-rated and they’d distract us from each other. I’ve kept Lucy and the nursery group mums at arm’s length, and so I’m not comfortable turning to them now. Tom’s voice fills my mind:

We only need each other, Beth. No one else matters.

But Tom isn’t here. And suddenly, I realise he was wrong – I do need other people.

Only now, there is no one. I’m in this alone.

Chapter 8

TOM

Now

I knew I’d made the right decision calling Maxwell from the off – even though DI Manning and DS Walters only wanted to ‘ask a couple of questions’. At least he’s up to speed, knows the situation now they’ve brought me in again. I didn’t go down the no comment route in the first interview as there was no need. A few simple enquiries ‘to gain a picture of Katie’ – that’s all they were after, they said. Why would anyone choose to give a no comment interview in that situation? In my mind, it immediately points to guilt. I’ve seen the real-crime police documentaries, and God, that gets my goat when the person interviewed mutters no comment every five seconds. It’s all I can do to stop myself hurling the controls through the telly screen. Surely it looks better for me if I answer their questions openly.

If I’m seen to be cooperating maybe they’ll begin to look elsewhere.

That said, now this is my second interview, and they look far more serious than before, I’m considering taking the ‘remain silent’ approach. No doubt Maxwell will advise this course too, because what if I say something wrong? Implicate myself somehow? At least if I don’t engage, they can’t trap me. Because that’s what this feels like. A carefully laid trap. Draw me in with the soft questions, lull me into a false sense of security by making me think I’ve done my bit to help, then, wham! – hit me with the heavy stuff.

What do they think they know?

They can’t know anything. There’s nothing to know.

If I repeat this enough times in my head, there’s a possibility I’ll believe it.

I was so stupid not to talk to Beth when she wanted to. Leaving it until tonight was clearly a huge mistake – and now it’s too late to rectify; I was only able to leave a short message on the home phone. I bet they speak to her before I can.

‘Are you charging my client with an offence, Detective Manning?’ Maxwell asks. He’s sitting beside me, casual yet authoritative in his precision-tailored bespoke silver-grey suit, his copper-red hair neatly gelled. His voice is calm, steady, assured. He’s the no-nonsense, give-it-to-me-straight kind. And he’s worth every penny I’m going to be paying. With luck, this will be the last time I need to call on his services.

‘As you know, your client admits he was in a relationship with Katie Williams of Bethnal Green, London, immediately prior to her disappearance. We also have evidence suggesting he may have been involved in that disappearance. This makes Mr Hardcastle a person of interest.’

My confidence evaporates.

It’s the first time DI Manning has mentioned this, and my gut reacts badly. I’m aware of voices continuing, Maxwell asking something about disclosure, the detective giving some kind of response, but the words are slow, distorting as they mix together in a blurry mess; I can’t decipher the meaning of any of them. The sudden sensation of being on a boat in rough seas causes saliva to flood my mouth.

‘I’m going to need a toilet break. Now,’ I say, before dry-retching.

Maxwell stops talking and jumps back as I push past him; then Manning scoots his chair back, gets up and leads me towards the toilets. He opens the door and lets me go in.

‘I’ll be outside,’ he says, as though he imagines I’ll do a runner. I give a quick nod, then dash to the cubicle where I add the contents of my stomach to the putrid-smelling, yellowing liquid in the toilet bowl.

A suspect.

After all these years.