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

I hadn’t given it much thought, as everything had got away from me once the detectives took him. But what was that? Sweat? Tom isn’t a particularly sweaty person unless he’s been on a long run.

Why couldn’t he trust me enough to tell me why he was late, and where he really was on the Tuesday? Perhaps he was more worried about having been pulled in for questioning than he was willing to let on to me. Or perhaps past memories being dragged up had upset him. I wonder if he’s given a thought to how upset I am about all of this. How sad his daughter will be when he’s away for yet another night. If I get the opportunity to talk to him on the phone, will all the questions flood out? Or will an angry tirade erupt from me instead? After the latest revelation, I don’t think I even want to hear his voice. Hear more lies.

‘How are you, sweetie?’ The voice, though quiet, makes me jump. I look up sharply. I’m at the entrance gate to the nursery.

‘Sorry, mind was elsewhere,’ I say to Julia, attempting a smile but failing.

‘I hope things haven’t got worse?’ she says, one perfectly neat brow arched. I think they’re microbladed. Unsure what to say, I merely let out a long stream of breath.

‘Oh. Dear. Well, look – if you need to talk, please give me a call, won’t you?’

‘I don’t have your number,’ I say, instantly.

Julia gives a nervous little laugh. Maybe she’s just realising she’s never really given me much time before Tom and I became the focus of juicy village gossip. She pulls a card out of the side pocket of her Gucci handbag and hands it to me.

‘Anytime, day or night,’ she says. She sounds genuine. I turn the card over in my hand. Gold-embossed script adorns the front – Julia Bennington, Beauty Therapist. Ah, that explains it – I can’t believe I missed what she did for a living. I wonder how she does it all with triplets; she is basically Supermum.

‘Thank you,’ I say. My voice breaks, tears springing to my eyes.

‘It’ll be all right, sweetie,’ she says, rubbing my arm as we head inside. Poppy’s face lights up as she sees me, and for a moment my anxiety melts away. She runs over awkwardly, a painting in her hands.

‘Mummy! I made it for you,’ she says, thrusting the still-damp picture towards me.

‘Oh, that’s wonderful, darling.’ I hold back more tears as I see three different-sized blobs with stick-like arms and legs. ‘Me, you and Daddy,’ she points.

My heart breaks a little.

Oh, Tom. What have you done to us?

Chapter 23

BETH

Now

Friday mornings are when I usually deliver any fired pottery items to those unable to pick up from Poppy’s Place. I’ve arranged for Lucy to do it – it’ll take her several trips on her bike, so she can open the café later as a one-off. A shiver runs through me as I think about it – opening late will no doubt cause tongues to wag. I dropped Poppy to nursery without bumping into Julia, which was a relief as I was too nervous to stand and chat. I have to be at Banbury station by ten – I’ve had even less sleep than normal, because my mind wouldn’t stop going over and over the statement I’m about to make.

Now, as I park at the back of the police station, I realise I can’t recall a single thing about the journey here. I used to think I dealt with stress well – I have always been in control of it, not the other way around. Today, the gnawing pain in my lower abdomen, the searing white-hot headache, the trembling hands, are all signs I’ve lost the fight with it this time. This stress is different, though. So much hangs in the balance.

Checking my appearance in the visor mirror, I make a silent deal with myself, then get out of the car and walk confidently to the entrance.

I have given my official statement, but surprisingly, not to DI Manning or DC Cooper, as I’d assumed. Maybe that’s because they got what they wanted yesterday, and the paperwork gets left to the lower ranks. Or perhaps it’s because I’m not important enough. Admittedly, it helped me a bit to have less pressure. But I’m still not confident I came across well – since being told that Tom didn’t go to work on Tuesday, my mind has been all over the place, and my unease must’ve shown, despite all my overnight rehearsals.

I glance around the station before I leave, wondering where exactly Tom is. DS Walters, the detective who came to the cottage on Monday night, catches my eye and walks towards me. My immediate instinct is to leave quickly before he reaches me, but my feet refuse to move.

‘You know your husband has been moved, don’t you?’ He narrows his eyes.

‘No? What do you mean moved?’

‘I’m sorry, I thought you’d been informed by his solicitor. Because it’s a Metropolitan Police case, Detective Inspector Manning and Detective Constable Cooper are continuing questioning at their command unit in London.’ He smiles sympathetically as he delivers this new information.

‘Right,’ I say, dropping my gaze to the floor. I don’t want him to catch the look in my eyes. ‘Have they …’ I cough to clear my throat, ‘have they charged him, then?’

‘No, not yet, Mrs Hardcastle. They’ve got until tomorrow evening and I think they wanted him on their turf to continue questioning.’

Walters’ wording makes me think they might go to great lengths to ensure they charge Tom. I can’t stop myself conjuring images of Tom being ‘interrogated’ like they do in some films. I imagine him being waterboarded, beaten until he admits guilt just to stop the pain. So that the copper can get his man, regardless.

Back in my car, I sit for what feels like an hour. I can’t drive while I feel this nauseous. I didn’t