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

a distant, muffled ‘morning’ from out the back. Lucy must be taking out the now-cooled glazed items from yesterday’s painting session from the kiln.

After dumping my stuff in the break room, I take one of the posters I made up at home and pin it on the noticeboard. I’m excited about starting up the book club here again, but nerves aren’t far beneath the surface. I’m not entirely sure how it’ll go down; I don’t want people to think I’m trying to jump into Camilla’s shoes. A shiver runs down my back. It’s been nearly a year, though – I’ve given it a respectful amount of time after her passing, haven’t I? She was such a hugely popular member of the village, among the mums especially. There might be some who think it’s inappropriate I’m taking over something she started. The effects of her sudden death are still felt – the aftershock rippled through the community, because she left a two-year-old without a mother. Little Jess is almost three now, the same age as my Poppy – I can’t even think about leaving her; it’s too heart-breaking. Camilla’s husband, Adam, must have gone through unimaginable pain. Probably still is doing.

I shake my head; I don’t want to dwell on the tragedy.

‘We all set?’ Lucy’s voice makes me jump. I spin around to see her, apron on, all ready to open up. Her long, auburn corkscrew curls are bundled up in a loose bun, a blue, flower-print bandana headband fixing the rest in place. She’s only twenty-three, but she is confident, hard-working and trustworthy – and the kids (and adults) love her bright, cheery demeanour and the way she sings while they paint. Mainly it’s songs from Disney films, but she pops in the occasional show song for the adults. She was a great choice when the café got popular enough for me to need someone else to help. She prepares the café and ensures all the machines are on and the fresh pastries and cakes are displayed, while I drop Poppy to nursery. Then she holds the fort while I leave to pick her up. She even opens up from nine until midday on Saturday mornings to serve hot drinks and snacks – my weekends are always reserved for family time; I was adamant about that right from the start. Lucy basically does all the hard work – something she jokingly tells me on a daily basis. Then I tell her she’s paid well, and we laugh and carry on.

‘We are indeed. Let today’s fun commence,’ I say, rubbing my hands together.

If only I’d known the day would end on such a serious note.

Chapter 3

BETH

Now

My hands tremble as I pour a glass of Pinot Grigio. DI Manning and DS Walters have taken Tom with them to the police station in Banbury.

‘Does he need a solicitor?’ I’d asked, cautiously, as they led him out.

Manning had used the same phrase, ‘It’s just a few questions at this stage’, before thanking me for the tea and turning his back. It was surreal – my mind was two steps behind. I’d watched helplessly as Tom had left, only moments after he’d returned home. I’d had no chance to talk to him; ask how his day had been; ask why he was late. His shocked expression is imprinted on my mind.

But was it something more than shock I saw fleeting across his face?

I push the thought aside.

Oh, God. Poppy.

Poor little mite – I’d said I’d be up in a minute when the detectives first arrived, and that was over half an hour ago. Leaving my glass on the worktop, I run upstairs to check on her. Through the crack in the open door, I can see her, sound asleep, her hands lying over her chest. My heart melts. So innocent. The closest thing to perfection we’ve ever achieved, I think, as I gently close the door. My sleeping beauty.

All I want is the best for her; the best I can ever give.

I won’t abandon her the same way I was as a child. I’m still haunted by the memories of my father not loving me enough to want to stay. My mother sank into depression and later, alcoholism, leaving my nanna to practically bring me up. She did her best, but the damage was done. It still affects so many of my decisions.

Poppy won’t have a bad childhood; I refuse to let that happen to her. She has to have a happy, secure home with loving parents who will never let her down.

I drain the glass, then open the fridge, grab the wine bottle and refill. As I take another large mouthful, an image of my mother flashes across my mind.

Don’t be like her.

I pour the remaining liquid down the sink and put the glass in the dishwasher. I need to stay clear-headed. It’s only been half an hour since they took Tom; they’ve probably only just got to the station. He could be hours yet. Maybe I should try and settle in front of the telly – or even go to bed. Although I’m fairly certain that’ll be pointless; I can’t quell the tumultuous thoughts racing around in my head now, let alone if I lie down in a quiet room.

A murder enquiry, Manning had said.

Whose? Where? When? How?

And what makes them think my Tom will know anything about it?

Chapter 4

TOM

Now

I call my solicitor, Maxwell Fielding, en route to Banbury police station. I don’t believe there’s any such thing as an ‘informal chat’ where police interviews are concerned, and although I’m not being arrested or detained, according to DI Manning, I’m not taking any chances. Whatever this is about, I’m assuming they think I’m connected to the murder victim, so until I find out more, I want someone present who can advise me.

The fluttering in my chest intensifies as we reach the station.

A chill wind whips across the open space as the three of us walk from where DS Walters