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

because he’s aware of how dreadfully boring banking talk is to anyone other than a banker.

‘Hi, Andy,’ I say, raising my eyes to his. ‘Beth. Tom’s wife?’ I wait for a beat. ‘I don’t have an appointment – I was only dropping in as I was close by.’

‘Ah of course,’ he says, enthusiastically. ‘I thought I knew your face.’

‘Are any of Tom’s usual colleagues about?’ By usual colleagues I’m meaning those he considers his mates, but I don’t say this explicitly as, for some strange reason, I don’t want to hurt Andy’s feelings by assuming he’s not one of them.

‘They very rarely come down to this level,’ Andy says with one brow arched. He’s clearly fully aware he’s not ‘one of them’. ‘I’ll take you through security and get you a visitor pass, then if you go up to level three you’ll be able to find someone who can help.’ His face darkens suddenly, his eyes flitting around. ‘I’m … er, sorry. You know, to have heard about his—’

‘Yes, thank you.’ I interrupt quickly, not wishing to hear him say the words. ‘As you might expect, it’s come as rather a shock.’

‘Yes, yes. I can imagine.’ His eyes widen. He looks as though he’s about to add something, then thinks better of it and closes his mouth again. He remains silent as he escorts me through the barrier and sees me into the lift. ‘I’ll let them know you’re on your way up,’ he says, giving me a lop-sided smile. ‘Nice to see you again.’

‘You too, Andy. And thanks.’

The lift doors close. I look out the corner of my eye at the mirrors – they’re on every side of the lift, so it’s difficult to avoid my reflection entirely. I pinch the material of my blouse at the shoulders, lifting it and straightening it, then run my fingers through my hair and pat to neaten it. I don’t have time to reapply my lipstick before the door swishes open.

‘Beth! This is a surprise.’ I’m greeted before I’ve fully stepped out of the lift by a thick Scottish accent. Tom’s boss.

Thankfully his name comes to me as soon as I see him. ‘Hello, Alexander,’ I say. ‘It’s been a while.’

‘Look, I’ve got several appointments, but I can fit you in quickly – as it’s you,’ he says, laying a large, purplish hand on my shoulder and guiding me across the floor to his office. I can feel the heat of his palm through my blouse and I twist slightly to escape it. Why must he touch? I remember that from the last dinner, too.

‘Do take a seat. Drink?’

I’m about to decline, but then I decide it might be a good idea as it will buy me some extra time to grill him about Tom. ‘Yes – white coffee, no sugar, thanks.’ I sit with my back to the door at his heavy wooden desk. I smile to myself as I note he has his name engraved on a mahogany and brass desk sign: Alexander Robertson, Director of Portfolio Management – with a bunch of letters after it. So old-fashioned and conceited. From what Tom has told me, he’s quite the chauvinist, too.

Alexander strides to the machine in the corner of his office and sets about making two drinks. I’m almost surprised he hasn’t called for a female colleague to come in and do it for him.

‘I wondered if you’d pop in,’ he says. His back is to me while he stirs a wooden stick in the cardboard cups. ‘After the detectives showed up and began asking questions, I imagined you’d be close behind.’

‘Oh, really? Why?’

‘I know you, Beth. Or, rather, I know what Tom tells me. I had a feeling a determined woman like yourself wouldn’t take any of this lying down.’

I find it odd that this man, who – bar a few social gatherings – is a stranger, is talking about me in this way. I suppose Tom has probably talked about me – maybe about my determination in setting up the pottery café – but I’m doubtful it would equate to enough for Alexander to think he knows me, or what I’d do in this situation.

I don’t know how to act in this situation. How could he?

‘If I’m honest, Alexander, I have literally no idea how to take it. Lying down or otherwise. It’s why I’m here, really. To try and fill a few … well, gaps.’

‘What kind of gaps?’ He places a cup in front of me and then sits in his chair, shuffling it forwards. ‘You know the police have already been here, and we weren’t able to help them past the basics – the hours he worked, who he was pally with – that sort of thing.’ He steeples his fingers together, elbows on his desk.

‘That’s fine. Basics are a good place to start.’ I lean towards him. ‘Starting with Monday. He was here then I believe – what hours did he work that day?’

‘The usual – he gets in for half eight, leaves at half four, so he can get back to see Poppy before she goes to bed. He arranged those hours when she was born and always makes up any shortfall by working from home, as you know. He’s very much a creature of habit, Beth. I told the detective woman that.’

‘Yes, which is why it’s odd that he was late home that evening. But even more odd that he didn’t show up to work at all on Tuesday.’

‘As far as we knew, Beth, he was taking the day off sick. He called in at eight thirty to say he’d been taken ill on the journey and was going back home.’

‘The police didn’t tell me,’ I say, more to myself than to him. He wasn’t at home that day – I know because I stopped by at the cottage to pick up more cakes before collecting Poppy. ‘He didn’t go home again, Alexander. Did he speak with anyone else here that day?’

‘He didn’t