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

if I’m still under some suspicion. Did Imogen believe me? My reasons for not telling her sooner about Tom’s confession? She could be gathering evidence of my involvement, or getting ready to arrest me for perverting the course of justice. I only have her word that what I divulged wouldn’t be used against me. If they’ve found a third victim, she might easily retract that. My pulse quickens. I look out of the bedroom window, half expecting to see police cars screeching to a halt outside.

‘I’m on my way to you,’ Imogen says, then hangs up.

Am I right? Could she be on her way to arrest me? Serial killer couples have been known before – might the detectives be thinking that Tom and I are the new Fred and Rose West?

I pace the room as my thoughts spiral.

Relax. They can’t have any proof of wrongdoing by me.

Apart from the fact I knew he’d done his victims harm and I didn’t tell anyone. That’s clearly bad enough.

Do they think I know the most recent victim? Perhaps that’s why Imogen is coming here.

With a thumping heart, I realise someone might have been killed while Tom’s been in custody. In which case, will they think it’s me?

No, of course they won’t.

I have an alibi for the last two weeks – I’ve been seen every day by someone, and there’s a mob of reporters documenting my every move. Well, almost every move. I must calm down. I haven’t done anything.

I stuff a few more items into my holdall, then go into Poppy’s room to pack her things. She’s happily playing. She’s so independent; I love that about her. She’s content with her own company. A thought creeps into my mind. Tom is a killer. Do these tendencies run in families? Will Poppy have inherited the genes that could make her a killer too?

No.

She hasn’t experienced trauma, or abuse, or any of the factors attributed to people who kill later in life. With my help, she can get over the loss of her father. I didn’t have a loving, caring mother to make up for my dad walking out and abandoning me, but she has. I will make this right – she’ll have a secure, loving upbringing and she’ll be a well-adjusted, emotionally stable adult. I’m determined she will.

The banging at the door makes me jump.

‘Just stay there and play for a bit, Poppy. I’ll be back in a minute to help you pack some toys.’

She doesn’t look up from her animals, all lined up in size order, but she says brightly, ‘Okay, Mummy.’

I rush down the stairs, almost forgetting to duck under the wooden beam in my haste – knocking myself out now would be bad timing. Although missing all this drama might have its advantages. I swallow hard and take some deep, steadying breaths before I greet Imogen. I catch a glimpse of flashing cameras before I close the door quickly behind her.

‘What’s the matter?’ I ask immediately.

‘Why don’t we take a seat?’ Imogen walks directly into the kitchen. I feel a twinge of annoyance that, yet again, she doesn’t wait to be asked.

‘I need to check on Poppy first.’ I force myself to walk calmly back up the stairs. I know I don’t really need to look in on her again, but I’m being a coward. Poppy is playing with her café set and kitchen now, making food for each of her animals. She’ll be fine upstairs on her own for a little while longer.

‘Right – I have some news,’ Imogen says as I return.

I nod, momentarily mute. Anxious.

‘When you mentioned Tom’s suspected affair earlier, a few things slotted into place. Two weeks ago, on Wednesday, a body was found in a flat in central London. From the post-mortem it was concluded the victim had been killed sometime between four and ten p.m. two days previously.’

‘Monday,’ I whisper.

‘Yes. The Monday Tom was late home.’

‘H– how did she die?’

‘Strangulation.’ Imogen delivers this information abruptly, with no attempt to soften the blow. ‘Crime scene investigators collected various samples. We’ll be able to see if any DNA matches with Tom’s.’

‘That’s good,’ I manage. My whole body feels weak; tiredness is swooping in to steal what little energy I had left.

‘It is, and it isn’t,’ she says, her brow knitting together. ‘The victim was a sex worker.’

I shake my head. A sex worker? Why on earth do they think Tom killed her? I remember hearing the news about it now – and how it had made me glad to be out of London and in safety in Lower Tew. Yet here I’ve been all this time, living with a murderer.

‘And you think Tom killed her?’

‘I do, yes. The location is close to Tom’s workplace, so he’d be able to visit her in lunchbreaks. Or, if he left earlier than he told you, after work too. CCTV in the surrounding area will be able to confirm. And from the bank statements, we think we can link a regular payment to the victim.’

Those missing bank statements from the kitchen drawer. I’d always assumed Tom didn’t use the account, so I’d never checked them. ‘So that’s what you meant,’ I say. ‘When you said you thought Tom wouldn’t see it as an affair. If it was just sex and he wasn’t emotionally involved.’

‘Yes. And the fact he’d been seeing a sex worker fits with the profile.’

‘The profile?’

‘The profile of the type of killer we think Tom is,’ Imogen says. Her eyes soften. It’s almost as though in this moment she feels sorry for me.

She shouldn’t.

‘He’ll be charged with this murder, too I assume. That’s definitely enough evidence to be convicted then, isn’t it?’

‘Well, that’s where it’s not as cut and dried as one might hope. As I say, the victim was a sex worker and that brings its own challenges. Not least the amount of DNA retrieved from the scene. It won’t just be Tom’s. And if he was careful, her body itself might not provide conclusive evidence that