The Stranger's Wife

Book 3: Detective Dan Riley

by Anna-Lou Weatherley

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction; Mystery; Police Procedurals; Noir; Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

Beth and Cath are leaving their husbands. This is a story about two very different women. One is wealthy and having an affair with a man who gives her the kind of love that her cold, detached husband does not. One is living hand to mouth, suffering at the hands of a violent partner who would rather see her dead than leave him. You may think you know these women already and how their lives will unfold. Beth will live happily ever after with her little girl and her soulmate. Cath will go back to her abusive husband. And these two women will never cross paths. But you will be wrong. On the 3.15pm train from London to Bristol, Beth and Cath are about to meet and discover they share one shocking thing in common. A clever, engrossing and absolutely enthralling listen about what really lies beneath the surface of a marriage. Fans of Gone Girl and The Girl on the Train will be hooked on The Stranger’s Wife.

Release date: January 16, 2020

Publisher: Audible Studios

Print pages: 350

Sample

Something is wrong. The house is silent; too silent. It’s never quiet in Beth Lawler’s house, not with a boisterous four-year-old running amok. Even when her daughter is taking an afternoon nap – a habit she must get her out of before she starts school – there’s still always background noise of some sort; daytime TV, the radio station that Marta likes to listen – sometimes sing along – to or the low hum of white goods.

‘Hel-looooo?’ she calls out instinctively, throws her keys and handbag down on the console table in the hallway, kicks off her gym shoes, even though she hasn’t been anywhere near the gym today.

‘Marta? Hel-loooo…’ She feels a trickle of something inside the pit of her stomach; it’s not fear exactly, but it’s somewhere approaching it. ‘Marta?’

She calls out to her housekeeper again. Well, housekeeper-cum-nanny-cum-friend as it had turned out. The nanny part hadn’t been in the original job description though; neither had the friend bit, but both of these things had transpired quite organically, something she was now extremely grateful for. Initially it had been Evan who had suggested they hire in some help.

‘I want you to put all your focus on Lily,’ he’d said. ‘I don’t want you to have to worry about stacking dishwashers and keeping the place clean and tidy. We can pay someone else to do all the menial, day-to-day stuff.’ She was aware that usually this would be music to most women’s ears, but secretly she had been disappointed. She had hoped to return to her job as a nurse six months after giving birth, maybe just part-time to begin with.

‘You never need to go back to work, Beth,’ he’d said when she had gone on maternity leave. ‘Not now you’re about to embark on the most important and rewarding job of all. Besides, it’s not as if we need the money, is it?’

She had missed the sense of purpose her job had provided though, and her colleagues at the hospital, so having Marta on hand had turned out to be something of a godsend. Lily had been a tricky baby, plagued by colic and reflux, and she had spent the best part of the first year of her daughter’s life in a cranky, sleep-deprived fug as a result. She didn’t know how she would’ve coped without Marta back then and in truth feared she might not have coped at all. Now she was glad that Evan had insisted on an extra pair of hands because she had bonded with the kind and intelligent Norwegian girl who shared her dry sense of humour and happened to be blessed with the patience of a saint. She trusted Marta; trusted her with the things that were most precious to her. Including her secrets…

She calls Marta’s name again but the cold, unsettling silence remains. The pushchair is in the hallway and Marta’s Fiat 500 is still in the driveway. Odd. This is an indicator that something’s definitely not right. She takes the stairs, two by two, calling out her name intermittently. She’s not overly concerned at this point.

She moves along the landing towards the nursery. The door is shut and she opens it with an unfamiliar trepidation, the source of which she doesn’t fully understand. The room is dark, the ridiculously expensive handmade unicorn appliqué curtains are drawn, daylight straining to filter through them. Creeping towards the cot bed on the balls of her feet, she peers into it and is relieved to see her daughter sleeping. Lily immediately stirs as if she senses her mother’s presence, causing her to spring backwards. She studies her daughter’s perfect face from a safe distance, her eyes closed, like two ticks on a page, her lashes dark like her own, curling upwards. Lily is undoubtedly a beautiful child – everyone says so – and this makes her feel proud, she supposes. She wants to touch her tiny face but is scared she’ll wake her. The rush of love she feels watching her sleeping daughter soon dissipates into something else though; a terrible gnawing guilt that pulls at her lower intestines, tugging at her guts. Lily will forgive her, won’t she? She’s only four years old; she won’t remember this time in her life. She’ll understand when she is older, she tells herself in an attempt to appease her nagging conscience – and yet she can’t shake the feeling that she’s directly betraying her own daughter. She’s not a bad person, is she?

She takes a breath, snaps herself out of her maudlin moment as her eye wanders to the baby monitor on the changing table next to the cot bed. It’s not illuminated. It’s not switched on. Now that is odd. Marta wouldn’t leave Lily sleeping without turning the monitor on; it’s a big house and they always switch it on in case Lily wakes up startled and they cannot hear her call out.

A sense of unease is gaining momentum inside of her, pushing past the guilt and up from her guts through to her diaphragm. She calls Marta’s name again, loudly and more urgently this time. ‘Marta! Marrr–ta! Where are you?’ Nothing. Silence.

Leaving the nursery, she checks the bathroom as a matter of course, plus Marta’s bedroom, but it’s empty. She takes the stairs, her blonde hair swishing around her shoulders with her increasing momentum – and panic.

‘Marta!’ She pokes her head around the living-room door. It looks neat and tidy and smells freshly cleaned, but she’s not there. She checks the downstairs cloakroom. No joy. Her initial perplexion has morphed into something more frantic now and she heads into the large, open-plan kitchen diner, the hub of her home. Her laptop is open on the oak table where she’d left it that morning. Marta’s handbag – a colourful fabric hippie-type thing that she’d picked up in Camden Market – is still slung over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. She hasn’t taken it. She must be in.

She notices that the sliding doors that lead out onto the landscaped garden are open – another oddity, given that it’s chilly and drizzling outside, even though it’s well into June. She scans the garden: nothing. She slides the door shut behind her, locks it. Beth shakes her head, confused, concerned. Even in the highly unlikely scenario that Marta has nipped to the shops and left Lily alone for five minutes, she certainly wouldn’t have left the doors unlocked, let alone wide open. Were they open when she had left that morning, the doors? She doesn’t recall. She doesn’t think so. No. Definitely not, why would they be? Suddenly she feels cross. Marta would never be so irresponsible, would she? She trusted her friend with her child and her home. She trusted her with her life.

She tries to push back the nagging fear that something has happened. Something horrible. Maybe she’s left a note. She checks the kitchen table for one, but there is nothing; no note. Marta knows Beth’s schedule better than she does. And Marta knows where she has been today…

She stands still for a moment in a bid to gather her thoughts. Surely if there had been an emergency of some sort then Marta would’ve called her? Marta’s handbag… her phone! She fishes around inside the bag for it but it’s not there, nor her purse. She runs into the hallway, retrieves her own phone from her handbag and dials Marta’s number.

‘I’m sorry but the mobile number you have called is currently unavailable…’

Shit! She dials again and is greeted by the same parrot-fashion reply. Shit, shit, shit. Why is her phone off? Marta’s phone is never off. In fact, she cannot recall a time since she’s known her when she hasn’t been able to get hold of her – not once.

Suddenly a chill comes over her, like a cold knife against the back of her neck. Something has happened to Marta. Something awful.

As Beth contemplates her next move, she remembers that she didn’t check the master bedroom upstairs; her and Evan’s room – well, hers really because she can’t remember the last time they had shared a bed, not since Lily had been born anyway. Maybe Marta had gone to change the bedclothes and had lain down and fallen asleep. She knows it’s highly unlikely, but her mind is desperately searching for some sort of rational explanation.

With a trickle of hope, she rushes upstairs and crashes through the bedroom door. The bed has been newly made and there’s a basket of dried clothes on top of it, some of which have been discarded, as though she were in the middle of folding them and had simply abandoned them mid-task, but there’s no sign of Marta herself. She hears Lily stirring in the bedroom next door and inwardly wills her to stay asleep – she needs to get her head around the situation; she needs to think. Frustrated, she returns downstairs and sits down at the kitchen table, tells herself to keep calm and that Marta will be back any minute. Maybe she just had to rush off somewhere, some kind of emergency, but that doesn’t explain why her car is still in the driveway, or why she’s left her handbag behind but taken her phone and purse.

Beth puts a hand to her chest to steady the thud of her heart against her ribs and tries to envisage her friend walking through the front door, apologising for scaring her in her strange yet endearing accent. But her instincts are aggressively chopping through her positive thoughts like a machete. Something is wrong, very wrong and she senses it like an animal senses danger. She’ll make a cup of tea, no, coffee – it will sharpen her mind; help her to focus. She knows she should call the police but is fearful of what will happen if she does, if the police start sniffing around…

‘Oh God, Marta, where are you?’ She says the words aloud in desperation. ‘Please don’t do this to me.’ How long should she leave it before she dials 999? Another hour? A few? Should she wait until tomorrow? Will that look strange? After all, Marta’s an adult, isn’t she? Maybe she’s just gone for a long walk and she’ll be back soon, maybe… Beth knows she’s trying to convince herself of this unlikely scenario so as not to involve the police. And she knows why. Jesus Christ, what should she do? She’s fully aware that she has a moral duty to report her as missing but dreads what will inevitably come next. Perhaps it’s for the best; perhaps it was all meant to come out this way and Marta going AWOL was the cosmos’s way of telling her she needed to do it now, today.

She decides to check Marta’s bedroom, see if she’s taken anything. At first glance, nothing appears amiss. Marta’s a neat freak and keeps her bedroom as tidy as she does the rest of the house. The bed is made, pillows plumped and Marta’s small collection of beauty products remain neatly displayed on the dressing table. She opens the drawer, lightly fingers the contents – cotton pads, feminine products, some Norwegian face cream… She closes it, her eye noticing that the wardrobe door is slightly ajar. Inspecting the contents, she notes there’s some empty hangers… and Marta’s weekend holdall, a vibrant seventies-style carpetbag, is missing. Has she taken it? Perplexed, she thinks of calling up some of Marta’s friends. She hardly has any family left – a brother she thinks, back in Norway – but she can’t recall his name and certainly doesn’t have his phone number. Perhaps she’ll look him up on Facebook…

Returning back downstairs to the kitchen, she chews her lip as she stares out through the glass doors, trying desperately to get some clarity on her thoughts, only they’re all jumbled up and overlapping, not one of them quite reaching fruition and… something in the garden suddenly catches Beth’s eye, on the back lawn. At first she thinks it’s maybe something the builders have left; they’re having a swimming pool dug out at the moment and the garden is in a state of disarray, filled with equipment and tools.

She pushes her face closer to the glass and squints. Instinctively, she opens the sliding doors and goes outside. She strides across the lawn with urgency, still in her socks. It’s drizzling heavily, the kind of rain that gets into your eyes and makes your hair frizzy. She feels her heartbeat increase as she moves, adrenalin giving her an almost unbearable lightness under her damp feet. She can feel her trachea tighten slightly; fear creeping in like tendrils around her neck. She recognises it instantly. It’s Marta’s favourite scarf – that yellow silky thing with an odd pattern on it that she often wears. Why is it in the garden, abandoned like this?

She bends down to pick it up. It feels damp between her fingers and she can no longer stave off the feeling of terror that is threatening to engulf her.

The drizzle has turned into rain now – heavier drops splash spitefully against her skin. ‘Oh my God… oh my God! Marta!’ she says, as she runs inside to get her phone.

I can recall it clearly. It was my day off when the call came in. I remember because I’d been on the sofa trying to sleep and my phone had woken me with a start. It wasn’t long after Rachel and our unborn baby had been killed in the motorcycle accident by that ‘man’ whose name I cannot bear to say. It had only been a few months – maybe six, maybe longer – but it still felt like just a few days had passed. I was in the grip of the first stages of grief and sleep, back then, was like a twilight zone I slipped in and out of. I’ve never had an unbroken night’s sleep since she died – but at least I can manage a few hours straight now, which in my book means I’m winning. At least it’ll stand me in good stead when Junior arrives. Fiona’s only a couple of weeks off giving birth, or ‘dropping’ as she prefers to call it. It’s not a term I’m particularly fond of. I’ve had nightmares about ‘dropping’ my imminent offspring already, but who am I to argue with a heavily pregnant woman – or any woman at all for that matter?

Anyway, back then I could never have imagined that I would be where I am now, about to become a father with a colleague-cum-friend-cum-lover who I managed to get in the club after a one-night stand. But as I of all people should know, life has its own agenda sometimes and takes you down a road you never planned to travel.

‘MP, boss, Buckhurst Hill area, possible foul play.’ DS Lucy Davis had been breathy on the phone, like she’d just run up some stairs, although I’d put it down to excitement at the time. Davis was – still is – brimming with enthusiasm for homicide. I like the fact she’s not yet jaded by the horrors we human beings commit towards each other. I hope she never changes or begins to see the world as I do now.

‘A Mrs Beth Lawler… she just called to say she returned home this morning and her 28-year-old nanny, Marta Larssen, is missing… left the little one asleep upstairs, alone apparently… back doors open.’

I’d rubbed the grit from eyes.

‘No note?’

‘Nope. Nothing. Left her bag, keys… car still in the driveway… just disappeared without a trace. Never done anything like it before apparently, says she’s highly reliable, would never leave the child alone, not even for five minutes… Delaney’s already there at the property.’

I’d groaned. It was all we needed. Davis knows I’m not Delaney’s greatest fan – and why. His presence always seems to put me ill at ease, like he’s always trying to get one over on me or trip me up.

‘Brilliant.’

‘Exactly,’ Davis had said. ‘So we need to get down there, gov, pronto.’

I’d already been sliding one arm into an unwashed shirt and trying to button it up one handed as she’d given me the address.

The first thing I remember about walking into the Lawlers’ home was the tension. It felt oppressive somehow; the feeling had covered me like a blanket, made me feel cumbersome like I’d just eaten a big lunch. The high-pitched wails of a little girl crying had made it nigh on impossible for me to concentrate on what the woman in front of me was trying to say. Beth Lawler was trying to console her daughter, concern, maybe even fear etched on her face as she’d tried to calm her. I’m fascinated by how much children sense things. They’re often a good indicator. Without the capacity of a full range of vocabulary, their feelings are transmitted through their primary instincts. We adults could learn a lot from them, and I remember that day Lily Lawler seemed particularly distressed.

‘I’m sorry’ – I’d looked at the woman in front of me apologetically and then at Davis, who was straining to listen over the din, ‘but can we go somewhere quieter where we can talk?’

‘I’m so sorry.’ Beth Lawler had apologised once more. ‘The terrible twos seemed to have gone into the terrible threes and fours…’ I’d detected the strain in the woman’s voice as she’d frantically tried to appease the girl.

‘Tell me, Mrs Lawler – Beth, isn’t it?’

She’d nodded, attempting to soothe her fractious daughter with a ‘shhhh’.

‘Tell me what happened from the beginning.’

‘Marta. Her name is Marta Larssen. She’s from Norway. She’s twenty-eight years old and—’ Beth was trying to calm Lily. She’d been squirming and fussing, crying intermittently, and she couldn’t concentrate on what the policeman was asking her. She can’t concentrate on anything. All she can think about is that now that she’s called the police, everything will have to come out. And she doesn’t want it to come out, not like this. Beth feels the tension fizzing through her body and silently wills Lily to be quiet. Please be quiet. Give me a chance to think!

‘Maybe I should take her into another room? Distract her a bit with some toys.’ The policewoman smiles at her kindly, hand outstretched towards Lily. ‘Then you can give Detective Riley as much info as possible, and we can find out what’s happened to Marta, OK?’

‘OK.’ Her brain struggles to process what is happening; too many thoughts are rushing through it for her to gain purchase on a single one. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, checking herself. ‘Would you like to sit down? Can I get you something to drink? Tea or coffee? Juice? Water?’

‘No. Thank you.’

The detective takes a seat at the table. ‘So when was the last time you saw Marta?’

Beth swallows. Common sense commands her to tell the truth. Perhaps if she does then they will understand, but she can’t bring herself to. Perhaps they’ll find Marta before she needs to say anything at all. She prays that will be the case.

‘I saw her this morning, before I left for the gym.’ She knows this is a lie. She is lying to the police.

‘What time was that?’

‘About 11.35 a.m. I like to get there for midday and be finished by 1 p.m.’

‘What’s the name of the gym?’ The detective nods and takes notes.

‘The Source; it’s the spa and gym down on Queens Road.’

‘How long have you been a member?’

She pauses, wondering why he is asking. Is it relevant? She doesn’t think so. She swallows back the nerves that dance in her throat, tells herself he’s just doing his job. The other detective enters the kitchen then, the one who had arrived first, Martin somebody she thought he’d said his name was.

‘Gone through the house, gov,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘Check the outsides, front and back,’ the detective in charge replies. ‘Sorry, Beth, carry on.’

‘About five years ago. I joined not long after we moved in here.’

‘We?’

‘Yes. Me and my husband Evan. He’s on his way home right now.’

She had called Evan, breathless, as soon as she’d hung up from the police. She had wanted to call him instead but somehow had the foresight not to.

‘Marta has gone missing.’

‘Missing? What do you mean, missing?’

‘I mean she’s… gone… disappeared, Evan. I came home to find the house empty; Lily was asleep in her bed… alone… Marta’s car is here, and her bag, I think some of her belongings have gone… but… no note… no phone call, nothing! She’s just vanished. I can’t get her on the phone and the back doors were wide open…’ She had heard the panic escalate in her own voice as she relayed the situation to her husband on the other end of the line.

‘OK… OK, calm down… are you sure she’s not just popped to the shops or something? Gone for a walk… have you tried calling her?’

He hadn’t been listening to her.

‘Yes, I’ve tried calling her! Her phone is off. And her purse is missing too. But her keys are still in her handbag… She wouldn’t just “pop to the shops” without them, would she? And she wouldn’t leave Lily on her own – never. I’m scared to death that something’s happened to her…’

‘Her keys are still there?’

‘Yes, they’re still bloody here… but she isn’t! She’s gone!’

‘Please calm down Beth,’ he’d said wearily. ‘There’s going to be some kind of explanation for this, OK?’

‘I’ve called the police.’

‘The police?’

She’d had to stop herself from screaming down the phone at him.

‘Yes! The police, Evan! They’re on their way now.’

He had been silent on the line for a moment.

‘You said, when you got back this morning, Marta was missing. Where had you been?’

‘To the gym,’ she’d replied, quickly adding, ‘Like I always do on a Friday morning. Please come home. I want you to be here when the police come. I’m worried, Evan; I think something dreadful has happened to her.’

‘It’ll be nothing,’ he’d said, ‘but I’ll leave now. I should be back within the hour, traffic depending, OK?’

‘OK,’ she’d said quietly.

‘It’s all going to be OK, Beth,’ he’d said before hanging up.

‘What time did you get home, Mrs Lawler?’

She feels the detective’s eyes on her and the nerves in her throat tighten into panic. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, not like this.

‘Call me Beth, please,’ she says, because that’s what she’s supposed to say, isn’t it? She clears her throat, can hear Lily and the policewoman next door, playing with wooden building bricks, can see the other detective in the garden, searching. ‘I got back around 1.15 p.m., 1.20 p.m., something like that. I called Marta’s name when I came in, just expected to . . .