What My Husband Did

by Kerry Wilkinson

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction; Mystery; Police Procedurals; Private Investigators; Noir; Thrillers; Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

A little girl has been left for dead. And now my husband is missing. ‘I can give you a lift home,’ the man says. Little Alice tightens the zip of her big red coat. She’s unsure, but the walk will be cold and dark. ‘I’m not supposed to get in a stranger’s car.’ He forces a smile. ‘I’m not a proper stranger, am I?’ I return home to our beautiful house on a chilly winter evening expecting to find my handsome husband Richard waiting for me by the fire. We’re still so in love, and he always takes care of me: buying us this home in the little village where he grew up, making sure I settled in and made friends, and treating my teenage daughter like his own. There’s a bit of gossip about our age gap, but the death of his first wife years ago was so tragic that he still gets sympathetic looks. Everyone loves Richard. He usually comes straight back from work. But tonight, our antique clock ticks on through the dark evening, with no sign of him. Then a knock at the door shatters my perfect life. A 12-year-old-girl, Alice from the village, has been found unconscious in the field behind our house. They say she was last seen getting into Richard’s car. Now rumours are flying. As Alice fights for her life in hospital, nobody will speak to me: and when they do it’s to ask if he didn’t hurt Alice, why hasn’t Richard come home? I know that revealing my own darkest secret about Richard’s first wife could prove his innocence… but even if I do, he’s still missing. Is everyone right, and is my husband on the run? And will telling the truth about my past turn my own daughter against me, and tear our lives apart for good? Fans of The Girl on the Train, I Am Watching You and Shari Lapena will adore this absolutely unputdownable read by bestselling author Kerry Wilkinson, about the dark secrets we hide to protect ourselves and the ones we love. Read what everyone’s saying about What My Husband Did : ‘ Wow, wow, wow!!!!! This author never ceases to amaze me… I raced right through this one… I couldn’t believe that ending… so many twists and turns and I loved it. I didn’t know which way was up or down by the time I finished the book. That ending will stick with me for a long time… definitely recommend it.’ Blue Moon Blogger, 5 stars ‘ Oh my – this kept me guessing all the way through. I was literally gagging to find out the truth… you should have seen my jaw drop… I am so glad I started this book on a day when I had nothing else going on… It hit the ground running, sucked me in, chewed me up and spat me out.’ NetGalley Reviewer, 5 stars ‘ Close the curtains. Turn on all the lights. Lock the doors. What My Husband Did is a goosebump-causing heart-racing thriller… I desperately flipped pages… expertly crafted and the twists and turns keep readers on edge… like taking a rollercoaster ride… What a ride! ’ Goodreads Reviewer, 5 stars ‘Wow what a page-turner… loved loved this book from begining to end, twists and turns at every corner.’ TarasBookReviews, 5 stars ‘“ I didn’t see that coming” is the understatement of the year… Wow so many twists and turns I don’t know which way is up. Excellent writing. Excellent character development. Excellent everything!!! Must read!!! ’ @joni_loves_reading, 5 stars ‘This was fantastic… a twist I didn’t get until the very last second!... I found myself thoroughly engrossed and wondering w*f was going to happen next! ’ Goodreads Reviewer, 5 stars

Release date: November 17, 2020

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

Richard puts the car into reverse and edges backwards until he’s out of sight from anyone inside the shop. He’s at the rear of the forecourt and there are no vehicles at the petrol pumps.

Alice is in her big red coat and she stops to look across to the far side of the road. The dewy fields lie beyond, with the hazy lights of Leavensfield glowing from the bottom of the valley. On evenings like this, when the sun sets early and frost clings to the verges, the wintry scene from the top of the hill is like a painting.

Alice tightens her jacket’s zip – but it won’t be much of a match for walking home over the fields in this weather.

Richard pulls up the handbrake and leaves the car idling as he gets out and then beckons the girl across. She glances quickly at the shop, takes one step towards the road – and then seems to change her mind as she crosses to where Richard is standing. He reaches a hand towards her shoulder but she shuffles a couple of paces away, her arms crossed.

‘I can give you a lift home,’ he says.

‘But Mum—’

‘Don’t worry about your mum.’ Richard glances towards the shop, where, because of the angle, there’s no chance of Alice’s mother spotting him. ‘If she says anything, I’ll deal with it. She doesn’t have to know.’

Alice bobs from one foot to the other. The cold, dark walk home across Daisy Field can’t seem too appealing. She’s only twelve.

‘She’s told me not to get into a car with strangers.’

Richard forces a smile, but the icy, needly wind scratches at his face and he ends up offering something closer to a grimace. ‘Come on… I’m not a proper stranger, am I?’

Alice eyes him and he can see the conflict within her. She should say no – except nobody wants to walk home on a night like this. Besides, what mother lets a twelve-year-old walk home in the dark? Even in a place like Leavensfield?

‘It’s only down the hill,’ Richard adds, nodding towards the village in the distance. ‘Not far.’

A car passes on the way down to the village. Alice watches it go and then nods shortly, before slipping into the vehicle.

Richard moves quickly as he returns to the driver’s seat. Just a short ride, he tells himself. Just a short ride.

Harriet Branch is a massive cow.

There. I said it. Okay, I didn’t say it, but I did think it. It sounds like something that should be written on the wall of a toilet cubicle. Maybe I’ll write it on the wall of the pub toilets. I would if I had a pen. Okay, I wouldn’t – and not only because of the pen thing. It’s because I’m almost forty.

I’d like to write it on the wall, though.

Harriet claps her hands together and turns to take in the group of women who are sitting in a circle around the back room of the pub. I bet those hands have been treated with something expensive until they’re as smooth as the marble countertops with which I imagine her kitchen to be filled. She probably imports the moisturiser from somewhere in Italy, where it’s a few hundred quid a tub. That would be very Harriet Branch.

‘Winter magic, people!’ Harriet says. ‘That’s this year’s theme for the masked ball. We need to be thinking winter magic at all times.’

She speaks in exclamation points, with short, snappy, barked instructions. It wouldn’t be as bad if it wasn’t done with such a smug smile on her face. There are strings of tinsel draped half-heartedly around the corners of the room and she glances up to those, making the point that she wants much more than the tat they have on display here.

Nobody questions what ‘winter magic’ entails, because of course we don’t know. Does it mean I could throw a pack of cards in her stupid face and ask her to guess which one I’m thinking of? If she got it right, there would definitely be magic – and it’s winter.

Theresa catches my eye a moment before Harriet turns to her. She knows what’s coming and gives a mini eye-roll unseen by anyone except me. I suppress the grin but we both know what the other is thinking. Theresa’s great at maintaining her cool in these situations. An absolute trouper.

‘How are the food preparations coming along for the ball?’ Harriet asks.

‘Looking good,’ Theresa replies. ‘It’s all in hand.’

‘Can Atal make it this year?’

This might seem like a reasonable question but the passive aggression isn’t lost on me, nor, I suspect, Theresa. Her husband owns a restaurant on the edge of the village, which is why the food for this year’s Winter Festival Masked Ball has been assigned to him. Or, more to the point, to Theresa. It’s an all-women planning committee, after all.

‘He does have the restaurant to run,’ Theresa replies, ‘but we’ll see.’

Harriet writes something on her pad and finishes with a firm full stop that might have punctured the paper. We’ll see is not an adequate reply for a woman who deals in firm yeses or nos.

‘I’ll mark him as a yes,’ Harriet says. ‘Then if anything changes, it can be switched to a no.’

Theresa nods and smiles through it, managing not to say anything. Nobody talks back to Harriet. She’s a professional wife and, in Leavensfield, that’s a woman’s primary occupation. Up the patriarchy and all that.

Being a professional wife isn’t enough for anyone, though. How could it be? Harriet is never going to have a real job – but that means she invents other roles. That’s why she set up something called the Lovely Leavensfield Committee, which is as horrendous as it sounds.

Part of that committee’s responsibilities involve organising a fundraising winter ball every year. The reason for this is roughly twenty per cent to raise money for charity, twenty per cent to give Harriet something to do, and sixty per cent to give her an opportunity to order around the group of volunteers who are also on the committee.

That includes me.

Although she’s chairwoman of this committee, Harriet’s exact role in the planning for the winter ball is unclear. All the jobs have been assigned to other people.

After Theresa’s confirmation that there will be food at the ball, Harriet continues through her list. It’s largely to herself that she mutters ‘Sarah’s working on the tickets…’ – although it’s clear to everyone that Sarah isn’t at the meeting.

If it was anyone else, there would be offhand remarks about ‘needing to fully commit’ – but Sarah and Harriet, along with their respective husbands, are the village’s power couples.

Harriet taps her pen on the pad and then turns to me. I feel the eyes of the other women in the circle upon me as it becomes my moment in the spotlight.

‘How are the bouquets, Maddy?’ she asks.

There’s a pause as I realise she’s done me here. I glance sideways, wondering if she’s talking to someone else, but no, Harriet is talking to me.

‘Bouquets?’ I say. ‘I thought I was doing dessert catering…? Didn’t we agree that last time?’

I look around the circle, although everyone is tactically avoiding any sort of eye contact. Textbook. Only Theresa catches my stare, although even she gulps before replying. It’s like the gestapo around here.

Theresa speaks softly: ‘I’m pretty sure that is what was agreed last time.’

Harriet turns, nods at Theresa, and then twists back to me.

‘It is my job,’ I say. ‘It’s what I do for a living…’

Harriet gives me the sweetest of sweet smiles, though she’s so full of Botox that the creases have to fight to form. It’s a middle finger without the finger. Is it really? she doesn’t say.

‘Everyone needs to be checking the group emails,’ Harriet says, punctuating the words with a gentle thump on the table. ‘We’ve got money to raise and it’s vitally important that we’re all on the same page.’

I try to sit tall, but it’s hard not to shrink under comments that are clearly meant for me.

‘The desserts are now taken care of,’ Harriet adds, as if talking to a child. She turns to take in the circle. ‘I was at a charity dinner last week and met someone who was on Bake-Off. I don’t want to name any names because it’s not been advertised yet – but she’s going to do the desserts.’ By the time she focuses back on me, a sinking sensation is growing in my stomach. ‘This change was outlined in the last email.’

‘I must have missed it,’ I reply.

That or deleted it without reading every word. Harriet’s emails can make a university dissertation look short.

‘You’re now on flowers,’ Harriet says firmly. ‘If you check the email, it’s all there.’

‘I don’t know anything about flowers or arranging.’

‘So it’s a great time to learn! That’s what we always say, isn’t it, ladies? You have a whole week. I’m sure you’ll be fabulous.’

Harriet’s grin remains fixed and I consider letting her know that I’ll spend the week learning about flowers so that I can pack them into a neat bundle and find somewhere creative to shove them.

‘How does that sound?’ Harriet adds.

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Wonderful.’ She holds her hands up. ‘Aren’t we all so blessed to be surrounded by such strong and talented women…?’

There is a mumbling of approval, but I catch Theresa’s eye and, even though her face doesn’t twitch, I know she’s vomiting on the inside.

Harriet continues around the circle, checking on everyone’s progress. With the winter ball only a week away, things are getting tight for time. I’m the only person who has had a new job dumped upon them and have surely been set up to fail. This is entirely in keeping with the projects organised by Harriet. Whatever it is, at whichever time of the year, there is always someone who comes out of her schemes looking as if they’ve messed up their role. It’s never Harriet’s fault, of course. She has an incredible ability of identifying the hardest part of a venture and then palming it off on someone else. If that’s not her greatest talent, then it’s the way she can manipulate the village into doing whatever she wants. It’s impossible to know why this happens. I’m certainly not immune to her. I am here, after all.

Almost ninety minutes have passed by the time Harriet has finished going around the circle. She repeats that we need to be keeping an eye out for the group emails and then she shows her merciful side by letting us leave.

There’s a scratching of chairs as everyone stands and then an orderly line forms as we pick up those chairs and stack them into the corner. It’s like being back at school.

People start to drift outside in ones and twos, while others head through the connecting doors into the main part of the pub to have a glass of wine and a natter about the real world. Harriet is still packing her papers away into a designer leather bag.

I’m outside and almost at my car when Theresa taps me on the shoulder. It feels as if winter has landed tonight. The sky is clear, with a speckling of stars winking through the black. Frost is starting to crust along the base of the wall that rings the car park and there’s a bristling breeze that leaves me wishing I’d brought a hat and scarf.

Theresa nods back to the pub. ‘Fancy a quick drink?’

‘I don’t want to leave my car here overnight.’

‘Only a little one…’

I shake my head. ‘Maybe another time? I think I need a break from Leavensfield tonight.’

That gets a slim, knowing smile. The politics of this stupid little place can be exhausting.

We say our goodbyes and then I get into the car and crank up the heat while waiting for the mist on the windows to clear. When it does, I set off onto the narrow road that leads up and away from the centre of Leavensfield. It is lined with low drystone walls which have been here for as long as the village. There’s barely a year that goes by without someone misjudging a corner and smashing into the barrier. It usually happens in the summer, largely because of the sheer number of people who pass through the village on their way to the seaside or the motorway. Leavensfield is the type of village that creeps up on a person. One moment they might be driving on comfortable A-roads; the next it’s down to narrow lanes with no dividing line and these claustrophobic walls.

Leavensfield itself is a collection of central buildings, with scattered houses along the roads that lead in and out. It’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Christmas card among an emerald wash of farms and fields.

I continue driving up the winding hill until the rows of houses end and the walls become hedges. Overgrown branches from the wilting trees sway across the road, as it narrows to little more than a car’s width.

It’s another mile or so until I indicate and then pull onto the drive. There’s no sign of Richard’s car – but he occasionally parks in the garage if he has no plans to take it out for a few days.

It’s a quick, chilled, dash across the path and then I bristle through the front door, into the steaming warmth of the house.

‘Richard…?’

My husband’s name echoes around without reply. I look to the grandfather clock that stands in the hallway. It’s not my sort of thing, probably not his, either – though it once belonged to Richard’s father. There’s a picture dial atop the numbers, that shows different images relating to the time of day. It’s currently showing a crescent moon as it’s a few minutes to ten. If I hadn’t been out, it would be more or less the time we’d be going to bed. The yawns normally begin at around half-eight and it’s a slippery slope from there.

‘Richard…?’

I call louder this time, though there’s still no response. It makes little sense for him to be out at this time. It’s not as if he had anything on. I thought I’d get home to find him under a blanket on the sofa watching a music documentary, or something on BBC Four. Either that, or already asleep.

I try calling but his phone rings and rings without answer. That’s not unusual: mobiles have never been his thing. If the phone is in his hand, then it’s fifty-fifty as to whether he’ll answer. The move from physical buttons to touchscreen was not a good one for him. If his phone is anywhere other than his hand, then it’s touch-and-go as to whether he’ll hear it. Technology to Richard is like a McDonald’s on a high street: impossible to ignore but something that would rather be avoided.

I’m about to try calling him again when the doorbell sounds. Richard will have misplaced his keys in one of his various jacket pockets and will be busy turning everything inside out. His pockets are a black hole of receipts from stores that went out of business years ago, plus a charity shop sale of gloves and hats from winters gone.

When I open the door, it isn’t Richard. Atal is standing there, his breath seeping into the cold of the night. He’s in a thick coat, with his crimson turban wound tightly on his head.

‘Oh,’ I say, not expecting Theresa’s husband to be here.

Atal says nothing at first. He’s panting and turns rapidly from side to side. A black Labrador is sitting at his feet, its tail swishing back and forth across the welcome mat like a windscreen wiper.

‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.

His breath seeps up and into the night. ‘Can you call the police? I forgot my phone.’

‘Why?’

‘There’s a body in the stream.’

After dialling 999, I trail behind Atal as we follow the verge away from the house. His dog, Lucky, is straining at the leash, yanking him forward ever faster, although Atal makes no attempt to tug him back. He’s marching at a pace, on a mission to get back to the stream. I’m having to jog to keep up.

The ground is crusty and uneven from the divots and footsteps that froze weeks ago and haven’t thawed since. Shadows cling to these corners of Leavensfield for entire seasons and it’s not uncommon for mud in the shaded corners to remain hard from November until February or March.

Lucky darts through a gap in the hedges that line the road and Atal trails behind, holding the branches aside so that I can follow. The twigs snap back violently behind us as we emerge onto a wide, empty field. Wind blows icily across the barren space and I pull my coat tighter, wishing I was wearing more layers.

There are no pavements this far out of civilisation. Daisy Field is the one which people cut across if they live away from the village but want to walk to the centre without being on the edge of the narrow road. People have been taking a short cut over this field for as long as I’ve lived here – and likely for decades before that. In the summer, it’s so well used that a path forms from the regular parade of people using the unmarked route.

The stream that slices Daisy Field runs from far up the hill that sits over Leavensfield. It winds snake-like down to the village at the bottom of the valley, cutting around the landscape. It perhaps reflects the time of year better than anything else can. In the wet autumns, it will burst its banks and splay water across the surrounding fields; while, at the peak of summer, it will run dry as children gleefully race across the barren riverbeds simply because they can. A few years ago, it froze in the week between Christmas and new year, and villagers took their only opportunity in a generation to skid and slide their way from bank to bank.

There are no street lights here, only the glow of the moon on a clear night, and Lucky continues to lead Atal across the field as I follow at the side. Atal’s eyes are wide and white against the bleakness of the dark. The gaze of a focused, haunted man.

I thought Atal might have been exaggerating. There’s often something in the local paper about the latest bit of fly-tipping that’s gone on. It might have been a discarded piece of furniture in the stream, or some dark shape that looked a bit like a body.

He’s right, though.

Even from a distance, I can see the unmoving body on the bank of the stream. The shape is out of the water, though a red coat burns brightly against the green and brown backdrop of Daisy Field.

Atal and I get closer still, to the point that Atal has to reel in the leash to keep Lucky from getting too near to the body. It’s a girl on her side, with her long blonde-brown hair splayed behind her.

Kylie…

My pace quickens for a step or two before I realise that it can’t be her. This girl is smaller and younger, perhaps twelve or thirteen.

‘Should we…?’ I take a step towards her but Atal puts a hand on my shoulder. He doesn’t pull me back but it’s enough to make me stop.

It’s only now I realise that there’s a pool around his feet and that he’s dripping. His trousers are soaked and there’s a trail of water that leads back across the field from where we came. His teeth are beginning to chatter. I’m not sure how I missed it.

‘Did you pull her out?’ I ask.

He nods, without shifting his gaze from the body. ‘I don’t think she was breathing. She was already cold.’ He pauses and then adds: ‘There was blood…’

I move closer, one step at a time. Not thinking someone’s breathing isn’t the same thing as definitely not breathing. In all my life, I’ve never wanted somebody to be wrong as much as I do now.

Another step and the girl in the red coat is almost at my feet. I recognise her, of course. It’s a small village and I’ve seen Alice Pritchard walking to school in the same bright coat. She is unmoving, with no sign of her body bobbing with breath. I start to crouch – which is when whirring blue lights fill the area.

I’m off balance and rock backwards, startled by the sudden flaring lights. It’s an effort to pull myself up and, when I turn to the side, a pair of police cars are bobbing their way across the uneven ground, heading directly towards us. A little further along the lane, an ambulance looms over the tops of the hedges, its lights burning into the black, before it takes a turn through a wide-open gate onto Daisy Field.

I move away from the body, although it’s hard to stop watching. Instinct tells me to check that Atal was right about whether she was breathing. The girl must have been lying freezing on this bank for at least the fifteen minutes it would have taken Atal to get to mine and then for the pair of us to come here.

Everything happens quickly when the vehicles arrive. A police officer beckons me across to where Atal is standing and I do as asked. Meanwhile, three other officers and the paramedics descend upon the body in the red coat and form a protective circle around her.

The officer with Atal and myself is young and fresh-faced. She has her back to the scene as she signals us to move further away. Lucky is still pulling at his lead, although Atal is giving him little length to stretch any further.

‘Did you find the body?’ the officer asks, looking to me.

I stumble for a second, thrown by the use of the word ‘body’, as if she’s definitely dead. My voice cracks and doesn’t sound like my own. ‘No, I just called it in.’

She turns to Atal, who nods glumly. He’s usually full of jokes and joy, though the change is hardly a surprise. It’s like this is a twin of whom I wasn’t aware.

‘I was walking the dog,’ Atal says. ‘I saw something red when I was crossing the field, so went to see what it was. When I got there, I—’

He’s cut off by a babble of voices close to the stream. One of the police officers has darted back to the cars and there’s a shout of ‘She’s breathing.’

Atal gasps and turns to me, mouth still open. He doesn’t need to say anything because I can see the horror within him. He thought she was dead and can’t believe he left her for so long. I wish I’d checked myself. Perhaps I’d have seen the shallow breaths? Perhaps I could have done something before the police arrived?

It makes little difference now because, as the other officer dashes back towards the stream, the policewoman in front of us shifts Atal and me further back until our view is blocked by the ambulance. She has a notepad out, although I have no idea how she’s managing to hold that and a pen without her fingers trembling in this cold. She takes our names and contact details as Atal repeats that he was walking his dog when he saw something red.

‘I didn’t have my phone,’ he says, ‘so I went to Maddy’s house.’

The officer turns to me and I nod over the back of the field towards the lane on the other side. Through the gaps in the hedge, I can see that I’ve left the lights on inside the house. I left in such a rush that I’m not even sure I locked the door.

‘I live over there,’ I say. ‘I was waiting up for my husband when Atal rang the bell.’

‘You called 999?’

‘Exactly.’

The officer nods along at this and notes something new onto her pad. As she does so, a third police car turns from the lane onto Daisy Field. Its spinning blue light blazes bright across the ground as it bumps its way towards us. The officer puts her pad back into a pocket and blows into her hands.

‘You should return to your house,’ she says. ‘It’s cold out here and there’s not a lot you can do now.’

‘What happens next?’ Atal asks.

‘I don’t know,’ the officer replies, ‘but someone will probably contact you tomorrow.’

She steps away as the newest car pulls to a stop alongside the others. Two more officers clamber out of the vehicle and I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many police officers together away from a big city. They must have been called in from a neighbouring area.

Lucky is still trying to pull his way towards the stream but Atal tugs him away and we walk silently together back across the field in the direction from which we came. We pass through the main gates onto the road and then follow the verge back towards my house. The roads are deserted and, aside from the glow of the moon, the only light comes from the orange haze seeping from the windows of the house.

I’m expecting to see Richard’s car on the drive. He’ll be curious about where I am, either oblivious to what’s gone on a little up the lane, or wondering why there are blue spinning lights creeping through the trees.

His car’s not there, though.

The front door is locked, so I must have remembered to close it. I . . .