The Dead Husband, page 1
THE DEAD HUSBAND
GILLIAN JACKSON
Copyright © 2024 Gillan Jackson
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The right of Gillan Jackson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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First published in 2024 by Bloodhound Books.
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Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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www.bloodhoundbooks.com
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Print ISBN: 978-1-916978-21-8
CONTENTS
Newsletter sign-up
Prologue
Part I
1. A Week Earlier
2. Wednesday 7th December
3. Wednesday 7th December
4. Wednesday 7th December
5. Wednesday 7th December
6. Wednesday 7th December
7. Thursday 8th December
8. Thursday 8th December
9. Thursday 8th December
10. Friday 9th December
11. Friday 9th December
12. Friday 9th December
13. Saturday 10th December
14. Monday 12th December
15. Tuesday 13th December
16. Tuesday 13th December
17. Wednesday 14th December
18. Wednesday 14th December
19. Thursday 15th December
20. Thursday 15th December
21. Thursday 15th December
22. Thursday 15th December
23. Thursday 15th December
Part II
24. Friday 2nd December
25. Friday 2nd December
26. Saturday 3rd December
27. Saturday 3rd December
28. Sunday 4th December
29. Monday 5th December
Chapter 30
31. Monday 5th December
32. Tuesday 6th December
33. Tuesday 6th December
34. Tuesday 6th December
35. Tuesday 6th December
36. Wednesday 7th December
Part III
37. Friday 16th December
38. Saturday 17th December
39. Monday 19th December
40. Monday 19th December
41. Monday 19th December
42. Tuesday 20th December
43. Tuesday 20th December
44. Tuesday 20th December
45. Tuesday 20th December
46. Tuesday 20th December
47. Wednesday 21st December
48. Wednesday 21st December
49. Wednesday 21st December
50. Wednesday 21st December
51. Wednesday 21st December
52. Wednesday 21st December
53. Thursday 22nd December
54. Thursday 22nd December
55. Thursday 22nd December
56. Thursday 22nd December
57. Thursday 22nd December
58. Friday 23rd December
59. Friday 23rd December
60. Friday 23rd December
61. Friday 23rd December
62. Friday 23rd December
63. Friday 23rd December
64. Saturday 24th December
65. Saturday 24th December
66. Saturday 24th December
67. Saturday 24th December
68. Sunday, Christmas Day
69. Tuesday 27th December
70. Wednesday 28th December
Epilogue
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Author’s notes
Also by Gillian Jackson
You will also enjoy:
A note from the publisher
PROLOGUE
THURSDAY 8TH DECEMBER
It snowed heavily overnight and while some enjoyed the scenery and dreamed of a white Christmas, others struggled to get to work. New Middridge Primary School, built on a hill with the surrounding roads and pavements treacherous, had closed its doors. Doubtless, there’d be frustrated parents, excited children and smiling teachers. Gritting lorries had cleared the town’s main roads but most side streets were untouched, picturesque yet problematic for those trying to travel.
Four miles south of town in a hamlet of three cottages, one family enjoyed the wintry weather. With school closed, Harriet Smith had rung into work to book the day off. It was one less she’d have over the coming Christmas holidays but that was another day’s problem. Harriet’s two children were hyper and for the last hour had pestered her relentlessly to go out in the snow to play.
‘Give me ten minutes and then we’ll take Barnie out for a walk over the field.’
‘Great! Can we build a snowman?’
‘Why not?’ Harriet winked at her children and started to stack the breakfast pots in the dishwasher. ‘Find your wellies and wrap up warmly.’
The Smiths’ cottage was set back from the B-road, which saw very little traffic, exactly how Harriet liked it. The neighbouring cottages were second homes for city dwellers and were rarely occupied at this time of year. With the children running ahead of their mother, whooping excitedly as they kicked up the snow, Harriet kept Barnie on his lead until they’d crossed the road. The spaniel pulled to catch up with the children and once in the field Harriet released him and smiled as he bounded across the as-yet-untouched white carpet, tail wagging furiously.
It was a perfect morning. The fresh snow was untrampled and the air crisp with a quietness only such a deep covering can bring. Harriet watched her six-year-old twins, Isla and Josh, cheeks and noses red with cold but laughing as they gathered snow into a pile for a snowman. Barnie scooted around, tail wagging madly and nose sniffing the white mounds around him. They didn’t often have as much snow; it was a rare treat for the dog and the children.
‘I need some twigs for the snowman’s arms, Mum!’ Josh shouted. Isla stood, hands on hips and glared at her brother. ‘Why does it have to be a snow man and not a snow lady?’
‘Go over to the trees; there’ll be some branches there, but mind the ditch.’ Harriet followed the twins as they ran towards the edge of the field. Barnie appeared to have found something in the ditch to interest him and was barking excitedly. While the children gathered twigs, Harriet caught up with her dog and called at him to stop digging in the snow. As usual, he ignored the command, so Harriet leaned down to pull him out of the hole he was working on. What she saw next stunned and shocked her.
Barnie had uncovered what was undoubtedly a man’s head. The battered profile of his face horrified Harriet, who stifled the scream rising in her throat so as not to attract the children’s attention. Barnie remained busily shifting the snow from the body, enjoying his game until Harriet grabbed his collar and dragged him out of the shallow ditch, clipping on his lead. Feeling weak and shaky she hobbled towards the children. ‘Isla, Josh, take Barnie and go back to the house! The back door’s open. Wait for me inside.’ Harriet felt decidedly sick yet tried not to vomit in front of the children.
‘What, on our own? You never let us stay in the house alone.’
‘Why, Mum? We haven’t finished our snowman yet.’
‘Please, just do as I say – I’ll be with you in a few minutes.’ She scrambled for her phone as the children took a reluctant Barnie and tramped back across the field, muttering as their playtime was cut short. Harriet offered up a silent prayer of gratitude that they hadn’t seen the disturbing sight of a dead man so close to their home.
It wasn’t ideal to send the children home alone but Harriet didn’t want them to hear the call she needed to make or see Barnie’s discovery. The man in the ditch was clearly dead. His face was turned to the side but what was visible showed his skin to be bluish-purple, almost like wine stains, with eyes open, staring, yet unseeing. The hand Barnie had also uncovered was similarly discoloured, and blood encrusted the man’s face and hair.
Harriet tapped in 999 with unsteady fingers and asked for the police and an ambulance, although the latter was far too late for the poor man in the ditch.
The call-handler asked Harriet to stay with the body until the police arrived, but after explaining how her children were at home and alone, she gave the address for the police to come to her, then without a backward glance, headed for the warmth and safety of her home.
After shrugging off her wet coat, Harriet followed the sound of chatter, found the twins in the lounge and hugged them both tightly. Josh was the first to wriggle free. ‘What’s wrong, Mum?’
‘Nothing, Josh, it was just too cold to stay outside.’
‘Can we watch telly?’
Harriet, grateful the children were ignorant of Barnie’s discovery, agreed. ‘Yes, but only for an hour. Who wants hot chocolate?’
‘Me!’ they shouted in unison and jumped on the sofa, tussling for the remote control. Harriet sighed – maybe something stronger than hot chocolate would be more appropriate for herself.
Just as Harriet placed the hot chocolate in her children’s eager hands, she heard sirens and dashed to the door before the police could ring the bell. Two uniformed officers hurried towards her, holding out their ID
‘Mrs Smith? I’m PC Mark Davies.’ He held his warrant card for her inspection and smiled as Harriet nodded solemnly. ‘Can you take us to where you found the body?’
Harriet chewed on her bottom lip; with no desire to return to the horrific scene her dog had discovered she felt sick at the thought. ‘I don’t want to leave the children alone again.’
As the first officer attending, it was Mark Davies’ responsibility to secure the scene until back-up arrived. ‘Perhaps my colleague could stay with them? You don’t have to see the body again, only take me to where you discovered it and point me in the right direction.’ Harriet thought he must have read her mind.
‘Okay, just let me tell the kids what’s happening.’
Afterwards, as they headed to the field, two other police vehicles arrived. PC Davies beckoned to his colleagues to follow him and then gently asked Harriet, ‘Did you disturb the scene at all, Mrs Smith?’
‘I’m afraid my dog did and I had to drag him away. You can see where my foot slid down as I tried to grab him.’ Harriet stood well back and pointed to the skid marks on the side of the ditch.
‘And the children, did they go near at all?’
‘No, they were over by the trees and didn’t see anything. I’d rather they didn’t know what’s happened.’
‘Of course. You can go back to your children now and we’ll secure the area. Someone will take a more formal statement later. Do you want an officer to accompany you?’
‘No, thanks, I’ll be fine.’
Mark’s initial assessment was that a detective and CSI would be needed – at the least, this appeared to be a hit-and-run – the road was near enough for a car to have hit the man, knocking him into the shallow ditch. At worst the body had been dumped. Further investigation was appropriate.
He returned to his car which was parked adjacent to the field. Pulling on protective boots first, he then grabbed the tape and pegs needed to secure the area, rummaged in his car boot to find a clipboard, then trudged back to the crime scene. Mark asked one of the other officers to ring in the details and ask for CSI support while his colleague helped with the scene preservation. Having informally established the basic details from Harriet Smith, when the taping was complete, he rang his partner at the Smiths’ house to ask her to take a more formal witness statement.
All he could do now as first response officer was wait for CSI and begin a scene log. With time to pause, Mark looked again at the grisly sight of the body in the ditch, so incongruous with the peaceful area. The blanket of snow presented a serene impression which was about to be destroyed by the ruthless machine of investigation. A detective would take charge of the case and forensics would soon be swarming all over the field, processing the scene, recording and collecting physical evidence.
Mark was relieved it was the dog that had found the body and not the children. The poor mother looked traumatised enough – what effect would the grisly sight have had on the two bairns?
PART 1
ONE
A WEEK EARLIER
Amy Cooper crossed and uncrossed her legs several times while fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve. The consultant’s waiting room was too hot, but she didn’t want to remove her coat – keeping it on might miraculously shorten her time in the hospital. Three other patients shared the small stuffy room and another two had already been called into the consultant’s inner sanctum. Amy was jittery, hoping to be next in line.
Today’s appointment was to hear the results of various tests and scans which would tell her if a brain tumour had been causing her recent symptoms as the consultant suspected – and if it was, to discuss available treatment options. Over the last four weeks the hospital had become a familiar place – the lengthy journey to and from, a habitual routine with which Amy was wholly fed up.
A nurse appeared and called a name – not Amy’s but an older lady, a woman the age her mother would be if she’d still been alive. A book was nestled in the bottom of Amy’s bag yet she was disinclined to read, knowing concentration would fail her. Instead, she settled down to study her two remaining companions, a man and a woman, clearly together and as antsy as Amy. The woman wore dangling earrings which sparkled each time she moved her head. She wondered which one was the patient and whether they were also anticipating bad news.
Only six short weeks ago Amy would have claimed to be reasonably healthy for a woman in her early forties with no reason to think otherwise until the headaches began, headaches like none other she’d experienced, a gripping pain which took her by surprise.
Mornings were the worst, when Amy woke up to a pounding head and a dreadful nauseous feeling. Then there was the dizziness – but what finally sent her scurrying to her GP was finding herself coming around on the floor with no recollection of what had occurred or for how long she’d lain unconscious. The doctor’s actions were remarkably swift and an appointment to see a consultant arrived within two weeks, giving Amy a clue that her GP thought there was something seriously amiss.
After the initial appointment with Mr Matthews, CT and MRI scans were booked and Amy was in the system, progressing from one department to another as if on a conveyer belt. Finally, the consultant broke the news that they suspected a brain tumour, and today was results day. The waiting was driving Amy crazy. In her darker moments she anticipated the prospect of an operation. Curiosity sent her to the internet, which presented more questions than answers and nothing by way of comfort. Now, those questions were stored in her brain – her defective brain – ready to ask. Amy dreaded the answers and feared the worst. The thought of having her hair shaved and her skull drilled open made her shudder. Having always feared a check-up at the dentist, this was unthinkable.
‘Amy Cooper!’ the nurse called loudly.
‘Yes.’ Jolted back to reality she followed the young woman into the consultation room. Mr Matthews looked up from his desk and smiled.
‘Good morning, Amy. Please take a seat.’ His head dropped to a folder on his desk and then jerked up to his computer, where he studied the screen, frowning. The silence in the room was stifling, the consultant’s expression inscrutable. Eventually the man looked at her. ‘Have you come alone today, Amy?’
It must be bad news – the worst?
‘Yes.’
‘Ahh.’ Mr Matthews nodded. He was a kindly man, early fifties perhaps, although generally she was rubbish at guessing ages. His silver-grey hair was receding and rather too long at the back, curling over his collar. She wondered if he had a wife to remind him it was time to get a trim. Slowly he removed his wire-rimmed glasses and gave his patient his full attention.
‘Amy, I’m afraid the news is not good. As we suspected you have a brain tumour – the CT and MRI scans are self-explanatory.’
