The Perfect Husband, page 1
The Perfect Husband
Iain Maitland
Published by Inkubator Books
www.inkubatorbooks.com
Copyright © 2022 by Iain Maitland
ISBN (eBook) 978-1-83756-022-6
ISBN (Paperback) 978-1-83756-023-3
ISBN (Hardback) 978-1-83756-024-0
Iain Maitland has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.
THE PERFECT HUSBAND is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
PRAISE FOR IAIN MAITLAND’S BOOKS
The Perfect Husband
“Heartrending and macabre, The Perfect Husband delves deep inside a decidedly imperfect mind.” Barbara Nadel
The Wickham Market Murder
“A well-crafted murder mystery, weaving a family saga with engaging protagonists and a clever twist.” Thomas Waugh
“If you like TV shows such as Murdoch Mysteries, Midsomer Murders or Father Brown, this book is a perfect one to read. The characters and writing are described well, and it feels very easy to read, to get into and follow.” Steph Louise On Instagram
“I really enjoyed the plot and the pace, it was easy to follow, and I was fascinated to see how they might solve this case without clear-cut evidence. What was even better is that the story really highlighted justice, or rather injustice at times, and how difficult it would be to solve some cases.” David’s Book Blurg
“… the dramatic climax. It’s a shocker. I really enjoyed this book and hope to see our intrepid duo again soon.” Lynda’s Book Reviews and News
“I won’t say too much, but it’s engaging and gripping right to the end. The pacing is perfectly matched to the story; it speeds headlong like a high-speed train from the first page until you are closing the last.” Chicks, Rogues and Scandals
The Girl Downstairs
“No one does uncanny like Iain Maitland. The Girl Downstairs, a tale of poignant grief, explodes into unimaginable horror.” Barbara Nadel
“The Girl Downstairs is a very well-written book, so well that I’ve finished it and am wanting more. I need more! This is one of those books that sits with you for a while after you read it. It definitely plays with your head! Excellent read!” The Book Booth
“I did enjoy this book. I really wasn’t expecting that. Read in one sitting. Brilliant.” Sue Loves to Read
“The themes in The Girl Downstairs are those that are crucial to today’s society. Homelessness, identity, the need for love and shelter, family, addiction, mental health and assumptions and expectations are so sensitively presented. Iain Maitland forces his reader to confront aspects of life we’d rather ignore so that I genuinely feel altered by reading The Girl Downstairs.” Linda’s Book Bag
The Scribbler
“One seriously weird killer and an engaging cop-partnership dynamic. Exciting.” Sunday Times
“I feel like I have just made one of the greatest discoveries on earth … What a mind this author has … a fantastic … dark, gripping, creepy and tense read.” A Lover of Books Blog
“The Scribbler is a slow-burning, tense and downright creepy thriller.” Suze Reviews
“A creepy read with an explosive ending, I was engrossed from start to finish.” Jera’s Jamboree
“Brilliantly creepy.” Scots Magazine
“The Scribbler is well-paced, engaging and punctuated by … unexpected humour, leading to a compelling and incredibly satisfying crime read. Highly recommended.” Raven Crime Reads
Mr Todd’s Reckoning
“Splendidly creepy.” Geoffrey Wansell, Daily Mail
“Iain Maitland has pulled off a masterstroke. Combining the ingenuity of an Agatha Christie, the horror of Rillington Place and the wit of the best of British, the story keeps you on your toes, fills you with dread and makes you laugh out loud.” Martin Carr, AbbottVision
“Maitland conjures madness from the inside, looking out … a brave book.” Jeff Noon, Spectator
“Truly scary … a fabulous dive into the mind of a classic, self-justifying psychopath … A fantastic book.” Barbara Nadel
“Iain Maitland’s Mr Todd lures us into his moral abyss. The banality of evil … drip feeds us its shockingly tense story of unending horror … Riveting, terrifying.” Paul Ritter
“Superbly crafted … spellbinding and gripping … brilliantly observed … The setting of an ordinary two-bedroomed bungalow in suburbia is genius …” Linda Hill, Linda’s Book Blog
Sweet William
“A breathless journey through fear and love that explores how interdependent those two extreme emotions are.” Ewan Morrison
“A dark, rocket-paced thriller.” Jon Wise, Sunday Sport
“Taut, darkly humorous and heartbreaking, with an unforgettable narrator, Sweet William packs a real emotional punch.” Lisa Gray, Daily Record
“A compassionate novel imbued with a deep knowledge of mental health issues … Tense and insightful … A heart-stopping thriller with a powerful denouement.” Paul Burke, Nudge Books
Out of the Madhouse
“An excellent exploration of the phenomenology of mental illness and its wider impact.” Joshua Fletcher, psychotherapist
“I love this book; profoundly moving, beautifully written … incredibly important … wonderfully hopeful.” James Withey, Founder, The Recovery Letters project
“Confronts the shocking bleakness of mental illness head on.” Charlie Mortimer, author, Dear Lupin
“The overriding ingredients … are the warmth of his connections, … and the power of communication.” Dr Nihara Krause, Stem4 Founder & CEO
Dear Michael, Love Dad
“A wonderfully entertaining and moving book, with lessons for every parent.” Daily Mail
“A moving read – honest, funny and sad.” Woman and Home
“Raising the issue of men’s mental health is important, and Dear Michael, Love Dad is to be praised for that … [a] loving and well-meant mix of letters and commentary.” Daily Express
“By turns acidly funny, exasperating and poignant, painting a moving portrait both of mental illness and of a father in denial. But paternal love … shines through.” Caroline Sanderson, Sunday Express
Contents
Inkubator Books
Prologue
I. The Happy Couple
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
II. No Place Like Home
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
III. Happy Ever After
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Inkubator Newsletter
About the Author
Author Notes
THE GIRL DOWNSTAIRS
Acknowledgments
Also by Iain Maitland
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For Adam.
Prologue
We sit, side by side, in bed, our backs against the padded headboard, him to the left, my “perfect husband” as he likes to be known, me to the right, his “wife”, of sorts anyway. Common-law wife as it used to be called in England. Living together but not married.
He is wearing a black tee shirt and black boxer shorts. I am in the Disney Frozen pyjamas he bought me at Easter. I think, at thirty-seven, I am too old to be wearing these, but I like the colours. And the pyjamas are warm. And he likes me to wear what he buys for me.
It is 6.35 a.m. on Wednesday, 26 May, and it is a surprisingly chilly morning after a week or two of warmer weather. I have just been downstairs to turn on the heating and to make two mugs of tea. We are now sipping our teas quietly.
It is his birthday today.
Robert James Wilkinson. He prefers “Rob”. He dislikes the formality of Robert. Bob is the name of an idiot, so he says. And Bobby is the name of a stupid child, apparently. Robbie is a yappy and annoying Scottie dog. So, Rob it is.
He is forty years old.
He has transformed my life since we met at a barbeque at Harry’s house, on the other side of our horseshoe-shaped close of five detached houses, just nine months ago.
Up until then, my solitary life amounted to little more than working in EYFS, early years, teaching four- and five-year olds at a local primary school during the days, and mulling over lesson plans for the following weeks in the evenings and at weekends.
I filled the rest of my time, and the long, endless holidays, with reading and crocheting and occasional get-togethers for coffee or lunch with work colleagues. All alone, I had grown old before my time. I knew it. I smiled in public, but inside, my heart was breaking.
He sits there expectantly by my side.
He believes I have a card and a present to give him after drinking our tea. Something special tucked by my side of the bed.
I do – and I think they will make him very happy.
Harry introduced us as I was standing near the barbeque, waiting to refill my glass with white wine. Here,” Harry said, gesturing towards the short and stocky man dressed in a fresh white shirt, navy knee-length shorts and boating shoes next to him. “This is Rob, my investment guru. You and he will get along.” He winked at Robert, and I had a sense that they’d just been talking about me.
We shook hands, both of us smiling and laughing, and we chatted about the weather, Harry’s new pond, and, well, all sorts of nonsense. He gazed steadily at me, whenever I glanced at him, and seemed interested in everything I said. By the end of the afternoon, early evening really, I had fallen in love.
I thought he was handsome in an old-fashioned, tidy sort of way. With his gelled blond hair and ready smile, I felt an instant attraction. I loved his lilting voice, and, at that first meeting, I wanted to just shut my eyes and listen to him talking away. Most of all, though, I loved his gentleness and his old-time good manners that reminded me of my dear, late parents, especially my darling father.
He puts his empty mug on the carpet next to his side of the bed.
Yawns and stretches as though it is just another day.
I sip at my tea, feeling the card and the present by my side.
I told him about my life. How I lived at home with my parents after qualifying as a teacher and that they passed away not so very long ago. I sold up, moved here and put the rest of the money in the bank. He told me his father turned him out of the family home when he was twenty-one, just before his mother died. There is an older brother, but they have not seen each other for years.
He is an investment adviser, working for himself, putting investors’ money into schemes that pay more than forty per cent a year through his clever investing. Harry has been getting four per cent a month for the past ten months or so.
Since Robert and I became a proper couple, when he moved in six months ago, he has been investing my rainy-day money. Now and then, he shows me computer printouts and tells me I will be a millionaire in five years’ time.
I put my mug on the bedside cabinet.
Lift up the card and the present. I lay them between us.
This is an unforgettable moment in our lives.
He takes them and looks at me as if to say, “Which one do I open first?” I smile and lift my hands as though to reply, “Either, it’s up to you.” They are, in their own ways, the same thing. A life-changing announcement.
He picks up the present, unwraps the bow, tears open the shiny blue-pink paper, and takes out a plain white cardboard box. He opens that and looks at a tiny pair of white baby bootees.
He stops, and there is a silence as neither of us breathes. And then he drops his head. I think he is close to sobbing. I am weeping.
I really hope this will be a happy day today. A day when he does not take out the notebook with my name, Laura, written in block capitals on the front cover.
Part I
The Happy Couple
1
Wednesday, 26 May
Robert seems stunned by the news of my pregnancy. He opens the card, “Happy Birthday Daddy!” and looks at it intently for a while, front, inside and back, and then puts the card, on its side, and the present on the bedside cabinet. He stares into space for what seems an age. I do not know what to say or do.
In truth, I thought I was too old to fall pregnant, and I have not taken any precautions, and, lately, I have not really needed to anyway. I think he assumes I am on the pill. Early on, he said he did not like wearing anything, and I said I’d sort it out. I never got round to it somehow. We had not talked about having children. But I have always wanted at least one, and deep down, if I am honest, I am so thrilled by it, yet just as scared, too.
He gets up out of his side of the bed, seeming distracted, and mumbles something like, “Best get on … be late for work.” I am not sure how to respond to that. I guess if you get to forty and have never had children, you never expect to. I think he is still in shock and will warm to the idea when he gets used to it.
He busies around, going to the bathroom and back, taking longer than usual, getting ready for the day. Even though he works in the box room, the smallest bedroom at the front of the house, he likes to dress for work. “Smart casual” he calls it.
I make breakfast – a big fried Birthday Breakfast like Mother used to make for Father and me on our birthdays – and stand in the kitchen waiting for him. I put on my brightest smile. He comes through, barely glancing at me or the piled-high plates, and makes himself a black coffee. He says he is in a hurry, has calls to make, no time to waste. Trades to do ASAP.
I am angry, bewildered too, but turn most of his breakfast into two sandwiches, one bacon, one sausage, which I leave on a plate outside the box-room door. I gently pull down the handle of the door to go in and wish him a happy birthday again and then kiss his cheek, but I can hear him talking nineteen-to-the-dozen on his mobile phone, so I slip away. I leave a few bits of cut-up bacon on a small plate on the patio in the back garden for Ginger, a thin cat that comes calling now and then. He always looks hungry and meows loudly and lets me stroke him whenever I see him. He does not appear today, so I leave for work.
It is a happy day at school with all the little children. It is sunny, and we go outside at morning break, lunch and afternoon break, which is always nice. The classroom can be hot and stuffy. I eat my packed lunch sitting on a bench, watching the children running around playing the latest games. The boys seem to be chasing a bouncy ball. The girls sit and fiddle with each other’s hair. Various children come running up to say “hello” one after the other. There are few moments to yourself at school other than hurried visits to the toilets.
I have a good friend at my school, Sharon, who has been my teaching assistant for about five years now. She is in her late forties and has three grown-up children and two grandchildren. I tell her at the end of our lunch break that I am pregnant. I’m not sure if I am laughing or crying, a mix of both, really. She hugs me long and hard and seems thrilled by my news.
As I stand by the door at the end of the day, seeing the little ones off to their parents, Sharon hurries up to me and says we must go into town for a celebratory coffee and cupcakes. Her face is shiny with excitement. I’d love to, but I say I need to get back for Robert, that he’ll be expecting me by four o’clock. We agree to do it another time.
When I get back home, just before four, I was going to suggest to Robert that, as it is his birthday, he might finish early and we could go to the cinema in Ipswich and then have a meal somewhere nearby afterwards. But his door is still shut, and listening in, I can hear he is on his mobile phone. He seems angry, is not shouting exactly, but certainly sounding loud and forceful. “Soon,” he keeps saying. “I told you. Very soon.” I come downstairs and make mugs of tea, waiting for him to come down too.
