The Honeymoon, page 25
He hands me a bag from the chemist with a tube of antiseptic cream, a pack of wipes and some gauze. ‘Coffee?’ he suggests. ‘I need to work late, so I could do with a pick-me-up.’
I don’t want to sit opposite him with an overpriced latte. How the hell can I pretend everything is OK? Everything is far from OK. But I can’t find my voice.
As he’s at the counter ordering, my mind is running wild. Does he know I’m on to him? No, there was a complete power cut. There’s no way he saw me snooping. But I need to come up with a plan. There’s only so long I will be able to get away with trying to stay calm in front of him. Every time he takes my hand or touches me, I freeze. He’s going to catch on sooner rather than later that something is up.
My fingers tremble over my cracked phone screen. I could run to the toilets, call the police, but what would I even tell them? What I need is more time – another power cut, a way to work things out.
A cup of coffee is placed in front of me.
‘Decaf. Don’t want you to be up all night.’ He winks.
Ironically, I need to cut back on caffeine now I’m pregnant. Not that I can even begin to wrap my head around the fact that I’m growing his baby inside me. This man feels like a complete stranger. I try and push the panic down. I have to keep my wits about me.
Jamie rummages in his jacket pocket and pulls out some folded pieces of paper. ‘I hope you haven’t got any plans this weekend.’
‘W-w-why?’
‘I wanted it to be a surprise but you know I’m terrible at keeping secrets,’ he says, taking a sip of his drink. ‘I’m taking you away.’
I blink. ‘What?’
‘You said we haven’t spent much time together recently. So, how does a long weekend in Venice sound?’
‘Jamie, we can’t go away now.’ A coldness creeps inside me.
‘Why not? I’m my own boss, remember? I set my own rules.’ A flash of irritation appears for a microsecond on his face. ‘Anyway, isn’t a man allowed to surprise his new wife with a romantic city break without being interrogated?’
I want to say that I’m hardly interrogating but I stay quiet. He slides a slim brochure across the table. The front cover has an image of rustic gondolas on a turquoise-coloured canal that I’m certain has been Photoshopped. I pick it up and open it with trembling fingers.
‘I know you’ve always wanted to go. It will be out of season so it should be quiet – fewer tourists getting in the way.’ He clears his throat. ‘I’ve been working loads and, well, the honeymoon didn’t quite go as planned, so . . .’
He’s waiting for me to say something.
All I can think is that he’s done this in public so I can’t create a scene.
I force myself to get to my feet, my legs like lead, and wrap my arms around him. The smell of his aftershave catches in the back of my throat. ‘I’m sorry. Thank you. I guess I’m just a bit on edge, especially after what happened last time we went away,’ I mumble.
‘Exactly. That’s another reason why it’ll be good for us to get away for a bit. Have a change of scene. It’s time to look to our future.’
‘When do we leave?’ I try to hide the apprehension in my voice.
‘Tomorrow afternoon. I had hoped to wake you up and whisk you away, but there’s a few things I need to see to first.’ He glances at my cup. ‘Ah, you’ve finished your coffee. Here’s some money to treat yourself to some new holiday clothes. Some sexy lingerie, perhaps?’ My stomach turns. A wad of cash lands in my hands. ‘I’ve also found a place to fix your phone screen. I can drop it off after this if you like,’ he says with a smile.
There is a brief flash of the man that I married sitting opposite me once again. What am I supposed to say to avoid letting him know that I can see what he’s doing? Everything is screaming at me not to hand my broken phone over, but I can’t think quickly enough.
‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’ He pauses. ‘You know, Erin, you could try and look a bit more excited.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s just the last time—’
He holds up a hand. ‘I promise you it’ll be better than our honeymoon. Right, off you go, darling. The parking will run out soon.’
I scrape my chair back against the tiles. The sound shoots through me.
62
Erin
Friday 30 September
Heavy grey clouds drag themselves past the bedroom window. The dark skies and brewing rain warn of the storm that’s predicted to hit at some point. It looks as though it’s going to be the type of day where there’s no point getting out of bed. I don’t know what time it is as I don’t have my phone. The man in the repair shop needed to keep it overnight. Jamie told me he’d go and pick it up in his lunch break if he had time.
I shrug on my dressing gown and pad downstairs, needing a strong coffee after tossing and turning all night. I didn’t hear Jamie leave this morning. His car isn’t here and his work bag has gone.
It’s eerie to be suddenly left alone. I don’t know what time he is planning to be home or what exactly is happening later with this surprise Venice trip. I need to go along with things and try to stay calm as I figure out a plan to escape. Jamie watched me like a hawk at the shopping centre. The only time he let me out of his sight was when he encouraged me to go into a fancy boutique, the money he’d given me sweating in my palm. I caught sight of him pacing outside, his phone pressed to his ear, an unreadable expression on his face.
I thought about running away, nervously glancing around for a fire exit. But where would I go? At the till I handed over the clothes I didn’t want, screaming with my eyes that I needed help. The shop assistant scanned the items and asked if I was interested in signing up for a store card. I heard Jamie call my name before I could reply.
Once we were back in his car, he tenderly applied the strong-smelling antiseptic cream to my head wound. Before he started the engine, he tipped my chin to kiss me, telling me that he loved me. I don’t know how I mustered the words to say it back, but I did.
A shiver passes through me as I walk into the kitchen. He’s left breakfast out for me. I must be doing a good enough job of acting as though everything is normal. I pour out a cup of coffee from the pot that’s still warm and add some milk. It tastes funny. I should eat something for the baby’s sake, I think, so I spoon up a couple of mouthfuls of cornflakes, which also taste different. Perhaps the milk is going off.
As I’m chewing I spot a brown envelope on the worktop. Inside, along with a wad of euros, is a piece of paper with our flight details. I scan the information and go cold. Underneath the times of departure is a section for passenger details.
Only one seat selected. One name printed.
My married name.
The kitchen swells around me. Why hasn’t Jamie booked a ticket? Why has he arranged for me to go alone? My scalp prickles. If I go on this trip then I know I won’t be coming back. I’m sure of it. What was the reason he made me go to the shops to buy holiday clothes alone? So I’m the only one on their CCTV. A sweat breaks out at the thought. He’s smarter than me. He always has been.
I tell myself to stay calm. He could be watching my every move right now. I daren’t look up at the smoke alarm. Instead, I put my empty bowl in the sink. It clatters against the ceramic.
Before I do anything, I need to be certain he’s not in the house.
Fear threatens to overwhelm me.
Has he been here the entire time? Hiding in these four walls, watching me as I naïvely move around? I bet there are hidden passageways or stairwells I have no idea about. The dripping sound . . . was that him all along? My mind is awash with spine-chilling thoughts, each one wilder and scarier than the last.
With a deep breath, I walk towards the larder, coming up with a plan. This is where we keep the cleaning products. My eyes dart over the antiseptic spray, scourers and plastic bottles of bleach. My trembling hands pick up a can of furniture polish and a yellow dust cloth. I have to be clever. If he’s watching me then I need to look as if I’m innocently cleaning.
My heart is in my mouth; I’m convinced he will suddenly leap out of somewhere as I wipe the cloth over the banister while I trudge up the stairs. I start in our bedroom, swallowing the fear that accompanies me when I peer inside the wardrobe doors.
I drop to my knees and check under the bed frame, half expecting to be met with his eyes in the darkness.
Suddenly, I hear a noise coming from the bathroom. Fear flutters in my stomach; it’s like a kick from the baby, willing me to do something. Everything tingles with adrenaline. I walk towards the closed bathroom door, sweat prickling across my back.
I reach for the handle, trying to push away thoughts about what might be on the other side.
With a deep breath I thrust it open.
It’s just the shower head dripping.
I exhale and rub my face with my hands. Buoyed by the shot of adrenaline, I quickly check the other rooms upstairs. All lie eerily empty and still.
The only door I haven’t looked behind is the airing cupboard. I press the handle down firmly but nothing happens. It refuses to open. Jamie told me I just had to give it a shove but he was lying. I can see now that there’s the slit of a keyhole inside the handle, easily missed if you weren’t looking for it.
Why would the airing cupboard be locked?
I want to press myself against the wood, see if I can hear anything from inside, but something catches my eye. The blinking light of the smoke alarm on the landing just above me.
Jamie’s not in the house, but that doesn’t mean he’s not watching me.
I remember the key I found in his office desk. It’s still in my dressing gown pocket. Even if it fits, I can’t just unlock the door and go inside. Not yet. I hurry downstairs, as casually as I can, to put the furniture polish back in the larder. I need to cut the power. But where is the fuse box? I still have no idea where it is and I’m running out of time to start looking properly. Jamie could return home at any minute.
Hanging on a hook, beside the shelves holding Kilner jars of flour and tins of soup, is a wooden broom. I pull it free then drag the hard bristles across the cold kitchen tiles. The painful scratching sound runs through me.
With both hands on the broom, I raise it high in the air and, using all my strength, whack it against the smoke alarm in the kitchen. I’m overwhelmed with an urge to put my middle finger up just before it crashes to the floor.
The clock is ticking.
I leave a satisfying path of destruction as I make my way upstairs, smashing the hallway and landing smoke alarms, accidentally taking out the gilt-framed mirror too, in my haste. A hidden strength blossoms from deep inside, as if the baby is spurring me on.
Once outside the locked airing cupboard, I drop the broom and scrabble a hand inside the deep pockets of my dressing gown. I’ve done all I can to make sure my husband isn’t watching me. I place the key in the lock, my fingers trembling with anticipation and fear as I turn it and push open the door.
I scream as Jamie’s face stares back at me.
63
Erin
The airing cupboard isn’t a cupboard at all. It’s a small storage room filled with things I’ve never seen before, including a large canvas print of Jamie’s face, directly in my eyeline, resting on a bookcase in front of me. The way the light hits it from the tiny window makes it look as if he’s here, hiding and waiting for me to find this secret den.
My heart is about to leap from my chest. I momentarily close my eyes, forcing myself to slow my breathing. It’s only a photograph. The fear of coming face to face with my husband has sent my brain into overdrive.
He’s not here. But he might be, as soon as he discovers that I’ve smashed up his hidden cameras.
I take another look at the print. It’s from his wedding day to Claire. Tiny flakes of confetti flutter around their beaming faces as they exit the church. Why is this on display in a secret room?
With my heart rate returning to normal, I scan around the rest of the small space. It’s no bigger than a walk-in wardrobe. There’s a desktop computer resting on an antique dressing table. Jamie has been in here recently, by the looks of things. A couple of crushed lager cans, an empty crisp packet and a sludgy brown banana skin sit beside the mouse mat, the cloying smell at odds with the damp odour of the room. Is this where he goes when he tells me he’s working? A coldness spreads through me.
Piles of boxes are awkwardly placed on top of one another. Are these mementos from their life before? Trinkets he’s held on to as a reminder of their marriage?
There’s a small, sealed cardboard box that looks out of place next to the other ones. I need something sharp to open it. In the stationery holder is a letter-opener. I lean across the mystery box and press the blade into the thick brown tape. As I do, the edge slips and I nick the side of my thumb. Crimson drops of blood fall on the brown cardboard lid.
‘Ow.’
I stick my finger in my mouth and suck the blood, wincing at the metallic taste on my tongue, while I use the other hand to look at what’s inside the box. It smells of faded, musty perfume. There’s a couple of woollen jumpers – women’s clothes, judging by the labels of high street brands I recognise. Are these Claire’s?
My hand hits something hard against all the softness. An Apple iPhone. It’s out of charge so I can’t turn it on. I frown. Jamie hates Apple products. Tucked beside it is a leather wallet containing several bank cards – none of them are in Jamie’s name. There is also a pouch with a bundle of folded euros bound by a thick elastic band.
A strange buzzing begins in my head; my fingertips prickle with pins and needles. I can’t think straight, my mind suddenly cloudy as if trapped in heavy fog.
I hear something. My whole body freezes with fear. The windows rattle in their frames as the wind picks up outside. The storm is coming. There’s a sudden gust of icy-cold air. The house creaks in resistance.
Wait, is that the sound of a car?
I stop breathing and rush across to the nearest window, splattered with raindrops in the dirty grey light. No. There are no headlights approaching. However, I can hear the warning caw of a gull circling overhead, as if telling me I need to get out of here.
My feet move as fast as they can downstairs. I turn the handle on the front door. It’s locked.
It’s never locked.
Trying not to give in to the panic that’s creeping up my shaking legs, I carefully move through the kitchen, stepping over broken bits of plastic, and push the handle on the back door. Another wave of adrenaline courses through me. It won’t budge. My mouth runs dry as I try the handle once more.
Jamie has locked me in the house.
There’s no point shouting; there’s no one outside to hear. I force myself to take deep breaths.
I can’t get out but I can call for help.
I run upstairs and connect the iPhone to the charger that’s plugged into the wall, my fingers trembling. The screen stays black. It’s a few painful seconds before the lightning symbol flashes up. It works, at least. Suddenly I have a lifeline.
I have to concentrate on not dropping the phone. My finger presses hard on the power button. It feels like a lifetime but, finally, there is the Apple symbol. It doesn’t ask me for a passcode. I quickly jab 999. My numb fingers hover over the dial button.
They will come after me too. For my part in George’s death. For tampering with Claire’s CCTV. I can’t have my baby born in prison. Escaping is my only option but I can’t get out.
I don’t know Kat’s number off by heart. I only have one other person I can call. My hands roam the pockets of my dirty dressing gown. I half expect it not to be here, but it is. Air escapes my lips as I pull out the business card, and cross everything that she picks up.
64
Sophia
Friday 30 September
I think the reason I offered to drive Mark to his sister’s house after he was discharged was because I needed to know he had gone. The only sound on the entire journey was the rain hammering against the windscreen. I couldn’t bear to look at him. His confession has been turning over and over on a loop in my shattered mind.
‘Are you not going to stay for a bit?’ he asks when we arrive, looking up at me with huge watery eyes.
Jules’s house is eerily silent. She’s gone to pick the kids up from their various after-school clubs and childminders but left a key for us.
I shake my head. The weather is bad and the traffic is only going to get worse. I want to get back to my own bed. Alone. I need some time by myself to work through it all.
‘I’ve got to get ready for work tomorrow.’
It’s a lie. Claudia has put me on compassionate leave. When she discovered my husband was the victim of the hit-and-run, she immediately softened, making sure to splash the front page with the police appeal for witnesses. Amira has sent me some lovely messages checking I’m OK.
Everyone thinks I’m by my innocent husband’s bedside. No one would believe that this may have been a targeted incident – that, because he borrowed money off some truly awful men, he has put his own life at risk. The menacing dogs, the terrifying man in the alleyway, the hit-and-run. Mark might be right. These are the actions of Rupert’s gang, but my husband’s secret gambling, not my investigation, is behind it all.
Amira also wanted to know if she should pick up the George Kingsley investigation in my abscence. I haven’t replied yet, but it’s time I dropped it and admitted that there isn’t enough proof that would stand up in a court of law. Technically, the Instagram reel capturing Erin and Jamie heading to the cliffs doesn’t prove anything. They might have turned around and gone in a completely different direction when the camera was off. I have no other evidence that they have anything to do with George’s death.
I’ve also come to a dead end with what might have happened to Claire. My gut tells me Jamie had something to do with her death, but the police clearly didn’t think there was anything untoward, and I don’t know what else to do to hunt for clues. I don’t trust them, not after everything I’ve learned from Erin’s suspicious stalking tendencies and the fact that Jamie lied to me about his wife having bipolar disorder and telling her I tried it on with him. They might be a fucked-up couple but it doesn’t mean either of them is a killer.
