The Guilty Wife Read online

  I couldn’t risk exposing the existence of the memory card by trying to destroy it. I’d have to hope that it would stay hidden, that the killer would be found before Calum’s apartment could be searched more thoroughly.

  I’d thought that the weight bearing down on me couldn’t get any heavier, but now I felt like I was buckling under the pressure. I closed my eyes, concentrating on breathing, wondering what it felt like to lose your sanity. Surely it felt something like this. The silence in my flat was so thick that I could hear the second hand of the clock on the kitchen wall marching forwards. It felt like a foreshadowing. A warning.

  My time was running out. Only I didn’t know what it was that was hurtling towards me or how to make it stop.

  Or if I even could.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I rested my gloved hands on my hips and stared at the door.

  I didn’t have a clue how much time I had. Calum’s funeral would be starting at any moment, but I had no idea who would speak, how long they’d linger on the details of his life, what they’d say. Whether they’d paint him as some kind of saint, like people were prone to do at funerals.

  I shook my head. Now wasn’t the time to fantasise about the eulogy I’d never have a chance to deliver. I had to find a way into Mark’s flat and get out without leaving any evidence of my visit.

  In the end, finding his address had been easier than I’d expected. A quick search online, twenty pounds spent on a website that I wasn’t entirely sure was legal, and within minutes I had the details I needed. It was unsettling to know that personal information could be bought so easily.

  But now I had a problem. I obviously couldn’t enter through the front door. Even on such a quiet street, I’d draw far too much attention to myself. Instead, I’d jumped the fence separating the small back garden from the alleyway that ran behind his street, and found myself facing two tightly sealed windows and a locked door.

  I’d searched frantically under rocks and pot plants and the doormat in the hope that I’d find a hidden spare key. Nothing.

  But I wasn’t completely unprepared. My morning had been spent watching videos online about how to pick a lock, and I’d followed the instructions to create my own tools using hairpins and paper clips.

  The first few times I’d practised on the padlock I kept in my gym bag, I’d thrown it across the room in frustration, convinced the challenge was impossible. But I persisted, and after dozens of attempts I progressed from the small padlock to the sturdier one on the shed in the backyard. I had tried my front door – looking around nervously in case someone decided to report me for breaking and entering – but the lock was far too advanced for my skills. I couldn’t even fit my lever into the keyhole, but I wasn’t disappointed. I was just glad to discover that my home was once again secure.

  I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to use my new-found skills. I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to, under pressure – somehow the thought of actually picking a lock made this feel so … criminal – but I had to try. Mark had no alibi. And I wasn’t sure how he really felt about his boss.

  If Mark had killed Calum, there had to be some kind of proof in his home. And if I could find it, and somehow make the police aware of it, they’d stop focusing on that awful video and start actually solving this case.

  Willing my hands to remain steady enough to pull off the delicate task ahead, I pulled the small pick and lever tools from my back pocket, and knelt in front of the door. I pushed the lever into the bottom part of the lock, and kept pressure on it with my knuckle. Then I got to work with the pick, wiggling it until I could feel the pins sliding into place. I had three pins in position when my finger slipped on the lever and I had to start over. Cursing, I tried again, going slowly, carefully.

  After three unsuccessful attempts I was considering just throwing a stone through the window when, with a click, the lock released and the door swung slightly ajar.

  I felt a sudden wave of pride that was quickly swallowed by a tide of guilt. I was violating Mark’s privacy. Shaking my head, I let go of the thought. If he was the killer, he deserved far worse. And if he wasn’t … well, I wasn’t going to steal anything. I was just … checking.

  I let myself inside and closed the door quietly behind me.

  I stayed motionless for a few moments until I could hear over the sound of my own panting. There was no going back from breaking and entering. I’d committed a crime.

  I took in my surroundings. So this was where Mark lived. The flat was neat – alarmingly so. My search would have to be careful; methodical. I’d made my entrance in the small, clean kitchen, which looked as though it was never used. A wooden knife block sat on the white marble countertop, one space left empty. The biggest knife was gone.

  I felt my pulse beating furiously.

  Slowly, cautiously, I began opening drawers and cupboards. Could that missing knife be the one that had killed Calum?

  I heard a voice and stood completely still, listening hard.

  Mark couldn’t be back yet. More voices. A laugh. My shoulders relaxed. It was coming from the street outside. I picked up the pace of my search, wrenching a cupboard door open to reveal a dishwasher stacked with hot, clean plates and cutlery. The cycle must have just ended.

  I peered inside, steam blinding me momentarily, and exhaled deeply when I saw a shining silver knife tucked onto the top shelf. There was no missing weapon after all.

  I raced through the rest of the house, upending a white wicker laundry hamper to see if it was concealing bloodied clothes, rummaging through desk drawers for signs of thick, creamy writing paper or telephoto lenses. But there was nothing even remotely suspicious.

  Deflated, I went back through each room to make sure everything looked the same way I’d found it. I felt foolish. What had I expected to find? But just because he wasn’t stupid enough to leave evidence lying around his home didn’t mean Mark wasn’t guilty.

  I wasn’t willing to cross his name off my list just yet. He’d have to remain a question mark until I could find a way to prove if he was innocent or not.

  I left the way I’d come in, pulling the door closed behind me. Before climbing the fence to the alley, I tore open the garbage bags that lined the back of the shed, not caring about the mess. Let him think it was a fox. I rummaged through food scraps and milk cartons, desperately hoping he’d thrown away something useful. But it was all just junk.

  I stood still for a moment, taking in the pile of useless rubbish strewn across my feet.

  I was no closer to being untangled from this mess. Calum’s body was being put into the ground as I snuck around his assistant’s home, searching for evidence that might not exist.

  And I was being buried, bit by bit, under the dirt Calum’s killer had on me.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The new lock did little to ease my mind, so when Alex had texted me first thing on Monday morning asking if I wanted to meet her for a coffee between meetings, I’d jumped at the chance.

  ‘Sorry again about bailing on you the other day,’ she said, sipping her latte. ‘And sorry that this is such a quick catch-up.’

  ‘Better than nothing,’ I said. ‘But you definitely still owe me a proper night out.’

  She agreed before launching into a detailed post-mortem of her latest failed date.

  ‘I told him I lift weights at the gym, which he apparently interpreted as me giving him permission to talk about my diet. He then proceeded to tell me the exact amount of protein that was in my meal, and started creating a diet plan for me. I almost threw my plate at him, except it was delicious and I actually wanted to eat it.’

  I laughed for what felt like the first time in months. I wanted to hug Alex, just for giving me half an hour of respite from my fear, but now that I was back at home the fear was back. My ears strained to pick up on even the smallest of noises.

  Having an escape close at hand made me feel slightly less anxious, so I was working in the hallway when my phone rang.
r />   ‘Mrs Reston, this is Detective Constable Clayton.’

  It was beginning to feel like an almost daily event, this call with the detective. It didn’t stop my pulse from racing and my head from pounding each time. Did they know? And if they did, what did they know? There were so many secrets to choose from, it was hard to decide which truth I feared the most.

  ‘Oh, hi. What can I do for you?’ I asked, my words trembling.

  ‘Well, I was just calling to ask about your profile picture.’

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’

  ‘Your Facebook profile picture.’

  ‘What about it?’

  I stopped scrolling through a folder so I could focus on what Clayton was saying. Had I missed something? My profile picture was a photo of Jason and me from a few years ago, at a friend’s wedding. We’d both had enough champagne to be on top form; not so much as to be messy.

  A friend had snapped a picture of us on the dance floor, when Jason had been, as he’d called it, cutting some shapes, and I’d been laughing with complete abandon. They were simpler times.

  ‘Well, I was curious as to why you chose that particular image.’

  ‘Um … I’m not trying to be rude, but I don’t really think that’s relevant, is it?’

  ‘I would think so, Mrs Reston.’

  A pause. I clicked on my browser window and opened a new tab to take me to Facebook. What could possibly be relevant about that photo?

  I frowned, seeing forty new notifications. Clicking onto my profile, I felt heat rushing to my face in panicked confusion.

  My profile picture wasn’t me.

  Well, it was. But I didn’t want anyone to know it was me.

  It was an image from the CCTV footage. The same image that Calum’s killer had sent me in his first note.

  The words tumbled out, and I tripped over them.

  ‘I didn’t do that! I didn’t change that photo.’

  Silence.

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know what happened,’ I pleaded. I had to make her believe me. ‘I didn’t set that as my profile picture, I promise you. Someone must have hacked into my Facebook page.’

  I couldn’t get the words out quickly enough.

  ‘It isn’t me.’

  ‘Please calm down, Mrs Reston. So what you’re telling me is that someone accessed your Facebook page without your permission and changed your profile picture?’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.’

  ‘Do you know who would do something like that?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘And that photo …?’

  A pause.

  ‘Mrs Reston, is that a photograph of you?’

  ‘What? No. Of course not. That’s the CCTV footage from the night Calum died. Of that woman.’

  ‘Yes, I’m aware of that. I’m asking if you are the woman in that footage.’

  I had no choice.

  ‘No.’

  Another silence. A sigh.

  ‘Mrs Reston, I’d like you to come down to the police station tomorrow morning at ten, please. You’ll be questioned under caution.’

  ‘Under caution. What does that mean?’

  My tongue was thick. I knew it wasn’t good.

  ‘Essentially, it means that your answers could be used against you in court.’

  ‘Do you … I mean … am I … am I a suspect?’

  ‘Just come in tomorrow at ten please, Mrs Reston.’

  A click. Then nothing.

  I sat completely still, trying to process what had just happened. I had no idea what being questioned under caution meant, but whatever it was, I didn’t want it to happen.

  I picked up my phone to look up the term when it rang again. Withheld number. I hesitated. Phone calls these days seemed to bring nothing but bad news, and I wasn’t sure if I could take any more. Then again, I needed to know, to prepare myself, to be able to react to whatever was coming for me.

  Praying it was a wrong number, I tapped the green circle.

  ‘Hello?’

  No one replied.

  ‘Hello, this is Bethany.’

  There was a loud beep, like the beginning of a voicemail recorder. Then I heard a voice. It was Constable Clayton again.

  ‘Well, I was curious as to why you chose that particular image.’

  ‘Hello? Constable Clayton?’

  Hadn’t we just been through this?

  Then another voice reached my ears, loud and clear. My voice.

  ‘Um … I’m not trying to be rude, but I don’t really think that’s relevant, is it?’

  I gasped.

  ‘I would think so, Mrs Reston.’

  My conversation with the detective. It had been recorded, and was being played back to me. How was that possible?

  My body turned icy as I listened to the panicked denials I’d given Clayton, my voice laced with desperation.

  ‘Hello?’ I asked, interrupting my own sentence. ‘Who is this?’

  The recording stopped, and I waited in silent dread for answers.

  A new voice cut through the emptiness. It was distorted. Robotic, almost.

  But despite the electronic crackle, his words were crystal clear.

  ‘I thought I told you not to talk to the police. What will it take to get you to listen?’

  A click, and then nothing. I stared at the phone in my hand, stunned.

  I was being followed. I was being recorded. I was trapped.

  If this had happened weeks ago – days, even – I would have fled the house, screamed, cried, begged the police for help. But now … well, now I was living in a constant state of paralysing terror.

  I’d never been so afraid in my life, and I’d never been so helpless. There was nothing I could do to stop this barrage of frightening invasions.

  I had no idea what the killer wanted, or what they were willing to do to get it. And I couldn’t go to the police. Of course I couldn’t – not now, especially. They’d know. They knew everything. All I could do was wait and see.

  And so I did the only thing I could. I took a deep, shaking, panicky breath.

  I opened my photo-editing programme.

  And I carried on working in my cramped, dark, closely monitored hallway.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I heard it as I was pulling on the only clean, non-wrinkled clothes I could find – black jeans, black tee and a black leather jacket. I froze, ears straining. There it was again, a muffled creak coming from beyond the closed bedroom door.

  I tried to stay calm. The new lock on the front door was secure. No one could get in. It was probably just a noise drifting through the ceiling from the flat above.

  Trying to move without making a sound, I edged along the bedroom wall, thankful that I’d put a knife in the top drawer of my bedside table the previous night. Keeping my eyes fixed on the door handle, half expecting it to dip downwards at any second, I reached out next to me. My fingers touched the wood on the bottom of the drawer. I moved my hand along the sides, scrabbling at bits of paper and nail files, not bothering to care whether I cut myself. Oh God, had Jason found the knife and returned it to the kitchen?

  Pulling the drawer fully open, I flicked my eyes away from the door and focused on a white envelope, adorned with a single, scrawling word:

  BETHANY.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Aside from my first flight as a child, I’d never been prone to panic attacks. But as I stared at the neat, crisp envelope in my bedside table I knew that the closing of my throat and tightening of my chest were marks of the very same thing that had ended my career aspirations.

  I tried to gulp for air but it was no use. My chest was being squeezed and for a second I thought I was having a heart attack. I could hear a strange, strangled sound that seemed like it came from far away, until I realised it was me.

  I was trapped.

  The world around me was still turning, but I was unable to breathe or move or speak. It felt like an eternity, but after wh
at was probably just a few seconds I managed to take a deep swig of air. My muscles began to relax and eventually I was able to sit on the edge of my bed, still shaking, but released from the grip of terror. I couldn’t put it off any longer.

  Tearing open the seal on the envelope, I pulled out a single sheet of paper that someone had left in my room while I was sleeping next to my husband.

  The words crawled across the page, the same scrawl I’d seen before.

  ARE YOU ENJOYING OUR GAME AS MUCH AS I AM, BETHANY?

  I’D ENJOY IT MORE IF YOU ACTUALLY DID WHAT I TOLD YOU TO DO. DO YOU WANT TO DIE, TOO? I PROMISE IT WON’T BE AS FAST AS IT WAS FOR CALUM.

  IF YOU WANT TO LIVE, YOU WON’T TALK. TO ANYONE.

  AND THAT MEANS IN YOUR SLEEP, TOO. YOU NEVER KNOW WHO’S LISTENING.

  I read it three times, very slowly, and then ran to the kitchen. The knife block stood in the middle of the countertop, the empty slit like a narrowed eye watching me.

  So Calum’s killer could still get inside my house, even with the new lock. They’d taken my knife. They’d been standing over my bed while I slept next to my husband. Whoever it was could still be here.

  I felt adrenalin whipping through my veins and I jumped up again, shoving the letter into my handbag and bursting out of the house as if it was engulfed in flames.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  I called the detective when I reached my office.

  ‘Mrs Reston, I expected you here half an hour ago.’

  She surprised me by sounding friendly. Warm.

  ‘I’m sorry. Some urgent work came up and I couldn’t make it. I really am sorry.’

  ‘You do understand that this is serious, don’t you, Mrs Reston? We want to question you under caution in relation to a murder investigation.’

  ‘Yes, I do … I understand,’ I said, wishing I could just tell her the truth, and knowing I never would. ‘As I said, something came up that couldn’t be moved.’

  ‘I see. Well, can you come in later today then, please?’