Page 32 of Perfect Wives
Beside me, Tasha wipes a tear from her cheek, and I wrap an arm around her.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘It’s just…on top of everything else…’
‘I know. It’ll be easier when they’ve caught whoever did this. Like we said last night, it had to be an angry husband or someone else Jonny upset.’ I try to sound reassuring for Tasha, but the truth is, Keira’s appearance now, after Jonny’s death, has rattled me too. It’s awful, and yet, like Georgie said last night, I’m not upset he’s dead either.
When I changed everything about myself, praying it made the difference to my fertility and Alistair’s low sperm count, there was still one thing I couldn’t change – the stress I felt every time Jonny played his music loud or revved his enginein the middle of the night. Every time he looked at me with that mocking smirk Alistair never seemed to notice. Jonny was a creep. I felt certain the stress of living next door to him was a factor in my continued failure to fall pregnant. And even though my dreams have finally come true, the hate for him never softened.
I feel no sadness. Only relief. With his death, my secret has died too. Jonny was the only one who knew I’d visited the fertility clinic in London earlier this year. Alistair and I had agreed we’d keep trying, but only naturally. Our savings were gone, and more fertility treatment meant getting into debt. I knew he was trying to protect me too. He saw how the failure was tearing me apart.
‘Let’s take a break and relax,’ he said one night, brushing away my tears of another negative pregnancy test.‘If it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t, Beth, everything is still perfect.’
Except it wasn’t perfect. And even though I agreed with Alistair that night, I couldn’t give up. I knew how much he longed for a second child, just as I did. The need to give that to him became all-consuming. So I did what I always do. I researched. I found a way. I hated lying to Alistair, but seeing his face when I showed him that positive pregnancy test after six years of negatives made it worth it.
And yet I can’t escape the feeling that, with Keira’s return, something is coming for me.
SEVENTEEN
TASHA
There’s another officer with DS Sató waiting on our doorstep when we return from the school drop-off. I fight the urge to spin on my heels and walk away. I fight the panic squeezing me tight. I want to forget this day is happening. Forget Keira’s strange comment.
‘Can you imagine if anyone found out?’
There’s something about her that scares me. It isn’t just that she knows what we talked about. It’s something more. But I can’t explain what.
Wish for the devil and he shall appear.
My hands tighten on the pushchair. There’s no time to dwell on Keira. No time to talk to this detective again either. I need to pick up the new prescription for my dad’s sleeping pills on the way across town. I still can’t believe I lost them. I should get my parents some fruit from the market stall too. They’d like that. And I still haven’t called the plumber about the leak under their kitchen sink. I meant to do it yesterday, but then Matilda needed help with her reading homework, and Lanie was crying, and I just…forgot. Already, I feel the six precious hours of the school day slipping away. No matter how hard I try, no matter what I do, there is never enough time. Never enough of me.
If I could just leave right now?—
Sató turns on the doorstep and our eyes meet. She nods a greeting and, no matter how much I want to escape, I force my feet forward. I find myself searching her face for any sign that she has her own growing list of things she needs to do – her own burdens – but all I see is an alertness.
Marc is a step ahead and reaches them first, pulling out his keys to open the front door, smiling a greeting. I wonder what Sató sees as she looks at us. Marc looks dreadful. Like a man who hasn’t slept. His black hair is limp, his dark stubble two days old, his clothes rumpled, but it’s the expression on his face as he greets the detectives that stops me dead. I’ve known Marc for over half my life. I know every inch of his face – every expression. And the one drawing on his features right now is guilt.
But what does my husband have to feel guilty about?
‘Mr and Mrs Carter,’ Sató says with a smile that borders the line between friendly and professional, ‘this is my colleague DC McLachlan.’ She gestures to a woman younger than Sató and wearing a white shirt with a navy V-neck jumper that’s a size too big, like she’s borrowed it from someone else, but her smile is kind, her eyes warm, and I find myself wishing it was just this younger detective on my doorstep. ‘Do you have a few minutes to answer a couple of questions please?’ Sató asks.
‘Of course,’ Marc says. ‘Come in.’
‘I’m due at my parents’ shortly,’ I say. ‘Will this take long?’ I glance from Sató to Marc, expecting him to mention that he needs to get to work, but he remains silent. He won’t meet my eye. He hasn’t said a word to me since last night. The first I knew of him coming on the school run was when he stepped out of the door ahead of me this morning, holding Sofia’s hand.
‘This won’t take long,’ Sató replies, and I turn to unclip Lanie from the pushchair just to break eye contact. I don’t like the way the detective is watching me.
Marc leads Sató through to the living room. The girls were playing ‘The Floor is Lava’ before school, and the evidence of their game is everywhere – cushions scattered across the floor, the sofas pushed at odd angles from being climbed and jumped on, last night’s dolls game now scattered into the corners.
I place Lanie in a ring of cushions with one of Sofia’s Barbies her sister doesn’t let her play with. She squeals with delight and starts a string of babbling before shoving the doll in her mouth. I must remember to wipe it clean and dry the hair before the school pick-up. Another thing added to the list. But worth it for the joy it brings my youngest daughter.
Sató declines my offer of a drink, and she and DC McLachlan perch on the edge of the sofa as Marc and I settle on the one opposite. Sató pulls her notebook from the inside pocket of her blazer. ‘We now have a time of death for Mr Wilson,’ she says. ‘We believe he was killed by someone he knew, and we’re starting our enquiries with establishing where all the residents of Magnolia Close were at the time of his murder.’
‘You can’t think it was one of us,’ Marc says, scrubbing a hand over his face.
‘It’s just a formality at this stage,’ Sató continues. ‘But I do need to ask you both where you were between eight p.m. and eleven p.m. on Tuesday evening – two nights ago.’
A silent scream lodges in my throat. I clench my jaw, fighting to keep the fear from playing on my face. The murder window. The same murder window Keira suggested that night in the pub.‘You could murder Jonny next week, during the PTA quiz night. One of you could slip out and kill Jonny. Then all three of you swear you were with each other all night.’
Then I think of Beth last night.‘We say nothing to the police. Only that we were together all of yesterday evening.’
