The Trapped Wife: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a mind-blowing twist Page 5

  ‘Just the usual,’ Rhonda replies. ‘It’s just this time of year, you know? I hate it. I can’t bloody wait for the Easter holidays.’

  ‘I do know.’ Chris spoons some coffee granules into the mug and sloshes on boiling water.

  ‘I was just thinking about… about Jeremy, actually.’ She takes a deep breath. It hit Chris hard, losing his good friend. They’d been close for years and it was Rhonda who was the newcomer to their group. Well, her and Caitlin, ever since they’d walked hand in hand, mother and daughter, into Chris’s bachelor life five years ago. None of them had ever looked back. Moving to the area was the best thing she’d ever done. No, she corrects in her mind. Swiping right on Chris in a last-ditch Tinder session before she resigned herself to being single for evermore was the best thing she’d ever done.

  Chris flashes her a look. ‘It’s still hard to believe what happened.’

  Rhonda clasps her hands around her beer, one finger picking at the slightly damp label. ‘Do you think he suffered?’

  ‘No,’ Chris says immediately. ‘Let’s believe that. We have to.’

  ‘It’s what Jen believes,’ Rhonda replies.

  Chris nods sharply. ‘I’m glad I didn’t have to break the news to her,’ he says, with Rhonda knowing that job is left to the uniforms. Even if he had been given the grim task of telling Jennifer that her husband had been killed, he’d have passed it on to a colleague. It wouldn’t have been right, him knowing the news before she did.

  Rhonda nods in agreement as she sips more beer. For some reason, she suddenly wants to bite through the glass – press her teeth so hard against the bottle that it shatters in her mouth. She imagines herself crunching, swallowing, her lips and tongue bloody.

  ‘Does Caitlin say how Kieran’s doing?’

  ‘Not really,’ Rhonda replies. ‘I don’t think he’s spoken to her about it much.’

  ‘It’s hard for the poor lad.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll ever find Jeremy’s body?’ Rhonda says in a hushed voice, glancing at the door.

  ‘Very unlikely,’ Chris says, shaking his head. ‘I haven’t mentioned anything to her, but I did a bit of research online about… you know.’ He makes a tumbling gesture with his hands. ‘And this was a big one, apparently. The snow and ice can be tens of metres deep. There’s no chance of anyone finding him now.’

  Rhonda is silent for a moment, wondering what it would be like to see an avalanche approaching but knowing there wasn’t a damn thing you could do to get out of the way in time. ‘Jen says it’s a small consolation that he was doing something he loved when he died, that if Jeremy had had to pick his own demise, then skiing would be it.’

  ‘Hey,’ says a voice across the room.

  Rhonda’s face lights up as her daughter comes into the kitchen. The three-bedroomed semi seemed a squeeze for them at first, but now it feels just the right size, as if they’ve moulded themselves perfectly into the shape of Chris’s life. And Rhonda couldn’t ask for a better stepdad for Caitlin. Attentive without being overbearing, Chris is also fiercely protective and equally involved with her daughter’s well-being – worrying about what time she’ll be home, who she’s hanging out with, if she’s got a boyfriend, if she’s been secretly drinking or smoking or worse. Rhonda shudders. Between them, they form some kind of parenting team, with the gap left by Caitlin’s absent biological father filled more than adequately.

  ‘What’s for tea? I’m starving,’ Caitlin says, opening the fridge.

  ‘OK. Time to whip up some pasta,’ Rhonda says, forcing herself up from the table. ‘I think there’s a tin of tuna, too. I’ll make a cheesy bake, if you like.’

  ‘Cool,’ Caitlin says, opening one of the cupboards and pulling out the last bag of crisps. ‘I’m going upstairs to do some homework.’

  Rhonda wants to ask her what subjects she’s got, but she can’t face any more school talk today. Most of the local kids from the surrounding villages and nearby town go to the academy in Shenbury – apart from a select few whose parents fork out the fees for St Quentin’s, located just outside the market town. It’s not a particularly prestigious or expensive private school, as they go, with its history not particularly salubrious either, going by the staffroom gossip that she’s picked up on. But they have good and dedicated staff, and Caitlin is a diligent student, doesn’t need to be chivvied along – which is why she won the full scholarship in the first place. There’s no way she and Chris could have afforded the fees otherwise. While Caitlin might look a bit alternative, with her piercings and dyed black hair, Rhonda would take that any time over being slack at school. Or worse, if she was part of Brittany’s clique. Caitlin has her sights set on a top university and there’s every chance she’ll make it.

  Later that evening, Rhonda watches Chris from the bed as he leans over the basin in the tiny en suite, brushing his teeth. His back is broad and his shoulders still strong, though less defined these days. He splashes water on his face and reaches for the towel, making that noise he always makes when he dries his face – part shudder, part growl.

  ‘Come to bed,’ Rhonda says, pulling back the duvet on his side. ‘It’s warm.’ She smiles as he turns, briefly pulling the covers off her too, exposing her naked body for a second. Chris’s expression warms, his eyebrows rising briefly. He turns off the bathroom light and takes off his boxers before climbing in beside her. Only Rhonda’s bedside lamp is on, softly illuminating the room that, when she moved in, only had a bed and a wonky chest of drawers in it. Gone are the drab grey walls and flat-pack furniture, replaced by calming neutral shades, soft rugs, matching oak wardrobes and a dressing table for all her stuff. For a nineteen-eighties, three-bedroomed bachelor pad, it had been an easy transformation. And Chris had seemed pleased, too. His job was too stressful for him to have bothered with homely touches before.

  ‘You didn’t tell me about your day,’ Rhonda says, laying a hand on his chest.

  Chris groans.

  ‘That case still?’

  ‘Mmhh,’ he says, yawning. ‘Had to release the suspect. CPS kicked it out due to lack of evidence. They weren’t convinced by what we had to pin him at the scene. Three months surveillance and countless man hours down the drain.’

  ‘Don’t give up,’ she says. ‘You know you had him.’

  ‘Had,’ he says, rolling onto his side to face her. ‘Exactly. But tomorrow’s a new day.’

  ‘Did you get that from Jeremy?’ she asks. ‘He always used to say that.’

  ‘He did?’ Chris pulls a face. ‘Don’t remember.’

  ‘Do you… do you find that the memories are fading already? It hardly seems real that we used to see Jen and Jeremy at least once a week as couples. I mean, I used to see a lot more of Jen at the gym and stuff, but… I just can’t believe it won’t ever be the same again. The four of us. We’ll never get to go on holiday with them again, cook for them, or—’

  ‘Ron, don’t,’ Chris says, turning onto his back again. ‘I don’t want to think about all that. Not before sleep.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Silence, but thoughts tumble around Rhonda’s mind, making her feel neither tired nor aroused any more. ‘Do you think the gathering that Jen held for Jeremy was enough? Doing something low-key at home like that?’

  ‘The memorial?’

  Rhonda nods.

  ‘Christ, yes. Jeremy would have hated it as it was. No way would he have wanted a big fanfare in a chapel with maudlin music and everyone weeping.’

  ‘It just seemed so weird without a coffin and a vicar. As if he might walk in through the door at any moment, drop down into his favourite armchair before telling everyone to get out.’

  ‘I can imagine him doing that,’ Chris laughs flatly. ‘In his big, booming voice. “Sod off, you bloody lot,” he’d have growled.’

  ‘Yeah, and then he’d have sloped off into his study before pouring a whisky and getting on with his book.’

  The pair of them fall silent for a moment.


  ‘That bloody book. He was never going to finish it, you realise,’ Chris says, shaking his head against the pillow. ‘Jen had the patience of a saint, if you ask me, supporting the family single-handedly like she did for so long.’

  ‘You say that…’ Rhonda stares at the ceiling, remembering Jeremy telling her about his novel, his face animated and excited. He was so sure he’d become famous, win prizes.

  ‘I know you’d appreciate it, Rhonda,’ Jeremy had said, leaning forward across the dinner table up at Swallow Barn when Jen was in the kitchen and Chris had gone to the loo. His voice was intense and low. ‘You’re like me. You think differently.’ He’d stared at her for a beat then, the firelight glinting in his eyes as he’d touched her hand. Rhonda had said nothing, wondering where the conversation was leading. She’d felt uncomfortable and wished Jen would return from the kitchen. ‘This book is going to be big, I can feel it. You understand that, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure,’ Rhonda had replied cautiously. ‘I’d like to read it someday,’ she’d replied kindly, her fingers toying with her wine glass as she eased her hand away. ‘What does Jen think of it?’

  She hadn’t really needed to ask. While Jennifer was tolerant of Jeremy’s creative pursuits, she knew her friend was at, or at least nearing, breaking point – not that Jen would ever reveal that to Jeremy. Rhonda knew she worshipped the ground he walked on. But over the last couple of years, not only had Jen taken on most of the mental load of the family, but the financial one too. Jeremy’s year off to pen a literary masterpiece had already turned into two, albeit with stints of research and documentary-making stitched in along the way to show willing, to try to contribute to family finances. Or have an excuse for a holiday, she’d wondered. Though neither of those pursuits brought in much cash. Rhonda had tried to hint to Jen that perhaps it wasn’t fair, that maybe Jeremy should consider some lecturing work again, but it had fallen on deaf ears.

  ‘What does Jen think?’ Jeremy had said, repeating her question and sitting back in his chair. It creaked. He was a big man, though not overweight. At six foot five, he commanded a presence with his shock of wild curly hair, the black flecked with threads of silver, his intense dark eyes, and his big hands flailing as he spoke. His persona took up way more space than his physical form, drawing people to him like a magnet. ‘She wouldn’t understand. Not like you.’

  ‘Just because I’m an English teacher…’ Rhonda had replied with a tipsy smile, but Jeremy had silenced her with a finger over his own lips and a mischievous look in his eyes.

  ‘No boring book talk allowed at the table,’ Jen had said as she came back into the room carrying dessert. Rhonda had been glad of the reprieve.

  Later that evening, Jeremy had whispered in Rhonda’s ear that he’d put a copy of his half-finished manuscript in her car when he’d gone outside for a cigarette, that it was in a plastic bag on the passenger seat, and he looked forward to hearing her comments on the first draft. That was only a couple of weeks before he’d died and Rhonda still hadn’t read a page of it. Couldn’t steel herself to delve into the mind of a dead man – her best friend’s husband. Perhaps one day she would.

  ‘Goodnight, Chris,’ Rhonda says now, leaning over and giving him a kiss. Their lips touch for a few seconds before she pulls away and rolls over, flicking off the bedside lamp. As she closes her eyes, she hears a barely perceptible sigh coming from somewhere deep inside her husband.

  Seven

  Jen

  I sit on the stairs, tying up the laces of my trainers. I still don’t feel much like exercising, but perhaps if I run fast enough, long enough, hard enough, it will make everything go away. Everything inside me go away. But I know this isn’t true. A gentle jog, which is all I’m aiming for, isn’t going to affect a single one of those cells inside me, multiplying at a rate faster than I can even think. And neither will it take me away from the nightmares that have started again – those, along with the flashbacks that are becoming more regular. If only I could remember exactly what happened that night.

  ‘Kier?’ I call out. ‘You up yet? I’m off out for a run.’

  Nothing. I hear my son’s alarm go off, followed by a groan and then silence.

  ‘Don’t be late again,’ I say loudly up the stairs.

  ‘Yeah…’ is all I get back a moment later.

  I stand up, zipping up my running top and glancing in the mirror quickly before I leave. Drawn, tired, worried, stressed, anxious, not eating or sleeping properly, underweight… these are the initial impressions I would have if I’d come to see myself in surgery. Let’s run some blood tests, shall we?

  I tuck my phone inside my pocket, reaching for my earphones left tangled on the hall table. But I stop. I don’t feel like music today. I want to be fully aware, to hear the sounds of nature around me, be present with my thoughts in the woods. Be able to hear any footsteps behind me.

  I set off and turn right at the end of our drive, heading into the village. I flick a quick wave at a couple of people I know – mums with buggies, an older couple waiting at the bus stop. Cherry comes out of the village shop, her toddler wedged on her hip as I run past. When she spots me on the opposite pavement, shots of white breath coming out of my mouth, her expression changes expectantly and she raises her hand, flagging me down. I concede, slowing and crossing the road.

  ‘Hi, Doctor,’ she says, almost apologetically, tucking back a strand of her fiery red bob behind her ear. ‘Have you got a moment?’

  ‘Sure, Cherry,’ I reply. ‘Is it Elsie?’

  She nods.

  ‘I’m going to chase the care home, see if they can get someone out this week for a proper assessment. I’m concerned for her, too.’ I try not to pant, even though I’m out of breath already.

  ‘She’s a stubborn old bat,’ Cherry says, rolling her eyes. ‘Got this for her. Gonna drop it round on the way home and see if she hasn’t set fire to herself yet.’ She holds up a chocolate Swiss roll.

  Swiss… Switzerland… skiing… Jeremy. I can’t take my eyes off it, imagining what must have been going through my poor husband’s mind as he fell to his death. I’ve watched clips of the avalanche on the news websites over and over again, wondering if I might have spotted the dot of a body tumbling into the abyss.

  ‘You OK, Doctor?’ Cherry asks.

  My face is gripped by a frown. ‘Sorry, yes. I’m fine.’ I smile, watching Cherry put the cake back in the bag hanging on the buggy. ‘Well, you know where I am if there’s a prob—’

  ‘Elsie mentioned her grandson last time I saw her,’ Cherry says unexpectedly. There’s a waver in her voice. Everyone in the village and surrounding area knows the story. It may have happened a long while ago, but still no one local likes to talk about it – as if the very mention of it is bad luck. Lenny Taylor’s murder casts an unseen layer of fear, an undercurrent of dread in the community, as if it could happen again. A warning. And even though little Lenny’s killer is long since behind bars – a child himself when he did it – young mums like Cherry still keep an extra-sharp eye on their children.

  ‘She did?’ It’s not like Elsie to open up.

  ‘She was looking at old photos.’ Cherry glances down at the pavement. ‘Without thinking, I asked her about the little boy in the picture. She got quite upset and threw the album on the floor. Then she said, “It’s God’s punishment, allowing me to live this long.” How can one little mistake end in such tragedy?’ Cherry asks, shaking her head. ‘She must really hate herself for letting Lenny out of her sight.’ She shudders, hitching her child further up on her hip.

  ‘It wasn’t a mistake,’ I say quickly in Elsie’s defence. While Cherry’s generation is one step removed from the event, I, like others my age and older in the area, still remember it well – recalling the police presence and the scummy reporters camped outside Elsie’s house, waiting for the scoop and pictures of the broken family. ‘I can’t imagine how awful it must have been for her,’ I add, thankful that Kieran is sixteen and able to look
after himself now.

  But then I remember, instinctively placing a hand low down on my belly. Still flat. Still no sign of the secret I hold in there.

  ‘I’ll have a word with Elsie,’ I add, being careful not to break patient confidentiality. ‘Right, better crack on,’ I say, wanting to escape. ‘Bye, Cherry,’ I add before kicking off on my run again so she can’t keep me talking.

  Ten minutes or so later, I reach the edge of Bowman’s Wood – half a mile outside the village and a gentle jog up the gradual incline. Between the wood and Harbrooke lies the old quarry, and behind the village, the beginnings of the Westbourne estate. The disused quarry is a reservoir now and has been that way long before I can remember, with no obvious signs that the land had once been dug raw for sand and gravel. Bowman’s Pool is now a blue-black expanse of water surrounded by scrubby trees, undergrowth and undulating land. It used to be a favourite spot for swimming when I was a kid, but the council put paid to that in the last decade. Red signs forbidding swimmers, warning of the dangers that lurk beneath the surface, are dotted about.

  There’s a path snaking around the perimeter of the reservoir, now that it’s a country park, with picnic tables and benches set along the way, the pool at its centre. It’s still a popular spot with fishermen and families, but no one’s forgotten what happened there nearly thirty years ago when Lenny Taylor’s waterlogged body was hauled from the water. He’d been missing for almost a week.

  I shudder as I run, forcing my thoughts onto other things. What to have for dinner. The team meeting later to discuss the possibility of an over sixty-fives’ well-being clinic. The fundraiser for the new portable ultrasound scanner… questions to ask at Kieran’s parents’ evening later in the term… finding a tree surgeon to take a look at the old oak down in the paddock at home. Anything is preferable to thinking about the reservoir.