18
Elise
I have to swap a flight to go to my husband’s lover’s funeral, keeping up the appearance of the doctor’s loyal wife, smartly dressed, the cracks in our marriage hidden by layers of makeup. I wonder how many people are laughing at me as I take my place at his side. Either two funerals in the village within two months are too much for most people, or the fact that Stephanie took her own life brands her as undeserving in some way. The church is only half-full, the flowers pitifully lacking.
James sits at the front, with two men I’ve never seen before on either side of him. He speaks to no one. There is nothing uplifting about the service. It’s only after it’s over that I realize the two men are plainclothes police. Their presence confirms my suspicions that the police are holding him in connection with what Stephanie told them. After waiting around only until her coffin is carried out through the door, they escort him away.
The villagers may have let her down, but as I walk outside to the churchyard, it’s as though nature has done its best for Stephanie. The funeral may have been sparse in every sense, but out here, primroses crouch in the shadier corners alongside brave stems of the first bluebells; under our feet, the grass is sprinkled with violets and the palest lilac of wildflowers, the paltry efforts of the congregation during the few hymns outshone by the chorus of birdsong.
As a rule, Andrew avoids touching me. But today, in a gesture that’s proprietary rather than affectionate, I feel his hand lightly against my lower back as he nods toward the path. Andrew clearly doesn’t want to hang around. “Shall we go, Elise?” It isn’t a question, but I’ve no more desire than he has to stay here any longer than necessary.
As we walk home, I casually tell him what the police told me. “They know about you and Stephanie.” Beside me, I feel him tense.
When he speaks, his voice is measured. “I’m assuming it wasn’t you who told them.”
“Do you think I enjoy being made to look stupid?” I spit the words out in disgust.
He ignores me. “It rather makes one wonder who did.” I know it’s for my benefit that instead of annoyance, there’s amusement in his voice.
As I keep walking, pulling my coat around me, nausea rises in my throat. I’m sick of him, of everything he does. “Have you a new one lined up? Lover, I mean?” My tone is intentionally, inappropriately light, spelling it out that he can do what he likes, but I won’t let him get to me.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snarls.
“Me? Ridiculous?” But my emotions are too stretched. In spite of my best intentions, I lose it. “You’re the one who’s fucking ridiculous, Andrew. Look at you. Your entire life is a façade. Us, your affairs, your holier-than-thou act with the villagers. But do you know what? No one’s fooled. And even if they were, they soon see through you. It’ll catch up with you, Andrew. Don’t think it won’t.”
I feel his fingers around my arm, knowing that if my coat wasn’t thick, there’d be red bruising where he’s pinching me. Recklessness seizes me. “What are you going to do?” I’m deliberately goading him, unable to stop myself. “The mighty doctor with the wife that’s so important to him? Everyone knows you’re a fake.”
In the split second before he reacts, I know I’ve pushed him too far. His hands close around my neck as he slams me against a tree. “Bitch,” he hisses, closer to losing control than I’ve ever seen him. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? You’ll never win, Elise. I know too much about you.” He pauses. “Do you know how easy it would be for me to kill you?” As his eyes bore into mine, panic rises in me. In that moment, I know he’s capable of anything—even murder. A sob escapes me as I imagine Niamh left motherless, but far worse than that, being left with him. Then, relaxing his grasp, he arranges his face in a rictus of a smile. “But that would be too easy.” Pretending to dust off my coat, he tucks my hand under his arm. When he speaks, it’s as though he’s enjoying himself. “It’s so much more fun watching you suffer.”
* * *
At home, I lock myself in my bathroom, carefully taking off my clothes, examining the red marks on my neck before applying concealer over them and pulling on a high-necked sweater, aware that as time passes, Andrew’s behavior grows more extreme. What will he do next time?
That question is followed by another thought. Could Andrew have killed Hollie? Had she goaded him, forced him into a corner, pushed him too far? All those evenings, weekends, when Andrew’s been out, I’ve had no idea where he’s been. I’ve assumed he’s been meeting his lover. How convenient it is, that the one person who could have verified his whereabouts is now dead.
Or did Hollie find something out? Something that Andrew was also involved with? There’s the image I saw on his phone that I’ve yet to tell the police about. Out of everyone in this village, there are two people I can imagine being capable of murder. Having seen him talking to James Hampton, the first is Phil Mason. The second is my husband.
Whenever I’ve seen him, Phil Mason’s presence has disturbed me. There’s a cold watchfulness about him. He’s a hunter in a world where the rest of us are fair game. After seeing him with James, then Andrew, watching his iron self-control at Hollie’s funeral, I know he’s a man I want to stay away from.
When I think back to how upset Hollie was the day I met her in the churchyard, I can’t help but wonder if she’d discovered the porn business James had invested in. It would explain why she was so agitated. Maybe she discovered that Mason was blackmailing her father, then confronted him, before he killed her? I stop myself. It’s wild speculation; I have no proof. Hollie’s body was found in the grounds of Deeprose House. I’ve since learned that Mason lives a couple of miles from there.
On impulse, I get up and pull on a jacket. The air is cold, but walking briskly, I’m warm by the time I reach Ida Jones’s cottage. As I knock on her door, I’m wishing I’d called her first, to check that she was home, but then I hear the latch lift, the door opens, and Ida’s face appears.
“Elise! What a lovely surprise.” She falters, studying me for a moment. “Would you like to come in?”
“Thank you. I’m not working today,” I say, by way of explanation. “I hope I haven’t interrupted you?”
“Oh no, dear. Not at all. I was going through some old photos.” When I follow her through to her sitting room, her small dining table is covered in them. “Young folk these days don’t appreciate them, do they? Everything’s on their phones. All very well till they lose them...” She sounds wistful. Then she brightens. “Now, come into the kitchen and I’ll put the kettle on. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Thank you.” I’m ridiculously grateful for the warmth, not just of her cottage, but her presence, as I’m suddenly made all the more aware of its absence in my life. Her kitchen is dated, the pine units in need of a coat of paint, but her curtains are fresh and there are pots of herbs on her windowsill; it’s homely.
Hugging my arms around me, I watch her warm the teapot. I can’t remember the last time I saw anyone do that. Then she gets two mugs.
“How’s young Niamh? It’s never easy for the young ones—not at her age, not losing her friend like that.”
“No. She’s quiet. It’s rocked her. It’s impossible for her to understand why anyone would have wanted to kill Hollie.”
“It’s difficult for any of us to understand.” Offering me a mug, Ida picks up the other and starts toward the sitting room. “Let’s sit down.”
As I sink into the sofa, I feel the tension leave my body, then exhaustion overtake me, so that it’s a minute or so before I’m aware of Ida watching me. “I’m sorry.” I’m embarrassed. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“These are sad times,” Ida says quietly. “Those two poor people, and so close together. From the same family, too . . . I don’t know how that man is coping.” As she mentions James, I wonder if she knows what he was involved in. She goes on. “Have you seen him at all?”
I shake my head. “Only at the funeral. But not to talk to. He left immediately after.”
“I was sorry not to make it.” Ida looks sorry. “I had a hospital appointment this morning. I do hope enough people were there.”
“Not really.” My voice is hard, but it’s true.
Ida hesitates before speaking. “There’s no accounting for what some folk will and won’t do.” For a moment, I wonder if she knows about Andrew and Stephanie. But she changes the subject. “So, what about you, dear? How are you?”
Her question takes me by surprise. As tears fill my eyes, I try to wipe them away without her noticing. Her frown deepens. “Elise, dear. What’s wrong? Whatever it is, you do know you can talk to me.”
I look at her, touched by her kindness, but where do I start? Knowing that even if I tell her everything, nothing will change.