What My Husband Did: A gripping psychological thriller with an amazing twist Read online

  It’s another mile or so until I indicate and then pull onto the drive. There’s no sign of Richard’s car – but he occasionally parks in the garage if he has no plans to take it out for a few days.

  It’s a quick, chilled, dash across the path and then I bristle through the front door, into the steaming warmth of the house.

  ‘Richard…?’

  My husband’s name echoes around without reply. I look to the grandfather clock that stands in the hallway. It’s not my sort of thing, probably not his, either – though it once belonged to Richard’s father. There’s a picture dial atop the numbers, that shows different images relating to the time of day. It’s currently showing a crescent moon as it’s a few minutes to ten. If I hadn’t been out, it would be more or less the time we’d be going to bed. The yawns normally begin at around half-eight and it’s a slippery slope from there.

  ‘Richard…?’

  I call louder this time, though there’s still no response. It makes little sense for him to be out at this time. It’s not as if he had anything on. I thought I’d get home to find him under a blanket on the sofa watching a music documentary, or something on BBC Four. Either that, or already asleep.

  I try calling but his phone rings and rings without answer. That’s not unusual: mobiles have never been his thing. If the phone is in his hand, then it’s fifty-fifty as to whether he’ll answer. The move from physical buttons to touchscreen was not a good one for him. If his phone is anywhere other than his hand, then it’s touch-and-go as to whether he’ll hear it. Technology to Richard is like a McDonald’s on a high street: impossible to ignore but something that would rather be avoided.

  I’m about to try calling him again when the doorbell sounds. Richard will have misplaced his keys in one of his various jacket pockets and will be busy turning everything inside out. His pockets are a black hole of receipts from stores that went out of business years ago, plus a charity shop sale of gloves and hats from winters gone.

  When I open the door, it isn’t Richard. Atal is standing there, his breath seeping into the cold of the night. He’s in a thick coat, with his crimson turban wound tightly on his head.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, not expecting Theresa’s husband to be here.

  Atal says nothing at first. He’s panting and turns rapidly from side to side. A black Labrador is sitting at his feet, its tail swishing back and forth across the welcome mat like a windscreen wiper.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.

  His breath seeps up and into the night. ‘Can you call the police? I forgot my phone.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s a body in the stream.’

  Two

  After dialling 999, I trail behind Atal as we follow the verge away from the house. His dog, Lucky, is straining at the leash, yanking him forward ever faster, although Atal makes no attempt to tug him back. He’s marching at a pace, on a mission to get back to the stream. I’m having to jog to keep up.

  The ground is crusty and uneven from the divots and footsteps that froze weeks ago and haven’t thawed since. Shadows cling to these corners of Leavensfield for entire seasons and it’s not uncommon for mud in the shaded corners to remain hard from November until February or March.

  Lucky darts through a gap in the hedges that line the road and Atal trails behind, holding the branches aside so that I can follow. The twigs snap back violently behind us as we emerge onto a wide, empty field. Wind blows icily across the barren space and I pull my coat tighter, wishing I was wearing more layers.

  There are no pavements this far out of civilisation. Daisy Field is the one which people cut across if they live away from the village but want to walk to the centre without being on the edge of the narrow road. People have been taking a short cut over this field for as long as I’ve lived here – and likely for decades before that. In the summer, it’s so well used that a path forms from the regular parade of people using the unmarked route.

  The stream that slices Daisy Field runs from far up the hill that sits over Leavensfield. It winds snake-like down to the village at the bottom of the valley, cutting around the landscape. It perhaps reflects the time of year better than anything else can. In the wet autumns, it will burst its banks and splay water across the surrounding fields; while, at the peak of summer, it will run dry as children gleefully race across the barren riverbeds simply because they can. A few years ago, it froze in the week between Christmas and new year, and villagers took their only opportunity in a generation to skid and slide their way from bank to bank.

  There are no street lights here, only the glow of the moon on a clear night, and Lucky continues to lead Atal across the field as I follow at the side. Atal’s eyes are wide and white against the bleakness of the dark. The gaze of a focused, haunted man.

  I thought Atal might have been exaggerating. There’s often something in the local paper about the latest bit of fly-tipping that’s gone on. It might have been a discarded piece of furniture in the stream, or some dark shape that looked a bit like a body.

  He’s right, though.

  Even from a distance, I can see the unmoving body on the bank of the stream. The shape is out of the water, though a red coat burns brightly against the green and brown backdrop of Daisy Field.

  Atal and I get closer still, to the point that Atal has to reel in the leash to keep Lucky from getting too near to the body. It’s a girl on her side, with her long blonde-brown hair splayed behind her.

  Kylie…

  My pace quickens for a step or two before I realise that it can’t be her. This girl is smaller and younger, perhaps twelve or thirteen.

  ‘Should we…?’ I take a step towards her but Atal puts a hand on my shoulder. He doesn’t pull me back but it’s enough to make me stop.

  It’s only now I realise that there’s a pool around his feet and that he’s dripping. His trousers are soaked and there’s a trail of water that leads back across the field from where we came. His teeth are beginning to chatter. I’m not sure how I missed it.

  ‘Did you pull her out?’ I ask.

  He nods, without shifting his gaze from the body. ‘I don’t think she was breathing. She was already cold.’ He pauses and then adds: ‘There was blood…’

  I move closer, one step at a time. Not thinking someone’s breathing isn’t the same thing as definitely not breathing. In all my life, I’ve never wanted somebody to be wrong as much as I do now.

  Another step and the girl in the red coat is almost at my feet. I recognise her, of course. It’s a small village and I’ve seen Alice Pritchard walking to school in the same bright coat. She is unmoving, with no sign of her body bobbing with breath. I start to crouch – which is when whirring blue lights fill the area.

  I’m off balance and rock backwards, startled by the sudden flaring lights. It’s an effort to pull myself up and, when I turn to the side, a pair of police cars are bobbing their way across the uneven ground, heading directly towards us. A little further along the lane, an ambulance looms over the tops of the hedges, its lights burning into the black, before it takes a turn through a wide-open gate onto Daisy Field.

  I move away from the body, although it’s hard to stop watching. Instinct tells me to check that Atal was right about whether she was breathing. The girl must have been lying freezing on this bank for at least the fifteen minutes it would have taken Atal to get to mine and then for the pair of us to come here.

  Everything happens quickly when the vehicles arrive. A police officer beckons me across to where Atal is standing and I do as asked. Meanwhile, three other officers and the paramedics descend upon the body in the red coat and form a protective circle around her.

  The officer with Atal and myself is young and fresh-faced. She has her back to the scene as she signals us to move further away. Lucky is still pulling at his lead, although Atal is giving him little length to stretch any further.

  ‘Did you find the body?’ the officer asks, looking to me.

  I stumble for a second, thrown
by the use of the word ‘body’, as if she’s definitely dead. My voice cracks and doesn’t sound like my own. ‘No, I just called it in.’

  She turns to Atal, who nods glumly. He’s usually full of jokes and joy, though the change is hardly a surprise. It’s like this is a twin of whom I wasn’t aware.

  ‘I was walking the dog,’ Atal says. ‘I saw something red when I was crossing the field, so went to see what it was. When I got there, I—’

  He’s cut off by a babble of voices close to the stream. One of the police officers has darted back to the cars and there’s a shout of ‘She’s breathing.’

  Atal gasps and turns to me, mouth still open. He doesn’t need to say anything because I can see the horror within him. He thought she was dead and can’t believe he left her for so long. I wish I’d checked myself. Perhaps I’d have seen the shallow breaths? Perhaps I could have done something before the police arrived?

  It makes little difference now because, as the other officer dashes back towards the stream, the policewoman in front of us shifts Atal and me further back until our view is blocked by the ambulance. She has a notepad out, although I have no idea how she’s managing to hold that and a pen without her fingers trembling in this cold. She takes our names and contact details as Atal repeats that he was walking his dog when he saw something red.

  ‘I didn’t have my phone,’ he says, ‘so I went to Maddy’s house.’

  The officer turns to me and I nod over the back of the field towards the lane on the other side. Through the gaps in the hedge, I can see that I’ve left the lights on inside the house. I left in such a rush that I’m not even sure I locked the door.

  ‘I live over there,’ I say. ‘I was waiting up for my husband when Atal rang the bell.’

  ‘You called 999?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  The officer nods along at this and notes something new onto her pad. As she does so, a third police car turns from the lane onto Daisy Field. Its spinning blue light blazes bright across the ground as it bumps its way towards us. The officer puts her pad back into a pocket and blows into her hands.

  ‘You should return to your house,’ she says. ‘It’s cold out here and there’s not a lot you can do now.’

  ‘What happens next?’ Atal asks.

  ‘I don’t know,’ the officer replies, ‘but someone will probably contact you tomorrow.’

  She steps away as the newest car pulls to a stop alongside the others. Two more officers clamber out of the vehicle and I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many police officers together away from a big city. They must have been called in from a neighbouring area.

  Lucky is still trying to pull his way towards the stream but Atal tugs him away and we walk silently together back across the field in the direction from which we came. We pass through the main gates onto the road and then follow the verge back towards my house. The roads are deserted and, aside from the glow of the moon, the only light comes from the orange haze seeping from the windows of the house.

  I’m expecting to see Richard’s car on the drive. He’ll be curious about where I am, either oblivious to what’s gone on a little up the lane, or wondering why there are blue spinning lights creeping through the trees.

  His car’s not there, though.

  The front door is locked, so I must have remembered to close it. I let myself in and then hold the door for Atal to follow me in.

  ‘I should get home,’ he says. ‘Theresa will be worrying.’

  ‘I’ll text her,’ I reply. ‘Let her know you’ll be on your way soon. We can wait here just in case the police come knocking…’

  He nods with acceptance, even though we both know that’s not the reason. I don’t want to be alone at the moment – and I doubt it’s any different for him.

  Atal lets Lucky off the lead and the dog starts sniffing around the corners of the hall until I beckon them into the kitchen. When we get there, Lucky bounds along the edges of the room, snuffling the corners of the low cabinets in search of crumbs. Atal unzips his coat, though doesn’t take it off as he slumps into one of the seats around the kitchen table. He sighs and scratches at the edges of his turban as I set the kettle going, before sending a text to Theresa.

  ‘Do you reckon she’ll be okay?’ he asks.

  ‘Theresa?’

  He shakes his head and I feel silly for not realising.

  ‘At least she was breathing,’ I say.

  Atal inhales deeply, as if to imitate the point. ‘I thought…’ He tails off to nothing and we sit quietly at the table, watching as Lucky completes his lap of the kitchen. He has seemingly found nothing on which to feast, so comes to rest on Atal’s feet. As he’s doing that, my phone buzzes with a reply.

  Theresa: Why’s he at yours?

  Me: He’ll explain. Long story. He forgot his phone.

  I leave it at that. It’s somewhat cryptic but Theresa will forgive me when she finds out what’s going on. There’s too much to explain in a message.

  ‘Where’s Richard?’ Atal asks.

  ‘He went to meet one of his old colleagues this morning.’

  ‘One of his old lecturer friends?’

  ‘Right. I thought, um…’ It’s my turn for a sentence to disappear off to nothing. I almost said I thought he’d be home by now. He should have been home hours ago but saying that out loud would make it too real. I check my phone again but there are no missed calls and no texts.

  The kettle bubbles to a stop and I get up to pour myself a tea. It’s way past the time when I might usually have one – but this is anything but a normal evening.

  ‘Do you want a tea?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Atal replies. He shuffles on the seat and then reaches down a hand for Lucky to lick. ‘I should probably be going. Are you going to be okay by yourself?’

  ‘Of course. Richard will be back any minute.’

  Atal nods and pushes himself up. Lucky lifts his head expectantly and then trots over so that I can tickle his chin by way of a goodbye. Atal heads back through to the front of the house and then puts Lucky on his lead before I open the door. The cold blusters in as he treads out into the night and then I stand with my arms crossed, watching as Atal crunches across the drive and then disappears around the hedge.

  There’s still no sign of Richard’s car, let alone Richard himself.

  Back in the kitchen, I try calling him again. When there’s no reply, I send a text asking where he is. It’s unlikely he’ll see it, so there won’t be a reply, but I don’t know what else to do.

  I sip my tea and then pace around the house. There are pictures that need straightening; skirting boards that need dusting. All sorts of little jobs that I’d not normally notice.

  Somehow, it’s half past eleven. Ninety minutes have passed since Atal rang the doorbell. I’m in the living room straightening the book spines when the patter begins. I’m confused at first but only for a moment. When it rains, the chitter-chatter always echoes through the rooms at the front of the house as if we live next to a train line. Despite the years I’ve been living here, it never fails to make me jump. Rain is such a common part of life – but it’s only since I moved to the village a few years back that I realised how sudden it is. One moment there’s silence, the next there’s that rush of needles.

  As I look through the window, a blue haze continues to seep through the bushes in the distance. I watch for a moment before turning back to the drive, where there’s no sign of Richard’s car.

  There have been times in the past when he’s been late. Punctuality was never his strongest point – but there’s a difference between being fifteen minutes past a time and simply not coming home. He’s not great with his phone but, if something was holding him up, I’m certain he’d have found a way to tell me.

  I try calling him again, though the rings seem to last longer this time. There’s no answer and I go for one last attempt, which is again unanswered.

  There’s only one thing to do – so I head up the s
tairs to bed, knowing there is no chance of me sleeping tonight.

  *

  TEN YEARS OLD

  The car heaters are blowing so loudly that I can’t properly hear the radio. That’s not the only problem. I have to sit tall in the front seat to be able to see through the window, which leaves me straining against the tightness of the seat belt.

  It’s dark and there’s also a mist on the inside of the window that makes it hard to see anything outside, no matter how high I sit.

  Dad glances quickly towards me before turning back to the road.

  ‘Only about fifteen miles until we get home,’ he says.

  ‘How long will that take?’

  ‘Maybe half an hour?’

  He reaches and turns down the heat a little, which allows the voice from the radio to come through louder. I think there’s a football game on somewhere and the men are talking about it. I’m not certain – but that’s what Dad is usually listening to when we’re in the car.

  I keep sitting as tall as I can, watching the trees blur by. The windscreen wipers flash back and forth at top speed as the rain continues to fall. It’s been so wet today.

  The lights of the car flare deep into the distance before being swallowed by the dark. There’s nothing out here in this weather… until there is. At first I think I’m the only one to see it. There’s a man on the side of the road and, as soon as the lights fall across him, he turns and sticks out his thumb. We’re going so quickly that we’re alongside and past him before I’ve even taken him in properly. I turn and watch through the side window as we pass but then the car slows and I hear the gentle ticking of the indicator.

  Dad pulls the car to a stop on the edge of the road and then twists to look through the back window. ‘I’m just going to check he’s all right.’

  Dad opens his door and there’s an instant storm of rain and wind. The water seems to be coming down sideways and pours into the car until Dad is outside and slams it back into place. I fight against the seat belt and try to turn and watch as he disappears out of sight – though it’s impossible for me to see around the back of the seat. All the while, the car continues to tick, while the wipers squeak back and forth against the glass.