First wifes shadow, p.32
First Wife's Shadow, page 32
51
Six months later
Emma
I get up at 7 a.m., my new regular alarm time at the weekend. Disciplined but not ‘bloody mental’ (Heidi’s words). Nine minutes to dress, get downstairs, swallow a vitamin, get water. I call to Odin, my German shepherd, who is not only a fabulous guard dog but is fast becoming the love of my life. We run for three quarters of an hour. Once back at the house, I feed Odin, make coffee, do a vinyasa flow class online. Heidi and Gina also join from their front rooms, and it’s fun to know we are doing it together. I drink my kale juice and scoop up the enormous bouquet of flowers that I’ve been storing in the utility room. Then I get in the car and beg Odin to settle down and not crush the flowers. It’s 9.30. I’m more measured nowadays, but I like to think I’m still very efficient. Weekends are too precious to waste. Not a lot scares me, but I am fearful of the opportunities I might miss, which is why I’m travelling to London today. I’m going to my sister’s housewarming.
Becky has given me a key to the Old Schoolhouse. As she did so, she said, ‘What’s yours is mine.’
‘Don’t you mean “what’s mine is yours”?’ I corrected her.
‘Not necessarily,’ she quipped. She’s funny, my little sister.
When I arrive, I let myself in and find her on her hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen in the main flat. The one Matthew lived in until a few days ago. The place is spotless, but I guess her urge to clean is nothing to do with hygiene but more to do with mental absolution. I admire her industry. Over the last six months, I’ve regularly visited her in prison, first monthly, then twice a month, then weekly. We’re getting to know one another. During the trial, the press chose to characterise us as opposites: the ageing heiress versus the broke beauty. I was presented as an overly privileged naive (borderline kooky) woman who must have stumbled into her position of power through positive gender discrimination. I was deemed too stupid to have earned my role. My years demonstrating fiscal sense, business acumen and hard graft had been obliterated by one stupid heart-led decision. Becky was presented as a manipulative, feral (aka vicious) woman who had never done an honest day’s work in her life but instead devoted herself to freeloading, debauchery and profligacy. She was painted as someone who had used her sexuality to exploit and extort. Her years of overcoming disadvantage to achieve outstanding career success in a highly competitive industry, followed by years of frugality, were discounted. Wiped out. At first it seemed we had nothing in common, and all the things we did share seemed sad: an alcoholic father, lonely childhoods, Matthew. But we wanted to discover more.
‘If you had to describe yourself in three words, what would they be?’ I asked Becky once when I was visiting her. She liked these getting-to-know-you games, bored of conversations about the food or TV.
‘Oh, that’s easy,’ she replied quickly. ‘Passionate, competitive and ambitious. You?’
I paused and thought about it. ‘Disciplined, logical, careful.’
‘I think we both demonstrate all those traits to an extent. You are competitive and ambitious, that’s why you’re so disciplined.’
‘Maybe,’ I reply, trying to reframe how I view myself, how I view her.
‘And look how logical I’m being. I’m content to serve time for a crime I didn’t commit as I know there was stuff that I deserve to be punished for, and anyway it will all even out when I get to move into the Old Schoolhouse.’
‘Yes, I suppose I do see the logic in your thinking,’ I admitted. ‘But passionate is the opposite of careful.’
‘I’m pretty sure marrying someone after knowing them a matter of months weighs in on the passionate side, rather than the careful,’ she pointed out.
‘And look where that got me.’ I rolled my eyes.
‘It got you me,’ she said with a laugh.
Maybe she’s on to something. Maybe we are not so dissimilar. It’s hard to tell, as our life experiences have been very different. I decide it doesn’t matter, because she’s right. I got her. A barmy criminal sister to go with my unreliable addict brother. I love Tom. It isn’t impossible to imagine I’ll love Becky one day too. Someone has to.
Heidi is sceptical. I would be disappointed if she was anything else, but she is being supportive despite her misgivings. She understands that I need to fold Becky into my life. Gina is excited about meeting her. As is Tom. He and Becky have said hello over FaceTime.
‘Those two will be a shit show,’ warned Heidi. ‘They might well trigger one another. Both of them are so extreme.’
‘Maybe,’ I admitted. ‘Or they might glimmer one another.’
‘Glimmer one another? What do you mean?’
‘It’s the opposite of trigger. It’s when something or someone sparks something wonderful in another, maybe gifting a feeling of peace or purpose. Maybe Tom and Becky will feel more complete because our family has expanded.’
Heidi and Gina have both agreed to come to Becky’s tiny housewarming brunch to meet her. By the time they arrive, Becky has put away her rubber gloves and is dancing around the kitchen. She’s put a playlist together; it includes songs such as ‘Sisters Are Doin’ It for Themselves’ and ‘Spice Up Your Life’.
‘She’s not big on nuance, is she?’ mutters Heidi.
‘No. Nor regrets. It’s one of the things I like about her,’ I reply.
It’s just the four of us. Neither of my friends is quite ready to introduce my jailbird sister to their families, but they will in time. I know they will, because they are good people and they will see that Becky needs support, that she needs good people. Heidi arrives with croissants and a fruit salad; Gina has brought orange juice and cava, so we make Buck’s fizz. The fact that Becky was right about Matthew slinking off and not contesting ownership of the Old Schoolhouse has gone a long way towards endearing her to Heidi, who still believes Matthew got away too lightly. She’s happy to see him punished rather than profiting. As she looks around the beautiful space, I hear her comment to Gina that she’s ‘glad the money Emma gave that prick is back in her family’.
I’m delighted she referred to Becky as my family. Heidi doesn’t trust my little sister yet, but she tolerates her, accepting that Becky’s personal circumstances have been tragic, that she is a product of her environment and so am I. Becky, Tom and I have all paid heavily for our parents’ mistakes; our job is to try to make fewer mistakes of our own as we go forward.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I want to start with saying thank you to Kate Mills, my wonderful publisher. Kate, you are fabulous to work with. You are always so honest and upbeat, committed and confident. Thanks for truly understanding and delivering what I need most throughout this process (I’m not talking about champagne, although that is important and you do have a healthy respect for that fact) but I’m talking about being a true partner every step of the way. You are incredible to work with. The same goes for Lisa Milton. How lucky are we to have such a determined force for good at the top and centre of the HQ. I trust and respect you both so much. It is a total joy working with you both and it has been from the very first meeting all those years ago.
I also want to say a heartfelt thank you to Charlie Redmayne. You are a CEO who embodies drive and determination, who combines commerciality and creativity and who throws properly excellent author parties. You make HarperCollins a wonderful place for a writer to be published.
I’m so delighted to be working with an incredible team. I am thoroughly grateful for, and appreciative of, the talent and commitment of every single person involved in this book’s existence. I know you all work with dedication, insight and expertise. Thank you all very much for everything you do to get my books into the hands of readers. Thank you, Emily Burns, you’ve blasted into my working world with incredible verve and skill. I’m so happy to welcome you to the team. They are the best, and you fit right in! Thank you, Anna Derkacz, George Green, Fliss Porter, Joanna Rose, Vicki Watson, Rachael Nazarko, Rebecca Fortuin, Angie Dobbs, Halema Begum, Noemi Vallone, Sophie Waeland, Aisling Smyth, Kate Oakley, Anna Sikorska and Laura Meyer. I can’t possibly detail everything you all do (it would be another novel in itself) but please know, I’m aware and full of gratitude.
I want to send massive thanks across the seas to the brilliant teams who publish my books worldwide. You really are making my dreams come true. My North America team are absolutely tremendous and it’s such a joy to be finding readers in America and Canada. Thank you Craig Swinwood, Loriana Sacilotto, Margaret Marbury O’Neill, Nicole Brebner, Sophie James and Rebecca Silver. I know there are many, many more people on this team and I appreciate every one of you. I hope to meet you all in person soon. Thank you to Sue Brockhoff in Australia. There are many other publishing teams, who I have yet to meet, but I am so grateful that incredible professionals across the globe are giving my books their love and attention. It’s so ridiculously exciting finding readers in so many countries. Thank you.
Thank you to all my readers, bloggers, reviewers, retailers, librarians and fellow authors who have supported me throughout my career. I say it time and time again, without readers, there really would be no point in doing what I do at all. You are, by definition, the entire point of my career.
Thank you to Mum and Dad for nurturing a love of reading and my sister, friends and family for always supporting me by fronting up my books in supermarkets and bookstores, and in dozens of other ways.
I want to do a shout out to my yoga gang. You guys help me unfurl physically and mentally after I’ve spent the day bent over my desk. You help me find balance, in more ways than one and you keep me sane and smiling when my characters are dashing around my head doing diabolical stuff! I’m so grateful for our lovely little community. Thank you for your friendship, Amelia Rose Key, Clare Slater, Eleanor Bowe, Eleonora Kennedy, Kath Shaw, Naomi Begum-Inglis, Rosemary Tyler and Tim Ashworth. Namaste.
I’d like to acknowledge the wonderful generosity of Graham Cadd (who also likes to be known as Amazing Graham) who bid to name a character in this novel at a fundraiser for Children with Cancer UK. A charity that works tirelessly to fund innovative research, support families and raise awareness of cancer in children, teenagers and young adults.
Finally, obviously, forever and always thank you to Jimmy and Conrad. Can I say what I said last year as I still think it’s spot on. Obviously, I’m not the most conventional wife and mother on earth. I realise you are both constantly accommodating that fact. But I know you know I’m devoted and adore you both. I hope we can agree that living with my peculiarities, passions and penchant for saying aloud literally every thought that ever enters my head is, on balance, worthwhile! I am so proud of you both.
Utterly gripped by First Wife’s Shadow?
Why not try the twisty, explosive Just Between Us?
Continue reading for an extract from Just Between Us…
1
DC Clements
There is no body. A fact DC Clements finds both a problem and a tremulous, tantalising possibility. She’s not a woman inclined to irrational hope, or even excessive hope. Any damned hope, really. At least, not usually.
Kylie Gillingham is probably dead.
Statistically speaking, it’s not looking good for her. The forty-three-year-old woman has been missing nearly two weeks. Ninety-seven per cent of the 180,000 people a year who are reported missing are found within a week, dead or alive. She hasn’t been spotted by members of the public, or picked up on CCTV; her bank, phone and email accounts haven’t been touched. She has social media registered under her married name, Kai Janssen; they’ve lain dormant. No perky pictures of carefully arranged books, lattes, Negronis or peonies. Kylie Gillingham hasn’t returned to either of her homes. Statistically, it’s looking very bad.
Experience would also suggest this sort of situation has to end terribly. When a wife disappears, all eyes turn on the husband. In this case, there is not one but two raging husbands left behind. Both men once loved the missing woman very much. Love is just a shiver away from hate.
The evidence does not conclusively indicate murder. There is no body. But a violent abduction is a reasonable proposition – police-speak, disciplined by protocol. Kidnap and abuse, possible torture is likely – woman-speak, fired by indignation. They know Kylie Gillingham was kept in a room in an uninhabited apartment just floors below the one she lived in with husband number two, Daan Janssen. That’s not a coincidence. There is a hole in the wall of that room; most likely Kylie punched or kicked it through. The debris created was flung through a window into the street, probably in order to attract attention. Her efforts failed. Fingerprints place her in the room; it’s unlikely she was simply hanging out or even hiding out, as there is evidence to suggest she was chained to the radiator.
Yet despite all this, the usually clear, logical, reasonable Clements wants to ignore statistics, experience and even evidence that suggests the abduction ended in fatal violence. She wants to hope.
There just might be some way, somehow, that Kylie – enigma, bigamist – escaped from that sordid room and is alive. She might be in hiding. She is technically a criminal, after all; she might be hiding from the law. She can hardly go home. She will know by now that her life of duplicity is exposed. She will know her husbands are incensed. Baying for blood. She has three largely uninterested half-brothers on her father’s side, and a mother who lives in Australia. None of them give Clements a sense that they are helping or protecting Kylie. She will know who abducted her. If alive, she must be terrified.
Clements’ junior partner, Constable Tanner, burly and blunt as usual, scoffs at the idea that she escaped. He’s waiting for a body; he’d settle for a confession. It’s been four days now since Daan Janssen left the country. ‘Skipped justice’, as Tanner insists on saying. But the constable is wet behind the ears. He still thinks murder is glamorous and career-enhancing. Clements tries to remember: did she ever think that way? She’s been a police officer for nearly fifteen years; she joined the force straight out of uni, a few years younger than Tanner is now, but no, she can’t remember a time when she thought murder was glamorous.
‘He hasn’t skipped justice. We’re talking to him and his lawyers,’ she points out with what feels like the last bit of her taut patience.
‘You’re being pedantic.’
‘I’m being accurate.’
‘But you’re talking to him through bloody Microsoft Teams,’ says Tanner dismissively. ‘What the hell is that?’
‘The future.’ Clements sighs. She ought to be offended by the uppity tone of the junior police officer. It’s disrespectful. She’s the detective constable. She would be offended if she had the energy, but she doesn’t have any to spare. It’s all focused on the case. On Kylie Gillingham. She needs to remain clear-sighted, analytical. They need to examine the facts, the evidence, over and over again. To be fair, Constable Tanner is focused too, but his focus manifests in frenetic frustration. She tries to keep him on track. ‘Look, lockdown means Daan Janssen isn’t coming back to the UK for questioning any time soon. Even if there wasn’t a strange new world to negotiate, we couldn’t force him to come to us, not without arresting him, and I can’t do that yet.’
Tanner knocks his knuckles against her desk as though he is rapping on a door, asking to be let in, demanding attention. ‘But all the evidence—’
‘Is circumstantial.’ Tanner knows this; he just can’t quite accept it. He feels the finish line is in sight, but he can’t cross it, and it frustrates him. Disappoints him. He wants the world to be clear-cut. He wants crimes to be punished, bad men behind bars, a safer realm. He doesn’t want some posh twat flashing his passport and wallet, hopping on a plane to his family mansion in the Netherlands and getting away with it. Daan Janssen’s good looks and air of entitlement offend Tanner. Clements understands all that. She understands it but has never allowed personal bias and preferences to cloud her investigating procedures.
‘We found her phones in his flat!’ Tanner insists.
‘Kylie could have put them there herself,’ counters Clements. ‘She did live there with him as his wife.’
‘And we found the receipt for the cable ties and the bucket from the room she was held in.’
‘We found a receipt. The annual number of cable ties produced is about a hundred billion. A lot of people buy cable ties. Very few of them to bind their wives to radiators. Janssen might have wanted to neaten up his computer and charger cords. He lives in a minimalist house. That’s what any lawyer worth their salt will argue.’ Clements rolls her head from left to right; her neck clicks like castanets.
‘His fingerprints are on the food packets.’
‘Which means he touched those protein bars. That’s all they prove. Not that he took them into the room. Not that he was ever in the room.’
Exasperated, Tanner demands, ‘Well how else did they get there? They didn’t fly in through the bloody window, did they?’ Clements understands he’s not just excitable, he cares. He wants this resolved. She likes him for it, even if he’s clumsy in his declarations. It makes her want to soothe him; offer him guarantees and reassurances that she doesn’t even believe in. She doesn’t soothe or reassure, because she has to stay professional, focused. The devil is in the detail. She just has to stay sharp, be smarter than the criminal. That’s what she believes. ‘She might have brought them in from their home. He might have touched them in their flat. That’s what a lawyer will argue.’
‘He did it all right, no doubt about it,’ asserts Tanner with a steely certainty.
Clements knows that there is always doubt. A flicker, like a wick almost lit, then instantly snuffed. Nothing is certain in this world. That’s why people like her are so important; people who know about ambiguity yet carry on regardless, carry on asking questions, finding answers. Dig, push, probe. That is her job. For a conviction to be secured in a court of law, things must be proven beyond reasonable doubt. It isn’t easy to do. Barristers are brilliant, wily. Jurors can be insecure, overwhelmed. Defendants might lie, cheat. The evidence so far is essentially fragile and hypothetical.
