THE SERIAL KILLER’S WIFE Alice Hunter Copyright Published by AVON A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021 Copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021 Cover design by Holly MacDonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021 Cover photographs © Karina Vegas/Arcangel Images Alice Hunter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780008414078 Ebook Edition © May 2021 ISBN: 9780008414085 Version: 2021-05-12 Dedication For Katie Loughnane an inspiring editor and friend, thank you. Contents Cover Title Page Copyright Dedication Chapter 1: Beth Chapter 2: Beth Chapter 3: Beth Chapter 4: Tom Chapter 5: Beth Chapter 6: Beth Chapter 7: Beth Chapter 8: Tom Chapter 9: Katie Chapter 10: Beth Chapter 11: Tom Chapter 12: Katie Chapter 13: Beth Chapter 14: Beth Chapter 15: Tom Chapter 16: Beth Chapter 17: Beth Chapter 18: Beth Chapter 19: Beth Chapter 20: Beth Chapter 21: Beth Chapter 22: Beth Chapter 23: Beth Chapter 24: Tom Chapter 25: Beth Chapter 26: Katie Chapter 27: Beth Chapter 28: Beth Chapter 29: Beth Chapter 30: Beth Chapter 31 Chapter 32: Tom Chapter 33: Beth Chapter 34: Beth Chapter 35: Beth Chapter 36: Katie Chapter 37: Beth Chapter 38 Chapter 39: Beth Chapter 40: Beth Chapter 41: Beth Chapter 42: Beth Chapter 43 Chapter 44: Tom Chapter 45: Beth Chapter 46: Katie Chapter 47: Beth Chapter 48: Beth Chapter 49: Tom Chapter 50: Beth Chapter 51: Beth Chapter 52: Beth Chapter 53: Beth Chapter 54: Tom Chapter 55: Beth Chapter 56: Katie Chapter 57: Beth Chapter 58: Katie Chapter 59: Beth Chapter 60: Beth Chapter 61: Tom Chapter 62: Beth Chapter 63: Beth Chapter 64: Beth Chapter 65 Chapter 66: Beth Chapter 67: Beth Chapter 68: Tom Chapter 69: Beth Chapter 70: Beth Chapter 71 Chapter 72: Beth Chapter 73: Beth Chapter 74: Beth Chapter 75: Tom Chapter 76: Beth Chapter 77: Beth Chapter 78: Beth Chapter 79: Tom Chapter 80: Beth Chapter 81: Beth Chapter 82: Tom Chapter 83: Beth Chapter 84: Beth Chapter 85: Beth Chapter 86: Beth Chapter 87: Beth Chapter 88: Tom Chapter 89: Beth Chapter 90: Beth Chapter 91: Beth Epilogue Acknowledgements About the Author About the Publisher Chapter 1 BETH Now I’m half relieved, half annoyed when I hear the insistent knocking on the front door. Poppy has only just settled after the third reading of The Wonky Donkey. I’ve promised her repeatedly that Daddy will definitely be home to give her a goodnight kiss. It’s gone eight, two hours past her usual bedtime. ‘Daddy’s here,’ she says, her aquamarine eyes springing back open, all sleepiness evaporating. ‘And it seems he can’t be bothered to use his key,’ I sigh, rising up from the Disney Princess bed. ‘You close your eyes again, my Poppy poppet, and I’ll send him up in a minute.’ I run my index finger from the bridge of her tiny button nose to the tip. I dash down the stairs, unconsciously bobbing under the low oak beam, ready to fling the door open and shout at Tom for his lateness and lack of consideration. But at the same time, I want to throw my arms around him: he’s never late back from work and I’ve been winding myself up thinking something bad must’ve happened to him. I’ve tried convincing myself his train was delayed, or he’s been caught up in traffic on the way back from Banbury station – having to commute from Lower Tew to central London and back every day isn’t the quickest of journeys – but if that’d been the case, he’d have called to let me know he was running late. He wouldn’t let his little Poppy down – he loves hearing her delighted squeals when he does the daft voices. It’s something I clearly haven’t mastered, given the number of times she made me ‘try again’ to get it right. I unlock the solid wooden door and take a steadying breath. There’s no need for me to be mad at him. He’s late, that’s all. Doesn’t matter if he’s woken Poppy up; he’ll happily settle her while I reheat his dinner. Don’t shout at him. I swing the door open. ‘Why haven’t you got your key?’ The scolding words are out of my mouth before I even realise. It’s not Tom. ‘Oh, erm … sorry, I was expecting …’ My sentence trails off. My heart tumbles in my chest. ‘Good evening. Mrs Hardcastle, is it?’ one of the two men says. They stand shoulder-to-shoulder at my small doorway, obscuring the view outside. I can’t see the vehicle they’ve arrived in but given their smart, suited appearance and the fact they know my name, I instinctively know they’re police. ‘Y–yes,’ I stutter. My limbs tremble. I was right. Tom’s had an accident. I grasp hold of the edge of the door frame, closing my eyes tight. My breaths are coming fast and shallow as I wait for the inevitable. ‘We need to speak with Mr Thomas Hardcastle, please.’ The man, who looks to be in his early fifties, with hair greying at the temples and thinning on the top, opens a leather wallet and flashes a badge at me. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Manning from the Metropolitan Police and this is a colleague from Thames Valley, Detective Sergeant Walters.’ His words fly over my head as relief floods through me. If they’re asking to see him, they’re not here to tell me he’s been killed. ‘He’s not here. He’s late back from work. I thought you were him, actually,’ I say, my voice now more controlled. ‘What’s it in connection with?’ I frown, suddenly aware DI Manning is encroaching on the threshold of my cottage. The other detective, whose name I’ve already forgotten, has stepped back and is now strolling around my front garden. Manning doesn’t respond. ‘Can I
