The Dead Husband: A brand new gripping crime suspense full of mystery

PROLOGUE

THURSDAY 8TH DECEMBER

It snowed heavily overnight and while some enjoyed the scenery and dreamed of a white Christmas, others struggled to get to work. New Middridge Primary School, built on a hill with the surrounding roads and pavements treacherous, had closed its doors. Doubtless, there’d be frustrated parents, excited children and smiling teachers. Gritting lorries had cleared the town’s main roads but most side streets were untouched, picturesque yet problematic for those trying to travel.

Four miles south of town in a hamlet of three cottages, one family enjoyed the wintry weather. With school closed, Harriet Smith had rung into work to book the day off. It was one less she’d have over the coming Christmas holidays but that was another day’s problem. Harriet’s two children were hyper and for the last hour had pestered her relentlessly to go out in the snow to play.

‘Give me ten minutes and then we’ll take Barnie out for a walk over the field.’

‘Great! Can we build a snowman?’

‘Why not?’ Harriet winked at her children and started to stack the breakfast pots in the dishwasher. ‘Find your wellies and wrap up warmly.’

The Smiths’ cottage was set back from the B-road, which saw very little traffic, exactly how Harriet liked it. The neighbouring cottages were second homes for city dwellers and were rarely occupied at this time of year. With the children running ahead of their mother, whooping excitedly as they kicked up the snow, Harriet kept Barnie on his lead until they’d crossed the road. The spaniel pulled to catch up with the children and once in the field Harriet released him and smiled as he bounded across the as-yet-untouched white carpet, tail wagging furiously.

It was a perfect morning. The fresh snow was untrampled and the air crisp with a quietness only such a deep covering can bring. Harriet watched her six-year-old twins, Isla and Josh, cheeks and noses red with cold but laughing as they gathered snow into a pile for a snowman. Barnie scooted around, tail wagging madly and nose sniffing the white mounds around him. They didn’t often have as much snow; it was a rare treat for the dog and the children.

‘I need some twigs for the snowman’s arms, Mum!’ Josh shouted. Isla stood, hands on hips and glared at her brother. ‘Why does it have to be a snow man and not a snow lady?’

‘Go over to the trees; there’ll be some branches there, but mind the ditch.’ Harriet followed the twins as they ran towards the edge of the field. Barnie appeared to have found something in the ditch to interest him and was barking excitedly. While the children gathered twigs, Harriet caught up with her dog and called at him to stop digging in the snow. As usual, he ignored the command, so Harriet leaned down to pull him out of the hole he was working on. What she saw next stunned and shocked her.

Barnie had uncovered what was undoubtedly a man’s head. The battered profile of his face horrified Harriet, who stifled the scream rising in her throat so as not to attract the children’s attention. Barnie remained busily shifting the snow from the body, enjoying his game until Harriet grabbed his collar and dragged him out of the shallow ditch, clipping on his lead. Feeling weak and shaky she hobbled towards the children. ‘Isla, Josh, take Barnie and go back to the house! The back door’s open. Wait for me inside.’ Harriet felt decidedly sick yet tried not to vomit in front of the children.

‘What, on our own? You never let us stay in the house alone.’

‘Why, Mum? We haven’t finished our snowman yet.’

‘Please, just do as I say – I’ll be with you in a few minutes.’ She scrambled for her phone as the children took a reluctant Barnie and tramped back across the field, muttering as their playtime was cut short. Harriet offered up a silent prayer of gratitude that they hadn’t seen the disturbing sight of a dead man so close to their home.

It wasn’t ideal to send the children home alone but Harriet didn’t want them to hear the call she needed to make or see Barnie’s discovery. The man in the ditch was clearly dead. His face was turned to the side but what was visible showed his skin to be bluish-purple, almost like wine stains, with eyes open, staring, yet unseeing. The hand Barnie had also uncovered was similarly discoloured, and blood encrusted the man’s face and hair.

Harriet tapped in 999 with unsteady fingers and asked for the police and an ambulance, although the latter was far too late for the poor man in the ditch.

The call-handler asked Harriet to stay with the body until the police arrived, but after explaining how her children were at home and alone, she gave the address for the police to come to her, then without a backward glance, headed for the warmth and safety of her home.

After shrugging off her wet coat, Harriet followed the sound of chatter, found the twins in the lounge and hugged them both tightly. Josh was the first to wriggle free. ‘What’s wrong, Mum?’

‘Nothing, Josh, it was just too cold to stay outside.’

‘Can we watch telly?’

Harriet, grateful the children were ignorant of Barnie’s discovery, agreed. ‘Yes, but only for an hour. Who wants hot chocolate?’

‘Me!’ they shouted in unison and jumped on the sofa, tussling for the remote control. Harriet sighed – maybe something stronger than hot chocolate would be more appropriate for herself.

Just as Harriet placed the hot chocolate in her children’s eager hands, she heard sirens and dashed to the door before the police could ring the bell. Two uniformed officers hurried towards her, holding out their ID cards which she barely glanced at. The young man spoke first.

‘Mrs Smith? I’m PC Mark Davies.’ He held his warrant card for her inspection and smiled as Harriet nodded solemnly. ‘Can you take us to where you found the body?’

Harriet chewed on her bottom lip; with no desire to return to the horrific scene her dog had discovered she felt sick at the thought. ‘I don’t want to leave the children alone again.’

As the first officer attending, it was Mark Davies’ responsibility to secure the scene until back-up arrived. ‘Perhaps my colleague could stay with them? You don’t have to see the body again, only take me to where you discovered it and point me in the right direction.’ Harriet thought he must have read her mind.

‘Okay, just let me tell the kids what’s happening.’

Afterwards, as they headed to the field, two other police vehicles arrived. PC Davies beckoned to his colleagues to follow him and then gently asked Harriet, ‘Did you disturb the scene at all, Mrs Smith?’

‘I’m afraid my dog did and I had to drag him away. You can see where my foot slid down as I tried to grab him.’ Harriet stood well back and pointed to the skid marks on the side of the ditch.

‘And the children, did they go near at all?’

‘No, they were over by the trees and didn’t see anything. I’d rather they didn’t know what’s happened.’

‘Of course. You can go back to your children now and we’ll secure the area. Someone will take a more formal statement later. Do you want an officer to accompany you?’

‘No, thanks, I’ll be fine.’

Mark’s initial assessment was that a detective and CSI would be needed – at the least, this appeared to be a hit-and-run – the road was near enough for a car to have hit the man, knocking him into the shallow ditch. At worst the body had been dumped. Further investigation was appropriate.

He returned to his car which was parked adjacent to the field. Pulling on protective boots first, he then grabbed the tape and pegs needed to secure the area, rummaged in his car boot to find a clipboard, then trudged back to the crime scene. Mark asked one of the other officers to ring in the details and ask for CSI support while his colleague helped with the scene preservation. Having informally established the basic details from Harriet Smith, when the taping was complete, he rang his partner at the Smiths’ house to ask her to take a more formal witness statement.

All he could do now as first response officer was wait for CSI and begin a scene log. With time to pause, Mark looked again at the grisly sight of the body in the ditch, so incongruous with the peaceful area. The blanket of snow presented a serene impression which was about to be destroyed by the ruthless machine of investigation. A detective would take charge of the case and forensics would soon be swarming all over the field, processing the scene, recording and collecting physical evidence.

Mark was relieved it was the dog that had found the body and not the children. The poor mother looked traumatised enough – what effect would the grisly sight have had on the two bairns?

PART 1

ONE

A WEEK EARLIER

Amy Cooper crossed and uncrossed her legs several times while fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve. The consultant’s waiting room was too hot, but she didn’t want to remove her coat – keeping it on might miraculously shorten her time in the hospital. Three other patients shared the small stuffy room and another two had already been called into the consultant’s inner sanctum. Amy was jittery, hoping to be next in line.

Today’s appointment was to hear the results of various tests and scans which would tell her if a brain tumour had been causing her recent symptoms as the consultant suspected – and if it was, to discuss available treatment options. Over the last four weeks the hospital had become a familiar place – the lengthy journey to and from, a habitual routine with which Amy was wholly fed up.

A nurse appeared and called a name – not Amy’s but an older lady, a woman the age her mother would be if she’d still been alive. A book was nestled in the bottom of Amy’s bag yet she was disinclined to read, knowing concentration would fail her. Instead, she settled down to study her two remaining companions, a man and a woman, clearly together and as antsy as Amy. The woman wore dangling earrings which sparkled each time she moved her head. She wondered which one was the patient and whether they were also anticipating bad news.

Only six short weeks ago Amy would have claimed to be reasonably healthy for a woman in her early forties with no reason to think otherwise until the headaches began, headaches like none other she’d experienced, a gripping pain which took her by surprise.

Mornings were the worst, when Amy woke up to a pounding head and a dreadful nauseous feeling. Then there was the dizziness – but what finally sent her scurrying to her GP was finding herself coming around on the floor with no recollection of what had occurred or for how long she’d lain unconscious. The doctor’s actions were remarkably swift and an appointment to see a consultant arrived within two weeks, giving Amy a clue that her GP thought there was something seriously amiss.

After the initial appointment with Mr Matthews, CT and MRI scans were booked and Amy was in the system, progressing from one department to another as if on a conveyer belt. Finally, the consultant broke the news that they suspected a brain tumour, and today was results day. The waiting was driving Amy crazy. In her darker moments she anticipated the prospect of an operation. Curiosity sent her to the internet, which presented more questions than answers and nothing by way of comfort. Now, those questions were stored in her brain – her defective brain – ready to ask. Amy dreaded the answers and feared the worst. The thought of having her hair shaved and her skull drilled open made her shudder. Having always feared a check-up at the dentist, this was unthinkable.

‘Amy Cooper!’ the nurse called loudly.

‘Yes.’ Jolted back to reality she followed the young woman into the consultation room. Mr Matthews looked up from his desk and smiled.

‘Good morning, Amy. Please take a seat.’ His head dropped to a folder on his desk and then jerked up to his computer, where he studied the screen, frowning. The silence in the room was stifling, the consultant’s expression inscrutable. Eventually the man looked at her. ‘Have you come alone today, Amy?’

It must be bad news – the worst?

‘Yes.’

‘Ahh.’ Mr Matthews nodded. He was a kindly man, early fifties perhaps, although generally she was rubbish at guessing ages. His silver-grey hair was receding and rather too long at the back, curling over his collar. She wondered if he had a wife to remind him it was time to get a trim. Slowly he removed his wire-rimmed glasses and gave his patient his full attention.

‘Amy, I’m afraid the news is not good. As we suspected you have a brain tumour – the CT and MRI scans are self-explanatory.’

Here we go – surgery, then probably chemo and radiation therapy – months of feeling rotten and bye-bye hair!

‘I’m so sorry, Amy. If we’d found it earlier we may have been able to offer a craniotomy, but I’m afraid the tumour’s progressed too far to operate.’ Mr Matthews paused, searching her face, a frown on his own. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’

Amy nodded, feeling strangely detached from the scenario playing around her – it was surely someone else’s life, a soap opera she was watching on TV perhaps. The room started to spin and the nurse standing in the corner was suddenly beside her, steadying Amy on the chair.

‘I’m going to be sick…’ Amy leaned forward and the nurse grabbed a receptacle just in time. Closing her eyes, Amy waited for the dizziness to pass, to wake up from this nightmare and find herself in bed at home, but it didn’t happen. Mr Matthews offered her a glass of water which the nurse held while Amy drank.

‘Why don’t you take your coat off – it’s rather warm in here.’

Amy nodded, fumbling with the buttons. The simple task had a grounding effect, pulling her back to reality, a reality she didn’t want to face.

‘Feeling better now?’ the consultant asked, and Amy nodded. ‘You must have questions, Amy. Can you talk today, or would you like another appointment? Perhaps your husband could attend with you?’

‘No – tell me today. What happens next? Will I have chemotherapy?’

The frown appeared on Mr Matthew’s brow again, and he drew in a deep breath. ‘The category of tumour you have is called a glioblastoma, a grade four aggressive tumour. I’m afraid chemotherapy would have little effect other than to make you feel very ill, affecting the quality of life you have left.’

I’m going to die!

‘How long do I have?’

Is that me asking; it doesn’t sound like my voice.

‘It’s always difficult to put a timescale on this sort of tumour. Glioblastoma sufferers can expect twelve to eighteen months, but we re-evaluate the prognosis regularly. We can monitor the tumour to map the growth rate although everyone is different – it could be a few months or perhaps even a year or two.’ The nurse held her hand, and Amy was aware of squeezing it tightly. The woman must be in pain – the room still swam…

‘Amy.’ Mr Matthew’s voice echoed in her mind, startling her. ‘We’ll arrange for one of our Macmillan nurses to visit you soon. She’ll be able to answer any other questions you might have and outline what help and support we can offer. I’m very sorry, and naturally I’ll be happy to see you again if you wish to discuss your condition further.’

Somehow, Amy was out in the corridor with the nurse asking how she’d come to the hospital.

‘On the bus.’

‘Well, you can’t go home on the bus, sweetheart. Come and sit in here while I arrange for one of our volunteer drivers to take you, and I’ll get your prescription filled for you too.’ With no strength to argue, Amy allowed herself to be led into a quiet room where she waited for a few minutes, which could have been hours, for her driver to appear.

A kindly man treated Amy as if she was a Ming vase. His polite manner and soothing words were almost too much, and she struggled to hold back the deluge of tears which threatened to overwhelm her. Fortunately, he lapsed into silence when the car started to move and Amy turned towards the window watching New Middridge, her hometown, race past her. It was raining, the sky heavy, the forecast was for snow over the next few days. It was dusk and through the steamy car window the houses blinked with coloured lights. The first day of December – it would soon be Christmas – Amy swallowed at the thought it could be her last. She and Callum never bothered with outside lights, perhaps because they’d never had children. Would a family have made any difference? Would they have been parents who indulged their children with gaudy lights, flashing reindeer and tacky inflatable Santas? She would never know.

Amy was dying. She was actually dying.

TWO

WEDNESDAY 7TH DECEMBER

DI Samantha Freeman dropped her bag beside her desk and slumped into the seat. Running her fingers through her short hair, she rested her elbows on the desk and sighed. The morning had started badly with a row with Ravi, her partner – a stupid argument over some irrelevancy which she now regretted. To make matters worse, Ravi would be working late again and she’d have to wait until late evening to apologise for being so ratty and to make it up to him.

Ravi was also a DI, working in Fraud at Aykley Heads in Durham, which gave him a longer daily commute than Sam. The pressures of policing occasionally triggered friction between the couple but generally, they worked hard at their relationship, aware of the pitfalls. Perhaps they were simply tired and needed a holiday. Sam couldn’t remember the last time they’d shared as much as a full weekend together. Some R&R would be welcome – she’d suggest it to Ravi later.

The empty office-cum-incident room was beginning to warm through and Sam was grateful for a few minutes alone in her little corner chamber to collect her thoughts before her colleagues arrived. At five foot two with an elfin face, usually devoid of make-up, Sam was known among her colleagues in New Middridge police station as a force to be reckoned with, a terrier in the best possible way. Her reputation was one of being firm but fair. Sam was mostly well-liked, mainly because she was a DI who led by example, putting in more hours than she expected from others on her team.

Next to arrive was Jenny Newcombe, Sam’s DS. Stray flakes of snow fell to the floor as she shrugged off her coat and shivered. Sam appeared in the main office and Jen studied her DI closely. ‘Not had time to comb your hair, boss, or was it a rough night?’

‘Rough morning more like. Ravi and I had a few words – choice words – from me anyway, and we parted on bad terms. Hell, I need a holiday.’ Samantha finger-combed her hair to flatten the unruly spikes.

‘You’ll make it up, you always do. The gorgeous Ravi will arrive home with flowers and chocolates and whisk you off to dinner.’

‘I doubt it. He’s working late, it’ll be bedtime before he’s home.’

‘Ah, well…’ Jenny chuckled and moved to her desk. The DS was four inches taller than Samantha and carried more weight but it was mostly muscle and suited her frame. Her blonde hair was swept up into a knot on top of her head. ‘Talking of romance, here comes Layla and Paul.’

Paul Roper yawned as he placed his coffee cup on the desk. ‘Morning, all,’ he breezed. Layla Gupta followed him closely, wrapped up sensibly against the winter chill. She nodded at her boss and Jenny before switching on her computer. The others followed her example.

‘What’s the priority today, boss?’ Jenny swivelled her chair to face Sam. ‘Are we having another crack at those kids who set fire to the warehouse?’

‘Yes, I want them brought in. It’s time to get serious with this – it’s just one big joke to them but someone could have been killed.’

‘Shall I get uniform to pick them up?’

‘Please, and I suppose Baxter’s mouthy mother will want to be in on the interview. Tell uniform to try to get the kid alone and we’ll find an appropriate adult from social services or the Youth Offending Team to sit in, and then ring the fire officer to see if they’ve anything new to work with – preferably something resembling evidence.’

‘Okay.’ Jenny swivelled back on her chair and picked up her phone.

An hour later, two uniformed officers arrived at reception with the three youths in question. Ethan Baxter was seventeen and his friends, Tim Dennison and Tyler Green both sixteen. DI Freeman was at the desk talking to the duty sergeant and rolled her eyes when she heard Sylvie Baxter’s grating voice shouting at the officers, telling them what they could and couldn’t do to her son. Sam winced at the woman’s colourful language and left reception to prepare for what would undoubtedly be a frustrating interview.

Jenny glanced up as Sam returned to