The widowers lie, p.1
The Widower's Lie, page 1
THE WIDOWER’S LIE
J. A. BAKER
If you reveal your secrets to the wind, you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees.
— KHALIL GIBRAN
For those who went before me, I’ve tried to keep you alive.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
More from J. A. Baker
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by J. A. Baker
The Murder List
About Boldwood Books
1
FEBRUARY 2018
It’s always the dog walkers and the early-morning joggers that find them, isn’t it? They begin their day full of hope, ready to greet the hours ahead with a smile as they step out into the crisp, morning air only to have those hopes dashed by their grisly find, their minds tarnished, the sight before them forever embedded deep within their brains.
The young woman stares down at the ground, realisation dawning. She thought initially that it was a stray shoe: a discarded trainer, one of many that litter this area, along with empty coffee cartons and crisp packets. She sees them all the time and wonders how they get there. Always one, never the pair. Babies’ dummies, empty aerosol cans, mouldy food wrappers – she has stumbled across them all while out on her morning run, but this is different. She doesn’t know how it’s different, or why. It just strikes her as an eerie find. A shoe would slide down the embankment. It wouldn’t just sit there, poking out from a pile of fallen leaves. It’s the angle that worries and intrigues her. It’s almost perpendicular. As if it’s attached to something. Her skin prickles, ice sliding beneath her flesh.
She stands, stares up at it, her breath hot and sour, misting the air in front of her face: perfectly formed vapour clouds that appear in a small, pulsing orb before vanishing into the atmosphere. The mornings are getting lighter. Winter seems to have gone on for a hundred years. She shivers, thinks about carrying on with her run. It won’t do her any good, standing here getting cold. She has to keep moving, keep the blood pumping through her veins, otherwise she will seize up, her muscles knotting, pain shrieking through her limbs when she tries to move. And yet there is something about that trainer – the angle of it perhaps – that doesn’t sit well with her.
Moving closer, scrambling on her hands and knees to clamber up the bank, she can see even from a distance that it isn’t a trainer at all. It’s proper shoe – cream leather with a short, square heel. Mud has almost disguised it beyond recognition, clumps of dirt and rotted leaves sticking to its surface. It’s an incongruous sight – the type of footwear somebody would wear to an office – smart, functional, not too glamorous. Not the sort of thing that gets lodged on a riverbank.
Her eyes are drawn to the steep, slippery incline above her, covered with moss and leaves and the general debris nature leaves behind after a cold, dark winter. Pressing on, she clambers up until the item is close to her face. She shivers and backs away a fraction, the thought of slipping never far from her mind. It’s a steep gradient, almost vertical, requiring her to use her hands and feet to make the ascent. Her foot is lodged against the base of a tree that, along with many others nearby, appear to defy gravity. Standing upright, their deep root systems probably help to knit together this bank, stopping any erosion or landslips.
She shuffles ever nearer, one hand resting against the rough bark of the tree to steady herself while the other reaches down and brushes away the twigs and leaves that surround the shoe. Her hand hits something solid, something cold that makes her recoil. She lets out a shriek, hoping it isn’t what she thinks it could be, yet knowing deep down that it probably is. This is a quiet, shaded area and yet she has never felt frightened or unsafe here. It’s next to the river, just two minutes from the nearest village, but the canopy of trees and its deep-set location make it feel a million miles away from everything. It’s peaceful, calming. And now this.
Her breathing is ragged, her skin flashing hot and cold simultaneously. She gives the soil and dirt and leaves one final push, sweeping it all aside to reveal a glimpse of dead flesh. It’s a leg, its texture grey and mottled. She fumbles in her pocket for her phone, praying to a God she doesn’t believe exists that she can get a signal.
Sweat rolls down her back. She is cold and clammy as she stares at the screen, panic biting at her. No bars. No signal. No way of getting any help.
Shit!
She clambers and crawls higher up the embankment on watery legs, her innards roiling, the image of the decaying limb burnt deep into her brain. By the time she reaches the top, her knees are scraped and bloody, her hands covered in leaf mulch. Strands of wet hair hang in her eyes. Sweat courses down her back.
Her phone springs to life. She cries out, her voice a loud echo. Relief blooms in her chest. She punches at the screen, calls 999, her voice a croak as she hears somebody speaking on the other end. A welcome voice. A helpful, soothing sound that eases the fear and helplessness that are currently slamming into her, violent blows that leave her winded and breathless.
‘Body,’ is all she can say before her legs give way and she collapses onto the wet grass. ‘I’ve found a dead body.’
Man Jailed for Murder of Local Teacher
Phillip Kennedy, 40, of Wainwright Court, York, has been found guilty of murdering a local teacher. Her bruised and battered body was found on the banks of the River Ouse by an early-morning jogger.
Sophia Saunders, 38, a teacher, suffered severe head injuries and her body was dragged down an embankment before being covered with leaves and branches. She was discovered by an unsuspecting jogger who alerted the police to the grisly find.
Phillip Kennedy pleaded not guilty throughout the trial, lowering his head and weeping as the verdict was read out in court.
Judge Sebastien Ward said the killer would be shown no mercy and should expect to serve a long sentence for a heinous crime against an innocent woman.
Kennedy was led from the dock by police officers, turning only once to glance at the victim’s husband who bore a dignified silence throughout the proceedings.
Sentencing will take place later this month.
The Yorkshire News, October 2018
2
A YEAR LATER
Alice
I see him before he sees me. I shuffle forward on unsteady legs, my hands trembling as he turns and looks my way. His eyes are blind to my presence, always glancing elsewhere, their unseeing stare shifting over and beyond me. This is always the way, me chasing after him, watching, waiting, hoping that one day, he will finally turn my way and sense that I am here. Weeks and weeks of longing for him to speak and acknowledge me. Anything. I will take any crumbs he decides to throw my way. That’s how anxious I am for his attention. Does that make me sound sad and desperate? Probably. But that’s because I am. I need him to want me, to be with me. It’s just how it is.
The group of bodies moves out of the church, their voices a gravelly murmur. People turning, speaking to one another, talking in hushed tones, heads dipped together respectfully.
Only when we are outside does the noise level return to normal, people’s whispers raised to their usual volume, their voices carrying over the warm air.
‘How’s your Mum? Still not well?’
‘Yes, John’s still working over at the big supermarket. Been there for over ten years now.’
‘Lovely session, don’t you think? Went really well.’
‘My arthritis is getting worse by the week. Don’t know how I managed to make it here today.’
The voices around me are no more than white noise as I scan the crowd for signs of him. He’s disappeared. No hanging around for idle chat; Peter has vanished from the throng, heading away from the crowd before anybody has a chance to engage him in conversation. I admire him, being unwilling to become embroiled in the pointless, boring minutiae of other people’s lives. The rest of us are all too polite to say no, to tell people that we have better things to do with our time than to stand and listen to their endless litany of ailments or be subjected to the mindless repetition of banal news about their lives; news that is insignificant and trivial to us and important only to them. We all have our damaged existences that we strive to conceal. Peter has his an
I wonder if he has noticed me watching him from afar? I don’t suppose he has. Why would he? He doesn’t know me. Or at least, I don’t think he does. I’m just another face in the crowd, another member of the group who is mourning the loss of somebody close to them. I know him, though. I definitely know him. We have a lot in common. It’s just that he doesn’t know it yet. For the past year, I’ve been wandering aimlessly through life, rudderless and confused, with nobody and nothing to assist me, to tell me that everything is going to be just fine. Nobody to stop me from collapsing in a heap. Until I realised that Peter attended the grieving sessions in church, that is. It gave me a purpose, knowing I could get close to him. It was a chance, possibly my only chance. Hope flourished within me. I had something to aim for, something tangible I could cling onto. Something that could turn my life around, make it worth living again.
Every week at the group sessions, I watch him: scrutinising his speech, his movements, every little thing about him. I need to know it all, to work him out, assess him. Become his judge and jury. Unlike me, he is able to speak coherently, to relax, converse with others in the group. Be himself.
I am not a gibbering wreck but choose to remain silent, convinced everyone can see my weaknesses and vulnerabilities, convinced they can see deep inside my soul, into the blackness that festers there, the simmering resentment at being left to cope on my own in this scary and often harsh and unforgiving world. Of course, we are all weak and vulnerable. That’s why we’re here. Peter stands out from the others. He’s stronger, capable. It makes me wonder why he’s here at all.
Every week as I watch him, I feel as if I am being drawn closer by an invisible strand. Each time I attend, I find myself trying that bit harder with my appearance, wearing more make-up, curling my hair. Not too much. Nothing too garish. It’s a therapy group, not a pick-up joint. I don’t want to turn up looking as if I am going clubbing. So instead, I wear perfume, brush my hair, do what I can to make myself noticeable and half decent without appearing too brash and brassy. Yet still he turns a blind eye, appearing to show little interest in anybody around him. Especially me.
I’ve never been particularly drawn to religion, finding churches often oppressive and unwelcoming, but knowing Peter would be there every week was enough to lure me through these doors and so here I am, trailing after him like a small child desperate for attention. And here he is, barely acknowledging my existence. I will keep trying however, and soon he will see me through his fog of misery and grief. Soon enough I will penetrate his armour, his invisible shield and then he will know who I am. I’ll make sure of it.
I take a walk through the graveyard behind the church. It’s peaceful here, filled with silence save for the whispering of the breeze through the trees and the distant chirrup of the birdsong. I like this place. It’s sobering, a space for reflection and serious thought. A space where I can be me.
I kneel on the ground, the soil wet beneath my flesh, and turn to the graveside. I empty the vase of stagnant, foul-smelling water, flecks of dirt spreading next to my feet, and refill it at the tap next to the fence, then pluck out the withered flowers and rearrange the ones that still look half decent and haven’t succumbed to age and decay, their stems still straight and not withered and wilting. It is as I am patting down the gravel that I hear his voice above me. It causes me to stop and suck in my breath. My skin prickles as I turn to see him standing next to me, looking down with a wry smile on his face. His eyes are dark and impenetrable, fathoms deep.
‘I see you take good care of these people. This is a well-tended grave.’
I sigh and suppress a smile as I stare up at him, scrambling to rise from my haunches and wiping my hands down the side of my trousers. It’s Peter. He’s here, speaking to me, watching me. Actually acknowledging my presence. At long last. I’ve put a lot of work into this moment and now here he is. Finally.
‘Thank you.’ My voice is a low murmur. I want to look away but am afraid of missing something. This moment has been a long time coming. I want to see everything. Every single movement, every blink and twitch, every breath that exits his body. I need to see it all. I’ve earned this. I can’t afford to make any mistakes, to lose this moment.
‘We’ve met before?’ He is smiling now, his eyes twinkling, his hand outstretched towards me.
I nod, trying to mask my enthusiasm, returning his smile. ‘Yes, we have.’ Surprised at how strong his grasp is, how cool and steady it is, I shake his hand. ‘At the counselling sessions in church.’ He’s taller than I remember, a good six feet, perhaps more.
‘I thought so. I knew you looked familiar.’
I want to tell him that I’ve been watching him for weeks and weeks and how has he not noticed me before now but remain silent, nodding instead and removing my clammy palm from his parchment-dry skin.
‘I’m not sure how much they’re helping, those sessions, but you never know with these things, do you?’ My voice is croaky in comparison to his mellifluous timbre and my is vision blurred. I blink away the film covering my eyes and clear my throat. He must think me an idiot, this man. An idiot who is standing awkwardly, gazing up at him like a forlorn schoolgirl in the presence of her latest crush. I pull back my shoulders and try to inject some authority into my stance, flexing my fingers and jutting out my chin. I’ve waited a long time for this moment. Too long.
‘I suppose you don’t,’ he says, looking away, his shoulders sagging slightly.
I stand, wondering what it is I’ve said. We were close to making a connection and now he has lost his initial impetus, his voice suddenly reedy and reserved. I need to get it back, that connection. I won’t lose it. I can’t. Letting it slip away isn’t an option.
‘I was wondering if you fancy a coffee? I mean,’ he says, his eyes darting about the row of gravestones, ‘only if you’re not too busy. Or we can do it another time…’ His voice trails off, his words swallowed by the fluttering of wings in a nearby tree. Two pigeons flap about on a branch, sending leaves falling to the floor. A grey feather floats through the air before landing at my feet. I bend down and pick it up, staring at it closely.
‘Isn’t that supposed to mean somebody who has passed away is thinking of you or is close by?’ He lowers his eyes, his gazed fixed on the feather clutched between my fingers.
‘An angel, apparently. From what I’ve heard, anyway. It means a guardian angel is watching over you.’ Even as I say it, it sounds frivolous and foolish. I close my fingers over the small, silky object and throw it onto the ground, a small amount of embarrassment taking hold in me, my face flushing hot. ‘An old wives’ tale. Simple, silly nonsense,’ I murmur as the crumpled feather blows away and is carried down the path and out of view by the warm, spring breeze.
‘So,’ I say, catching his eye again, ‘how about that coffee?’
He works as a chief sales engineer for a national company, has a daughter called Lauren and is missing his wife terribly. He tells me this as we sit by the window in a small café on Roland Street and nibble at our complimentary biscuits. But of course, I already know all of these things; it’s just that he doesn’t know that I know.
I remain silent, my lips sealed, giving nothing away. I wonder if he sees the real me? There is no sign that he has noticed. That’s good. It’s exactly how I want it: to be elusive. Alluring. Secretive. I am the consummate liar. The woman he thinks he knows. Not the woman I really am.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says, placing his cup down with a thud. ‘I’ve not given you a chance to tell me about yourself. I’ve prattled on and on like a selfish arse.’
‘It’s fine, honestly,’ I say softly. ‘I don’t lead such an interesting life anyway. Very little to report. No parents, no children, no partner. Just little old me.’ I shift my gaze to the window, staring outside to the azure, cloudless sky. It’s warm for springtime. Maybe we are in for a hot summer.
He sighs and folds his arms over his chest. ‘There must be something you can tell me about yourself.’ He pulls his chair closer and cocks his head to one side, grinning at me. ‘Come on, I’m listening now. I promise not to interrupt.’
