Prologue

The Wife

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My husband isn’t answering his phone. While not entirely out of character, it still makes anxiety flutter in my chest. On the train, I scroll back through our messages; Linden hasn’t responded since I left for Oakleaf Yoga Retreat yesterday morning. He’s supposed to collect me from the station when I arrive but, as the connecting train from Oxford to Bath was delayed by fifty minutes, I’ll be getting in much later than planned. Linden has no idea though, and all my calls are going unanswered. I’d be agitated if I had to wait around for him for an unknown stretch, but my husband has a more laissez‑faire approach to life. I try not to worry; he’d usually pop into the coffee shop across the road and settle himself down with a newspaper. I don’t know anyone else under forty who still buys the paper, but before his death, Linden’s uncle was a reporter for one of the big internationals, and the smell of ink reminds Linden of his childhood. Still, I try his number one more time. Again, he doesn’t answer.

    ‘Verity, is everything OK?’ asks Flora. She’s sitting across from me, surrounded by pamphlets for Oakleaf Yoga Retreat and all the notes she wrote during our visit. Being so young, I expected she’d work from her phone, but, like Linden, she’s an old soul, preferring pens and paper.

     ‘All good,’ I tell her with a too‑bright smile. I fire off one last message to Linden before sliding my phone onto the little table between us.

    The carriage isn’t as busy as expected, but then, it’s a Sunday in first class. In the seat adjacent to us is a man with polished leather shoes and a heavy, expensive watch, engrossed in his Kindle. A little further up is a rosy‑cheeked, mousy‑haired woman minding two immaculately behaved children, both dressed head to toe in Boden’s latest autumn collection. When she sees me looking, she smiles, and I smile back before picking up my phone to check for a reply from my husband. ‘Nothing,’ I say out loud. ‘Brilliant.’

    ‘Sorry?’ says Flora.

    I give her a distracted smile. ‘Just . . . Linden.’

     ‘Oh.’ She looks away and I put my phone down again, feeling restless. ‘So,’ she says, ‘are we going ahead with the Oakleaf collaboration?’

    I force the whirling anxiety to the back of my mind and concentrate on the task at hand. ‘I think so, yes. They’re a good fit. Their technology ban is on trend for the burnt‑out millennial.’ When I arrived at the retreat yesterday morning, I’m ashamed to say I felt naked without my mobile and, heart racing, kept patting myself down for it. Heidi, our in‑house graphic designer, eagerly handed over her devices. She’s been talking about this retreat for weeks. Though, as a mother of three, it’s a rare break from her hectic home life. ‘Let’s feature them on the website in November. See if we can get a Christmas discount for our subscribers.’

    We’re only half an hour from Bath now. Unusually, Linden hasn’t called to find out where I am and how long I’ve been delayed. I should’ve taken Heidi up on her offer of a lift since we’re all headed back to Somerset but as I live in Bath and she lives in Frome, she’d have had to drive twenty minutes out of her way. That, and her car is always littered with children’s toys and stray socks, and once, there was a bottle of curdled breast milk forgotten under the passenger’s seat in the height of summer.

     ‘Thanks again for inviting me to join you this morning,’ says Flora.

     I pull a face. ‘Sorry I couldn’t get you in for the entire weekend. I needed Heidi with me to take the photographs.’

     ‘Oh, no worries. I had plans last night anyway.’ Before I can enquire, she adds, ‘My skin feels incredible after that Oakleaf mud bath.

    ‘Still happy to write up a review of their treatments?’

    She nods. ‘Absolutely.’

    ‘Do you think you can get the first draft to me by Friday?’

    Another enthusiastic nod.

    Flora has been my assistant for the last year but her ambition lies in content creation. It’s a shame; I don’t know what I’d do without her as an assistant but if I want to keep her at Verity Rose at all, I need to let her branch out. Still, my head aches with the prospect of finding a replacement – all those awkward interviews and sweaty, overly eager candidates.

    Flora goes back to scribbling in her notebook. Her teeth bite into her full lower lip as she writes. She’s attractive, with her long red hair and pretty green eyes. She’s self‑assured, but inexperienced. Idealistic, but talented. And twenty‑three. So young. Though I am only seven years her senior, I feel old around her. Out of step. She is the sort of young that can drink cheap tequila and even cheaper wine, crawl home at four in the morning and wake up a few hours later, fresh‑faced and hangover‑free. So young that finding The One isn’t important. So young that there is enough time to fall in love again and again and make mistakes because, at twenty‑three, no decision will ever leave you stuck, truly stuck, on a path you no longer want to walk.

    I think about the girl I was at twenty‑three, so different from the woman I am now.

    Flora is bright. Brighter than I was at her age. She’s Oxbridge‑ educated but, unfortunately, that isn’t what will open doors for her in life. It’s her shapely legs and smooth, dewy skin, because whether we like it or not, sex still sells. Of course, being a young, attractive woman in the workplace isn’t always easy. It can breed jealousy among the older women who eye your bare legs in a heatwave and still make comments like, ‘Just looking at you makes me feel cold.’ Not because they are concerned, but because they are jealous, threatened by someone they feel is more desirable. And the men are worse. The ones who patronise. Who lean in a little too close. Who leer at your bare legs, not with jealousy, but with something darker and stickier. Then blame you for their unwanted attention because you had the audacity to wear a skirt in summer. Flora doesn’t realise how lucky she is to work for a website run by women, for women.

    When I started my lifestyle blog from my bedroom six years ago, I never imagined it would grow into a household name. What was once interior design tips and smoothie recipes read by only a handful of people and solely managed by me, is now a global well‑being and lifestyle website, dealing in topics from home decor to sex and relationships, from culture to health and beauty. I still do the bulk of the writing, but we’ve worked with renowned guest writers and partnered with huge brands. Verity Rose expanded so quickly that two years ago, I had to put together a small team: a marketing manager, a graphic designer, an assistant.

    I look out at the darkening, rain‑laden clouds. It’s mid‑September. The summer heat has waned quickly and there’s a chill in the air. Without Linden to collect me, I’ll be stuck waiting for a taxi without a coat. I pull my phone towards me. As anticipated, no call.

    ‘Sure you’re all right?’ presses Flora.

    I stare at my seven unanswered messages and finally, I shake my head. ‘Linden isn’t responding. It’s just . . . unusual.’

    She wrinkles her nose. ‘Oh. Well, maybe he fell asleep?’

    ‘Perhaps,’ I say, even though at 6 p.m. it’s unlikely.

    ‘Could someone check on him? If he’s taking a nap, the doorbell might be enough to wake him.’

    I nod, thinking of Mimi. We live on a private road, set back from the main thoroughfare, separated by a low stone wall and a row of tall evergreen trees. There are only two houses on Rook Lane. Windermere, which is ours, and Ullswater, which is Mimi’s. As a freelance book translator, she works from home. If it were a weekday, I’d be confident she’d be there, but Mimi fills her weekends with an eclectic mix of hobbies, from pottery classes to archery. She says it’s because she has a broad spectrum of interests, but the death of her mother three years ago and the breakdown of a long‑term relationship a few months before that has left her with a void.

    I’m surprised when she answers on the fifth ring. ‘I’m just coming back from this fantastic cooking class,’ she enthuses, as though we are mid‑conversation. ‘When you come over for supper tomorrow, you’re going to dine on the most incredible gnocchi you’ve ever eaten. It’s so good, you’ll think you’re in northern Italy.’

    Despite my churning unease, I smile. ‘You are Italian. Didn’t you already know how to make gnocchi?’

     ‘Half Italian, and yes, but the teacher didn’t know that and now I am the star of the class,’ she sing‑songs.

     ‘Naturally,’ I say. ‘Look, Mimi, can you do me a favour and please pop round to check on Linden?’

    She’s driving. I hear the rhythmic clicking of her indicator. ‘Why?’

    ‘He isn’t picking up his phone and he’s supposed to collect me from the station. I’m delayed.’

    Silence. ‘You mean . . . you aren’t home?’

    ‘No. I’ve been at Oakleaf Yoga Retreat since Saturday morning. Why?’

    ‘Oh. I thought . . .’ She trails off.

    My pulse kicks. ‘Thought what?’

    ‘Nothing. I just . . . I didn’t realise Linden was home alone.’

    ‘Well, at thirty‑seven, I tend to trust him not to run with scissors or open the door to strangers late at night,’ I deadpan. ‘There’s that Verity Lockwood charm,’ she teases. ‘Maybe he left his phone behind when he drove out to get you? He’s probably waiting at Café au Lait with a newspaper.’

    ‘Left his phone at home . . . of course,’ I say, unconvinced. He’s a perpetual scroller and wouldn’t last five minutes without his phone in his hand. ‘I didn’t even think of that.’

    More silence. ‘You’re worrying, aren’t you?’ she asks.

    ‘No,’ I lie.

    ‘You are, aren’t you?’ she presses.

    ‘I mean, Linden’s fit. He takes care of himself. It’s not as though he’d have suffered a heart attack or stroke. But a fall down the stairs or slipping in the shower . . .’ I wince.

    She sighs. ‘I’ll be home in ten and then I’ll head over.’

    Relief sweeps through me. ‘You sure?’

    ‘I’ve got a key. It will only take a couple of minutes.’

    ‘Thank you.’

    ‘But Verity? Text him so he knows I’m coming round. I don’t want him jumping down my throat the second he sees me.’

    When I ring off, I send Linden another message, warning him to expect Mimi. He doesn’t like that she has a key. Just as he doesn’t like how much time Mimi and I spend together. For the most part, my husband is effusive; just occasionally though, he is sullen, borderline sulky. Quality time is important to him, important to any successful relationship, but lately, between running Verity Rose, keeping on top of the house, exercising and juggling a busy social life, it’s a tight schedule, and Linden feels he doesn’t get a large enough portion of it. He wasn’t overjoyed about me going away to Oakleaf for the weekend, but it’s a big brand and I needed to check it out for myself before recommending it to our audience. It’s not that I don’t trust my team’s opinion, it’s just . . . Verity Rose is my baby. My only baby. And, as expected, handing it over to others is challenging. Like I’ve told Linden, one day, in the next few years, I can step back a little more.

    By the time we disembark, I still haven’t heard from Linden or from Mimi.

    Distracted, I wheel my suitcase through the crowd, catching people’s heels as I weave in and out. Flora jogs to keep up. I can’t slow. Can’t shake the crawling sense of disquiet. Just as I thought, Linden isn’t milling in the foyer and he isn’t standing outside on the street either.

    People scuttle along the pavement in a steady stream. I stand on my tiptoes, scanning the crowd for his golden head, his tall, lean frame. He isn’t here. Still, I decide to duck into Café au Lait. Too impatient to wait for the green light, I stride into the flow of slow‑moving traffic. A cyclist slams on his brakes and yells at me. I don’t so much as glance his way. Flora staggers after me. She’s talking, but I can’t hear her over the rush of blood in my ears as I stand in the café and see that Linden isn’t at a table with a newspaper.

    ‘Shall we share a taxi?’ asks Flora. ‘It will be quicker than the bus.’

    As we approach the house, I feel sick with dread. Flora is wittering on about Oakleaf, probably to distract me, and I fight down the urge to snap at her. Mimi should’ve been in touch by now.

    ‘Left,’ I instruct the driver. ‘Just here.’

    It’s a tight turn, missed by most. He swings onto our road. Our house is a double‑fronted Georgian affair in Bath’s signature cream stone. Far too big for just the two of us, but Linden was really taken with it. It looms into view. Its large bay windows like two wide, petrified eyes. The black front door like an open, screaming mouth. We pull up and I pay the driver. I’m just climbing out of the taxi when the front door of my house is flung wide. Mimi hurtles onto the driveway, shrieking. A continuous, high‑pitched, blood‑curdling cry of fear. I stumble towards her. Mimi crashes into me, her dark curls coming loose from her bun.

    ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

    Her huge hazel eyes find mine. They are glazed over in horror. She is trembling. Violently trembling. ‘Police!’ she manages. Then louder, ‘Police!’

    I am vaguely aware of people behind me. A man’s voice at my back. ‘I’ll call them, love. What’s happened?’

    Mimi starts sobbing. Thick, clotted cries of terror.

    I grab her arm. ‘Mimi, what is it?’

    But she bends over double and retches. Then she is on her knees, vomiting onto the pavement. I look towards the house.

Linden.

    I dart around her. ‘Verity, no!’ shouts Flora.

    Ignoring her, I race along the path, up the stone steps and tumble into the house through the open front door. I skid to a halt in the foyer. I stop and listen. Silence. The kind that settles over mouldering bones in a graveyard. To my left is his study. To my right is the lounge. Ahead of me is the entrance to the kitchen. Only one of the doors is open. I pivot slowly towards the lounge. I feel my pulse in my fingertips as I step inside.

    Something squelches underfoot. I look down. My black leather boot is in a puddle of dark, sticky blood. With a hot rush of horror, my gaze lands on Linden. He’s in a heap on the wooden floor in front of the fireplace. One arm is down by his side, the other stretched out in front of him, as though reaching for the door. I stare at that hand. It takes me a moment to realise there is a hole in his palm. Raw and bloodied. Something has been stabbed through it. Blood is spattered up the walls and matts his golden hair, pooling beneath him. His face is turned to one side. His head littered with ugly gashes. His nose broken, bent at an unusual angle, and swollen like a pig’s snout.

    The truth sinks in slowly, like a blade into my chest: he’s dead.

    My husband has been murdered.