Page 65 of Perfect Wives
If there’s any paperwork in Jonny’s house that links us to the loan he gave Marc or the vineyard he wanted to invest in with him, I need to find it before Beth and Georgie do. Until we’re out of this nightmare with Keira, I can’t risk them turning their backs on me.
THIRTY-FIVE
BETH
We leave the car at the top of the road and slip through the gates, sticking to the shadows. Magnolia Close is quiet, lit only by the glow of porch lights and the ornate streetlamps. It’s nearly 7p.m. I told Alistair I’d be home by now. The dinner will be in the oven waiting for me, and all I want is to go home. My gaze drifts to our house. There’s a light on in the bathroom. He’ll be finishing up bath time with Henry.
Jonny’s house looms ahead. It looks darker now. Empty. Sinister. Like it’s absorbed the violence that happened inside. Georgie steps ahead. She reaches the front door like she’s done it a hundred times before – key in hand, no hesitation. It slides into the lock with a soft click, and then she’s inside, Tasha and I following a step behind.
Jonny’s house is cold. Someone must have turned the heating off. Tasha shivers beside me, her eyes distant. She hasn’t said much since the country lanes.
‘We can’t turn the lights on, so use the torches on your phones,’ Georgie says. ‘But keep them angled low so it’s not seen in the windows.’
There are times when Georgie’s ‘go get ’em’ attitude to life is overbearing, but right now, I’m grateful.
‘We should split up,’ Georgie adds. ‘Beth, you and Tasha check upstairs. I’ll start down here.’
‘No, I’ll take the living room,’ I reply, the words coming in a rush. I feel Georgie and Tasha’s eyes on me, but I keep my lips pinned shut and my head down as I move through the house. I can’t go upstairs again. Upstairs is where Jonny was murdered, and I’m already on edge. Every time I close my eyes, I see that runner – his face, the moment it turned from exertion to terror. The way my hands clenched the steering wheel. The seconds blur in my mind. It all happened so fast, but even before Tasha shouted, I was swerving. I wouldn’t have gone through with it. I couldn’t kill a stranger. An innocent man. No matter what the stakes are, I’m not that person.
The living room is minimalist. A white leather sofa. A glass coffee table. I hear the floorboards creak from the room above, where Georgie and Tasha are moving around. I focus on the drawers in front of me. One after another. Batteries and cables and a stack of old phones. Nothing incriminating. Nothing tucked away that says the three of us were involved in Jonny’s murder.
I search for a couple of minutes before there’s movement on the stairs. Two sets of footsteps. A moment later, Georgie is in the doorway. ‘Anything?’ she asks.
I shake my head. ‘You?’
‘No.’
‘We need to hurry,’ Tasha says, the panic making her breathless. ‘If we’re caught, there’s no way to explain it.’
The last drawer is filled with manuals to the sound system and a handful of kitchen appliances. No scarf of mine or gloves of Georgie’s. At the bottom, there’s a stack of photographs. I pick them up, angling my torch so I can look at each one. They’re the usual old holiday snaps. A younger Jonny on a beach, tanned and muscular. Jonny driving a speedboat, a bottle of beer inone hand. Jonny at a bar with friends. In every shot, there’s the same smug smile. My stomach knots. I swear I can smell his aftershave – always too strong, too much. That proprietary way he always stepped into my space.
I hear his voice then. After I let myself into his house that time to turn off his speakers. The gilded threat that he’d do the same. Then we saw each other again on the street in London.‘Hello, Beth. We must stop meeting like this.’
I feel sick. Heart racing. Mouth dry. I hate him. Even now. Even dead, I hate him. I move to the next photo and freeze.
‘Oh my God,’ I whisper. ‘Look at this.’
Georgie is by my side in a second. She grabs the photo from my hand like it’s on fire.
‘Oh,’ she says, like she was expecting something else. ‘It’s Keira.’
‘And Jonny,’ I add quietly.
Tasha joins us, peering over Georgie’s shoulder.
‘They knew each other?’ she says, blinking like she’s trying to make the image make sense.
I move closer, shining my torch onto the photo. It’s dark and a little blurry, but that’s Keira’s wide grin and that’s Jonny with his arm slung possessively around her. Both younger but unmistakably them.
‘She knew Jonny,’ Georgie mutters. ‘I’m surprised the police left these photos.’
It feels like a slow, creeping, awful realisation has started to wind around us. ‘This was never about her ex, was it?’ I say. ‘Or whoever that man was tonight. It was about Jonny. It was always about Jonny.’
‘If she knew him,’ Georgie says, ‘she probably had her own reasons for wanting him dead. We all did.’
‘So she saw an opportunity that night in the pub?’
Tasha shakes her head. ‘No. It was more than that. I remember at the time feeling like she’d overheard our conversation. It wasn’t just seeing an opportunity; it was seeking us out. Manipulating us.’ There’s a tremor in Tasha’s voice as she looks between us. ‘She knew we hated Jonny, and she used that. She saw a group of women drinking too much wine, all of us angry. And she saw a way to get what she wanted – and protect herself at the same time.’
