looked down at the card for ‘Liam O’Neill, Freelance Journalist’, and felt bile building in the back of her throat. So that’s why he was so interested in the details of the big day. Alice left the card where it was.
‘People will want to hear your story, Alice. I’m sorry if I misled you to begin with. You should know that I’m on your side with this. I don’t really think you knew what your husband was capable of, but to learn about what he’d done on your wedding day, it beggars belief.’ He paused, allowing her to process. ‘The story will get out, as these things do. It’s up to you whether people hear your side of it, or an amalgamation of other eye witness accounts and suppositions. Think about it.’
‘Here’s your receipt,’ the receptionist said, offering the sheet of paper to Alice.
‘All checked out?’ Ben’s voice suddenly said over her shoulder.
Turning, Alice was relieved to see him, and reached for his hand, pulling him closer.
‘Is everything okay?’ he asked. ‘You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.’
She turned back to point out the grubby little journalist, but saw that he had scarpered.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘Is the car all packed?’
‘Yep, and I even stopped by to speak to your mum, just to reassure her that I’m sorting everything. She wasn’t happy, but she listened to what I had to say. I suggested she come round tonight, unless you’ve changed your mind about the flights.’
The thought of escaping people like Liam O’Neill suddenly sounded very appealing, but then how would it look if she left Ben to face the music alone?
‘Let’s just go home, I’ve got a pounding headache. I feel like everyone is watching us, and I’d rather be somewhere alone.’
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and led her outside to where the taxi was waiting. Dave, Scott and Abdul were the only guests gathered to wish the bride and groom on their way.
Taking one final look at the venue that had promised so much joy and happiness, Alice wondered whether they had seen the last of Liam O’Neill, or whether he would just be the first in a long line of people wanting a piece of their lives.
Silence descended on the car journey through the New Forest, passing wild ponies, donkeys, and tourists making the most of the luscious summer heat. Families sat on picnic blankets, enjoying good food and conversation, while children hunted for frogs and fairies in the undergrowth. The scene was picture-perfect, and Alice couldn’t help but imagine the day when she and Ben would load the car with their own children and head out into the wilds of the countryside.
Despite patches of heavy traffic, they made it back to the village of Chilworth, a stone’s throw from the end of the M3 motorway, inside thirty minutes. A blue saloon car parked in front of the gates to the property greeted them as they turned onto their road. It had no formal markings, but even Alice could tell what profession its driver had.
‘Let’s just keep driving,’ Alice suggested. ‘Let’s not let them ruin another day.’ She meant every word. They could drive past the house and head to her mother’s or one of their friends’ houses – anywhere to keep the wolves at bay for a while longer.
Ben shook his head. ‘We can’t run forever.’ With that he pressed the remote control to open the automatic gates, instructing the taxi driver to go past the blue saloon and continue up the driveway.
To their right, the large house stood in all its glory, the view from the road blocked by the high fence and bushes, looking magnificent and modern as the sun reflected off the large windows. Despite the proximity to the motorway, only the slightest hum of traffic carried on the wind. To the left of the main building stood the brick enclosure housing the near‑Olympic‑size swimming pool and hot tub; to the right, the double garage containing her Audi and his Mercedes. Their bedroom was the largest in the centre of the first floor, with two smaller rooms each side; a sixth bedroom was downstairs towards the rear of the property.
Ben and the driver were first out of the car, and as the bags were removed from the boot, the blue saloon pulled up alongside them. Ben paid the driver and thanked him, waiting until the taxi was through the gates before closing them once more with the remote control.
He turned to Alice and whispered, ‘Why don’t you head inside, and leave me to deal with whoever this is?’
Alice pulled her handbag over her shoulder like a sash. ‘We’ll do this together. We’ll show them we’re united.’
The two plainclothes detectives exited the blue car, lifting their identification into the air.
The woman spoke first. ‘Ben Goodman? I’m DC Vanessa Hazelton, and this is my colleague, DC Wayne McTeal.’
‘What do you want?’ Ben asked defiantly. ‘I told you lot everything I know. I didn’t kill that poor girl.’
‘We’re not here to arrest you, Mr Goodman,’ Hazelton replied. ‘I believe DI Vernon would have informed you we need to collect the clothes you were wearing on Saturday night? That’s what we’re here to do.’
Hazelton had a quiet voice, but there was a determination in the tone that suggested she was used to getting what she wanted. A pretty face, her brown hair was cut short, giving her an androgynous look. If it weren’t for the two bulges in her pink blouse, it would be easy to mistake her for a teenager.
Alice followed Ben and the detectives through the front door. The high ceiling in the grand hall kept the room light and airy, but as they moved through to the kitchen, the sun’s rays on the large bifold doors meant the room was obnoxiously warm and stuffy. It had been three days since Alice was here last. Stepping to the panel on the wall, she adjusted the temperature on the thermostat and welcomed the cool rush of air as the ceiling fans kicked in.
Hazelton had followed Alice into the kitchen while Ben had taken McTeal upstairs.
‘Once we have the clothes bagged up, we’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of your weekend,’ Hazelton offered with an empathetic smile. ‘I assume Ben has told you why we took him to the station yesterday?’
‘Of course. We don’t keep secrets.’
Hazelton’s face remained passive.
‘He didn’t do it, you know,’ Alice suddenly blurted. ‘He told me he didn’t and I believe him.’
‘I’m in no position to disagree, Mrs Goodman.’
The comment threw Alice. ‘You don’t think he did it either?’
‘I’m not paid to have an opinion. I just follow the evidence. With all due respect, Mrs Goodman, a young woman has been brutally murdered. Whomever was responsible is still out there, somewhere on the streets evading justice. He – or she – needs to be brought to justice, and before they do it again. Our only priority is finding this individual. Imagine if she was your best friend: wouldn’t you want us to do everything in our power to find her killer?’
Alice
