Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
GEORGIE
‘He’s dead?’ I ask. It’s not that I don’t believe it – more that I want to be sure.
PC Henshaw gives a grave nod. ‘I’m very sorry if this is upsetting for you, but we’re now going door to door to establish a timeline for his death. Were you close to the deceased?’
I shake my head at the same time as Nate nods. ‘We were friends,’ my husband says. ‘We played golf regularly and hung out at social events.’
There’s a need rising in me to correct Nate.
To backtrack and brush over. To tell PC Henshaw that it was only golf once or twice a month, and the social events four times a year.
Hardly besties. Hardly worth noting down our names or any connection we had to Jonny.
But I keep the words pinned inside. I have a habit of rambling when I’m nervous, but Nate hates it when I speak over him or correct him.
It’s one of the few things we’ve argued about during our marriage.
‘And when did you both last see Mr Wilson?’ the officer asks.
I swallow, trying to grab hold of my thoughts. Breathe, Georgie.
‘I saw him arrive home yesterday,’ I say as heat prickles my skin, burning me from the inside out. ‘I was on my way out to the school. We were hosting a PTA quiz night, and I was setting up for that.’ I grit my teeth, force myself not to say more.
PC Henshaw scribbles something in his notebook. ‘Time?’
‘Around six.’
Beside me, Nate clears his throat. ‘I had a text exchange with him after that. He wished me a good night at the quiz. That was around seven. I asked him if he wanted to play golf at the weekend, but he didn’t reply.’
‘And this quiz,’ PC Henshaw asks. ‘It was yesterday evening? You were both there?’ he asks.
I nod. ‘Most of Magnolia Close were there too. It was a fundraising event for the local school.’
‘I came back with a couple of the neighbours around nine thirty – Alistair Smith from number three and Marc Carter from number twelve. Georgie stayed to tidy up.’
‘I got back about eleven with Beth Smith and Tasha Carter,’ I confirm.
The officer makes another note.
‘How did he die?’ Nate asks.
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge that information. However, we are treating Mr Wilson’s death as suspicious. I will need to take your contact information, and you can expect a visit from the senior investigating officer in the coming days.’
My pulse pounds in my ears. This wasn’t an accident. This was murder.
Who would do this? I try to think. Maybe it was a break-in and something went wrong. Maybe one of the husbands of the women Jonny slept with found out what he was up to. Or maybe someone hated Jonny as much as I did.
For an awful moment, I think I say the words aloud, but Nate is reeling off our phone numbers for the officer and neither is staring at me.
I think of my walk to the school yesterday evening.
Me in my red sequinned dress and heels, carrying a box of quiz sheets and props and wishing I’d driven the short distance to the school.
Seeing Jonny’s car turn in as I’d reached the end of the private road.
Gritting my teeth as he pulled over and climbed out.
‘Wow, Georgie, you look stunning,’ he said, leaning close, his breath stinking of whisky despite the fact he was driving.
The slow wink, the shiver of fear that raced down my spine. And how much I wanted to kill him in that moment.
I fight the urge to slam the door shut. To race through the house and out into the garden and the cold night air. Last night I’d wished him dead. And now he is.