Chapter Thirty-Six
The following morning, I’d got up at around seven.
My head had felt heavy, as had my body. Probably due to lack of sleep. If any. Possibly I’d catnapped because I’d briefly wondered if the previous night’s row had simply been a horrendously vivid dream. I’d even tested such a possibility by calling out to my husband.
‘Peter? Are you there?’
There had been no reply.
Delaying the moment of going downstairs, I’d instead gone into the shower room and gone through the automatic motions of emptying my bladder. I’d splashed cold water on my face too.
As I’d looked up at my reflection in the mirror over the sink, shockwaves had reverberated through my body.
Okay, none of us ever look our best first thing in the morning, but I’d looked horrific.
My eyes had been bloodshot from tiredness.
Heavy mauve shadows had coloured the skin beneath, and my complexion had been ashen.
Straightening up, I’d known that I couldn’t prevaricate any longer.
Resisting making the bed or tidying the room – it had been imperative to show evidence of being in this room for several hours – I’d picked up my mobile.
And then slowly, very slowly, I’d made my way along the second landing and down the stairs.
I’d paused by the console table on the first-floor landing. Swallowing nervously, I’d dared to peer over the banister rail. I’d inhaled sharply at the sight of Peter. He’d been exactly as I’d left him. Except… this time there’d been a show of blood.
I can’t remember if I called my sister first, or the police, but at some point, there were two paramedics in my hallway, and two police officers – one male, one female.
I told no one about the little matter of a woman called Joyce Hatton.
Not even Sally when she and Alec arrived – mercifully alone.
The twins had apparently risen early and taken themselves back to university.
At that point, they’d been none the wiser.
‘I’ll look after her,’ Sally had declared to no one in particular. She’d looked shocked and out of sorts.
The policeman had been about my age. He’d spoken to me gently, rather like a grandfather talking to a small child. His colleague – a young woman with a pinched face and cold grey eyes – had been very different.
‘Mind if I take a look around?’ she’d asked, but her manner had implied she would anyway.
She’d gone into Peter’s study. Curious, I’d pulled away from Sally’s comforting arms and followed.
My heart had been pounding as the female officer had paused by Peter’s desk.
She’d studied his laptop. The machine had put itself into sleep mode.
The policewoman had reached out and jiggled the mouse.
‘What are you doing?’ I’d croaked, my mouth suddenly devoid of saliva.
‘Just looking,’ she’d shrugged. ‘Computers can give us clues.’
‘Clues?’ I’d whispered, as the screen had leapt into life. ‘What do you mean?’
I’d fully expected to see the Kingfisher Suite’s booking form flash into view… for Peter’s upcoming romantic trip with one Joyce Hatton to be revealed… and for this icy investigator to declare that I was nothing more than a jealous wife who’d sought the ultimate revenge – the murder of her husband.
Instead, it showed the sports page of a popular newspaper that Peter had liked to read online.
I’d gulped realising – in a split second – that Peter must have closed the original tab and opened another before he’d confronted me about being downstairs. He’d wanted to cover his tracks in case I’d walked past the study again and this time spotted what he’d been up to.
‘What I mean’ – the policewoman’s voice had been neutral – ‘is that looking at a computer sometimes builds a picture of what the deceased was doing before he died.’
At that moment, Sally had appeared alongside me.
‘It’s quite obvious what Peter was doing before he died,’ she’d declared.
‘Is it?’ The policewoman had raised one eyebrow.
Sally had been indignant.
‘Of course it is. Peter had been reading the news online before checking on his wife. Unfortunately, on his way upstairs, he either missed his footing, or tripped and had a fatal fall. I read somewhere that over a thousand people a year die from accidents involving stairs.’ Sally had squared her shoulders as she’d regarded the policewoman.
‘My sister had taken herself off to bed long before Peter’s tragic accident.
Earlier, Jen left my party suffering a migraine.
I know for a fact that she was fast asleep at the time of Peter’s death.
You can verify this quite easily. Look at Peter’s mobile.
My husband’s too. Peter texted Alec yesterday evening asking after his children.
Alec later responded by telephoning Peter.
You will see the call log on my husband’s phone.
In that conversation, Alec also asked after Jen.
Peter told my husband that Jen had taken herself off to the top of the house so she wouldn’t be disturbed.
And Peter added that Jen was out for the count.
So if you’re looking for some sort of foul play’ – Sally’s voice had quavered at that point – ‘you’re on the wrong path. ’
I’d exhaled shakily.
‘No foul play is suspected,’ the policewoman had said, although her eyes had bored into mine.
‘Then you don’t need to be in my brother-in-law’s study, do you?’ Sally had challenged.
At that point the paramedics had taken Peter away. The police had left soon after. In the days that followed, Sally, bless her, had barely let me out of her sight. She’d fielded everything, including breaking the horrific news to James and Joy.
I later discovered that Peter had suffered a severe impact to the head.
This had resulted in a brain injury along with significant cuts and bruises.
The edges of the stairs had created split skin and lacerations, and it wasn’t just his neck that had been broken.
He’d also suffered fractures to two ribs, broken his right ulna, and his right ankle.
And much later still, when I’d been in a better place – a saner place – I’d gone through Peter’s phone. Hacking his passcodes had always been a doddle. Either our birthdates or – on this occasion – the number sequence for Moonlight Manor’s electric gates.
Peter’s contacts hadn’t revealed anyone called Joyce Hatton. Nor had I found her on social media. Not even on Peter’s laptop.
I’d also telephoned the hotel regarding Peter’s booking of the Kingfisher Suite, posing as Joyce Hatton. My excuse to call had been on the grounds of having to cancel. But it had transpired that Peter had never completed the booking, so there’d been no reservation. At that point I’d hit a dead end.
Joyce Hatton had been an enigma.