Page 9 of The Stranger in Room Six

Of course, I still want Gerald. I want him to explain about Karen. But most of all, I want to see that awful, wrinkled forehead of his. I might not have loved him, but I just need things to be normal again.

‘Just’. Such a small word that can mean so much and yet be utterly impossible.

The lawyer arrives. It’s a man. He seems kind; gentle. In fact, he reminds me of my gynaecologist – something that might make me smile if it weren’t for the circumstances.

Stammering, I tell him what happened. The anonymous phone call. The left-behind sandwiches. The office. The photograph. Coming across Gerald in the high street. Pushing him …

The lawyer listens silently, writing everything down. He says nothing but his face speaks volumes.

‘You don’t understand,’ I say urgently. ‘My husband wasn’t the type to have an affair. That woman, Karen. She must have been out for his money. So, if he had strayed, well, it wasn’t his fault. Gerald was sensible. Dull. Boring.’

He makes an ‘Is that why you killed him?’ face.

‘I didn’t want to hurt him,’ I add hastily. ‘I was just angry.’

I could also say that those dull and boring qualities, which had until today been so infuriating, now felt comforting. Grounding. Like rocks of stability that I would give anything to climb back onto.

‘There were witnesses, you say.’

I nod. ‘At least two men and … and that woman. Karen. I’m not going to be charged, am I?’

I’m conscious that my words are spilling out all over the place in my panic.

‘Mrs Wall, your husband is dead. We’re looking at a possible manslaughter charge.’

Slaughter? Visions of an abattoir come to mind. Then Gerald’s blood, spilling onto the pavement, onto my hands. Onto my clothes as I’d leaned over him, begging him – screaming at him – to open his eyes.

They put me in a police cell. There’s a raised block for a bed with a ripped plastic mattress. Nowhere else to sit.

I rock myself back and forth, hands cupped round my knees. Pictures flash through my mind like a horror family album. The hidden photograph in the desk. Gerald’s shocked response – ‘I can explain’ – confirming my deepest fears.

A policeman comes in and takes me to a room marked Visitors.

They’re here! My girls! Elspeth runs up to me, buries her head in my chest. Stares up at me with tears in her eyes, begging me silently to fix it; make everything all right as I have done on so many occasions: lost school uniform; mind-boggling maths homework; a row with her sister. ‘What happened, Mum?’

Gillian – always a daddy’s girl – hangs back by the door. Her eyes are stony.

‘There’s a woman outside. She’s telling everyone that you murdered Dad. Did you?’

A woman. Karen. The mistress.

‘No, I promise. It was an accident,’ I choke.

I try to explain but none of it makes sense. Why isn’t Gerald here to answer the questions that crowd my head? How could he do this? How could I have missed the signs?

There’s a knock on the door. ‘You’ve got another visitor, but you’re only allowed two at a time. They will have to go,’ the policewoman says, nodding at my daughters.

‘Who is it?’ I ask.

‘A Mr Imran Raj.’

I didn’t expect him to come – just the lawyer.

‘Who?’ asks Elspeth.

Gillian scowls. ‘He’s the one who wrote the letter.’

My stomach sinks with apprehension.

‘What letter?’ asks her sister.

‘The letter she was hiding in her underwear drawer. I found it when I was putting laundry away. Don’t deny it.’

‘I’m not,’ I whisper. ‘But it wasn’t what you think. Honestly.’