**Betrayal**
The end of September had been unseasonably warm and dry, but a chilly turn was imminent. Autumn weather could be fickle—any day now, the relentless rain would begin. “I must get to the cottage before the roads turn to mud,” sighed Vera, dialling her husband’s number yet again.
“Vera Victoria, may I leave an hour early? My mum asked me to drop her at the cottage.” Svetlana, the doe-eyed accountant, clasped her hands pleadingly, lips pursed in an exaggerated pout.
“Honestly, I’d like to leave early myself. Fine, but be here sharp on Monday—no ‘sudden colds,’ understood? Or next time, I won’t be so lenient,” Vera replied, feigning sternness.
“Oh, thank you, Vera Victoria! I’ll be on time, promise!” Svetlana’s face lit up as she scurried to the coat rack, grabbed her jacket, and slipped out.
*Cheeky thing—already had her computer off and handbag ready. Knew I’d say yes. But where is John?* Vera redialled, greeted again by the robotic voice: *”The number you are calling is unavailable—”* “Fine. Tomorrow, he’s coming to the cottage whether he likes it or not. Mum’s birthday’s soon—potatoes to dig, jars to fetch…”
Setting her phone aside, Vera jiggled the mouse, waking her sluggish computer, and buried herself in the spreadsheet onscreen.
When the phone rang, she snatched it up without checking.
“John, why is your phone off? I’ve been calling all—”
“Apologies—Detective Constable Smith speaking,” a stranger’s voice cut in.
The abruptness and the surname “Smith” threw her. Had she misheard?
“John, where are you?” she asked warily.
“Are you the wife of John William Holloway? How should I address you?”
“Vera Victoria—” She choked, coughing. “Just Vera. Where’s John?” Her pulse quickened—something was wrong.
“Could you come to St. Mary’s Hospital? I’ll meet you in A&E.”
“*Why* the hospital? What’s happened to John?” Her voice rose sharply.
“I’ll explain when you arrive,” the man said, then the line went dead.
She tried calling back—engaged. Hands trembling, she fumbled with the mouse, missing the “close” button three times before forcing a shutdown. Snatching her bag and trench coat, she bolted from the office.
Horrific images swarmed her mind—John in a car wreck, comatose after surgery, or worse. *No. If he were… gone, they’d have said “morgue,” not “hospital.” He’s alive.*
Too frazzled for buses, she stepped onto the road, arm out. A cab pulled over. Ten minutes later, she sprinted across the hospital car park, breathless.
“I’m John Holloway’s wife!” she gasped at the A&E desk.
A tall, forty-something man stood and approached. He reintroduced himself, but Vera barely listened. Why stall? She needed to see John—*now*.
“This way.” He gestured outside.
Confused—weren’t all wards accessed through A&E?—she followed as he led her around the building to a nondescript brick annexe. Pausing at the door, he turned to her.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say sooner. Reactions vary…”
Her gaze landed on the blue plaque: *”Coroner’s Office—Forensic Pathology.”* Her knees buckled, but his grip steadied her.
“He’s… gone?” Her voice cracked. “I called him all day—wanted to go to the cottage. His phone was off.”
“Yes, we found you through his contacts. Sit down.” He guided her to a bench. Her legs had turned to lead.
“But I called, and he was already—”
“He didn’t go to work today,” the detective said gently.
“That’s impossible. He had an audit—he *told* me.” She wasn’t asking; she was grasping at threads.
“Your cottage neighbour noticed a car there this morning. Odd for a weekday. At noon, he knocked—no answer. No one had your number, so he called the police. You know how squatters sometimes—”
“Was he *murdered*?”
“No signs of violence. Preliminary findings suggest carbon monoxide poisoning.”
“Wait—Uncle Dave thought *we* were there. So he saw John with… a woman?” Vera stared blankly.
“Yes. Emily Rebecca Thornhill. Does that name mean anything?”
Vera squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head.
“It’s not possible.”
It was worse than she’d imagined. Twenty-one years married. Their anniversary in November. Friends envied her—John was the *perfect* husband. Or so she’d thought. The shame burned. She covered her face, rocking slightly.
“You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. We’ll avoid a scandal, but colleagues might’ve known his plans.”
She dropped her hands, startled. Had she spoken aloud?
“Apologies. We need formal identification. Whenever you’re ready.”
His words became a lifeline. *Maybe it’s not John. Maybe someone stole his car…*
“I’m ready.” She stood, inhaling like before a dive.
But inside, the shapes under white sheets sapped her courage. She couldn’t look—wouldn’t.
“Is this your husband?” the detective asked. She lowered her eyes.
—
They sat outside the morgue. Had John’s face *really* been that grey? The detective waved ammonia under her nose; she recoiled.
“Better? I’ll drive you home.” He helped her up.
Her legs wobbled as he guided her into the car. Fragments of his speech reached her: “*Tests pending… We’ll contact you regarding the body…*”
*Not a husband. A body.* She leaned against the window, hollow.
Home, he sat her on the entryway stool, removed her coat and shoes, and steered her to the kitchen. Bewildered, she watched him rummage—cups, a brandy bottle from the fridge. He made her drink straight from the mug. The burn made her cough, then the tears came.
She wept uncontrollably. He poured another shot. Then, leading her to the sofa, he tucked a blanket around her.
Time dissolved. When a knock woke her, she stumbled to the door, tangled in the blanket. Was it still today? Had it all been a nightmare?
Detective Constable Smith stood there. Her shoulders sagged. She shuffled back to the sofa, aged overnight.
Pots clanged in the kitchen—he was cooking. She didn’t care. When he hauled her up, a steaming bowl of soup waited. She’d eaten nothing for days. Expecting to choke, she finished it all, then gulped hot tea.
“Much better. Some colour’s back,” he said. “The findings are confirmed—carbon monoxide poisoning. Cool nights, the cottage was cold. He lit the fireplace, probably closed the flue too soon.” He tactfully omitted the other woman.
“Any family or friends who can help with arrangements?”
“Mum. And our son—military academy in Edinburgh. God, when he learns his father was—” She trailed off.
“Shall I call the academy? They’ll grant leave for the funeral.”
“Yes, please. Does *she*… have family?”
“Unlikely. She was barely twenty-five. Don’t dwell on it. I should go—will you be alright?”
“Stay a little longer,” she begged, dreading the empty flat.
He sat back down.
“Something similar happened to me. Less tragic, but…” He spoke quickly, steering her from tears.
“Married young, at uni. Mum wanted me in finance. But I’d dreamed of the Met since childhood. *‘Our ‘service is dangerous and dear…’*” He hummed the old jingle. “Sound familiar?”
“I got the degree—her way—but joined the force. Compromise.”
“Warned Elena: no weekends, no holidays. We thought policing was romantic. Young and daft.”
“I’ve a cottage inherited from my parents. Riverside. Love fishing. Once, a superintendent—fellow angler—requested me as guide. My gear was there, so I dashed over at lunch.”
“Door locked from *inside*. I assumed burglars. Pounded—it flew open, and a bloke swung an iron at me. Blocked with my arms, but he bolted.”
“A thief?” Vera asked.
“Of sorts. Wife and her lover. If not for that fishing trip, I’d never have known. Couldn’t trust her after—not in my line of work. Divorced. Still have the scar.” He brushed his fringe aside.
“Thank you. For the soup. For… everything.”
—
The funeral came. Vera told everyone John died of a heart attack. Even pressed Uncle Dave to stay quiet. Almost believed it herself. Easier that way. Afterward, she boxed his photosThe following Christmas, as snow dusted London’s streets, Vera found herself laughing at one of Slava’s terrible jokes, a warmth in her chest she’d thought she’d lost forever.
