**Betrayal**
The end of September was unusually warm and dry in the little English town of Brampton, but everyone knew the chilly rains were just around the corner. Autumn weather liked to play tricks. *Best get to the cottage while the lanes are still passable,* thought Vera, sighing as she dialled her husband’s number for what felt like the hundredth time.
“Vera, could I slip out an hour early? Mum needs a lift to the allotment,” asked Sarah from Accounts, batting her lashes like a pleading kitten.
“Wish I could do the same,” Vera replied with mock sternness. “Fine. But be sharp on Monday—no ‘sudden flu,’ understood? Or I won’t be so lenient next time.”
“You’re an angel!” Sarah beamed, already shrugging on her jacket and darting out before Vera could change her mind.
*Clever girl—she’d already logged off and grabbed her bag. Knew I’d cave. But where’s David?* Vera redialled, only to hear the same automated drone: *“The number you are calling is unavailable…”* “Right, you’re not wriggling out of this tomorrow. Mum’s birthday’s coming up—potatoes to dig, jars to fetch…”
She tossed her phone aside, jiggled the mouse to wake her sluggish computer, and scowled at the spreadsheet glaring back at her.
When her phone rang again, she snatched it up without checking.
“David! Why’ve you gone off-grid all day? I’ve been—”
“Apologies, ma’am. Detective Sergeant Thomas here.”
The unfamiliar voice—and the name *Thomas*—threw her. Had she misheard?
“David, where are you?” she asked, uneasy.
“Are you Mrs. David Henderson? May I call you Vera?”
“That’s—yes,” she croaked, heart hammering. “Where is he?”
“Could you come to St. Mary’s Hospital? I’ll meet you at A&E.”
“Hospital? What’s happened to David?” she shrieked.
“I’ll explain when you arrive.” The line went dead.
She tried calling back, but the number was engaged. Her hands shook so badly she kept missing the cursor, fumbling to shut down her computer. Finally, she grabbed her handbag, yanked her coat from the rack, and bolted from the office.
Nightmare scenarios flashed through her mind—a car crash, a coma, or worse. *No, he’s alive. They’d have sent me to the morgue otherwise. He has to be.*
Too frazzled to recall the bus route, she stepped into the road and hailed the first car she saw. Ten minutes later, she sprinted across the hospital car park, breathless with dread.
“I’m David Henderson’s wife!” she gasped, bursting into A&E.
A tall man in his forties stood and approached. He reintroduced himself, but Vera barely heard. Why the formalities? She needed to see David—now.
“This way,” he said abruptly, nodding toward the exit.
Baffled, she followed. Why leave through A&E? Then he rounded the building, leading her to a grim, single-storey brick structure. He paused at the door.
“Apologies for not saying sooner. Reactions vary…”
Her gaze snagged on the sign beside the entrance: *Mortuary – Forensic Pathology.* Her knees buckled, but his firm grip steadied her.
“He’s… gone?” Her voice cracked. “I called him all day—wanted to go to the cottage. His phone was off.”
“We found you through his contacts. Sit.” He guided her to a bench. Her legs had turned to jelly.
“But I rang him… and he was already—”
“Your husband didn’t report to work today,” the detective said gently.
“That’s impossible. He’s got an audit—he told me himself.” The words spilled out, half protest, half disbelief.
“Your neighbour at the cottage spotted a car parked there this morning. Thought it odd for a weekday. When no one answered the door by noon, he called the police. Squatters sometimes—”
“Was he killed?” Vera interrupted.
“No signs of foul play. The coroner suspects carbon monoxide poisoning.”
“Wait—Uncle Ted thought *we’d* gone together? So he saw David with a woman?” Her voice trembled.
“Yes. Emily Carter. Does the name mean anything?”
Vera shut her eyes, shaking her head. “No. *No.*”
This was worse than she’d imagined. Twenty-one years married. Their anniversary next month. Friends envied her—David was the loyal one. *So was I,* she thought bitterly, covering her face as shame and grief crashed over her.
“You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. We’ll keep this discreet, but colleagues might’ve known his plans.”
She dropped her hands, startled. Had she said that aloud?
“We’ll need formal identification. Take your time.”
His words hooked onto a wild hope. *Could it be a mistake? Maybe it’s not him. Maybe someone borrowed his car…*
“I’m ready.” She stood, inhaling sharply like a diver before the plunge.
But the moment they stepped into that sterile room, the shapes beneath white sheets sapped her strength. She couldn’t look. *Wouldn’t.*
“Is this your husband?”
Her eyes fell.
——————
They sat outside on the bench. Vera wasn’t sure if David’s ashen face had been real or her mind’s cruel trick. DS Thomas waved smelling salts under her nose, and she flinched.
“Feeling steadier? I’ll drive you home.”
Her legs were lead. She let him bundle her into the car, catching fragments: *“Tests pending… We’ll notify you when the body’s released…”*
*Not ‘David.’ Just ‘the body.’* She rested her head against the window, numb.
Inside her flat, he sat her down, helped her off with her coat and shoes, then steered her to the kitchen. She watched, dazed, as he rummaged through cupboards, unearthed a bottle of whisky, and poured a measure into a mug.
“Drink.”
The burn made her cough, then the dam broke. Tears poured as he refilled the mug. Eventually, he led her to the sofa, tucked a blanket around her, and let exhaustion claim her.
Time blurred. When the doorbell jerked her awake, she stumbled up, hope flaring—*maybe it’s David*—only to sag at the sight of DS Thomas.
She shuffled back to the sofa, aged decades in days.
He clattered in the kitchen, then returned with steaming soup. “Eat.” To her surprise, she devoured it, chasing it with tea.
“That’s better. Bit of colour’s back.” He sat across from her. “The coroner confirmed it—carbon monoxide. The cottage was cold. He lit the fireplace, probably shut the flue too soon…” He treaded carefully, omitting *her.*
“Is there family who can help with arrangements?”
“My mum. And our son—military academy in Edinburgh. God, when he hears his father—” She trailed off.
“Shall I call? They’ll grant leave for the funeral.”
She nodded. “Did she… have family?”
“Doubt it. She was twenty-five. Try not to dwell.” He rose. “You’ll manage?”
“Stay. Just… a little longer.” The empty flat yawned behind her.
He sat again. “I’ve been where you are. Less tragically.” He hesitated. “Married my university sweetheart. Mum wanted me in finance. I joined the Met instead.” He hummed *The Bill* theme. “Compromise.”
“Romanticised the job?”
“Entirely. Warned Linda about the hours. Young and daft, we thought love conquered all.” He rubbed his brow. “Got a cottage in the Cotswolds—inherited it. Fishing spot. One weekend, the superintendant fancied a cast. I nipped home for gear at lunch… found the door locked from inside. Assumed burglars.”
He touched a faint scar. “Barged in—bloke cracked me with an iron. Ran off before I got a look. Turned out Linda had taken a lover. Never trusted her again. Divorced.”
Vera managed a thin smile. “Thanks for the soup. And… the story.”
——————
The funeral passed in a haze. Vera told everyone David died of a heart attack. Even begged Uncle Ted to keep quiet. Almost believed it herself. Easier that way. Afterwards, she boxed up his photos, sold the cottage.
Christmas shopping brought her to the toy aisle, where she spotted DS Thomas and a girl of about ten.
“Which?” He held up a brown teddy and a pink rabbit.
“Dunno, Uncle Tom. The rabbit’s prettier, but it’s girly,” the child mused.
“I’d pick the rabbit,” Vera said. *Tom? Thomas.* She’d never asked his first name.
The girl beamed. “Rabbit, thenThe last of her resistance melted as she watched him laugh with the little girl, and for the first time in months, Vera felt something lighter than grief—perhaps even the faintest glimmer of hope, like the first snowflake of winter settling softly on her heart.
