**Betrayal**
The end of September turned out unseasonably warm and dry. Soon enough, the chill would set in, and the dreary autumn rains would start—English weather being as unpredictable as ever. *”I should really get to the cottage before the downpours begin. Once the roads turn to mud, we won’t get there until the first frost,”* sighed Vera, dialling her husband’s number yet again.
“Vera, could I slip out an hour early? Mum’s asked me to run her up to the cottage,” pleaded the office accountant, Sarah, her eyebrows arched in that hopeful way.
“Honestly, I’d love to leave early myself. Fine, but be here sharp on Monday—no ‘sudden illnesses,’ got it? Or next time, I won’t be so lenient,” Vera replied with mock sternness.
“Thank you so much, Vera! I’ll be here, promise.” Sarah’s face brightened instantly, her eyes sparkling as she grabbed her jacket and darted out.
*”She’d already packed up her things—knew I’d say yes. Clever girl. But where is John?”* Vera redialled, only to hear the same automated message: *”The number you are calling is unavailable.”* *”Fine. Tomorrow, no excuses—he’s coming with me to the cottage. Mum’s birthday’s coming up; we need to bring potatoes, pickles…”*
She set the phone down, nudged her mouse awake, and buried herself in the spreadsheet on-screen.
When her phone rang, she snatched it up without looking.
“John, why’s your phone off? I’ve been calling all—”
“Apologies, this is Detective Inspector…Smith,” interrupted an unfamiliar male voice.
The name threw her. *Smith?* Maybe she’d misheard.
“John, where are you?” she asked warily.
“Are you the wife of John William Harrow? How should I address you?”
“Vera…” Her throat tightened. “Just Vera. Where’s John?” Her heart drummed uneasily.
“Could you come to St. Mary’s Hospital? I’ll meet you in A&E.”
“Why the hospital? What’s wrong with John?” Her voice rose in panic.
“I’ll explain when you arrive.” The line went dead.
She tried calling back—busy. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the mouse, missing the exit button again and again. Finally, she powered off the computer, grabbed her bag and coat, and bolted.
Horrific images swarmed her mind: John in a crash, in a coma, or worse. *”No—they wouldn’t summon me to A&E if he were… gone. He’s alive.”*
Too frazzled for the bus, she flagged down a cab. Ten minutes later, she sprinted across the hospital grounds, breathless, and burst into A&E.
“I’m John Harrow’s wife!”
A tall, fortyish man rose from the desk. He introduced himself again, but Vera barely heard. *Why stall? Just take me to him.*
“Follow me,” he finally said, gesturing outside.
Confused—shouldn’t all hospital wards be accessed through A&E?—she trailed him to a long, single-storey brick building behind the main block. He paused at the door.
“Apologies for not saying sooner. People react… differently.”
Her gaze landed on the blue sign: *”Mortuary — Forensic Pathology.”* Her knees buckled, but his firm grip kept her upright.
“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.” He guided her to a bench. Her legs gave way.
“You see, your husband wasn’t at work today,” the inspector said gently.
“That’s impossible. He had an audit—he *told* me.” She wasn’t asking; she was reasoning aloud.
“Your neighbour at the cottage noticed a car there this morning. Found it odd, midweek. When no one answered the door, he called the police. Thought it might be squatters.”
“He was murdered?”
“No signs of foul play. Preliminary findings suggest carbon monoxide poisoning.”
“Wait—our neighbour thought *we’d* gone together? So he saw John with a woman?” Vera stared, bewildered.
“Yes. Her name was Emma Louise Carrington. Does that—?”
Vera squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. *”No. No.”*
Twenty-one years married. Their anniversary in November. Friends envied her—John was the devoted husband, the doting father. *She* had believed it, too. Shame burned through her. She buried her face in her hands, rocking.
“You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. We’ll avoid sensationalism. But someone at his office might’ve known where—and with whom—he went.”
She looked up, startled. Had she spoken aloud?
“We need formal identification. Take your time.”
His words became her lifeline. *”Maybe it’s not him. Maybe someone borrowed his car, and he’s home right now…”*
“I’m ready.” She stood, inhaling sharply.
But when they entered the cold room, the shapes beneath white sheets sapped her courage. She couldn’t look.
“Is this your husband?” Smith’s voice reached her. She lowered her gaze.
Later, on the mortuary steps, Vera wasn’t sure if she’d truly seen John’s ashen face or imagined it. Smith waved smelling salts under her nose.
“Can you walk? I’ll drive you home.”
She trembled, legs useless, as he helped her into the car. Fragments of his words registered—*”further tests… we’ll contact you… release the body.”*
*”Not ‘him’ anymore. Just a body.”* She leaned her head against the window.
Inside her flat, Smith sat her down, helped her off with her coat and shoes, and steered her to the kitchen. She watched, dazed, as he rummaged for glasses, poured a brandy. She gulped it, coughing as the alcohol scorched her throat—then the tears came.
She wept uncontrollably. He poured another, then led her to the sofa, tucking a blanket around her.
Time blurred. When the doorbell rang, she stumbled up, tangled in the blanket. Was it still the same day? Seeing Smith on her doorstep, she hunched, shuffling back to the sofa like an old woman. *She’d hoped it was all a nightmare, that John would walk in—*
She listened absently as Smith clattered in the kitchen. When he urged her up, a steaming bowl of soup waited. She hadn’t eaten in days. Expecting each bite to choke her, she finished it all, then sipped hot tea.
“Better. Some colour’s back,” he said. “The findings confirmed it—carbon monoxide. Nights are cold; the cottage was chilly. He must’ve blocked the flue too soon.” He worded it carefully, omitting the other woman.
“Is there family or friends who can help with arrangements?”
“My mum. My son—but he’s at Sandhurst. God, when he finds out his father—” She shook her head.
“Shall I call? They’ll grant leave for the funeral.”
“Yes, please,” she murmured. “Does *she*… have family?”
“Doubtful. She was only twenty-five. Try not to think of it. I should go—will you be alright?”
“Stay a bit longer,” she begged, dreading the empty flat.
He sat back down.
“Had a similar situation once. Less tragic.” He steered her from tears.
“Married my university sweetheart. Mum wanted me in finance. I dreamed of CID—*‘The job that’s never done’*—you know the tune?”
He chuckled dryly. “Compromised—got the degree, joined the force. Warned Helen: no weekends, no holidays. Young and daft, we thought love conquered all.”
He paused. “Got a cottage in the Cotswolds—parents left it. Always loved fishing. One lunch break, I raced there for gear. Door was locked from *inside*. Thought it was burglars.”
He touched his forehead. “Barged in—bloke swung an iron at me. Grazed my head. Ran off before I could catch him.”
“A burglar?” Vera asked.
“Of sorts. Wife and her lover. If not for that fishing trip, I’d never have known. With my job? I couldn’t trust her again.” He showed her the faint scar.
“Thank you—for the soup. For… everything.”
The funeral passed. Vera told everyone John died of a heart attack. Asked the neighbour, old Mr. Thompson, to keep quiet. Even convinced herself. Easier that way. Afterward, she boxed up John’s photos and sold the cottage.
Nearing New Year’s, she wandered the shops, hunting gifts for her team and her mother.
In the toy aisle, she spotted a man with a girl of about ten.
“Which one?” He held up a brown teddyThe girl beamed as Vera helped her choose a red dress with a delicate flounce, and when they all sat together over pizza, Vera realized—for the first time since that day at the mortuary—that the future might not be as empty as she’d feared.
