Late September had been unusually warm and dry. The chill was just around the corner, and soon the dreary autumn rains would set in. The weather this time of year was so unpredictable. “I really must get to the cottage before the roads turn to mud,” sighed Vera, dialling her husband’s number for what felt like the hundredth time.
“Vera, love, could I pop off an hour early? Mum asked me to drop her at the cottage,” said Sarah, the accountant, her eyebrows tilting pleadingly as she gave Vera that hopeful look.
“Wish I could do the same. Fine, but be sharp on Monday—no dodgy sick notes, or that’s the last time I let you skip out early,” Vera said with mock sternness.
“Thank you, Vera! I’ll be here bright and early, promise!” Sarah’s whole face lit up as she snatched her jacket and darted out.
“Honestly, she’d already shut down her computer—knew I’d say yes,” Vera muttered. Then, frustration creeping in, she dialled Robert’s number again. Again, that same robotic voice: *The number you have dialled is currently unavailable.* “Fine. Tomorrow, he’s helping me at the cottage whether he likes it or not. Mum’s birthday’s coming—need to fetch potatoes, pickles, all that.”
She tossed her phone aside and shook the mouse, forcing her computer awake. When her phone rang a moment later, she didn’t even check the caller ID.
“Rob, why’s your phone off? I’ve been trying all day—”
“Sorry to interrupt. This is Detective Inspector Thompson,” said an unfamiliar voice.
Vera froze. The name threw her off—Thompson? Had she misheard?
“Rob, where *are* you?” she demanded, unease prickling.
“Are you Mrs. Vera Collins, wife of Robert Collins?” the man asked carefully.
“Yes—just Vera. Where is he?” Her chest tightened. Something was wrong.
“Could you come to St. George’s Hospital? I’ll meet you at A&E.”
“Why? What’s happened to Rob?” she nearly shouted.
“I’ll explain when you get here,” he said, and the line went dead.
She tried calling back—straight to voicemail. Hands shaking, she fumbled with the mouse, misclicking twice before finally shutting down. She grabbed her bag and coat, bolting out.
Horrific images flashed through her mind—Rob in a car crash, comatose, or worse. *No. If he were dead, they’d have said morgue, not hospital.* The thought barely steadied her.
Too frazzled to work out the bus route, she stepped into the street, arm out, and luckily flagged down a cab. Ten minutes later, she was sprinting across the hospital grounds toward the main entrance.
“I’m Robert Collins’ wife!” she gasped as she burst into A&E.
A tall man in his forties stood and approached. He introduced himself again, but Vera barely heard. Why was he stalling?
“Come with me,” he finally said, nodding toward the exit.
Confused, she followed. Why weren’t they going deeper into the hospital? Instead, he led her around the building to a low brick annex. He paused at the door.
“Apologies for not saying sooner. People react… differently.”
Her eyes locked onto the blue sign beside the entrance: *Mortuary – Forensic Pathology Unit.* Her knees buckled, but his grip steadied her.
“He’s… dead?” Her voice cracked. “I called him all day—wanted to go to the cottage. His phone was off.”
“His phone is how we found you. Sit.” He guided her to a bench. Her legs wouldn’t hold her.
“Your husband wasn’t at work today,” Thompson said gently.
“That’s impossible. He had an audit—he *told* me.” The words spilled out, more to herself than him.
“Your neighbour at the cottage spotted his car this morning. Odd, midweek. He knocked, got no answer, no sign of movement—called the police after waiting. You know how empty cottages attract squatters.”
“He was murdered?”
“No signs of violence. The coroner suspects carbon monoxide poisoning.”
Vera blinked. “Wait—Uncle Mark thought *we* were both there. So he saw Rob with a woman?”
“Yes. Eleanor Carter. Mean anything to you?”
Vera squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head.
*Impossible.*
Twenty-one years married. Their anniversary next month. Friends envied her perfect marriage. She’d believed it too. How *humiliating.* She buried her face in her hands, rocking.
“You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. We’ll keep it quiet, but word may spread from his office.”
She looked up, startled—had she said that aloud?
“We need positive ID. Only when you’re ready.”
His words hooked her. *Maybe it’s not him. Maybe he lent the car—maybe he’s home now.*
“I’m ready.” She stood, breath held like diving into cold water.
Inside, under white sheets, shapes lay still. Her courage crumbled. She couldn’t. *Wouldn’t.*
“Is this your husband?” Thompson asked.
Her gaze dropped.
Later, on the bench outside, she couldn’t recall if she’d truly seen Rob’s ashen face or just imagined it. Thompson waved smelling salts under her nose; she recoiled.
“Steady now. I’ll drive you home.”
Her body shook; her legs felt stuffed with wool. She let him bundle her into the car, catching fragments:
“Autopsy pending… we’ll notify when release is approved…”
*Not Robert. Just a body now.*
At home, Thompson sat her on the hallway stool, helped her off with her coat and shoes, then steered her to the kitchen. She watched, dazed, as he rummaged, pulling out cups and a bottle of brandy from the fridge. He made her drink it straight. The burn choked her, then the tears came—unstoppable.
He poured another, then led her to the sofa, tucking a blanket around her.
Time blurred. When the doorbell woke her, she stumbled free of the blanket, disoriented. Was it morning? Night? Seeing Thompson on the step, her shoulders sagged. She’d hoped—*prayed*—this was all a nightmare, that Rob would walk in laughing.
She heard him clattering in the kitchen, but didn’t care. When he coaxed her to the table, a steaming bowl of soup waited. She realised she hadn’t eaten in days. Expecting every bite to stick in her throat, she finished it all, then sipped hot tea.
“There. Some colour back,” Thompson said. “Final report confirms carbon monoxide. Cold nights—he lit the fire, probably shut the flue too soon.” He tactfully omitted the mistress.
“Family or friends who can help with arrangements?”
“Mum. And Tom—but he’s at Sandhurst. God, when he finds out his father…” She trailed off.
“Want me to call? They’ll grant leave for the funeral.”
“Please,” she murmured. “Did *she* have family?”
“Unlikely. She was only twenty-five. Try not to dwell. I should go—will you be alright?” He stood.
“Stay. Just a bit longer,” she begged, terrified of the empty flat.
He sat back down.
“Something similar happened to me. Not as tragic.” He hesitated, steering clear of delicate topics.
“Married straight out of uni. Mum wanted me to be an accountant—I’d dreamed of the Met since I was a boy. Compromised: got the degree, then joined the force.”
“Warned my wife—no holidays, no weekends. Thought the job would be like the telly. Young and daft. Thought love conquered all.”
He paused. “I’ve got a cottage in Kent, inherited. Love fishing there. One weekend, the brass sent me to escort some commissioner—a fishing fanatic. Rushed home midday to grab my gear. Front door was bolted from inside. Thought it was burglars.”
“I pounded. Door flies open—bloke swings an iron at me. Got my arms up just in time. He scarpered.”
“Thief?” Vera asked.
“Of a sort. Wife and her lover. Wouldn’t have known if not for that fishing trip. Couldn’t trust her after—not in my line of work. Divorced. Still have the scar.” He pushed back his fringe, revealing a faint line on his forehead.
“Thank you—for the soup, for… everything.”
The funeral passed. Vera told everyone Rob died of a heart attack. Asked Uncle Mark to keep quiet. Even *she* started believing it. Easier that way. Afterward, she boxed up his photos, sold the cottage.
Days before New Year’s, she wandered the shops, hunting for office Secret Santa gifts and something for Mum.
In the toy aisle, she spotted a man with a girl of about ten.
“Which one, then?” He held up a brown teddy and a pink rabbit.
“Don’t knowThe girl—Polly, she said her name was—grinned up at Vera, clutching the rabbit, and in that moment, Vera felt the first fragile flicker of something almost like hope.
