**Betrayal**
The end of September had been unusually warm and dry, but everyone knew the chill would come soon—along with the dreary, relentless rain. Autumn weather was nothing if not unpredictable. “I really should get to the cottage,” Vera sighed, dialling her husband’s number yet again. “Once the rains start, the lane will turn to slurry, and we won’t get out there until the frost sets in.”
“Vera Victoria, could I slip out an hour early? Mum’s asked me to run her to the allotment,” pleaded Sylvia from Accounting, her eyebrows arched in that pleading, kittenish way.
“Wish I could do the same. Fine, but Monday—on time, no excuses. And no sudden sick days, understood? Or I won’t be so lenient next time,” Vera said, feigning sternness.
“Thank you, Vera Victoria! I’ll be here bright and early, promise!” Sylvia’s face instantly brightened, her eyes sparkling as she darted to the coat rack, snatched her jacket, and whisked herself out the door.
*Cheeky thing—already had her computer off and handbag ready. Knew I’d say yes. But where’s John?* Vera redialled, but again, that infuriating automated voice informed her the phone was “switched off or out of coverage.” *No matter. Tomorrow, he’s coming with me whether he likes it or not. Mum’s birthday’s coming up—potatoes to dig, jars of pickles to fetch…*
She set the phone aside, nudged the mouse to wake her drowsy computer, and buried herself in the spreadsheet glaring from the screen.
When the phone rang, she answered without checking the caller ID, relief flooding her. “John! Why’s your phone off? I’ve been calling all—”
“Apologies, this is Detective Constable Slater,” a stranger’s voice cut in.
It was so abrupt, and the name *Slater* threw her enough that she wondered if she’d misheard.
“John, where are you?” she asked warily.
“Are you the wife of John William Thompson? How should I address you?”
“Vera Victoria—” She choked mid-sentence, coughing. “Just Vera. Where’s John?” Her heart hammered, sensing something horribly amiss.
“Could you come to St. Mary’s Hospital? I’ll meet you in A&E,” the man said.
“*Why* the hospital? What’s happened to John?” Vera shrieked.
“I’ll be waiting,” he replied, and the line went dead.
She tried calling back, but the number was engaged. Her fingers trembled as she fumbled with the mouse, missing the close button repeatedly before finally shutting the computer down. Snatching her bag and coat, she bolted from the office.
Horrific scenarios swirled—John in a car crash, coma, or worse. *No, he’s alive. They’d have sent me to the morgue otherwise. Of course he’s alive.*
Too frazzled to recall which bus went to the hospital, she stepped into the road, arm out, and flagged down a cab. Ten minutes later, she sprinted across the hospital grounds, pulse racing.
“I’m John Thompson’s wife!” she gasped, staggering into A&E.
A tall man in his forties stood and approached. He introduced himself again, but Vera’s patience snapped. Why did she care about his name when all she needed was to see John, to confirm he was alive, to be with him?
“Come with me,” Slater finally said, gesturing toward the exit.
Bewildered, Vera followed. Surely all hospital wards were accessed through A&E? Instead, he led her around the building to a long, single-storey brick structure. He paused at the door.
“Sorry I didn’t say earlier. People react… differently.”
Her gaze landed on the blue placard: *Coroner’s Office – Forensic Pathology*. Her legs 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 traced you through his contacts. Sit down.” He guided her to a bench. Her legs refused to hold her.
“I called, and he was already—”
“Your husband wasn’t at work today,” Slater said gently.
“That’s impossible. He had an audit—he *told* me.” She wasn’t asking; she was thinking aloud.
“Your neighbour at the cottage spotted a car on your plot this morning. Thought it odd you’d visit midweek. At lunch, he knocked—no answer. No response to calls. He didn’t have your number, so he waited, then rang the police. Squatters sometimes target empty places.”
“Was he… murdered?” Vera’s mind spun.
“No signs of violence. Preliminary findings suggest carbon monoxide poisoning.”
“Wait—Uncle Geoff thought *we* were at the cottage. So he saw John with a woman?” Vera stared blankly.
“Yes. Emily Louise Carter. Does the name ring a bell?”
Vera squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. “No. It’s not possible.”
It was worse than she’d imagined. Twenty-one years together. Their anniversary in November. Friends envied her—*John was the loyal one.* Even she’d believed it. The humiliation burned. She buried her face in her hands, swaying.
“You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. We’ll avoid publicity, but someone at his workplace might’ve known where he went—and with whom.”
Vera lowered her hands, staring. “You said that out loud.”
“We need you to formally identify him. Whenever you’re ready.”
She clung to the shred of hope. *Maybe it’s not John. Maybe his car was stolen, or he lent it to someone…*
“I’m ready.” She stood, inhaling sharply, as if bracing for a plunge.
But the moment they entered that room—white sheets draped over silent forms—her courage vanished. She couldn’t look. *Won’t.*
“Is this your husband?” Slater’s voice reached her. She lowered her eyes.
Later, on the bench outside, she couldn’t tell if John’s ashen face had been real or a hallucination. Slater waved smelling salts under her nose, and she recoiled.
“Feeling steadier? I’ll drive you home.” He helped her up.
Her legs wobbled like jelly as he guided her to the car. Fragments of his words drifted past: *Tests… inform you when the body’s released…*
“*Body.* Not my husband anymore,” Vera whispered, resting her head against the window.
At the flat, Slater sat her on the hallway stool, helped her out of her coat and shoes, then steered her to the kitchen. She watched, numb, as he rummaged through cupboards, fetched glasses, and poured brandy from the fridge. He made her drink it straight. The burn stole her breath; she coughed, then the tears came.
She wept uncontrollably. He poured another. Then he led her to the sofa, draped a blanket over her, and let oblivion take her.
Time dissolved. When a knock woke her, she stumbled to the door, tangled in the blanket. She had no idea what day it was, how long she’d slept. Seeing Slater on the threshold, she hunched and shuffled back to the sofa, aged in an instant. Part of her had hoped it was all a nightmare—that John would walk in any moment.
She heard Slater clattering in the kitchen, the fridge door thudding, but she didn’t care. When he nudged her up and to the table, a bowl of steaming soup waited. She realised she hadn’t eaten in days. Certain she’d choke, she devoured it, then gulped scalding tea.
“Better. Some colour in your cheeks,” Slater said. “The report’s confirmed—carbon monoxide poisoning. Nights are chilly now. He lit the stove, probably shut the flue too early.” He treaded carefully, omitting the other woman.
“Any family or friends who can help with arrangements?”
“Mum. And my son—military academy in Edinburgh. God, when he finds out how his father—” Vera shook her head.
“Want me to call? They’ll grant leave for the funeral.”
“Yes, please,” she murmured. “Did she… have a family? Children?”
“Doubt it. She was only twenty-five. Try not to dwell on it. I should go—you’ll manage?” He stood.
“Stay. Just a little longer,” Vera begged, terrified of the empty flat.
He sat. “I’ve been in a similar spot. Less tragic, though.” He steered clear of tears or questions. “Married young, at uni. Mum wanted me in finance. I dreamed of CID since childhood. ‘*Our job is risky and tough…*’” He hummed the old police show tune. “Remember?”
“Graduated to please her, but joined the force anyway. Compromise, eh? Warned Ellie—no weekends, no holidays. Thought the job was all car chases and heroThe next morning, as Vera stepped into the frost-kissed street, she realised grief was just another kind of weather—unpredictable, inescapable, but somehow survivable.
