display of genuine grief. Had Jill had no inkling at all of his infidelity, then? Even when he’d asked her to lie to the police, hadn’t she suspected a thing? And now, seeing her so broken, it was not just guilt that Hardy felt but a stronger emotion, something that he might once have called love.
‘Jilly,’ he began, ‘I’m so sorry, truly I am.’ Then, when she made no reply, Frank Hardy drew his wife’s hand away from her face and held it in his own. Jill’s shoulders heaved but she did not attempt to pull her hand out of his grasp as he had expected. Instead she raised her tear-filled eyes to his and spoke just one word.
‘Why?’
The lump in his throat made speech suddenly impossible and he leaned towards her, arms around her shoulders, holding her close and patting her back gently the way he had when her mother had died. Why had he let himself be beguiled by Cathy Pattison? Had her allure been something to do with a subconscious desire to cuckold a man he despised? Or had it been nothing more than an episode of male lust? In the cold light of dawn Frank Hardy saw his affair now for what it was. A stupid act of bravado. Stupid and thoughtless, he reminded himself, stroking Jill’s back. Had he ever really given his wife a second thought? Well, he would have to do that now, wouldn’t he? The whole sordid affair would come out as part of the investigation into Ed Pattison’s murder.
It was only a week until her husband’s birthday, Maggie realised with a slight sensation of alarm. One week to finalise all the arrangements. Mentally she ticked off what had already been done. The cake had been ordered from the Malmaison hotel and they were also providing champagne for a toast before the meal. All the invitations had gone out by email from her school address so that there could be no reply coming to the house. That had been underlined with SURPRISE PARTY put into bold lettering. Solly’s mother was due to arrive this coming weekend and Ma Brightman would be looking after baby Abigail while Solly and Rosie attended the celebrations. Maggie smiled to herself as she remembered Rosie’s words on the telephone.
‘What on earth am I going to wear? My boobs are still enormous from feeding her ladyship and my pre-baby clothes are way too tight,’ she’d cried.
‘Sounds like an excuse to go shopping,’ Maggie had suggested with a laugh. And Rosie had cheered up almost immediately.
Her own outfit was not such a problem. After all, she was supposed to be taking her husband out for a posh meal for his fortieth birthday so a new dress would not arouse any suspicions on Bill’s part. In fact Maggie had splashed out on a red and black two-piece, the silky pencil skirt hugging her figure in all the right places, the top belted in matching fabric to show off her tiny waist. She’d even purchased some nice costume jewellery from a case at the counter, no doubt positioned to tempt customers into a spur-of-the-moment decision to complete their outfit. There was something a little naughty about the feeling of spending so much money in that exclusive west end boutique, watching the garments being folded carefully between layers of tissue, brazenly adding the jewellery to her credit card as if money was no object. And the shop assistant calling her Madam all the time! Such deferential attention was so at odds with how Maggie Lorimer was normally treated. Miss or Missus Lorimer, the kids called her, sometimes even Mum by a new first-year pupil in a moment of unself-conscious affection before the hoots of fellow classmates made him redden and correct himself. (It was always a wee boy who made that mistake, Maggie reminded herself. The girls were far too streetwise for any of that.)
Maggie put all thoughts of the impending party aside as she drew a new pile of marking towards her. Fifth-year prelims required to be marked and handed back by the end of this week so she’d have her work cut out to finish them in time. Sometimes it was good having a policeman husband who worked late hours. And, with no family demanding she be home at a certain time, Maggie could stay behind and do her marking and preparation hours after many of her colleagues had gone home.
Barbara Knox frowned as she logged into SID, the Scottish