Hit and Run Maria Frankland (general ebook reader .txt) 📖

failed, and you sent a cyclist catapulting over a wall, would you just drive away and carry on with your day?”

“Perhaps they were going so fast that they didn’t realise?”

She half laughs. “Believe me, when you hit fifteen stone of person, and a push bike, you know about it. I expect their car is damaged too.”

I step towards the front door to let them out. My head is buzzing. There is no way I will get any sleep tonight.

“We’re going off shift soon.” She turns back to me. “But we’re passing these items on before we finish.” She nods towards the items PC Robinson is holding. “To the officers taking over the night shift. And they’ll also be studying nearby CCTV.”

“It sounds as though you’re doing all you can.”

“Oh yes. Tomorrow, we should know who killed your husband.”

* * *

Throughout the night,

whenever I have closed my eyes,

I have seen his body fly through the air.

Parted from the bike at the point of impact,

like one of those Evel Knievel motorbikes from the eighties.

Chapter 10

I wander around the house, picking things up and putting them in different places. Rob has always said that tidying this house comprises moving each pile of crap to a different place. It’s true. It’s always a clean house, but we have accumulated a lot of stuff between us.

I need to keep busy. I can’t shake Bryony out of my head. Why has she been repeatedly ringing my husband today? I wonder if she knows he is dead yet.

Eventually, the anguish drives me to grab my mobile and open Facebook. I’m not a big Facebook user. I follow Otley Chat, and an earlier post shows at the top of my newsfeed, asking why Denton Road is closed. I scroll down the thread, noticing several people have grumbled about the inconvenience and how it has made them late. Selfish sods.

Someone has then posted - have a heart you lot. A man has died there this morning. Then there’s an outpouring of do-gooder wishes and speculation who it might be and what has happened. I feel sick. Here’s our situation, out in the public domain, for people to pass the time of day with. They will then forget about it and it will become tomorrow’s chip paper as Grandma would say.

I don’t know Bryony’s surname. I type Bryony into the search bar and a whole list of them come up. I’ve seen her in passing a couple of times, so can quickly rule out the women listed. I click through to Rob’s profile page. His cover photo is one of the golf course, and his profile picture is one of Jack. Rob wasn’t a big Facebook user either. In fact, the last post from him was two months ago and was something crass about how Leeds United have done.

I scroll down his friends list and there she is, larger than life – Bryony Rose. Why does she have to have such a nice name? She’s one of these wholesome yoga and meditation types. I’ve always felt resentful of her. She smiles up from her profile picture and is so pretty that I hate her.

When Rob and I first got together, he carried on meeting Bryony for coffee for months. They even had yoga sessions together. I had to put my foot down. Who wants to get into a relationship with someone meeting their ex? I had offered to step back whilst he decided who it was that he wanted to spend his time with. I clarified that he couldn’t have both.

I had more kick-ass about me in those days. Rob promised he would stop seeing her, but now, it appears it was all rekindled. For a moment, anger absorbs my reality and I have to remind myself that he’s dead. Gone. I will never see him. Ever. Again.

I couldn’t understand why they’d split in the first place if they couldn’t bear to stay apart, but it was apparently all to do with finances. Rob told me Bryony was a liability and squandered everything they had. He had described her as ‘a non-conformist.’

When it came to money, Rob was as tight as a duck’s arse, so I imagine he would not have coped well with that. Since I’ve known him, he has been governed by money. As a paid-up member of the rat race, he made enough to cover bills and his lifestyle, but could never progress from that. He wanted financial freedom, but few ever achieve such a thing, working for an employer. So whilst he’d tell anyone who’d listen about his ambition and drive, the fifteen-year commitment he had shown Bracken Furniture told a different story.

In opposition to Bryony, who could never rub two pennies together, I had received nearly everything from my grandmother’s estate. Mum once told me that this is all Rob ever saw in me. Perhaps she was right. Maybe that is why Rob decided between Bryony and me so easily when I gave him an ultimatum.

I can’t believe Bryony and Rob are even Facebook friends. It is so blatant and out there, seeing it in black and white. Until recently, I’ve had no reason to check. I scroll down her page, hoping I don’t see any evidence of get-togethers between them, relaxing slightly when I see a photograph of her with a young girl. Then with a man. However, the caption reveals him to be her brother, and the girl appears to be her niece. I click onto her about information. Because she offers yoga and meditation sessions, her number is publicly available. I copy and paste it into my contacts, listing her as Ex. Then I press call. Just when I think it’s going to voicemail, a syrupy-sweet voice says hello. I hate her voice too.

“Is that Bryony?”

“Speaking.”

“I want to know why you’ve been trying to ring my husband today.”

There’s a click as the line goes dead. I try again. Six rings later, voice mail kicks in. This is Bryony