The Man She Married (ARC)

by Alison James

  I spend that first Christmas in the flat in Acton, pretending I’m up North with family, and as soon as I see Alice again, on New Year’s Eve, I close the deal. I can tell she thinks things are moving a little fast, but, from my point of view, there’s no merit in hanging around. In fact, I need to speed things up as much as possible.

  The body of the real Dominic Gill may have washed up by now but, as far as I can tell, has not yet been identified. I make sure I continue to string along his friends and his mother, Patricia. She phones occasionally, and I always have to find an excuse to text her rather than call her back. Patricia feels that a visit to London is on the cards, and I know I won’t be able to fob both her and Alice off forever. But, for now, I manage to gloss over the fact that Patricia and Simon were absent from the wedding.

  I’ve been sitting on a worrying email from my own mother though, at the new email address I set up once I reached London.

  I’ve been trying to call your mobile phone, multiple times, but I can’t get through. I know you told me email is best, but I’ve been worried, because your employers in Sydney called me. They said you hadn’t been into the office, you weren’t at home and they couldn’t get hold of you. I told them you were in Frankfurt, but they didn’t seem to know anything about that? Then, a couple of days later, I had a phone call from the police in Sydney. Is everything all right, son?

  I draft a reply telling her that someone at Spectrum Financial has got their wires crossed and that human resources must have screwed up, but I stop myself before pressing ‘send’. It might lead to Spectrum making more enquiries, and to the police redoubling their efforts to find me. Instead, I go into my settings and block my mother’s email address. After all, she’s out in the boonies in the Northern Territories, what’s she actually going to do? Even if she did know I was in London, which of course she doesn’t. Nobody does.

  * * *

  Things are settling down nicely, and I’m just starting to relax a little, when bloody Alice takes it on herself to go and visit Patricia Gill. I should have just told her about the cruise, something Patricia talks about in her regular texts. What’s now bloody obvious is that I can’t risk the two of them ever coming face-to-face: that will blow the whole thing up like an IED. So I ‘kill off’ Patricia while she’s still away on her cruise. I think my grief at her passing must be the best piece of acting I’ve ever pulled off.

  Then I set off to Newcastle. To finish her off for real.

  Twenty-Two

  Ben

  Then

  I’ve told Alice that the bag I’m taking up to Tyneside contains Patricia Gill’s ashes. It doesn’t, of course, because Patricia is – for now – very much alive. I know this because she’s texted Dominic to tell him she’s just arrived home after her cruise and she hopes to see him soon. Out of respect for her dead mother-in-law, Alice gives the bag a wide berth.

  I arrive at Newcastle Central dressed in my funeral suit and the black tie I bought on my last-minute shopping trip. In between buying the tie and picking up a takeaway from Alice’s favourite Chinese, I went to the chemist and bought syrup of ipecac, which I loaded into her red wine. Predictably, it caused a fit of uncontrollable nausea and vomiting and ensured she had to stay at home. When she claimed to feel a bit better the next morning, I tipped a bit more into her tea just to be sure she couldn’t come with me, then slipped the bottle into the bag containing the ‘ashes’.

  I take it out now and sling it into a bin. Also in the bag is a set of work overalls and a branded baseball cap from a few days’ work I did for a private security firm, along with some other bits and pieces. A couple of tools I might need if things get tricky, but I sincerely hope it won’t come to that. I go to the gents’ toilets at the station and change out of my suit and tie, folding them up and putting them into the bag for later. Then I set off to Ponteland, to visit my dear old ‘mum’.

  * * *

  Patricia Gill looks surprised and a little confused when she answers the door; a short, somewhat overweight woman with her hair neatly styled and a fresh Mediterranean tan.

  ‘Can I help you, pet?’

  ‘I’m here from Betasafe Securities,’ I say, pointing to my cap. ‘We’re doing a trial of a new security system in your area; totally free, no financial commitment.’

  She looks doubtful.

  ‘Can I come in a second?’ I invite myself over her threshold, giving her my most winning smile. ‘All it is, is a small piece of equipment installed in your loft space, like a sensor, which sends a signal to our head office in the case of a break-in. It’s a new technology we’re trialling.’

  She still looks doubtful. ‘There isn’t a loft space; this is a dormer bungalow.’

  I hadn’t thought of that but extemporise quickly. ‘I can still find somewhere on the top floor to put it… You won’t even know it’s there; it’s only tiny and it all works using infrared signals.’

  ‘And it’s free, you say?’

  I nod.

  ‘Well, I suppose so. As long as it doesn’t make a noise in the middle of the night.’

  ‘Shouldn’t do, if it’s working properly. But don’t worry, we’ll check that together… any chance of a cup of tea?’

  I actually much prefer coffee, but it’s early afternoon and she’s an elderly lady, so I reckon tea would be her usual option.

  ‘I was just about to put the kettle on,’ she says with a smile. ‘I’ll make a pot. How do you take yours?’

  ‘Milk and two, please.’ I go up to the top of the stairs with my bag, take out the tools and pretend to be fitting something. When I come down again, Patricia has set out two mugs of tea on the kitchen worktop and is stirring sugar into both her drink and mine.

  ‘Now,’ I say with a grin, ‘you go up there and tell me if you can notice anything different.’

  While she’s upstairs, I whip out a screw of crushed Nembutal tablets that I bought online and empty the powder into her drink. About 150mg – not enough to suggest poisoning, but enough to render her very sleepy. On the countertop, I notice that she’s already taking statins and a drug called metoprolol. I make a mental note of the name.

  ‘It’s very clever,’ she says, when she comes downstairs again. ‘You can’t see a thing.’

  We drink our tea and make small talk about the weather. She comments on my Scots accent and I tell her I’ve moved down to the North-East for work, like many of my fellow countrymen. After about fifteen minutes, her speech slows and her pupils constrict slightly.

  ‘Before I go,’ I suggest, ‘why don’t we go upstairs and I’ll run a live test? That way you know that the equipment isn’t going to make any sound.’

  She follows me up the steep staircase, stopping a few times to hold on to the banisters.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I enquire.

  ‘I’m just a little light-headed. Maybe I’ll have a bit of a lie-down. You’ll let yourself out, won’t you?

  ‘Of course,’ I say smoothly.

  When we reach the narrow landing, she stumbles.

  ‘Whoopsie!’ I say, as she loses her footing, and I reach out an arm. With a swift, single movement, I make as if to grab her but instead bring up my elbow and knock her backwards. She tumbles down the staircase with three rhythmic thumps, bangs her head hard against the wall and lands in the hallway at a strange angle. I wait, but there’s no movement. No one could survive their neck being in that position; I’m quite sure of it. But I step over her and press my fingers to her wrist just to be sure. No pulse.

  I go into the kitchen, put on her rubber gloves and wash out the mugs and teapot, placing them back in the cupboard. Then, shouldering my bag and with the peak of my cap down over my face, I let the front door deadlock behind me and walk quickly back to the main road. A bus for the City Centre passes me, and I flag it down and jump on, my cap still pulled firmly down over my face.

  In a way, I’ve done the woman a favour, I tell myself as I catch the train back to London after first changing back into
my suit and slinging the contents of the bag into a dumpster. I’ve googled metoprolol and it’s a beta blocker, used to treat high blood pressure and angina. Ironically, just as I told Alice at the time of her wedding, Patricia clearly had some sort of cardiac problem and could have succumbed to a stroke or a heart attack at any moment. All I’ve done is save her years more of infirmity and ill health.

  Patricia’s blessed release is one major problem dealt with. Little do I know that another, even bigger problem is about to rear its ugly head.

  * * *

  It happens in the summer, a few months after Patricia Gill’s sad demise. Things are going fine with Alice. Sure, she wouldn’t be my first choice given an open field, but we’re getting along well enough, and she’s not a bitch; not controlling or unreasonable. She’s happy to stop dyeing her hair and tone down her wardrobe, so she doesn’t draw attention. She’s not even much of a sticky beak, leaving me to largely do my own thing. So much so, that I set up an account in a fake name and venture back onto a dating app. Seems I just can’t help myself. Straight away I start exchanging messages with a super-attractive girl called Lara, and we meet up a few times.

  And wouldn’t you know it: on one of our meetings Alice spots us from a taxi when she’s heading to Heathrow. What are the bloody chances? I fob her off with a story about the woman being a party planner and pluck from the air the first name that comes into my head: Nicola Mayhew. Nicola Mayhew is an old dear who works at the office, but Alice doesn’t know that. It does mean I have to throw her a birthday party now, but that’s hardly the worst thing that could happen.

  After a relaxing summer break in Sardinia, things are back on track and I pick up with Lara again. After everything that’s happened, I’m extremely careful not to push things physically. I can’t risk her turning bunny-boiler. She plays hard to get and gives me the runaround for a few weeks, then she knocks me back. Little tease.

  I’m just about to log onto Furnace again when it happens. The problem that’s potentially as bad as my wife introducing herself to my ‘mother’.

  I hear from Holly again.

  * * *

  Holly was the lawyer turned call girl who went feral and had me blocked from Sydney’s online dating apps. And suddenly here she is, emailing me at Ellwood Archer. When I see her name pop up on my work PC, I instinctively know that this can only be bad news.

  Her email contains no text, just two attachments. The first is a report from the Sydney Morning Herald, concerning the death of Pearl Liu. It names me as a person of interest after I immediately flew to Europe, having been in the Bondi bar that night. It also says that detectives from the Serious Crime Directorate travelled first to Berlin and then on to London after examining CCTV images from Berlin Tegel airport. They hoped to bring me back for questioning but were unable to trace me.

  This is news to me. I haven’t dared google the case for fear of leaving a digital crumb trail, but here it is in black and white. The cops came looking for me but went away empty-handed. Of course they did. Because they were looking for an Australian citizen, or possibly someone using a fake ID they picked up in Germany. And I’m an Englishman called Dominic Gill. Holding down a good job and living with my lovely, respectable wife Alice.

  But the point is, Holly has made the connection between Dominic and me. And there’s worse to come. I know this without even opening the second attachment, because she’s sent her email to my work account. By which I mean, Dominic Gill’s work account. The file is a JPEG, taken at Ellwood Archer’s latest development in Abu Dhabi. I flew there for a site meeting and a photographer took a picture of us all for the client’s in-house newsletter. There I am on the far left of the group, grinning away in a suit and hard hat, with ‘From left to right: Dominic Gill, Ellwood Archer London…’ as the caption below.

  Shit.

  Holly leaves me sweating for a couple of days before she emails again.

  Hi… Dominic!

  Well, isn’t this interesting? A mate of mine was working on a job in Abu Dhabi and he posted this picture on Facebook. The joys of social media, eh?

  So: you’ve been a naughty boy again. Can’t help yourself.

  Speak soon!

  I email her one curt line.

  What do you want?

  She replies after another forty-eight hours.

  I’ve broken my pelvis in a car accident, and I can’t work. So if you want me to keep quiet, it’s going to cost you. $10,000 AUS per month should do it.

  I think about this for a while. After all, she doesn’t know for sure that I killed Pearl Liu. Nor does she know anything about the real Dominic Gill, or how my connection to him started. I call her bluff.

  No can do. I simply don’t have that much money.

  She must be going through a lean patch on the game, because it doesn’t take her long to lower her expectations.

  $5,000 a month.

  She adds details for a Commonwealth Bank account.

  On the one hand, this represents something of a break. I’ve got a way to keep her off my back. On the other hand, that’s going to take a large chunk of my salary. Alice covers the domestic costs, and there’s no mortgage to pay, but it’s going to eat heavily into our joint savings fund. But, in reality, when are we ever going to get to spend it? There’s going to be no joint retirement for Alice and I; I’ll be long gone before then. It’s just a question of diverting some of my escape-plan money.

  So I start transferring funds from my salary payments to Holly, via an offshore account that I open for the purpose. I tell myself I’ve dealt with the problem, but, of course, I haven’t. The murky world of blackmail is never that simple.

  Twenty-Three

  Ben

  Then

  I ask myself a lot of questions over the rest of that summer and autumn.

  Can I continue to make payments to Holly indefinitely? As long as I’m working in my current post at Ellwood Archer, then, in theory, yes. But that might not always be the case. And that also assumes that Holly remains satisfied with the status quo. She could get greedy.

  It’s only as Christmas approaches and Alice wants to make plans that I realise how stupid I’ve been. It’s an innocent remark Alice makes one weekend while rabbiting on about wanting to have a traditional family Christmas in Waverley Gardens and wanting to go to the Alps to celebrate with her gay husbands.

  ‘I guess I just want to have my cake and eat it.’

  I sit staring into the fire for a few seconds, as a sudden fear makes my stomach drop like an elevator between floors. ‘Sorry, what was that, babe?’

  ‘I was just saying that it would be lovely to go to St Anton, but also lovely to stay here.’

  ‘No, the bit before that.’ I often tune out when she is talking, and my mind was undeniably elsewhere on this occasion, on my own problems.

  ‘I said Matt and Milan are going skiing in Austria over the Christmas break, and they wondered if we’d like to join them.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I say hurriedly. Because when Alice mentioned having cake and eating it, it suddenly dawned on me that Holly might take the payments and still report me to the police. There wouldn’t be a fat lot I could do about it, once I’d been arrested for murder. So I have to get out to Oz somehow and silence her for good.

  I don’t have Patricia as an excuse, so this time it has to be my brother Simon. I give Alice a cock-and-bull story about how he’s had a stroke. I tell her that he’s in South Africa because I need to try and discourage her from tagging along, and also there’s an ad for flights on the open page of the Sunday paper at the time I come up with the idea. And I happen to know that you can fly direct from Johannesburg to Sydney in around eleven hours.

  In reality, brother Simon seems to be in fine health. He emails me very occasionally; curt, impersonal messages. Obviously I didn’t attend Patricia’s real funeral after she suffered a dizzy spell and fell down the stairs of her home, and I had to come up with a pretty florid excuse. I invented a work trip to Djibou
ti soon after he broke the news of her death, because Ellwood Archer did indeed have some construction projects planned in the country’s Red Sea port. As I was about to fly back from this fictitious trip to attend the funeral, I was struck down by the potentially fatal tropical disease trypanosomiasis, after being bitten by a tsetse fly. Inconveniently, this left me stranded in hospital on an IV of potent drugs and unable to return to the UK for several weeks at least. Since then, there has been the occasional communication from him asking after my health and – more worryingly – threatening to come down to London and ‘check on me’. But as yet, nothing has come of it, which is just as well.

  The teenage passport that Dominic Gill had on his person when I met him conveniently expired a few months later, and I now have a new one in his name displaying a current photo of me. So actually flying into Sydney is relatively low-risk, even though there’s a warrant out for me, because I won’t be entering the country under my real name, and therefore the police won’t be alerted. As far as they’re concerned, I’ve melted away into the UK or Europe somewhere. I’ll just have to be careful not to be recognised by anyone I know.

  As soon as I’ve booked my flight to Joburg, I start growing a beard, and by the time I land on home turf it’s quite thick and bushy. Alice hates it, of course, but that’s just too bad.

  * * *

  When I originally met Holly for drinks, we ended up at the Hyatt, so I never got to see her own place. So my first job after I’ve arrived and checked into a no-frills motel in Darlinghurst is to find her address. With my sunnies and baseball cap on, I make a trip to a local internet café and hit up one of those sites where you pay a fee to access the personal information of a specified number of people. The stupid bitch used an email address with her surname on it, so I know to look for a Holly Galea. Fortunately, it’s not a very common surname in Sydney, and I find her easily, cross-referencing her name with photos on her Facebook account, just to be sure I have the right person.