The Man She Married (ARC)

by Alison James

  The atropine takes three weeks to arrive, by which time it’s February. I plan to inject the drug under Alice’s toenail bed and speed up her heart rate so much that she’ll go into immediate heart failure. She always has her toes perfectly painted in vivid colours, so the puncture site won’t be detectable. But for me to get the needle into her toe she’s going to have to be pretty out of it to start with. The woman can’t hold her booze and always passes out after more than three drinks, so what I need is an excuse for her to drink more than usual. An event; a big, boozy event. The obvious day to go for is Valentine’s Day, when couples everywhere souse themselves in champagne before indulging in a dull, routine shag. I’m about to book an overpriced meal at Harvey’s, the bistro down the road, when Alice suggests a Valentine’s dinner at home.

  ‘A special night at home with my lovely wife,’ I tell her. ‘What could be more perfect?’

  * * *

  Of course, I take precautions.

  I prepare for things to go badly wrong on the night. Alice could come to her senses sufficiently to fight me off and raise the alarm. If that happens, I will be forced to take off. So I pack a bag with a few basics, some cash, Dominic Gill’s real passport and the fake passport I purchased back in Germany, and stow them in the car.

  I’m on edge all day, jittery. At 6 p.m., I text Alice to say that I’ll be home in half an hour.

  And then something happens. Something that, stupidly, never even crossed my mind.

  She WhatsApps me a photo message. I have to squint at it a few times to work out what it is. I’m still not 100% certain. Then the second message arrives with a pregnant woman emoji and the penny drops. She’s just found out that she’s expecting a baby. That we’re expecting a baby.

  I’ve got used to the business of killing – Christ knows I’ve had to – and I know that I can detach myself from the process sufficiently to do it. It’s like an out-of-body experience, if you’ll forgive the bad pun. But, still, something in me baulks at snuffing out the life of a woman who’s carrying my own child.

  So, I have to change the plan, which means thinking on my feet, fast. I hurry back up to the office, write a brief note on a piece of paper and leave it in an envelope on my desk. The revised plan runs through my head as I take the elevator down to the underground car park where it all began. I give the place one last, long look before I turn the key in the ignition and take what I hope will be the last drastic action of my life.

  Part Two

  Twenty-Seven

  Alice

  Now

  I sit against the side of the bath, knees clutched tightly to my chest, rocking slightly.

  My eyes are burning and my throat is aching, but I can’t cry any more. The tear production has finally been exhausted and for the time being, there are none left. I wonder how long I’ve been sitting here. I have no idea. I don’t even know what time it is. It was dark when the police officers drove me to the mortuary, but now it’s light. It must be the next day.

  I’m not even sure how I got back here, to Waverley Gardens. All I remember is standing next to the gurney, shaking my head, and shouting at the police officers.

  ‘No – you’ve got the wrong one. This isn’t Dominic’s real brother!’

  ‘I’m Simon Gill,’ the man told them, equally confused. ‘You got my phone number from my brother’s donor card. I’m here to identify his body. Dominic Gill.’

  And then DS Sutherland checked his notes. ‘Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. We’re talking about Dominic Stephen Gill, born 15 September, 1986?’

  ‘Yes,’ the man said. ‘That’s right. But this…’ he pointed at Dominic’s dead body, ‘…this definitely isn’t him. This is someone else.’

  And then the police officers said that there had been two passports in the car with him, and they produced one and showed it to Simon Gill and he said that, yes, the personal details in it were correct but the photo was of someone else.

  ‘The photo is of Dominic,’ I insisted, clenching my jaw to stop myself screaming.

  PC Gillespie and DS Sutherland tried ever-so-tactfully to compare the photo with Dominic’s dead face. They agreed that it was the same person.

  ‘Yes, but it’s not my brother,’ Simon Gill’s voice was strident. ‘The details are right, but that’s not him. Here—’ He pulled a photo from his wallet and showed it to the officers. ‘This is my brother.’

  After some whispered exchanges, it was decided that discussing this over a corpse was not appropriate, and the man calling himself Simon Gill agreed to go with the police officers to Paddington Green station. I was transfixed to the spot, unable to move away from Dominic’s body, but someone grasped me by the elbow and pulled me out of the viewing room. I must have been taken home at that point. I think JoJo was with me, but she’s not now. I must have asked her to leave. I must have wanted to be alone for a while.

  I shift my position, because my legs are starting to go numb, and as I do so, I catch sight of something pink and white on the edge of the bath. The pregnancy test. For however many hours it’s been, I’ve forgotten about being pregnant.

  I haul myself to my feet and splash cold water over my face, then brush my teeth; more from force of habit than anything. Stiff-legged as a zombie, I walk down the stairs and into the kitchen. Dominic’s wax jacket hangs on the peg next to the back door. I bury my face in it, inhaling the familiar smell. Fresh tears appear from nowhere. It’s exhausting; all this crying. That’s what I remember most from when my parents died, the sheer exhaustion of bereavement. That and the intense physical pain that seems to emanate from my body’s core.

  I turn to the kettle and somehow, even though my hands are trembling, manage to make myself a cup of coffee. After swallowing a couple of mouthfuls, my body rebels and I vomit the coffee into the butler’s sink. I continue dry-heaving for a few minutes, then hang there, clutching the porcelain edge with my fingers until the nausea subsides and I’m able to rinse my mouth out under the tap. Is this morning sickness, I wonder, or grief? I glance at the clock on the wall: 9.40 a.m.

  My bag is on the hall table and I retrieve my phone. There are multiple missed calls from JoJo and David, and from a couple of numbers I don’t recognise. I switch it off and go back upstairs to the bedroom, taking a fresh glass of water with me. More of Dominic’s clothes are on the chair next to his dresser. The shutters are still closed from the night before, and in the February gloom, the room is in semi-darkness. I take my clothes off, sink onto the bed and close my eyes.

  * * *

  A hammering on the front door brings me round, after what could have been minutes or hours; I can’t tell. I close my eyes again and attempt to ignore it, but it persists. Hauling my bathrobe over my shoulders, I go down to the front door.

  ‘Alice!’

  David and Melanie are standing on the doorstep, their faces contorted with shock and anxiety.

  ‘You poor girl,’ whispers Melanie and tries to enfold me into an embrace, but I remain stiff, rigid.

  ‘What the hell happened?’ David’s asking, leading me through to the kitchen with his arm round my shoulders. ‘The police phoned, but they didn’t give any details, just that it was a fatal traffic accident.’

  I try to speak but can’t get past a croak.

  ‘Have you eaten anything?’ Melanie asks.

  I shake my head.

  ‘You need to eat… let me fix you something.’

  She bustles about, assembling a bowl of plain yoghurt with honey and berries and a toasted bagel with butter. I take a small mouthful of the yoghurt, then rush to the sink to throw up again.

  ‘My God, you poor thing…’ Melanie holds back my hair, then hands me a damp cloth. ‘It must be the shock.’

  I open my mouth to say, ‘Actually, I’m pregnant’, but close it again.

  I’m offered a mug of camomile tea, and this time I manage to keep most of it down, plus a mouthful of bagel.

  David places his hand over mine. ‘Al, I know
this is difficult, but we need to talk about it… JoJo said there was a mix-up over the identification? Is that right?’

  I nod slowly.

  ‘What happened exactly?’

  ‘They contacted someone thinking he was Dom’s brother, but he turned out not to be.’

  David and Melanie exchange a look laden with meaning.

  ‘The thing is,’ David says gently. ‘I got the impression from JoJo that there was more to it than that. She said that this guy was who he said he was. Dominic Gill’s brother. But that Dom – your Dom – isn’t… wasn’t… Dominic Gill. He was someone else.’

  Before he’s finished speaking, I’m already shaking my head firmly. ‘No,’ I say. ‘No, she’s got it wrong. It’s the guy saying he’s Simon Gill who’s someone else.’

  ‘Alice—’ Melanie begins, but she’s cut off by the doorbell ringing. She goes to answer it and comes in with the two police officers who broke the news.

  Little and Large, I think randomly, because she is as slight as he is huge. They introduce themselves to David and Melanie as PC Gillespie and DS Sutherland. Melanie sets about making everyone tea, while the visitors seat themselves awkwardly at the breakfast table.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ David says. ‘Maybe you could help us clear up the confusion over the identification of the body.’

  ‘There is no confusion,’ I state coldly. ‘The “body”, as you call it, is my husband, Dominic.’

  DS Sutherland glances at his colleague and then at David. ‘It’s early days yet,’ he says with practised caution. ‘But we are making our own enquiries, and looking into Mr Gill’s – Mr Simon Gill’s – claim.’

  ‘How long will that take?’ Melanie asks, bringing over a tray with a teapot and mugs.

  ‘Hard to say,’ PC Gillespie says, taking a mug. ‘But hopefully not more than a couple of days. Mr Gill is gathering together as much documentation as he can, but that involves him taking a trip up to the North-East and back down here again.’

  ‘For now, I’m afraid the coroner won’t be able to release the body,’ says Sutherland. ‘I’m aware that this makes the whole process harder.’

  Process, I think. Is that all this is, a process?

  ‘For identification purposes, we’ll also need to take some tissue samples from the deceased. DNA. This is standard practice in a case like this.’

  I stare at him dumbly, trying to untangle the words in my exhausted brain. Deceased… tissue samples.

  Sutherland glances at his colleague again, and she puts down her mug. ‘As part of the investigation, we’ll also need to conduct a search of the house. To see if your husband’s possessions—’

  ‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘No, you can’t. I refuse to give permission.’

  Some nameless fear takes hold of me. Fear of what they might find.

  ‘Not now, obviously,’ Gillespie says quickly. ‘Down the line. When things have settled a bit.’

  ‘In the meantime, do you have a copy of your marriage certificate we can see?’ Sutherland asks.

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t know where it is.’

  ‘She’s not up to looking for that kind of thing now,’ David interjects quickly.

  ‘Can you at least give me the date, so that we can double-check the record?’

  Melanie consults the calendar on her phone. ‘It was April 1, 2016.’

  ‘Good – thanks.’ Sutherland makes a note, then pushes back the chair and hauls his bulky body to an upright position. ‘We’ll be assigning you an FLO – a family liaison officer – who’s trained in dealing with…’ He hesitates. ‘With situations like yours.’

  As if it’s a daily occurrence for a widow to be told that her husband is not who she thinks he is.

  ‘Great. Thank you,’ says Melanie, starting to clear the half-drunk mugs of tea.

  ‘I’ll show you out,’ David says, and leads the police officers back to the front door. I catch something he says to them, in a low voice. It sounds like ‘in denial’.

  But it’s not me that’s in denial. It’s everyone else who’s got this wrong.

  Twenty-Eight

  Alice

  Now

  I wake up on the sofa to find I’m curled in a tight foetal ball.

  It’s only when that thought strikes me that I remember the foetus within. The baby. And a half second after that, I remember that my husband is dead.

  It’s still dark outside. A check of my phone reveals that it’s 5.30 a.m. I have no idea how long I’ve been lying here, but the last thing I remember is taking a sleeping pill, so it must have been quite a while. There are seventeen missed calls and a handful of voicemail messages. Matt and Milan have left one, as has JoJo and a few other friends. Word must be getting around. There’s also one from a DC Janet Willis, introducing herself as my assigned family liaison officer. She says she wants to come round and see me, and asks me to call her back. I don’t.

  I limp into the kitchen and make myself tea. After drinking about half of it, a tsunami of nausea washes over me, and I vomit violently onto the kitchen floor, unable even to make it as far as the sink. I mop at it ineffectually with some kitchen towel, then stagger as far as the study and sit down at Dominic’s desk. I start going through the drawers, looking for something, anything.

  At first, I think the bottom drawer is empty, then I glimpse something dark, pushed to the back of it. I pull out a black fleece top, a balaclava and some gloves. I don’t recognise any of them. Surely these are not Dominic’s?

  I close my eyes, and suddenly I’m back there in Dalston, being chased by someone in a black jacket and hat. But no; that’s ridiculous. That’s a coincidence. Loads of people dress like that on the streets of London. It means nothing. Even so, I bundle up the clothing and take it outside to the wheelie bin.

  Once I’ve managed to keep down half a slice of toast, I summon enough energy to wash the kitchen floor properly with hot water and disinfectant. The smell of the disinfectant makes me gag, but I manage not to be sick again. I go upstairs and have a shower and wash my hair, then dress myself in a clean pair of jeans and a proper sweater, not a hoodie. I strip the sheets off the bed to change them, and as I remove the pillowcases, I find Dominic’s sleep T-shirt under his pillow. I bury my face in it for a while, soaking it with tears. Then, slowly and deliberately, I drop it into the laundry basket with the bed linen.

  There’s another message from DC Willis when I go downstairs again.

  ‘Mrs Gill, I know this is a very difficult time for you, but it’s really important I talk to you about developments in the case. I’ll wait to hear from you, or maybe call round later.’

  I load the washing machine and switch it on, then take the hoover out and work it furiously over the sitting-room carpet, as though removing the dirt will somehow alleviate the endless dull pain in my chest. As I switch it off to move it into the hall, I realise the doorbell is being rung insistently and repeatedly. It’s probably that policewoman, I think. I intend to ignore it, but it doesn’t stop, and eventually I yank the front door open to find the man purporting to be Simon Gill standing there.

  I go to shut it again, but he holds up a hand. ‘Please. Alice. Hear me out.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk,’ I tell him. ‘I’m really not up to it. It’s not fair you coming round like this.’

  He steps into the hallway anyway. He’s average height, heavily built, thinning on top, and his eyes are a washed-out shade of blue. And he has a distinct Geordie accent. It’s clear he’s not really Dominic’s brother.

  ‘How did you get my address?’ I demand.

  ‘It was on some of the paperwork I went through with the police… Look, I understand this is very hard for you, but please, just hear me out. Five minutes.’

  With some reluctance I nod, and lead him into the freshly hoovered and tidied sitting room and he sits down and takes some papers out of his shoulder bag.

  ‘Here,’ he hands something to me. ‘Birth certificates.’

  I
stare at the pages in front of me. There are birth certificates for Patricia Evelyn Gill and Desmond Peter Gill, and they both appear as parents on the birth certificate of Simon Peter Gill, who is seven years older than Dominic. He then hands me Dominic’s birth certificate. Dominic Stephen Gill. The name and date of birth are correct, but the parents’ details and place of birth are exactly the same as for Simon.

  My trembling hands make the piece of pink paper quiver. ‘No,’ I insist, ‘This can’t be right. This can’t be your birth certificate. This whole thing has to be a coincidence.’

  He sighs. ‘Alice, it is. Here – have a look at my driving licence. You can see my full name and my photo. And my registration with the Institute of Management Consultants. And my passport.’ He hands them to me one after another, then takes out more documents. ‘Here’s a photo of my wedding, and look – here’s Dominic.’ He points to a man who is slighter, paler and less good-looking than the real Dominic.

  ‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘That’s not him.’

  Simon sighs heavily. ‘Dom and I were never very close; I admit it. I haven’t seen him in four years. But the last couple of times I contacted him on his mobile, he acted a bit off. I usually caught up with him every six months or so when I was in London, and saw him at Christmas. I tried to see him recently, and he agreed, then put me off at the last minute. But the worst thing was him not coming to Mum’s funeral, claiming he’d got ill on a work trip to Africa. He didn’t attend the inquest either.’

  ‘But he did,’ I insist, confused. ‘It was March 2017, 15 March, I think. He went to Newcastle for the funeral.’

  Simon gives me a long look. Eventually he speaks, slowly and quietly. ‘March fifteenth was the day Mum died. Although she wasn’t actually found until the sixteenth. She fell down the stairs at home, after what the coroner decided was either a stroke or a cardiac episode.’