The Man She Married (ARC)

by Alison James

  ‘As you know, we found a second passport in… in your husband’s car. Issued in the name of Ben MacAlister, allegedly born in Edinburgh in 1985. The NCA have cross-checked with Interpol, and the last time it was used was to travel from Berlin to London Heathrow, in the autumn of 2015. Around the time you met the man claiming to be Dominic Gill.’

  He waits for me to make some comment, or offer some information. I don’t.

  ‘The thing is…’ He places his huge hands on the table in front of him. ‘According to the General Register Office, there’s no such person in the UK. Not with that exact name and date of birth. A cross-check of the serial number quickly established the passport as a fake. So… and I know this must be very hard to hear… I’m afraid we are still no further forward in identifying your… the deceased.’

  ‘Did you find his phone in the car?’ I ask.

  He nods. ‘DC Willis said you’d asked about the last message you sent. It does indeed look as though he’d read it before going to the parking bay and getting in the car.’

  I wait. There’s a sigh so heavy, it flutters the papers on the table between us.

  ‘But that could still have been after he left me the note,’ I say desperately. ‘Who’s to say he hadn’t changed his mind about that once he knew I was pregnant?’

  Sutherland is shaking his head sadly. ‘We did a CCTV trawl in his office building, and he was picked up taking the lift to his floor and sitting at his desk to write the note at 6.46 p.m. The message you sent arrived at 6.42. So, sorry to say, but it looks as though what you told him probably prompted him to take this action.’

  I stare at him in miserable silence.

  ‘I know that’s not an easy thing to hear. Do you want me to fetch Janet?’

  I shake my head.

  A uniformed PC comes into the room carrying a bundle of evidence bags. Sutherland nods in the direction of an empty chair next to him, and the officer places them there and sits down at the table.

  ‘We’ll take you through and do a full statement in a bit, but there are some things here I need to ask you about. Is that okay, Alice? Are you feeling all right?’

  There’s something pointed about the query and I remember that he’s known all along that I’m pregnant. They would have checked Dom’s phone for themselves and seen the picture of the positive test.

  I nod, but he pours me a glass of water and hands it to me anyway.

  ‘Now… do you recognise these?’

  He pulls on a pair of latex gloves that are far too small for him and takes the black fleece top, black balaclava and gloves out of a bag.

  I nod dumbly.

  ‘Can you tell me where you’ve seen them before?’

  ‘In Dominic… in my husband’s desk drawer.’

  I know exactly what’s coming next in this little pantomime. ‘And how about these?’

  DS Sutherland shows me the ASICS running shoes, size 10. White, with blue laces, tongue and side strip. He turns them over slowly to be sure I don’t miss the soles. The bright red soles that looked a strange russet colour under sodium street lighting.

  ‘They were in the drawer too,’ I say.

  ‘And who do they belong to?’

  Say it, I tell myself. Say it out loud. You have to.

  ‘My husband.’

  Images flash through my mind and I can hear the sound of running feet. A powerful swell of nausea rises up from the soles of my feet and crashes over me. I clutch my hand to my mouth, my eyes swivelling wildly to the door to indicate that I need to leave the room. Sutherland summons Janet Willis this time, who leads me to the nearest Ladies’ toilets and stands in tactful silence outside the cubicle while I vomit. The bodily purging represents a final refusal to keep kidding myself. That man who was pursuing me through the darkened London streets was the man I married. But he was not Dominic Gill.

  ‘There are a couple more things I’d like you to look at, I’m afraid,’ Sutherland says with that sorrowful look, once I’m seated again. ‘Then you can take a bit of a break.’ He opens an evidence bag and takes out something shiny. It’s a length of thick metal wire. ‘This was in the pocket of the jacket we took from your husband’s desk drawer. Have you seen it before?’

  ‘No,’ I say firmly, shaking my head. ‘Never.’

  ‘How about this?’ He holds out a syringe and a set of glass vials filled with a clear liquid.

  I shake my head again, confused.

  ‘For the tape recorder, can you tell us whether you’ve ever seen this before? Just yes or no will do.’

  ‘No… what is it?’

  ‘It’s a substance called atropine.’

  My face starts to feel numb, my tongue too big for my mouth.

  ‘It was found in the glovebox of the car after the crash. You don’t remember seeing it there? Or know why it would be there?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  I’m lying. I know exactly why.

  ‘I’ll leave PC Roberts here to take your statement, then I’ll pop back and speak to you again before you leave.’

  It’s hard to imagine Sutherland ‘popping’ anywhere. He lumbers out of the room and, with excruciating slowness, the uniformed officer creates a handwritten account of the days leading up to 14 February. Eventually it’s completed and Sutherland and Janet Willis come back into the room.

  ‘DC Willis will take you home now, unless you have any questions?’

  ‘What will happen to… to my husband?’ I was about to refer to him as Dominic again, just as I always have done. I have to stop that now. He isn’t Dominic.

  Sutherland’s broad face reverts to sorrowful mode. ‘Here’s what will happen: Another set of DNA samples will be taken from the deceased, and then once the inquest has been held, the remains will be released for burial. If nobody comes forward to identify him, or there is no further evidence, then he will be buried as an unidentified person. Usually a short service is held, followed by internment in a marked single grave.’

  I stare at him, shocked.

  ‘It has to be burial rather than cremation in case further tests are required, and so that if the deceased’s family is eventually found, then exhumation and reinternment elsewhere is a possibility.’ He reaches out a huge hand and touches my shoulder. ‘I appreciate that this is not the usual UID case, but I’m afraid protocol will still have to be followed. Of course you will be able to attend, and to provide flowers, a celebrant and music if you wish.’

  When we get back to Waverley Gardens, Janet offers to come into the house or to phone someone to sit with me, but I refuse. I sit in my new default position on the bathroom floor and try to process what I’ve seen. My mind skips over the shoes – my potential attacker’s shoes – and settles on those glass vials. Atropine. I don’t need to google it, I already know exactly what it is and what it could do to someone who might have inherited Long QT syndrome.

  Someone like me.

  Thirty-One

  Alice

  Now

  A week later, I receive a letter from the insurance company who provided the joint life policy that my husband took out only a few months ago.

  I can’t overlook the irony. Covering my life was the intended benefit of the policy, and yet he was the one who died. And because, after receiving a report from the Metropolitan Police, the policy ‘was the result of fraudulent representation on the part of the applicant’, the insurers inform me, with regret, that the policy is null and void.

  As a result of the fraudulent breach in respect of Mr Dominic Gill, under the Insurance Act 2015, we are under no obligation to refund the premiums; however, since you applied for insurance on yourself in good faith, we are refunding 50% of premiums paid in respect of Mrs Alice Gill.

  I take out a cheque for £460. It’s hardly going to keep the wolf from the door.

  Matt and Milan have been overseeing the work of both Comida offices for me, but I can’t stay away forever. I send an email to Matt telling him I will try to come in later in the week. As
I press ‘Send’, an email pops up in my inbox from Janet Willis. Using this method of communication rather than my mobile number seems oddly formal, but once I’ve read it, I understand. Because the focus of the police enquiry is now going to be on discovering the whereabouts of Dominic Gill (they mean the real one, clearly), she will be stepping back in her role as Family Liaison Officer, although she assures me she will always be at the end of the phone if I have further queries.

  I reply that that’s fine, and thank her for her input. The insurers have closed their file; the Met’s investigation is stalled; the message is clear. It’s time to start over, to think about the future. I flick through a few nursery design ideas on Pinterest, then go to the ‘My Pregnancy’ website, which I’ve now bookmarked.

  Your Pregnancy week by week: Week Nine

  Your baby is the size of a green olive when you are nine weeks pregnant. It’s reaching the end of the embryonic phase and becoming a foetus. Fingers and toes are developing, and it’s looking much more human.

  I gaze at the photo of the little pink tadpole on the website, but it doesn’t seem in any way connected to me. This is what I should be concentrating on: my baby. But how can I when my mind is still stuck in the recent past? When I still have no idea who I married? Who fathered this life inside me?

  I pull up another bookmark on my browser, the one for James Cardle Investigations, and phone the office number.

  * * *

  ‘You said last time you needed spousal surveillance?’ The tone is a little less gruff than it was on that earlier occasion, no doubt prompted by my puffy eyes and wan complexion. ‘I take it that was for your husband?’

  When I phoned, Cardle told me bluntly that he still had a full workload and wasn’t taking on new cases. This threw me completely, and I burst into tears. He was so dismayed, he agreed to see me anyway. Effectively I wept my way into the appointment.

  ‘Not exactly.’ I sigh heavily, clasping my hands in my lap. I have no idea how to even begin to explain. ‘Since I visited you here last time, things have changed. My husband – apparently he was actually my husband, despite what he did – the man I married was killed in a car crash. And it turned out he’d stolen another man’s identity and wasn’t who he’d been saying he was.’

  Cardle has leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head, his interest piqued. He’s wearing a mid-blue cashmere sweater, rumpled up round the elbows to show the sleeves of his white shirt. ‘Surely that’s a matter for the police?’

  ‘Sort of. But as a priority they have to concentrate their resources on trying to find the man whose identity he… my husband… was using. That man – Dominic Gill – has been missing for around three years.’

  ‘And you were married… when?’

  ‘It’s just coming up to our third wedding anniversary.’ I correct myself, ‘It would have been the first of April. And I still have no idea who he was. Not even a name. Nothing.’

  ‘But you’re off the hook now.’ He flaps his arms. ‘You’re single. No more husband, real or otherwise. Best just to move on, surely?’

  ‘The thing is,’ I say levelly. ‘I’ve checked, and under the terms of the Marriage Act, I was definitely married. A person using a false identity is still legally married. If he were alive, I could use his fraud to apply for an annulment. But he’s dead, which makes me still – in the eyes of the law – his widow. And, because of that, I need to know his true identity. I just do.’

  Cardle folds his lips inward, making his mouth almost disappear. I assume this means he’s thinking. ‘It’s a bloody pig of a situation, I’ll give you that… Okay, this is what I’m going to do,’ he says eventually. ‘I’ll get back in touch in a few weeks. If at that point I have a slot coming up, I’ll make it my priority to fit you in. If I don’t, I’ll suggest someone else who could help you. Can’t say fairer than that.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, managing a weak smile. ‘I’m very grateful.’ I head towards the door, but he just grunts, and doesn’t stand up. ‘Hopefully we’ll be in touch again soon,’ I add.

  ‘Don’t go ringing me.’ He’s gone back to staring at his computer screen. ‘I’ll ring you.’

  * * *

  On Thursday of that week, I return to my Tower Hill office.

  It’s strange being here. There’s the familiar smell emitted by the coffee machine, the sound of the lift doors pinging outside the reception area and the background click-thump of the printer. It’s all exactly the same, and yet everything has changed immeasurably since I was last here around three weeks ago.

  Matt has been running Comida in the City, leaving Milan in charge of the Richmond office. As soon as I have dropped my coat and bag, I go straight into the meeting room for a debrief.

  ‘Coffee?’ Matt asks.

  I pull a face.

  ‘You love coffee.’ He’s puzzled.

  I tell him I’m pregnant. I hadn’t meant to tell anyone until after my twelve-week scan, but my pregnancy will have to be factored into any forward planning we do at work, and besides, I’m still experiencing random fits of nausea.

  ‘Congrats!’ He squeezes my arm. ‘But, Jesus – what timing!’

  All that Matt and my other colleagues know is that I’ve lost my spouse in a fatal traffic accident. Only JoJo, David, Melanie and the police know the rest of the story – the added layers of awfulness – and for now I want to keep it that way.

  Matt fetches me a herbal tea and we work through the latest bookings and staffing issues. I go and sit at my desk, but I’m as good as useless. I can’t focus on anything, and I make a complete mess of the financial projections spreadsheet. After only a couple of hours I’m exhausted, and Matt sends me home again.

  ‘You need to build things up again slowly,’ he tells me. ‘And you need your rest.’

  He doesn’t say it, but it hangs there between us – they’ll manage perfectly well without me.

  I’m intending to return to the office to be useless again on Friday, for a few hours longer this time. As I’m gathering up my things to go, Matt says, ‘Why don’t you come over for supper tomorrow? You look as though you could use a decent meal, and Milan would love to see you. We both would.’

  I want to make an excuse, but I can’t think of one fast enough, and find myself agreeing.

  So, the next evening, I drive over the Hammersmith flyover and into Grove Park, where Matt and Milan rent a flat in a large Edwardian mansion block. It’s small but stylishly decorated, and they’ve made a big effort with the meal. There’s fish pie, which Matt knows I love, and Milan has baked a cheesecake. I decide I’m glad that I told Matt about the pregnancy, not least because it means I can stick to mineral water without reproach.

  It feels good to forget for a couple of hours and just enjoy a home-cooked meal with people who care about me. As I stick my fork into the fish pie, I realise how ravenous I am, and end up eating three helpings. Milan asks about the date for the funeral, but Matt shoots him a warning look, and thereafter my widowhood and the circumstances around it are avoided in favour of neutral topics.

  It’s a mild March evening, and we put on coats and squeeze onto their tiny balcony with the cheesecake and coffee – decaf for me – so that Milan can enjoy a cigarette.

  ‘Alice,’ Matt begins, resting his hand on my wrist. ‘We wanted to get you over here to give you some TLC, but also to run something by you.’

  Milan gives his partner a little nod of encouragement before tipping his head back to puff out a gust of smoke.

  ‘If this is out of order, then just say no, it’s fine…’

  ‘Go on,’ I say, carefully replacing my coffee cup in its saucer.

  ‘Understand we’re only saying this because you’ve got so much other stuff to deal with at the moment, okay?’ He pauses for a few seconds. ‘We’ve got a friend who’s a venture capitalist, and he’s looking for a company to invest in… he’d be interested in forming a partnership with Milan and me to take over Comida.’

&
nbsp; My cup is halfway to my lips, but I lower it again. ‘You mean buy me out? Completely?’

  ‘Yes,’ Matt nods. ‘That’s what it would mean.’

  ‘But if you’re not into it, no problem, we’re still happy to work for you,’ Milan says quickly, tapping ash into a terracotta plant stand.

  ‘I… I don’t know,’ I say slowly. ‘My head is so all over the place. Can I think about it and get back to you?’

  I think about nothing else as I drive back to Queen’s Park, and again when I’m lying alone in what used to be the marital bed. Once I’ve got past my surprise and, I’ll admit it, a tiny frisson of indignation at the thought of Comida being touted as a going concern behind my back, I begin to think selling might be a good thing. I met Dominic through the business, and Ellwood Archer is still one of our larger clients. I don’t want that reminder popping up in my daily work life. I’ll also need to take some time away from work when I have the baby, and I won’t have the financial cushion of a life insurance payout, even though I still have a couple of investments that I made when my mother died.

  As the thin light of dawn starts to filter through the blinds, I throw on a dressing gown and go downstairs to the study. I look for Dominic/Ben’s bank records, but apart from his current account statements and the initial paperwork that was posted to him when he set up our pension savings accounts, there’s nothing up to date. He did it all online. The police have taken his laptop, but even if it was here, I don’t know the password.

  At nine o’clock, I phone Scottish Widows and get through their security procedures. I inform them that my husband is dead, and that I want a closing balance on the pension fund account. The girl on the other end informs me, in her lovely lilting Perthshire accent, that it’s £23,564.