The Man She Married (ARC) Page 13
It’s the same when it comes to work. Apart from the passport, I have no formal ID, no National Insurance number, no home address. So again I’m forced to stay within the cash economy. I become one of those men who haunt the morning streets like weather-beaten ghosts, waiting for building sites to open and take on the casual labour they need for that day. The scenes are like something from a Charles Dickens novel. I’m strong enough to deal with the hard labour after all those hours spent in a pricey members-only gym, and the money’s decent – enough for bed and board anyway. But I’m only too aware I can’t exist in this no-man’s land for ever. For a start, it’s no way to live. And how long before someone works out that the guy who bought drinks from Pearl Liu immediately jacked in his job and jumped on a flight to Europe the very next day? It’s probably already happened. The people on my trail could already have made it to Germany and figured out that I left there using false ID. I’m going to have to come up with a plan B.
* * *
I’ve never been the type of guy who believes in fate, but it’s fate that determines what happens next.
But if you think about it, what is fate, really, other than just a series of linked events? What if one of the Romanian labourers hadn’t taken a monster crap and blocked the construction workers’ Portaloo toilet on site that day, making it unusable? What if someone hadn’t suggested going across the road to use the facilities at a neighbouring office block instead? What if we hadn’t been putting up and tying rebars that day, resulting in me having a length of steel binding wire in my pocket?
What if, what if, what if.
* * *
I get word of some work going on a massive construction site in East London, in an area I’ve never heard of before: Silvertown. It’s for three days, which will leave me with enough cash to tide me over a week or two. But by the third day, the single on-site Davlav – already practically overflowing – has blocked, and the site manager tells us not to use it until it can be replaced with a new cubicle. In the meantime, we just have to hope we won’t get caught using the dunnies at the glossy offices of nearby Ellwood Archer.
After a visit to the facilities in their reception area, I leave the building via the subterranean car park and head back to work, half-walking, half-jogging because we’re not really supposed to leave the construction site during our contracted hours. I stumble slightly and a six-inch bradawl flies out of my pocket and hits the side panel of a Mitsubishi Shogun.
‘Oi!’ The car’s owner is sitting inside it, and he flings open the passenger door as I scrabble on the concrete floor for my bradawl, leaning across the passenger seat to yell at me. ‘You’d better not have scratched my bloody paintwork!’
I approach the open door and squat down to examine it. ‘Nah, it’s okay; just a tiny mark.’
He leaps out of the car and comes towards me. ‘You fucking idiot!’
‘Hey, cool it, mate!’ I hold up my hands to indicate that I’m not looking for an altercation, but he grabs my shoulder, knocking me to my backside.
‘I’m not your mate!’ he snarls.
I’m on my feet in an instant. All that manual work and exercise pays off as I skip lightly to one side to avoid his flailing right arm and land a blow of my own, knocking him backwards onto the car’s passenger seat. With lightning speed and with gut instinct bypassing the sentient part of my brain, I whip out the binding wire from my pocket and loop it round his neck from behind, pulling it tight. His fingers fly up to his neck, but I’m too quick for him, using the full force of my weight. He can’t even turn round and look at me. He’s young and fit, but I’m taller and heavier and just that little bit stronger. You see, it all falls into place so neatly.
Once he’s stopped struggling, I know I have to act quickly. The car park is dimly lit and currently deserted, but it may not stay that way for long. I shove him over to the driver’s seat, climb into the car beside him and shut the door. There’s a heap of papers on the seat beneath me and I pull them out and scrutinise them. A glossy Ellwood Archer corporate brochure has a job description and an interview schedule interleaved between its pages. There’s also a printed copy of a resumé. So, the guy was here for a job. What a stroke of fortune. As if it’s meant to be.
The first thing I do is to pull off his suit, shirt and tie and put them on in place of my grotty T-shirt and cargo pants. This is really difficult to manage in the confined space of the car’s interior, to put it mildly, and I’m pink-faced and sweating by the time I’ve finished. Since I’m a little taller, the trousers are not a great fit, but they’re just about good enough. I tip the passenger seat back as far as I can get it, then heave the guy onto the rear seat, covering him with a blanket that I find in the car’s boot. Then, keeping one eye on the dashboard clock, I sit and read carefully through his resumé until I’ve got it more or less off pat. The folder also contains his passport, which HR must have requested to confirm his ID. I check inside it. He’s called Dominic Stephen Gill, and he’s a few years younger than me. From the photo, he was in his late teens when the passport was issued, and that unformed male face – white, Caucasian, fairish colouring – could just about be me when I was younger. I check the date of issue, and, sure enough, the passport’s ten-year period expires in a few months. Another stroke of luck.
I glance behind me at the blanketed shape. So still, it’s hard to relate it to a living, breathing human being. My mind races back to Pearl Liu lying motionless above Bondi Beach, but I push the image away. I have to stay focused, and think clearly. The body still being in the car is unnerving, but right now there’s absolutely nothing I can do about that. I need to forget it, to compartmentalise my thoughts. Ex-girlfriends have said I’m all too good at doing that.
I check my pockets for my newly acquired phone and wallet, lock the car and head off towards the lift. When I reach the top floor, the receptionist indicates that I should help myself to coffee from the machine, then wait in the seating area. There’s a low table with a magnificent display of orchids and a pile of glossy magazines. I pick up a copy of L’Automobile and flick through the photographs of Ferraris and Aston Martins, not really taking them in. Not even really looking at them.
Eventually, a woman appears in a doorway and calls me.
‘Mr Gill? Would you like to come through? They’re ready for you.’
* * *
The interview goes surprisingly well.
It’s probably because I haven’t had a chance to overthink things and get nervous. And also, having read through Dominic Gill’s resumé, I realise that, if anything, I’m a bit overqualified for the job. I’ve got more experience in the financial sector than he has. My Australian twang could have been an issue, but neither of my Scottish parents ever lost their broad Scots accent. It was all I heard at home when I was growing up, and I’m a good enough mimic to lapse into it almost without thinking. I decide not to risk trying a Newcastle accent, even though it’s where Dominic Gill grew up.
As I walk out of the interview room, I see a tallish woman with shiny brown hair introducing herself to the girl on reception. She’s wearing Louboutins, I notice, and an expensive watch. Her face reminds me of someone. The young Zoey Daley. She has that same open, trusting quality. The same colouring too, if you discount the expensive highlights in her hair.
‘I just wanted to give you this expenses form. I’m from Comida,’ she says. ‘Alice Palmer.’
‘Ah yes, the catering company, right?’
‘Exactly. We’re going to be doing some work here, starting soon.’
‘Lovely.’ The woman takes the form. ‘And what do you do for them, Alice?’
The woman flushes slightly. ‘Actually, it’s my company. I own the whole thing.’
Some sort of weird instinct makes me follow her to the lift and jump in just as the doors are sliding shut. Sliding doors, I think, an appropriate metaphor for how today has worked out. I toy with the idea of following her when we reach the ground floor and contriving some sort of meet-
cute, but it turns out I don’t need to. The lift gets stuck between floors and Alice and I end up talking. She agrees to join me for a coffee.
In addition to the thick brown hair, she has clear skin and very good taste in clothes. If I’m honest, she’s not really my physical type – she’s a classic pear shape, with matronly hips. I can also tell that she’s not going to be up to much in bed: too much of the head-girl type. There’s no physical spark on my side. But my attention is piqued when she reveals she not only has her own business but also a house in a nice part of London. A house all bought and paid for represents the sort of security I can only dream of at the moment. She also tells me she has a boyfriend, but she’s a bit half-hearted about it, so I’m not discouraged.
The underground car park closes at 10 p.m., so I don’t have the option of leaving the car and coming back for it later. I spend some time going through the glovebox. There’s a baseball cap in there, which I put on, in case ANPR picks up the car’s movements. Using Gill’s own phone as a GPS, I then drive back in a westerly direction towards the Blackwall Tunnel, heading for the south bank of the Thames. I turn east again and keep going until I get to Thamesmead, finding an undeveloped area of scrubland just near the sewage works. I sit in the car for hours, listening to the radio and dozing a little until it’s dark and the surrounding area is deserted. Then I carry the blanketed bundle, fireman-style, to the edge of the river. It occurs to me that I need to weight it, so I go back to the car and fetch my grimy work trousers, fill the pockets with small rocks and wriggle them onto the body, before tipping it into the river. None of this is my fault, I tell myself, as I get on with this task. It’s Dominic Gill’s. He attacked me: I was really only acting in self-defence. In a way, this is a form of justice.
The echoing splash is very satisfying. A fitting end to what has been an unbelievable day. So much of it might not have turned out this way. So much of it might never have happened.
And yet, it did.
Twenty-One
Ben
Then
It turns out I now have a flat in Acton, in West London.
The address is on Dominic Gill’s driving licence, which is now in my possession, along with his passport, phone, wallet and keys. I don’t go there immediately. Apart from anything else, I have no idea if he lives alone. He could even be married, although there’s nothing about that on his CV. I need to find out a little bit about him first, so I buy a charger for his phone and take it back with me to my grotty digs in Victoria to do some digital forensics.
I search for his place on property websites, and find that it’s a small studio flat. It was advertised for rent six months ago, so it’s unlikely he owns it, and highly likely he lives there alone. After I’ve been through all his messages and emails, it doesn’t look as though he has a steady girlfriend, although there is someone called Hannah who messages him quite frequently and who he’s clearly met up with a few times in recent months.
As far as family goes, he has a number for ‘Mum’, but there’s no mention anywhere of his father, so it seems a safe assumption that she’s a widow. The contact entry also has her down as ‘Patricia Gill’ and the street address is in Tyne and Wear. So she’s not around on a daily basis, which is a relief. From the call list, it seems he phones her once a fortnight or so, and sends her the odd message. She references ‘Simon’ occasionally, and there’s a Simon Gill in his contacts, so that’s almost certainly a brother. Again, a search for communication between him and Dominic shows virtually nothing. All I find is an exchange of emails about Christmas presents for their mother, making sure they don’t double up. Looks like it won’t be too hard to keep up the illusion that Dominic is still alive; to his family at least.
There are a couple of male friends who message him regularly suggesting meeting for a beer. Nothing that can’t be handled. Dominic might have to go abroad on an extended business trip, I decide.
I’ve left the Mitsubishi in an underground car park in Earls Court, walking back to Victoria from there. It took me nearly an hour, but I didn’t want the car to be detected anywhere near my hotel. On the following night, I return to the car park and drive it to Acton to investigate the flat. It’s an archetypal bachelor pad, smelling of sweaty trainers, stale sheets and old pizza boxes. It’s hard to avoid comparing it to my comfortable place back in Sydney, but I wrench my mind back to the present. That’s not my life any longer; this is my life. Dominic Gill’s life.
I find bank statements and sit down on the edge of the bed to check the rent and utility bill payments, which fortunately are covered by direct debits. There’s a few grand in his current account, which will keep things going for now. I decide that if I get the job at Ellwood Archer, I’ll give them these account details for my salary, since I already have the linked bank card in my possession. Then Dominic Gill’s domestic set-up will continue without disruption. The letting agent will no doubt have a next of kin contact for him, and if his rent bounces, they’ll go to his family. Questions about his whereabouts will be asked. So the flat stays, for now.
I gather the logbook and insurance papers for the car, a copy of Gill’s birth certificate and bank and utility statements and put them in my backpack. I change the sheets on the bed and launder the old ones, gather up the rubbish to take out to the bins and I do the washing-up. The place looks and smells a bit better when I’ve finished. But I can’t move in here; at least not full-time. Dominic probably knew some of his neighbours, and they might start asking questions if a stranger was suddenly living in his flat. Or if any of his friends called round, it would be a headache, to say the least. I’ll keep the place going, and it might come in useful for the occasional night. Like a form of insurance.
* * *
I have to jack in the labouring job in Silvertown in case someone from Ellwood Archer recognises me. This leaves me with time on my hands to get to grips with my life as Dominic Gill, albeit from a grotty flophouse in Victoria. I check the news regularly, but there’s no mention of him being missing. Since there was no ID on the body, this is not really surprising. It will become one of hundreds of unidentified corpses that the police have to deal with every year. I message ‘Mum’ with a chatty update so that she thinks her son is fine, hinting at the possibility of a foreign trip. I deflect a request for a beer with someone called Sam on the grounds of being too busy, and I end things with Hannah. I tell her I’ve met someone else, just to be sure she gets the message and stays away. I also email my own mother with a long account of my new life in Frankfurt.
After six days, Gill’s webmail account receives an email from Ellwood Archer who are ‘delighted’ to be able to offer me the position as deputy finance officer. I give them the address in Acton and Dominic’s banking and National Insurance details and a phoney number for my next of kin. Now that I’m bringing in proper money, I can think about moving out of the grotty-as-fuck Regency Hotel. I find a room to rent in a shared house in Deptford, using Dominic’s ID but paying three months’ rent in cash up front.
I’ll be earning enough to afford something of my own, but Dominic Gill taking on a second rental lease without giving up the studio in Acton might raise some flags. Bona fide estate agencies cross-reference, do background checks and share information, and I can’t risk questions being asked. I certainly can’t contemplate borrowing the money to buy somewhere. Once the dust has settled, I’ll be able to arrange for ‘Dominic’ to legitimately move, but not yet. It will draw too much attention to my whereabouts. I’m stuck in this awkward limbo.
And then I bump into Alice Palmer again.
It’s my second week in my new job, and her company is catering an event at the office. I catch sight of a vaguely familiar figure carrying a huge armful of stuff to one of the boardrooms, and I realise who it is. I make a crack about lifts breaking down again, and I can tell from the way she can’t quite make full eye contact that she’s pleased to see me again. So I waste no time in asking her on a date.
I realise this must
seem like a risky strategy, but I figure she’s exactly the right sort of person to give me an air of respectability, a cover story. The reason she’s been able to buy a London home outright is because her parents are both dead and she’s inherited money. So she’s a conduit to an affluent lifestyle, minus overbearing relatives asking awkward questions about my background.
Over dinner, I suss out the financial viability of her company as subtly as I can, and it seems she’s doing well. And then I offer to walk her home so I can set my eyes on the prize. It’s a cracker. Must be worth getting on for a couple of mill: a substantial and very well-maintained four-bed villa. I treat her to some of my most skilled kissing to help seal the deal.
* * *
A couple of dates later, I decide the best plan would be to marry Alice.
It will get me out of my grotty digs and, down the line, will entitle me to half of what she owns if I really need to move on. Not that I can see the need for that to happen any time soon. She’s an attractive enough girl and I enjoy her company. Okay, so the sex isn’t exactly exciting, as I’d anticipated. She tells me constantly how mind-blowing it is, which amazes me, because it’s frankly vanilla. But I reckon I can fix that, with time. Train her up to lose her inhibitions a little.
She’s also emotionally needy and desperate for the happy-ever-after, having been jilted virtually at the altar by her last serious relationship. I let her think kids are on the cards, even though there are a hundred reasons why this will never happen.