The Man She Married (ARC) Read online

  Turns out Holly is now living in a blue-chip apartment in Pyrmont, no doubt enjoying the magnificent views over the bay. The address-finder result tells me she’s only been there a few months, so she’s probably been paying the rent with the $5,000 a month I’ve been transferring to her. She did say that she was no longer able to make four hundred bucks a night as a working girl, so my secrets are her sole meal ticket.

  It’s strange being back here after more than three years away, and especially at Christmastime. I wander over to Martin Place to look at the giant Christmas tree and take in all the lights and the festive shop window displays. In a few days’ time, it will be Christmas Day, and families will descend on the beaches in hordes, then gather in the harbour to see the start of the Sydney to Hobart yacht race. I find myself thinking about my mother. Is she even still alive? I feel I ought to know.

  It’s out of the question for me to go and visit her, but I go to Pitt Street Mall and buy a burner phone. I wait until 4 p.m., when I know she and my auntie will be out at the bowls club, before phoning and listen in to the familiar answering machine message on her landline. So she must still be alive. To my surprise, I feel my throat start to close up at the sound of her voice.

  I cough, then start to speak. ‘Hi, Mum it’s me. Just wanted to call and wish you Merry Christmas. I’m, you know… I’m thinking of you, okay? Lots of love.’

  Back in my motel room, I burn the SIM card with a lighter, then flush the remains down the toilet and toss the handset into the kitchen bins at the back of the fast-food joint next to the hotel. My next port of call is an outlet of Bunnings, the quintessential Aussie hardware depot. I buy a length of heavy-duty steel wire and a 3lb club hammer, which I stow in my rucksack.

  I lie on the bed in my motel room until the working day has ended, then settle my bill and head to Darling Harbour to join the commuters on the ferry to Balmain, rucksack on my back like a tourist. I guess you could call it ‘going equipped’.

  * * *

  The flat’s in a modern block on a wide, leafy street that abuts the waterfront park. I waited until most people will be coming home from work, but since she’s unemployed, Holly’s working day is non-existent. She’ll probably be sprawled on the sofa, a good way into a bottle of Aussie sauvignon.

  I ring smartly on the doorbell.

  There’s no reply.

  I ring again, and a third time, then squat down in the corridor near her front door. She’ll have to come back some time, and I’m prepared to wait.

  When it’s getting on for 9 p.m. and starting to go dark, someone comes out of the elevator and approaches me.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  I look up to see a middle-aged woman holding a clutch of supermarket bags.

  ‘I’m waiting for Holly,’ I say, with a smile, to show I’m not threatening. ‘Holly Galea. Do you know when she’ll be back?’

  ‘Ah, Holly’s gone away,’ the woman says, reaching for her keys and unlocking the door of the flat opposite. ‘She’s gone up to visit her folks.’

  ‘Do you know how long she’ll be gone?’

  ‘For the whole of the Christmas break, at least. She asked if I’d go in and water her plants for a couple of weeks.’

  Christ. Who knew the little witch would be such a homebody?

  ‘And her parents are in…’

  ‘Queensland. Parrearra, I believe.’ The woman names a popular beach retirement community north of Brisbane. She’s hovering with her front door half open, waiting for me to clear off.

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘I remember now. Don’t worry, I’ll give her a call.’

  As if, I’m thinking. As if I’d warn her I’m coming. Instead, I head back to Sydney Airport to buy a ticket for the next available flight to the Sunshine Coast.

  * * *

  I stand out like a sore thumb among the vacationers.

  They’re all in zingy neon and floral resort wear, while I’m dressed in black jeans, T-shirt and cap. After I’ve checked into a budget hotel in Warana, I head to a surf shop and buy some thongs and brightly coloured board shorts. I exchange the black cap for a white one and top it off with some mirrored shades. Camouflage.

  I log onto the terminal in the hotel’s ‘business centre’ (a desk and a computer) and use up another of my pre-paid address-finder searches. I discover that Russell and Audrey Galea live in a retirement village a little way inland. I rent a car – partly because it’s hot as Hades, and partly so as not to be conspicuous – and drive over there.

  Hibiscus Meadows is a sprawling estate of identical single-storey houses, flanked by palm trees. The river forms one boundary and a golf course the other, and there’s a big communal pool and tennis courts next to a cream-painted clubhouse. Sprightly seniors walk their dogs and cycle along the broad pavements. I sit with the engine running to keep the air conditioning going, while I make an assessment of number 43, Calandra Gardens. There are two cars parked on the driveway, which implies the family are home.

  After an hour or so, a grey-haired bloke in khaki shorts comes out with a large brown dog trotting at his side and starts rummaging around in the garage. I switch off the engine and crank the window down a bit. He tinkers about happily enough, until a shrill voice screeches ‘Russ!’

  From between the slats of the yard fencing, I catch sight of a shock of permed auburn hair sticking out of a tennis visor. Presumably this is Mrs Galea.

  ‘We need you to come back here and get the barbie started!’

  We need you. So there’s more than one person back there. My heart quickens.

  ‘One minute, Aud!’

  Russell Galea wipes his hands on an oily rag and he and the dog lope back towards the gate at the side of the house, in no particular hurry. Soon there’s the smell of burning charcoal and grilling meat, and voices raised in conversation.

  I watch the sun sink lower, streaking the sky with apricot and amber, and realise with a stomach lurch just how much I’ve missed those Antipodean skies.

  Eventually, when the street has fallen quiet, I get out of the car and walk over to the gate into the backyard. If I stand at an angle, I can get a glimpse between the lapboards.

  At first, I think I must have found the wrong Galeas. There is a third person sitting under an umbrella next to Audrey Galea, large plastic tumbler of wine in hand; a woman. But it’s not Holly. Then she stands up and turns round, and I realise that it is indeed Holly. She’s gained weight in the last three years. Not so much that she looks like she’s wearing a fat suit, but she’s definitely a good thirty pounds heavier, and her face is round and puffy. She’s had her strawberry-blonde curls lopped too, and the shoulder-length cut ages her. Her changed appearance must be the kiss of death to her call-girl career, and I’m even more convinced that it’s my hard-earned dollar that’s paying for her smart flat back in Sydney.

  For the last thirty minutes, I’ve been wishing I could come back to Australia for good, and when I hear that yelping laugh again, it sinks home that it’s Holly Galea’s fault that I can’t. All of it is her fault. It was she who had me banned from the dating apps, which led to me picking up Pearl Liu in a bar. Which in turn led to having to leave my home country and settle eleven thousand miles away, entrenched in a marriage I never really wanted. And the craziest thing about it is that, looking at her now, I’m not even in the slightest bit attracted to the woman. All this, and for what?

  I go back to the car and sit at the wheel with my face in my hands. My bag of tools is pretty useless to me now. Yes, I could break into the house when they’ve all gone to bed and figure out which is Holly’s room. But with two other adults in the house, the chance of me being caught is pretty high. Holly will fight back; I know that from my previous encounter with her. Plus, there’s an alarm on the exterior wall of the property. Not to mention the dog. And if the cops are called, I’m quite certain Holly will tell them who I really am. It’s no use – this side trip to Queensland has been a waste of time. And there’s no way I can stay over he
re until Holly decides to return to Sydney. That will have Alice straight on the phone, possibly checking up on the hospital where Simon is supposed to be staying, or even flying to South Africa to join me.

  A gear shifts in my head as I head back to the airport at Maroochydore. Actually, this situation isn’t Holly’s fault. It’s Alice’s. If it weren’t for her, I would be somewhere Holly would never find me by now. Whoever coined the term ‘ball and chain’ for a spouse had it dead on. Bloody Alice.

  * * *

  I stop over for a whole night in Johannesburg, staying at the Intercontinental Hotel close to the airport. It’s just enough to allow me pick up a bit of local colour to make the trip more convincing, shop for gifts and to shave off what’s by now quite a bushy beard.

  Of course, when I get back I’m crippled by further doubts. Should I have hung around in Sydney to deal with Holly and taken my chances with Alice finding out what was going on? She seems initially pleased to have me back, but a couple of weeks later she accosts me after supper.

  ‘It’s not a big deal,’ she says, which is her usual preamble when she thinks something is a big deal. ‘Only when I was checking your flight payment on our Amex statement, I got out all our statements to cross-check the charge and I… well, I couldn’t help but notice this.’ She holds out my bank statement and points to the outgoing payments to Holly. ‘Nearly three thousand a month? That’s a lot of money.’

  ‘That, babe, is part of our pension fund,’ I say smoothly.

  ‘But our pension’s with Scottish Widows,’ Alice frowns. ‘This is going to a bank in Guernsey.’

  ‘It’s a private equity fund I’m using to top up our existing fund,’ I tell her. ‘If it doesn’t warrant the investment, I’ll switch the funds back. No worries.’

  ‘What’s it called?’

  I come out with the name that’s been hovering at the front of my cerebral cortex for the past couple of weeks. ‘Galea. Galea Securities. But they’re pretty discreet. Offshore stuff, you know? You won’t find them listed anywhere.’

  Is she satisfied with that? Is she, my backside. She questions me incessantly for the next few days. Who told me about Galea? How do I know they’re any good? Can I bring a copy of the portfolio home for her to read through? She’s a businesswoman and after inheriting money young she’s been making investments in her own right for years, so I suppose I shouldn’t be that surprised. But it gets on my last bloody nerve. And, of course, it’s only a matter of time – probably very little time – before she googles the fund to find it’s a fiction. Eventually I decide I’ve got no choice but to can the whole thing.

  ‘Look, some guys at the office were talking about Galea and they say it’s dodgy, and not to touch it with a barge pole. It’s not legit.’

  ‘I did wonder,’ Alice says, wrinkling her nose in a way I find quite sweet.

  ‘So I’ve pulled out – stopped the payments.’

  ‘Probably best,’ she agrees.

  Of course, I now have to stop the outgoing payments. Which is fantastically risky, given what Holly knows. But I reckon she’ll quickly complain and I’ll tell her I have to find some other way to pay her. Or offer her a lump sum.

  I won’t be giving it to her, of course. Because I’ve decided that with Alice on my case the whole time I’m not sticking around long enough for Holly to find me. I just need to get some money together without Alice noticing, then I’ll be off.

  Twenty-Four

  Ben

  Then

  Alice is a pain in my backside in so many ways, but there’s one way she makes things easier for me.

  She has always paid for all the domestic outgoings on Waverley Gardens, and continues to do so after we’re married. I know for a fact that JoJo, her ball-breaker of a best friend, doesn’t approve of this. Whenever she sees me, she makes little digs about me being a kept man. In fact, JoJo’s disapproval of me is all-encompassing. I always sense she’s trying to find ways to trip me up, and I give her as wide a berth as I can.

  Alice covering the bills gives me more leeway with my own earnings, so after I return from Australia via South Africa, I start siphoning off cash – £100 here, £200 there – and transferring it into the offshore account. I reckon in another six months or so, I’ll have enough of a cushion to allow me to take off.

  A couple of months after my failed trip to confront Holly, she has still said nothing about the cancelled blackmail payments. Her silence makes me nervous, and I consider emailing her and suggesting an alternate financial arrangement, but that could be prising the lid off a can of worms. And it occurs to me that she could be having my communications hacked as evidence. So I keep quiet in the hope she’s found a new target.

  I’ve stayed well away from dating apps since the ‘Nicola’ confrontation with Alice, but I did open an Instagram account as Dominic Gill, my avatar a glass of beer and I’ve been careful never to post photos of my face on it. At the beginning of March, I receive a direct message. It’s from a girl called Kezia Dean, and she’s stunning. Olive skin, long, luxuriant black hair, dark eyes. And so, despite my better judgement, we start messaging back and forth. What’s the harm? I ask myself. It’s not like she can see who I am. Besides, after more than two years in London, I’m bored and antsy; hemmed in. Kezia repeatedly asks for photos, but I’m careful to resist.

  Then she asks to meet up. Should I do it, I wonder, or is it too risky? After all, with Lara, I was using a fake ID, but the Instagram is for Dominic Gill. Risky, I realise now; I should have called myself something else. I’m still going onto the real Dominic’s Facebook account and phone to keep his friends at bay. Fortunately, he’d not lived in London very long, so there aren’t many people around to make excuses to. Some of them follow me on Instagram, but I reasoned that opening the account would give them less reason to worry about what’s happened to good old Dominic.

  And then, stupidly, moronically, in March I agree to have a drink with Kezia after work one evening.

  * * *

  She’s sitting at a table when I arrive. Not a vision of long, caramel limbs and Pocahontas hair, but a moderately overweight woman with reddish hair in an unflattering cut.

  Holly.

  She smiles at me as I approach, as though this deception should have been obvious from the start. Which, now that I’m standing here like an idiot, it was.

  She holds up her half-empty glass. ‘Mine’s a Jack Daniels and Coke, please.’ When I stand rooted to the spot, she adds airily, ‘I was going to email you about our little arrangement, but then I thought, no, I’ve got a bit of cash in the bank—’

  ‘Thanks to me.’

  She acknowledges this with a slight nod of the head. ‘So I decided I might as well hop on a plane and come to London. Haven’t been here since I was a nineteen-year-old law student.’

  I swing round on my heel and march up to the bar of the anonymous City pub. I urgently need alcohol, if only to stop me throttling the woman there and then.

  I should have stayed on in Sydney and dealt with her when I had the chance.

  The regret at that misjudgement overwhelms me. I order a single malt and Holly’s sticky brown drink and return to the table with them.

  ‘I was going to talk to you about the payments,’ I say truthfully. ‘I’ve had to go through some financial… restructuring… in the last couple of months. My wife got suspicious. But I should soon be able to make good the shortfall.’

  To do so will mean wiping out all of the money I’ve saved up, and more besides. Over my dead body.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ says Holly, sipping her drink through a straw. Her nails are painted a jarring shade of fluorescent orange. ‘And I think it’s going to work best all round if we dispense with regular instalments and just go for a one-off settlement.’

  I stare at her mutely over the rim of my whisky glass.

  ‘I was thinking half a million dollars.’

  I’m already shaking my head. ‘Forget it. I don’t have acces
s to that sort of money.’

  ‘There’s your house. By my estimate, that’s worth the equivalent of four million Aussie dollars.’

  I don’t bother asking her how she knows where I live. If I could find her address – and her parents’ – it makes sense she could find mine.

  ‘Okay: two things. Firstly, it’s my wife’s house. She bought it with family money. And secondly, that’s a bit of an overestimation. Three million dollars would be nearer the mark.’

  Holly shrugs. She takes out a make-up bag and starts touching up her lipstick. It’s a glaring shade of orange, to complement the nails.

  ‘It’s joint marital property. You should have no problem borrowing against it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s that easy.’

  ‘Okay then… well, the alternative is for me to go to Scotland Yard. I’m sure they’d be fascinated to hear that you’re not really called Dominic Gill, and that back in Sydney you’re wanted for questioning in relation to the homicide of a young Chinese waitress. Or I could always have a chat with your wife.’

  I take three deep, slow breaths. It’s vital I don’t lose my cool at this point. ‘Say I do manage to take out a loan, it’s going to take a while to arrange. A couple of weeks, realistically.’

  ‘Make it a week,’ she says coldly, closing her make-up mirror shut with force. ‘One week, or I’m off to the cops.’