The Man She Married (ARC) Page 18

  I shake my head through all of this. ‘No. She died on a Mediterranean cruise in February…’ I falter, as Simon reaches into his bag again and pulls out what I recognise as a death certificate. ‘She was cremated in Gibraltar and her ashes were flown back.’

  He pushes the death certificate into my hand. ‘Look, Alice. It’s all here.’

  I let the words swim into focus. Patricia Evelyn Gill. Date of death: 15 March 2017. Place of death: Ponteland, Tyne and Wear.

  He’s handing me a cutting from the Newcastle Chronicle, dated 28 March.

  The funeral of Patricia Gill, of Linden Close, Ponteland, took place at St Mary the Virgin, Ponteland, yesterday. The funeral was attended by her many friends in the community and by her son Simon and daughter-in-law Lyn.

  No mention of Dominic.

  ‘Then, when I was recently down in London, I’d been over to Dom’s flat in Acton before I got the call from the police. There was someone else living there, and she said Dom had moved out a few months ago. Yet he never mentioned that to me, or to any of his friends. I checked with a few of them and they said they hadn’t seen him in years. That he kept fobbing them off. And none of them had been to his wedding, or even knew he was married. It’s a clear case of identity theft, so I’m sorry, Alice, but you—’

  I’ve somehow managed to get to my feet, even though my legs are like jelly. ‘Get out!’ I say, pointing in the direction of the front door like a character in some Victorian melodrama. ‘Please – just go! You’re making this up.’

  He’s shaking his head, but he gathers the papers back into his bag. ‘Alice, I promise I’m not! Please, just think about it—’

  But I’ve already stormed into the hall and yanked open the front door and he has no choice but to go through it. ‘I don’t know why you’re doing it, but I know you’re lying!’ I shout after his retreating back.

  I rush into the downstairs cloakroom and dry-heave wretchedly over the toilet bowl, angrily wiping away snot and tears before washing my face and composing myself. Then, for reasons I don’t entirely understand, I go outside to the wheelie bin and reach inside it to retrieve the black fleece jacket, hood and gloves. I brush them down and place them back in the drawer of Dominic’s desk, exactly where I found them. It’s only then that I discover, shoved to the very back of the drawer – I didn’t see them at first – a distinctive pair of shoes.

  Twenty-Nine

  Alice

  Now

  When I wake up the next morning, I’m lying in my bed, on clean sheets.

  I realise, too, as I sit up and reach for the glass of water on my nightstand that I feel a little better. The nausea has receded, and while the shock of recent events is ever-present, at least I feel prepared to face it. I haven’t had to go through forgetting, then re-remembering.

  My mind is trying to stray back to what Simon Gill told me, and to the shoes in the drawer. But I don’t want to think about either, so I force it back to the present. I take a cup of tea back to bed with my tablet and sit there reading.

  Your Pregnancy week by week: Week Seven

  Your baby is the size of a blueberry when you are seven weeks pregnant. The embryo’s brain is developing rapidly. The head will become enlarged, out of proportion to the rest of their body, and their facial features will become more prominent. Morning sickness will typically still be strong at this stage, and many women also experience fullness and tenderness in their breasts.

  I lower my hand tentatively to my belly and place it below my navel. It does feel a little more rounded, but then I’ve never been one of those women who have a stomach like an ironing board anyway, so it’s hard to tell.

  I sit there for a few seconds in what is the nearest I’ve felt to peace in the last three days. Then I pick up my phone.

  There’s a text from JoJo.

  How are you doing sweetie? The liaison officer from the Met has been in touch with me, and you really, really need to go and talk to them. I’m happy to come with you, if you like. Xxx

  I don’t reply, but instead pull on sweatpants and a T-shirt and head down to the kitchen, busying myself with clearing all the food out of my kitchen cupboards and scrubbing down the shelves with a stinging solution of bleach.

  An hour later, there’s someone at the front door. Of course I try to ignore it, but five minutes later, my phone buzzes and there’s a text from JoJo.

  I’m outside!

  Wearily, I fling down my cloth and go to let her in. She grasps me by my shoulders and looks directly into my face. There’s a pause, as though she’s waiting for me to burst into tears.

  ‘How are you doing, my darling?’

  I sigh. ‘I’m okay.’

  Of course, this is far from the truth, and she knows it.

  She follows me into the kitchen and sniffs the air, taking in the caustic aroma of bleach. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Just doing a spot of cleaning.’

  ‘And is everything okay with…?’ She glances at my abdomen.

  ‘Fine. Apart from being sick as a dog.’

  ‘You’ll get through that. Have you eaten today?’

  I shake my head. JoJo sets about making us toast, scrambled eggs and coffee and watches me like an over-controlling mother as I eat. I feel faintly queasy again but manage to keep the food down.

  After she’s cleared the plates and mugs into the dishwasher, JoJo checks her watch and says. ‘Look, don’t be pissed off with me…’

  I raise an eyebrow.

  ‘…But I’ve arranged for your Family Liaison Officer to come over here and talk to you while I’m here. It was either that or they would have sent an officer round to take you over to the police station, and I thought this would be the better option.’

  On cue, the doorbell rings again, and before I have the chance to object, JoJo has hurried to the front door to let in DC Willis. She’s a short, square woman with an open, freckled face. Her hair is cut in a mannish crop, and she has thick wrists and huge hands with sausage-like fingers. She wears shapeless navy trousers and a short, belted mac. Her appearance reminds me of our rather intimidating hockey mistress at school, and her empathetic gestures and phrases seem to have been learned on a police training course rather than coming naturally. Still, she addresses me as ‘Mrs Gill’, which I appreciate, even if it does make tears start to well up again. The three of us sit at the kitchen table, and JoJo makes more coffee.

  ‘Mrs Gill…’

  ‘You can call me Alice,’ I tell her.

  She smiles. ‘Okay. And I’m Janet. I know what you’ve been through is absolutely awful. It’s obviously traumatic enough to lose your spouse in a car accident, but then to go through all this…’

  All this, I think. That’s one way of describing it.

  ‘It’s some sort of mix-up,’ I speak insistently, trying to convince myself. ‘A mistake.’

  JoJo reaches across the table and lays her hand on top of mine.

  What does she know? I wonder.

  ‘The team at CID have been investigating Mr Gill’s version of events… Simon Gill’s… and we’ve liaised with the Missing Persons Unit at the NCA—’

  ‘My husband’s not missing,’ I interject coldly. ‘He’s lying in a freezer drawer at the mortuary.’

  ‘The thing is, Alice, we’ve checked all the documentation that Simon Gill could provide, along with medical and dental records. We’ve also run checks with the relevant government agencies and spoken to… your husband’s employers and cross-referenced past employers from the information they had when he applied to work there. We’ve taken DNA samples from Simon Gill, and from the deceased, and compared all the data we have.’ She pauses and inhales heavily, before giving the trained empathy smile.

  I pull my hand away from JoJo’s and look down into my lap.

  ‘The thing is – and I know this is very hard to hear, and very distressing given what’s happened – but the man you married in 2016 and have been living with since is definitely not Dominic Stephen
Gill, born 15 September 1986. That man has not been seen by anyone who knew him for around three years. His identity was being used by the man you were married to.’

  ‘But… his passport. I’ve seen his passport.’

  ‘The passport issued to Dominic Stephen Gill was found in the car. The Passport Office have let us access their records, and the previous passport for that applicant definitely belonged to Simon Gill’s brother and bore his photo. It was issued when he was nineteen, and when it expired in 2016, it was renewed using the same information, but with a photo of your husband. Which implies that he somehow got his hands on the original. The facial changes that happen between nineteen and twenty-nine are such that his renewal application wasn’t questioned.’

  ‘Al… are you okay?’ JoJo asks.

  I can feel the blood draining from my face.

  ‘We also found a second UK passport in the car, issued in the name of Ben MacAlister.’

  I close my eyes and listen to the blood ringing in my ears.

  ‘So, I know this is hard to hear,’ Janet goes on. ‘But I’m afraid we’re treating this as a case of identity theft. And, of course, since Dominic Gill is missing, we have to consider the possibility of foul play.’

  I open my eyes and stare at her.

  ‘There is one other thing you need to know, before we finish up here… This was found on your husband’s desk at Ellwood Archer.’ Janet fishes in her bag and pulls out an envelope with my name written on it. I recognise the writing on it at once. It’s Dominic’s. Or rather, Not-Dominic’s.

  I feel a sickening chill in my stomach. Because instead of Alice Gill, it’s addressed to Alice Palmer.

  The envelope has already been ripped open, presumably because the police needed to get sight of the contents. I pull out the paper inside, my sweaty fingers sticking on it awkwardly, and start to read.

  Alice,

  I stop immediately. That’s it? I think, with a curdling chill to the innards. Not Darling Alice, or even Dear Alice. Just ‘Alice’.

  I’ve been giving this a lot of thought, and from my perspective, things just aren’t working out. So before we get further down the line, and there’s a kid involved, I’m leaving. I’m going to go to Europe for a while, France or Spain, and then, when we’ve been separated for the appropriate time period, we can talk to lawyers about dividing up the assets. You’ve done nothing wrong, so therefore I’m content to wait for a no-fault divorce. I know you won’t understand, and I’m sorry about that, but trust me: this is the best option. D.

  Janet Willis extends her hand to take the note back.

  ‘No,’ I say to her, ‘Wait.’

  I have to reread it three times before I can even begin to take in what he’s saying. It’s so cold, so… abrupt. He must have written it before he read my message about being pregnant. Surely that must be it?

  ‘We think he was planning to head up the M11 to one of the east coast ports and catch a ferry,’ Janet says gently. ‘As well as the passports, there was a packed bag in the car.’

  I let her take the note, finally. ‘Did they find his mobile?’ I ask her.

  She nods.

  ‘Can they try and work out exactly when he read the last WhatsApp I sent him. You know how there are two blue ticks when a message has been read? Can you get someone to check the timing?’

  Janet takes out a notebook and scribbles this down. ‘I’m not sure if it’s possible, but I’ll ask the tech guys.’

  JoJo flicks a concerned look in my direction. ‘You okay, chick? D’you want to rest?’

  She is, I keep having to remind myself, the only person on the planet other than me who knows that I’m pregnant. And possibly Dominic. Not-Dominic.

  I nod wearily.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Janet gets up from the sofa and stands there, square, solid, reassuring. ‘I’m going to leave you in peace now. There is just one thing I need to ask you about – the search of the house. Now, I understand you refused earlier, and that’s okay.’ She gives a reassuring smile. ‘But, ultimately, CID could get a warrant for the search anyway. It would be a lot easier and less stressful if you just give your permission.’ She reinforces the professional smile. ‘That way it will be done at your convenience, not ours.’

  ‘How long will it take?’ asks JoJo.

  ‘Hard to say. It could be a few hours, or it might be longer. In this case, they don’t have a specific item that they’re looking for, so it probably won’t be quick, I’m afraid. You don’t need to be here, of course, if you’d prefer not to.’

  ‘What about the funeral?’ I ask. ‘I mean, how am I even supposed to think about dealing with that, when…’ I let the sentence tail off, unable to encompass all the uncertainty with a sentence.

  ‘That’s up to the coroner, I’m afraid.’ Janet heads to the front door. ‘I’ll check on that for you. But, meantime, promise me you’ll try not to worry, okay?’

  I don’t even attempt a response.

  * * *

  I tell JoJo I have a migraine so that she will leave too, and then I hide myself away in the bathroom again.

  He was leaving me.

  This sole thought circles my brain like a solitary goldfish. Eventually it’s joined by a companion thought: he can’t have wanted to. He must have been under some sort of duress.

  I think back to the day I phoned him from Harley Street. He was genuinely excited. Or he made it seem as though he was. But then he made me believe he was really Dominic Gill.

  I visited that clinic on the day I ended up running for my life. The day I glanced behind me and caught a glimpse of shoes as my pursuer fled. Distinctive red soles.

  That was the very same day.

  Thirty

  Alice

  Now

  Your Pregnancy week by week: Week Eight

  Your baby is the size of a raspberry when you are eight weeks pregnant. It’s around 1.6 centimetres long – still tiny, but growing and developing every day. The fingers and toes will have formed, and the heart will be beating at an amazing 160 beats a minute!

  * * *

  It’s now a week since the accident. A week since I became the widow of a complete stranger.

  After a lot of persuasion, I agreed to go and spend a couple of days at David and Melanie’s house in Surrey while the police carried out their search of Waverley Gardens. It was a relief not to have to think about preparing meals or dealing with callers and to escape the constant reminders of Dominic’s presence, if only temporarily.

  But on the second evening, while we are sitting down to a chicken casserole, I notice a look pass between David and Melanie when he opens a bottle of claret and pours some for himself, but not Mel. Instead, he fills her glass with mineral water. He registers that I’ve noticed it.

  ‘Al, I know this is terrible timing, but I’ve… we’ve some news. Melanie’s expecting.’

  They both break into happy grins, and I feel a tremor of grief run through my body.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I say quietly. ‘That’s amazing. How far along are you?’

  ‘About eight weeks.’

  The same as me.

  I distract myself with pulling shreds of chicken from the bone. They don’t seem to notice that I, too, am sticking to mineral water, or perhaps they attribute my sobriety to my fragile emotional state. But I don’t feel I can tell them about my own pregnancy when they’re already so worried about me. Inevitably, they’ve been tiptoeing around me during my stay. There’s been talk of my ‘situation’, but they never mention Dominic by name. Or ‘Ben’.

  I return to London full of dread. The house is not exactly untidy, but I can tell immediately that it’s not the same. Little things: the toaster and the kettle have switched places on the kitchen counter; my long-sleeved tops have been mixed up with my short-sleeved ones in the dressing room; the cushions on the bed have been replaced in the wrong order. And there’s a different smell: the smell of strangers.

  Dropping my bag in the hallway, I head straight t
o the drawer of Dominic’s desk. The black clothing is gone. So are the shoes.

  * * *

  Over the next couple of days, I continue to avoid all news coverage and social contact, only leaving home to go to the small local supermarket for essentials. The house in Waverley Gardens was an unwanted barrier between me and the rest of the world when I first acquired it, but now I’m grateful for that, actively pulling up the drawbridge. Matt and Milan make several attempts to visit, but I put them off every time. It’s not that I don’t want the comfort of people who care, it’s that I have no idea what to say to them. How can I frame a logical narrative for others when I can’t create one for myself?

  On the third day, Janet Willis texts and asks me to call. I make myself respond this time. Whatever it is the police know, I need to know too. I have to face it.

  ‘CID need to take a formal statement from you and bring you up to speed with various developments,’ she says.

  I remain silent at my end.

  ‘I know it’s an awful lot to deal with, Alice, but as your FLO, I can take you down there and stay with you, if you like.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say eventually, sounding more calm than I feel.

  ‘I’ll pick you up in an hour.’

  * * *

  DS Sutherland takes me into a small, windowless room on the second floor of Paddington Green station. Janet Willis offers to come with me, but I decline the offer. I’m done with sympathy, with pity.

  There’s a change in Sutherland’s manner; a new earnestness in his voice and a sorrowful expression on his face. This is what alerts me to the fact that he knows something more. Something that’s not good.