The Man She Married (ARC) Read online

‘Let me get you a coffee – peace offering,’ I tell Matt. I fetch two coffees and a pink crinoline of a cupcake from the Comida stand. ‘Sorry for being such a cow,’ I say, cutting off a corner of the cake for myself and handing him the rest. ‘I do have something on my mind.’

  ‘I’m a good listener.’ Matt gives me a sympathetic smile. I know that this is true. Unlike his rather histrionic boyfriend, he’s sensitive and empathetic. Outside of office hours, he devotes a large chunk of his spare time to manning a suicide helpline.

  So I tell him my suspicions about my husband, trying just to present facts rather than spin a conspiracy theory. By the time I’ve finished, Matt is frowning.

  ‘I don’t want to be a Debbie Downer, but it sounds like he could be up to something.’

  ‘You think I should confront him?’ I ask miserably.

  ‘I’d say it’s important to get your facts right before you take it any further. Milan and I have a couple of friends… they were in a civil partnership for ages, when one of them – Tim – suspected the other – Luke – was cheating. He hired an investigator to check it out before he risked upsetting the apple cart. The PI tracked his movements, and sure enough, Luke was having an affair.’ He swirls his finger through the pink frosting before licking it off. ‘Poor Tim… he was devastated, but at least he knew what was what. At least he wasn’t at risk of being gaslighted and thinking he was going nuts, you know?’

  I consider this. ‘I suppose I could do something like that.’

  ‘This guy was very good, apparently, and didn’t charge a fortune. I could get you his details if you like?’

  ‘All right,’ I agree. ‘No harm in looking into it.’

  * * *

  Later, when I’m back at home in Waverley Gardens, I climb onto the bed with my laptop and click on the link that Matt has emailed to me.

  * * *

  J. Cardle Private Investigations

  As an experienced former police officer, I provide a discreet service which includes overt and covert surveillance, vehicle pursuit and tracking, missing person and asset tracing, bug sweeping, fraud prevention and matrimonial services.

  * * *

  My phone rings while I’m looking through the page.

  ‘Hi, babe.’

  Dominic.

  ‘Where are you?’ I ask, trying to tone down the wary note in my voice.

  ‘Still in the office… how about you?’

  ‘Just got home.’

  ‘Only, I was thinking… d’you fancy eating out tonight? Or we could do a takeaway?’

  ‘Okay…’ I’m momentarily thrown. But this is what we need: to make an effort to spend time together. ‘I tell you what: why don’t you let me pick a venue? Somewhere that will be a surprise. I’ll text you the address.’

  I shut down the PI’s website, put my laptop away and go into the bathroom to shower. I dress with care in a crimson slip dress, purple angora shrug and kitten-heeled mules, applying more make-up than I would normally wear on a weekday evening. It’s fun to be sending Dom on a mystery assignation, and after glugging down a gin and tonic at my dressing table while I curl my hair, my mood has swung from stressed to something more festive. I then text Dom the address of an upmarket bowling alley with fancy booths and lane-side cocktail service.

  He frowns slightly when he arrives and takes in my flimsy dress.

  ‘That’s not exactly ideal for bowling, darl. Couldn’t you have worn something a bit less… tarty?’

  As well as preferring me with my undyed mousey hair, Dom’s always been happier when I’m dressed in plain jeans and shirt, or a sweater.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ I tell him, disappointed that he’s not more impressed by my look. But it turns out he has a point: bowling in a short dress isn’t easy and my awkward one-handed hem-tugging move as I launch the ball becomes something of an irritant. Dominic tetchily suggests we abandon the game.

  ‘I think enough of the other bowlers have seen your underwear by now, don’t you reckon?’ he asks me as we go and sit in our padded booth to order food.

  ‘You could have stood behind me and shielded me from view!’ I try and make light of the situation by play-slapping his arm. ‘Obviously, I’d never have worn a cocktail dress if I’d known how often I’d be bending over.’

  He reaches forward and kisses me on the tip of my nose. ‘Next time just remember to stick to something simple. Keep it low-key. You’re pretty enough as it is: you don’t need all this fancy stuff.’ He pulls at a lock of my curled hair.

  I ignore this. ‘We should do things like this more often. Go out and try something different.’

  He nods stiffly. ‘Sure.’

  When we get home, I change out of my dress and heels into sweats, and take off my make-up.

  ‘That’s better,’ he whispers, pulling me into a hug. ‘That’s my Ally.’

  We fall into bed together and have tipsy sex. I force myself to dismiss my concerns over the weekend away and the non-existent party planner. JoJo was probably right, I tell myself. All marriages hit the odd rocky spot, and we’ve just been through ours. We’ll be all right from here onwards.

  Fourteen

  Alice

  Then

  People You May Know.

  I stare, blinking, at the page on my LinkedIn account. On the Notifications page, alongside events and accepted invitations, is the strip of suggested contacts, based on my own webmail contacts, and, in turn, their network of personal contacts. I usually ignore this feature, but today one name jumps out at me.

  Simon Gill.

  I instinctively draw in a breath and hold it as I click on his profile. Dominic has barely mentioned my brother-in-law since the stroke, and has never told me what he does for a living. Well now I know, thanks to LinkedIn. Apparently he’s a forty-two-year-old management consultant at the Newcastle Branch of Price Waterhouse Cooper. Apart from his university credentials, and a list of posts he’s held since graduating, there’s very little information.

  I fetch a coffee, log onto Facebook and patiently trawl through every Simon Gill in the north of England until I find one whose profile picture matches the one on LinkedIn. I zoom in on the picture and look at it more closely. From what I can see, he’s very little like Dominic. He’s heavy-set, almost plump, with freckled skin. The hair is the same colour, but instead of Dominic’s distinctive topaz eyes, Simon’s are a wishy-washy blue.

  Simon’s privacy settings are open, so it’s very easy for me to read through his timeline. He only has fifty-three friends listed and posts rarely, but by following the crumb trail back to the time he opened his account, I learn that he’s married to someone called Lyn, and has two children. Dom has never mentioned a sister-in-law. The most recent post was made on New Year’s Eve: an album of photos with family and friends entitled ‘Christmas 2017’.

  I flick through the collection of five photos. There are a group of diners around a turkey with paper crowns and crackers, a walk along a bleak Northumbrian beach with dogs and children rugged up in hats and scarves and, finally, champagne glasses being raised in a toast, with the caption ‘Drinks at home, NYE. Happy 2018 everyone!’.

  I stare. That can’t be right, I think. Over last Christmas and New Year, Simon Gill was in a Johannesburg hospital following a stroke. For a while, at least, Dom was with him. But if this is indeed my husband’s brother, how can it be wrong? I tell myself it must be a different Simon Gill, and everything else must just be coincidental.

  I don’t get to confirm this with Dominic. There’s no opportunity. He comes back from work late and I’m already in bed, eyes closed and feigning sleep. But inwardly my mind is racing so fast that I don’t fall asleep until 2 a.m., only to be woken by Dominic at 8 a.m., dressed in his suit and tie and about to head to Ellwood Archer.

  ‘I couldn’t bear to disturb you,’ he says, handing me a cup of tea. ‘You were dead to the world.’

  ‘See you this evening?’ I haul myself up on my pillow, pushing my hair blearily from my eyes.<
br />
  ‘Not sure, babe. We’re just getting into the sign-off on the Abu Dhabi development. It might be another late one, I’m afraid.’

  An hour and a half later, at my desk in the Comida office, I pull up the private investigator’s page again. On the ‘About The Agency’ page, there’s an expanded bio of James Cardle, along with a photo. I spend a few minutes looking at his face. I estimate his age to be late forties. His body type would be described as ‘burly’, and his thick wavy hair is streaked with grey at the temples. His eyes are so deep-set that they’re barely visible, but even so it’s an attractive face with a reassuring aura.

  I pick up my phone and start dialling the number on the screen but almost immediately cut the call. What exactly am I going to say? I’ve been looking at my brother-in-law’s Facebook page, and he wasn’t where he was supposed to be at Christmas? James Cardle would probably laugh at me and tell me he’s there to investigate serious problems. And yet, there is something at the back of my mind; a sense of unease that won’t let me rest.

  At the end of the afternoon, I redial the number and leave a message. I then pack up my things, tell my assistant Flora that I have a meeting, and start walking north-east towards Whitechapel.

  * * *

  James Cardle does not stand up when I step into his office but continues staring at whatever is holding his interest on his computer screen.

  Eventually, after what seems like minutes but is probably only a few seconds, he graces me with his attention.

  ‘Ms Palmer.’

  He still fails to stand, or to extend a hand. I’m pretty sure this withholding of attention is to prove a point. I haven’t arranged an appointment; I’ve just phoned to tell him I’m coming, giving him my maiden name, which I still use at Comida.

  He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt in a washed-out blue that somehow fits his weather-beaten face and broad boxer’s nose. I can just about make out that his eyes are deep blue, although they’re so hooded as to be barely visible. He has a small diamond stud on one ear – an odd touch for such a masculine persona – and a tattoo of a bird on his forearm.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry to do this to you, but on the other hand you did come here without an appointment. Fact is, I’m flat out at the moment.’ His voice is deep and slightly rasping, with a distinctly Northern burr. Yorkshire, unless I’m mistaken.

  There’s still no invitation to sit, but I perch on the arm of a battered grey sofa that’s perpendicular to his desk. A low coffee table with some magazines is positioned in front of it in a nod to client comfort, its surface still smeared with rings from tea or coffee mugs. The one-room premises are in Greatorex Street, on the top floor of a new-build brick office block. Half of the building is unoccupied, and there’s a developer’s sign outside with a number for ‘All Enquiries’. The carpeting and paintwork are new, and the walls are lined with archive boxes and files that have yet to find shelving.

  ‘Have you been here long?’ I ask, trying to provoke some sort of conversation.

  ‘A few months,’ Cardle growls. ‘By the time I’ve unpacked, the bloody lease’ll be up.’

  ‘And when do you think you’ll have enough time to take on my case? I just need someone who can do some surveillance on my husband. See if he is where he says he is. Nothing too taxing.’

  He narrows his eyes, ‘Look, Ms Palmer, as things stand, this is a waste of your time. And mine, frankly. As you can see, this is a one-man operation. By the time I’ve got space on the books to do surveillance, it could be another six months. And that’s probably no use to you.’

  I sigh heavily.

  ‘There’s a couple of agencies I can recommend. Good places.’

  ‘But I’m here because you were recommended to me.’ I’m aware I sound whiney. I put my hands on my knees and bury my face in them for a few seconds. Then I look up and force a smile. ‘You know what: it’s fine. Sorry to have bothered you.’

  Bloody James Cardle, I think, as I walk back towards the tube station. Who needs him anyway? I can do this fine all on my own.

  * * *

  For a few minutes, I sit on the bench in the courtyard outside the front of the Ellwood Archer building, gathering my scattered thoughts.

  Comida still provides the company with occasional directors’ lunches, so no one would find it odd for me to be there, not even Dominic. Eventually I decide that if I’m going to go through with this, I need to be more discreet. What would a professional like Cardle do? I ask myself. I go to the café across the street and take a seat in the window, paying for a can of Coke that I have no intention of drinking.

  After a long forty minutes, I see Dominic coming out of the revolving door at the front of the offices. He turns right towards the DLR station at West Silvertown, just as he would if he were going home. Perhaps he is going home, I reason, as I head out onto the street after him. But then why would he tell me he was working late that night? It’s barely six o’clock, and a clear blue late-spring evening. If his plans had changed, he would surely have texted me to tell me he was on the way home.

  I follow at a distance of about ten metres, trying to match my pace to his, which means hurrying. At the station, it’s a lot more difficult to keep my distance, as a stream of commuters creates a bottleneck at the ticket barriers. I manage to hang back far enough to avoid being seen, but I still make it onto the northbound platform just before the train arrives. Dominic jumps into the carriage near the front of the train, and I board near the back, but with every station stop, I move up a carriage so that I’m in the one adjoining his and can easily see him disembarking.

  He gets off at Stratford, and so do I, once he has walked past my carriage. I guess correctly that he is changing onto a Westbound Central line tube and once again I work my way along the train until I can see him. His usual commute is to get off at Oxford Circus and change onto the Bakerloo line for Queen’s Park, and I watch the door in readiness for the change of trains, but this time he stays on, all the way through the West End and into the leafy inner suburbs, eventually getting off at North Acton.

  At this point, I’m expecting him to turn round, becoming aware that someone is following him on foot, but he doesn’t. Instead, he seems more focused on his phone screen, as though involved in a rapid-fire exchange of messages.

  Eventually we arrive at a blandly anonymous block of flats, and Dominic goes inside. I can see him through the glass in the main door, waiting for a lift to arrive. The lobby area is small and deserted, and if I were to walk into the building, he would see me. I’m just debating whether it would be best to confront him now, or leave it until later, when the lift doors open and he disappears from sight.

  I hover outside the building for more than half an hour, but it’s now starting to get dark and there’s no way of knowing what time Dominic will emerge, if indeed he does. I text him.

  Just heading home, will you be long? X

  After ten minutes, when there’s no reply forthcoming, I walk back in the direction of North Acton tube station. With no ‘mark’ to follow this time, I take in more of my surroundings. I pass a turning and stop in my tracks when I see the street sign.

  Old Oak Common Road.

  The speeding offence on the night of the Cotswolds trip was captured on Old Oak Common Road. Unless the police camera had lied, which seems highly unlikely. I stare at the sign in confusion for a few seconds, then hurry into the station and run down the steps to the platform, suddenly desperate to be away from this place and back in the familiar security of my own home.

  * * *

  When Dominic returns to Waverley Gardens, it’s almost midnight.

  ‘What are you doing down here in the dark?’ he asks, coming into the sitting room and finding me huddled in one corner of the sofa with an empty brandy glass on the table beside me.

  ‘I’m not in the dark.’ I indicate the solitary table lamp beside me.

  ‘You know what I mean. Why aren’t you in bed? It’s late.’

  ‘Yes, it is late
.’ I intend my voice to be cold and cutting, but because I’ve been sitting in silence for so long, it comes out as a croak. ‘I was waiting for you. I wanted to be up when you got back, so I could ask you what the fuck…’ I spit this last word, ‘you were doing in North Acton all night.’

  Even in the faint light, I can see him pale slightly.

  ‘How do you know where I’ve been?’ he asks eventually, his voice level.

  ‘Because I followed you.’

  ‘You followed me? Jesus, Alice!’ He drags his fingers down his cheek. ‘What the hell were you doing that for?’

  ‘I wanted to know if you really were working late. So I followed you from the office. And obviously I was right to be suspicious.’

  He takes a long, slow inhalation. I can tell that he’s consciously trying to relax. ‘Look, Ally, there’s nothing suspicious about it. That’s my old flat, where I used to live before we moved in together.’

  ‘I thought you lived in Deptford.’

  ‘I did, when we met… But I lived in Acton before that. Just for a short time, when I first moved to London. Anyway, Andy – the guy I used to live with – he was having a clear-out because he’s moving, and he found some stuff of mine. I said I’d go over there and pick it up.’

  ‘And it took you nearly five hours?’

  ‘He asked if I’d stay for a drink, and we had a few beers and ordered a pizza, and before I knew it, it was eleven.’

  He’s standing nearer now, and I can indeed smell beer on his breath.

  ‘Oh. I see.’ I get up and peer past him into the hall. ‘So where is it then?’

  ‘Where’s what?’

  ‘The stuff you picked up?’

  ‘Oh that…’ He grins. ‘It was just a bunch of old tat… old video games, that sort of thing. Nothing I wanted to keep, so I just told Andy to chuck the lot. He said he’d take it to the charity shop with some of his own stuff.’ He reaches out a hand to me. ‘Come on, you silly galah, let’s get you to bed.’