The Man She Married (ARC)

by Alison James

  ‘No, Alice, come on! I’m just trying to—’

  But I snatch my bag and storm out of the coffee shop as fast as the chaos of packed tables and baby buggies will allow, and without looking back to see if Cardle is following me.

  Thirty-Five

  Alice

  Now

  When someone arrives at the house the following morning, I assume it’s Jim Cardle coming to apologise.

  But it’s Janet Willis. Her square frame is crammed into a white polo shirt and an unflattering pair of jeans, and she’s carrying a brown paper envelope.

  ‘Alice. Can I have a quick word?’

  I lead her through into the kitchen. She declines tea or coffee, but I put the kettle on to boil anyway, to have something to do with my hands.

  ‘I wanted to see how you were doing. And to tell you in person that the coroner has released the body. Of… your husband.’

  I nod, looking down at my bare left hand.. ‘I know. DS Sutherland told me.’

  ‘In normal circumstances, it would be up to a widow to make her own arrangements, but in this case, with the… well, with the identity issue… we don’t expect you to do so. Unless you want to, of course. It’s usual for the local authority to take care of the burial when relatives can’t be traced, so—’

  ‘Sorry, can you just give me a minute?’

  I suddenly feel faint, and flashes of light blur my vision. Leaving Janet in the kitchen, I go out into the hall and bend forward trying to catch my breath, organise my thoughts.

  What if this was all one big mistake? That’s the thought that won’t let go. What if I was so shocked that night of the crash that I was imagining things? What if it wasn’t actually him in the coffin? After the funeral it will be too late.

  ‘I don’t want to organise the funeral,’ I say baldly to Janet, returning to the kitchen and snapping off the switch on the half-boiled kettle. ‘I don’t see the point. But I need to… Can I see him?’

  ‘Well,’ Janet looks doubtful. ‘When a funeral is held by the local council, viewings aren’t normally permitted. But with these being unusual circumstances… leave it with me and I’ll see what I can arrange.’

  ‘Good.’ I try to sound more gracious, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘There was one other thing.’ She holds out the envelope and I walk over and take it from her. ‘I thought you should see this.’

  I take out a colour photograph in a frame. It’s faded, and the style dates it some fifty years. A middle-aged man in a kilt stands with his arm proudly linked through the arm of a bride. She’s slim with sandy hair and a pretty face. I hold the photo under one of the countertop down-lighters and bend over to examine it more closely. And there it is: I’m not imagining it. The woman has the same golden irises as my late husband.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ I ask Janet.

  She stands up and takes the photo from me to look at it more closely. ‘Have you seen it before?’ I notice that the edges of the frame have smears of the aluminium powder used for fingerprinting.

  ‘No,’ I say honestly. ‘Never.’

  ‘It was found at the back of a cupboard during the search of Dominic Gill’s flat in Acton. It doesn’t belong to the current tenant, and Gill’s family know nothing about it, or the people in the picture. It’s been dusted for prints and we only found your husband’s.’

  ‘Can I keep it?’ I ask.

  Janet nods and stands up. ‘Of course.’ She glances at my midriff. ‘I hope you’re keeping well; you know – eating and sleeping okay?’

  I nod.

  ‘Good to see you again, anyway.’ Janet heads back into the hall. I make no move to follow her, so she calls, ‘I’ll see myself out,’ over her shoulder.

  I put the photo on what used to be my husband’s desk and go back to unpacking the new cushions and throws I’ve ordered for the sitting room. If it looks and feels like a different room, the more at home I’m going to feel in it. The easier it will be to forget. And the last thing I want to do is move from here. I’m not going to let anyone force me out of my home, alive or dead.

  My mobile starts ringing, but it’s only after I’ve pressed ‘Accept’ that I notice the caller ID. James Cardle.

  ‘I’m outside,’ he says gruffly, without preamble. ‘Can I come in?’

  Sighing, I go to the front door. Cardle’s on the step, inhaling on the last inch of a cigarette. When he sees me, he hurriedly stubs it out and tosses the butt into the gutter.

  ‘I didn’t know you smoked.’

  ‘I don’t.’ He gives me the ghost of a smile. ‘I’ve given up. At least twenty times.’

  I don’t want to go into the kitchen. It would feel too intimate somehow. Instead, we perch among the cardboard boxes and cellophane wrapping in the sitting room.

  I open my mouth to speak, but he holds up a huge paw. ‘Before you say anything, please just let me get this bit over with. I need to apologise. What I said amounted to victim-blaming, which, apart from being unkind and un-PC, was very unprofessional. Someone in my line of work should know that there’s a whole stack of reasons why someone in a dysfunctional or abusive relationship can’t leave. So I’m sorry.’

  I give a faint nod, but say nothing.

  ‘But what I was really doing was playing devil’s advocate. I was just trying to get inside the situation and see why someone like you – someone switched on and successful and… attractive…’ He makes fleeting eye contact, and I look away.

  This is awkward, I think. I prefer it when he’s being rude.

  ‘…Someone like you might wind up in a predicament like that.’

  ‘You said I was an idiot.’

  ‘I know, and I shouldn’t have used that word. What I meant was that your actions would seem questionable to someone on the outside. So…’ He moves his head and leans his body to the right, forcing eye contact again. ‘Can we start again, please?’

  I nod. ‘But only if you’ll let me try and explain it to you. I need to, for my own sake as much as for yours’

  ‘Over a cup of tea, maybe?’ He pronounces it ‘mebbe’, Yorkshire-fashion.

  We go into the kitchen and I re-boil the freshly boiled kettle, making a pot of tea this time and digging out some of the ginger biscuits that I lived on when I had morning sickness.

  ‘The thing is, Mr Cardle—’ I use his formal name to indicate I’m still pissed off with him.

  ‘Call me Jim, for Christ’s sake. Mr Cardle’s my dad.’

  ‘Jim. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t tell myself I was stupid. So I don’t need you or anyone else doing it for me. And, yes, of course there were red flags. But Dominic – I still think of him as that, so I’m not going to refer to him as “Ben” right now as it’s too weird – he was not only good-looking and bright, but he was incredibly charismatic and he was interested in me. It was an irresistible combination that allowed me to ignore the red flags. And I’d been jilted before, practically at the altar.’

  Jim gives me a look of undisguised curiosity as he dunks his biscuit in his tea. ‘A sort of perfect storm then,’ he suggests.

  ‘Exactly. And, yes, there were periods of unease, but also, a lot of the time, it was lovely and harmonious. If he disappeared off the radar occasionally, well, it was nothing that my friends’ high-flying husbands weren’t getting up to.’

  I find I’m enjoying this confessional moment. I haven’t opened up like this about Dominic to anyone, not even JoJo.

  ‘At first, he was just the right side of dominant…’

  ‘You mean in bed?’

  I blush furiously, picking up the biscuit packet and reading the calorie values. ‘Yes. In bed. It was only later that things got out of hand.’

  Jim looks at me sharply. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  I decide to push past this. ‘Since you’re the professional, you’ll know that when your spouse deceives you, you feel anger, but mostly you feel embarrassment and a huge amount of shame.’

  ‘Sure,’ his t
one is gentler now. ‘I get it. Really, I do. And you only need talk about what you’re ready to talk about. Though, obviously, the more I know, the better the job I can do. I’ll start talking to the people at the company your husband worked for, and I’ll call in some favours with my police contact.’

  ‘They’re having a funeral for him,’ I say abruptly. ‘Brent council has to pay, apparently. But I don’t think I’m going to go.’

  Jim thinks for a couple of seconds. ‘Are you sure? Up to you of course, but—’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Okay, but if you find out when it is, can you tell me, please?’

  ‘You’d go?’

  ‘Of course. Sometimes there’s a notice put in the local papers or news websites, in case relatives come forward. So it’s always worth attending: you never know who might turn up.’ He puts his cup down in his saucer and stands up. ‘I’d better make tracks; I’m supposed to be on a surveillance job in Muswell Hill. A rabbi who’s playing around on his wife with a member of his congregation, if you can believe that.’

  I manage a smile. ‘Good to know I’m not the only fool out there.’

  ‘You are not,’ Jim says robustly. ‘Far from it.’ He grins, holding up a hand, ‘And before you jump down my throat again, I don’t think you’re a fool either.’

  * * *

  Janet Willis phones the next morning. She gives me the details of the funeral home on Kilburn High Road and confirms that they will be happy to let me do a viewing, as long as it’s before the end of the next day: Thursday.

  I drive over there immediately before I lose my nerve and without asking JoJo or any of my other friends to come with me. I need to do it alone. In the end, it’s not as distressing as I feared it might be; just strange. And it is him. I’m quite sure about that. I leave my wedding band in the coffin with him, as a gesture of finality.

  Walking back to my car, I dial Jim Cardle’s number.

  ‘The burial’s on Friday at 2 p.m., at Kensal Green Cemetery.’

  ‘Great. Thanks. Have you decided what you want to do?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’m going to go. I don’t want to, but I need to see things through.’

  ‘Want a lift?’

  * * *

  When Jim calls at the house on Friday afternoon, I’m waiting for him, wearing a black dress, tights and shoes.

  ‘I’m not doing this for me,’ I tell him. ‘It’s for the baby’s sake.’

  We drive to the cemetery in Jim’s filthy Subaru, arriving just after the hearse has pulled up. There’s a team of junior undertakers in cheap black suits who look as though they’re on work experience, but no flowers. No music. No words of tribute. As the coffin is lifted out of the hearse and carried to the unmarked plot, I feel a wave of emotion wash over me. Not grief so much as a draining, life-sapping emptiness. There’s a brass plaque on the coffin lid, and I wonder how they have identified the body inside. With a date? A case number? Going to your grave with no name or memorial is surely the ultimate human failure.

  Jim and I walk close enough to the grave to see the coffin lowered, but I don’t want to go any further. A priest reads some words of committal, and apart from him and the child-undertakers, there’s only a woman in a business suit, who must be representing the council. I hear, but can’t quite see, the clods of earth falling on to the lid. I hang my head and give way to tears, my right palm pressed over my belly. This child is all that remains of whoever they’ve just buried.

  Jim touches the small of my back. ‘Don’t worry: we’ll find out who he was.’

  Thirty-Six

  Alice

  Now

  We go back to the house, and I offer tea. ‘Or something stronger, given this is sort of a wake.’

  Jim accepts a glass of red wine and I pour myself a Diet Coke and set out a bowl of crisps and a plate with some cheeses, ham and salami. I suddenly feel extremely hungry.

  ‘Ah, the traditional funeral cold meats,’ Jim observes, taking off his suit jacket and tie, and spearing a large chunk of manchego. ‘Let me ask you something… you did actually see this girl, Shona Watson? The one who was supposedly stalking your husband.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It was only once and the light wasn’t great, but I could describe her.’

  ‘How old was she?’

  ‘Young-ish. My age or a bit younger, I’d say.’

  ‘Okay, here’s the thing…’ He washes down a slice of spicy salami with a mouthful of wine. ‘Alan Sutherland’s a friend of a friend, so I called in at Paddington Green nick for a quick word. I checked up on the harassment complaint your husband made about her.’

  ‘I was with him. He did do it.’

  ‘I know, but he couldn’t provide a date of birth or home address for her, nor could he provide any background information that would help them with her whereabouts. So the police made a note but couldn’t really progress the complaint any further. They couldn’t find her on any of their databases. All he said, apparently, was that he worked with her when he was in Edinburgh, at a company called Holdec Global.’

  ‘Is it a real place?’

  Jim nods. ‘It’s a massive international engineering consultancy. But here’s the interesting bit; the real Dominic Gill did work there for a while. And they do have an employee called Shona Watson.’

  My eyes widen. ‘You found her?’

  ‘Well, yes and no. I phoned and spoke to her. The thing is, she’s sixty-three years old. She sounded older than the woman you described, and I checked her photo on the company website, and… well, she is. Sixty-three. And although she’s worked there for quite a few years, she says she didn’t have any personal involvement either with the real Dominic Gill or with anyone matching your husband’s description. And I believe her.’

  I’m nodding. ‘He did that before.’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘When I saw him out with that girl. The one he claimed was called Nicola Mayhew and planned parties for a living. Well, Nicola Mayhew did exist, but she worked in the accounts department at his company and she was fifty-five if she was a day.’ I sigh heavily. ‘How are we ever going to get at the truth if all we have to go on is lie after lie?’

  Jim smiles at me and helps himself to more wine. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll have left a trail. There’ll be nuggets of real stuff in there, we just have to keep digging.’

  ‘So what are we going to do now?’ The ‘we’ sounds strange on my lips. ‘We’ was always Dom and I.

  Jim pretends not to notice. ‘We could go to Edinburgh and speak to Shona and her other colleagues in person, but, to be honest, I think that would be a waste of time. I don’t believe “Ben”,’ he makes air quotes, ‘worked at Holdec. He was just grafting bits of Gill’s work experience onto his own story. I honestly think the Scotland connection’s a red herring.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  I fetch the framed photo from the office and show it to Jim. ‘Maybe I should have showed this to you sooner. It was found in the real Dominic’s flat, but it’s not his. It’s got Ben’s fingerprints on it. That woman – the bride – looks a bit like Dom… like my husband. They’ve got the same eyes.’

  Jim examines it carefully, then pulls his phone from his pocket and takes some close-up photos of the image, focusing mainly on the faces.

  ‘I’ll see if facial recognition software comes up with anything. It’s a long shot, but leave it with me.’

  * * *

  Jim texts me a few days later and asks me to meet him at Bean & Beaker.

  It’s a warm, late April day and he’s wearing a white T-shirt, khaki cargo pants and a triumphant expression.

  ‘Did the recognition software find something?’ I ask, after I’ve fetched myself a decaf frappuccino.

  ‘Not exactly,’ he says, grinning. ‘Neither of the faces were picked up, which wasn’t too much of a surprise given the age of the photo. But I did find something.’

  ‘Go on.’ I scoop the whipped cream off the top of my drink and lick
it off the spoon. Now that I’m into the second trimester of my pregnancy and the nausea has abated, all I want to do is eat.

  ‘I’ve identified the tartan that the man in the picture is wearing. And guess what?’

  He sounds so excited that I look up from picking out the mini marshmallows. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s the MacAlister tartan. Which is the pseudonym that your husband used, isn’t it?’

  I nod. ‘Ben MacAlister. So you think there’s a family connection?’

  ‘There has to be, surely? Also, that particular combination of red and green belongs to the MacAlister of Glenbarr clan. Glenbarr being a tiny village in Western Argyll. Which narrows it down even further.’

  I feel a lurch at the base of my stomach. ‘Wow,’ I say, ‘Well done, Sherlock.’

  ‘So… how do you feel about a trip to the Highlands?’

  * * *

  We leave three days later, once Jim has signed off on a couple of his other cases.

  I set out a few ground rules for the trip; the first being that we travel in my car. I don’t think I can sit among the takeaway wrappers and fag packets in Jim’s car for nine hours or more.

  Of course, I don’t have to go with him. He can ask questions and dig further into this lead without my help. That’s his job, and it would arguably be a lot easier without a pregnant woman tagging along. But Jim feels a complete change of scene will do me good, and I agree with him.

  ‘If I left you back in London, you’d only be fretting and mithering me for updates every five minutes,’ he adds astutely. He’s right. I would.

  Jim agrees to make the journey in my newish four-wheel drive on condition that I insure him so that we can share the driving. In practice, he does most of it, cruising at much higher speeds than I would and weaving his way calmly but ruthlessly through the heavy lorries on the M1. We manage a little small talk, but he makes it clear he’s not the sort of man who likes to pass a journey with chit-chat.