14 February 2019
I open the front door and find a large man and a slight woman standing on the doorstep. The woman is wearing police uniform. My hand flies to my mouth in an involuntary movement.
The man holds up a warrant card. ‘Mrs Gill?’
I nod silently.
‘Are you married to Mr Dominic Gill?
‘Yes.’ As if trying instinctively to delay what they have to say, I state the obvious. ‘He’s my husband.’
‘May we come in?’
I open the door wide and they step into the hall. It still smells faintly of the fish I was preparing for the Valentine’s dinner.
The policewoman adopts an expression of professional sympathy, which sets every sort of alarm bell ringing.
‘Mrs Gill, I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’
The man speaks, but I can hardly hear him above the ringing in my ears. I simply stare. Eventually I hear someone saying, ‘What kind of accident?’, and I realise that the words are coming from me.
The female police officer ignores this. ‘This is DS Alan Sutherland, and I’m PC Lisa Gillespie.’ The two of them walk past me, their expressions grim. PC Gillespie is looking from side to side, trying to work out the layout of the house. ‘Is there somewhere we can sit down?’
I point mutely to the sitting-room door and follow them in there, sinking down onto one of the sofas, grateful to no longer be supported by my shaking legs.
The police officers position themselves awkwardly on the other sofa, facing me. They glance at one other and PC Gillespie gives the smallest nod, indicating that her colleague should speak.
‘Mrs Gill, your husband was just joining the northbound M11 when his car was involved in a collision with an articulated lorry that failed to stop at a junction.’ He pauses.
‘No,’ I say, ‘That isn’t him. He would have been driving back from work. In London. It must be somebody else’s car.’
DS Sutherland consults his notes. ‘I have the car registration number.’
He reads it out. It’s Dominic’s Audi.
But why? That’s all I can think. Why would he even be there?
‘Is he injured?’ the voice that is me-but-not-me asks. I can still feel my heart thumping in my chest. Bang, bang, bang, bang. There’s something in their manner – their failure to reassure me that Dominic is all right – that is all wrong. ‘Can I see him?’
PC Gillespie edges forward and reaches for my hand, as DS Sutherland continues. ‘I’m afraid your husband – Dominic – was killed.’
The voice speaking to me is far away. It’s the female police officer, asking if there’s someone they can phone; someone who can come over. I sit there like a stone; silent, motionless.
This isn’t happening, the voice in my head says. There’s no way this is happening to me.
Would I like a cup of tea? PC Gillespie enquires. She can go into the kitchen and put the kettle on. I don’t know if I want tea or not. I can’t think.
DS Sutherland asks again if I’d like them to phone someone. ‘JoJo Deakin,’ I say, ‘My friend.’ My voice trembles, but I don’t break into tears. There’s a strange ringing sound in my ears.
PC Gillespie goes to fetch my mobile from the kitchen and makes the call in the hallway, keeping her voice low.
‘Your friend’s on her way,’ she says, coming back into the sitting room with my phone. ‘Is there anyone else I should call? Family?’
‘My brother, David.’ I turn to the detective sergeant. ‘What do I need to do now? I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.’
‘We’ve already organised for a formal identification, so you don’t need to do that. But if you’d like to see him, we can arrange to take you to the hospital.’
‘A formal identification?’ I frown. ‘I don’t understand. Who—’
‘The ambulance crew found a donor card in your husband’s wallet… his brother’s named on it as his emergency contact. Your brother-in-law happened to be in London on business, so he’s on his way to the Royal London now.’
I stand up. ‘I need to go there now. I need to see him.’
Then I’ll know this isn’t real. That I’m not really a widow.
‘Shall we wait for your friend?’ asks PC Gillespie. ‘She said she’d be here in a few minutes.’
I nod, and sit down again. I’m handed a mug of tea, but my hands are shaking so violently that I can’t hold it.
JoJo comes into the room, looking pale and shocked, drawing me into a tight hug. The two of us are led out to the police car and driven away through the darkened streets.
When we reach the hospital, JoJo and I are taken straight to the mortuary via a side door. We’re led to an anteroom, with a closed door.
‘If you’re ready?’ PC Gillespie asks.
I nod. DS Sutherland places a hand in the small of my back and steers me gently towards the viewing room. I clutch at JoJo’s hand, stepping into the room haltingly, as though my legs belong to someone else, and keeping my gaze down at my feet. Someone – I’m not sure who – moves me gently towards a hospital gurney.
I look up. Dominic – because it is unmistakeably Dominic – is partially covered by a sheet, naked from the shoulders up. There are bruises on his face and chest, and ugly purple gashes on his face. They say that dead people look as though they’re just sleeping, but he doesn’t. He looks as though he’s gone. He’s no longer there.
I feel a huge sob surge up through my chest and escape as a gasp. Something floats into my brain, something the hard hammer blow of shock has initially driven out. I’m pregnant, I remind myself, and my baby’s father is dead.
JoJo squeezes my hand. I turn to the police officers and give a small nod, then close my eyes tightly.
The door opens and someone else comes into the room, walking right up to the head end of the gurney. When I open my eyes, the face is familiar. It’s the man that I found on Facebook. The one who was not in Johannesburg for Christmas 2017. The man my husband denied ever having seen before. Simon Gill.
‘No,’ the man says firmly, ‘There’s been some sort of mistake. That’s not my brother.’
I stare at him.
He continues shaking his head. ‘That’s not Dominic Gill.’