I wake up on the sofa to find I’m curled in a tight foetal ball.
It’s only when that thought strikes me that I remember the foetus within. The baby. And a half second after that, I remember that my husband is dead.
It’s still dark outside. A check of my phone reveals that it’s 5.30 a.m. I have no idea how long I’ve been lying here, but the last thing I remember is taking a sleeping pill, so it must have been quite a while. There are seventeen missed calls and a handful of voicemail messages. Matt and Milan have left one, as has JoJo and a few other friends. Word must be getting around. There’s also one from a DC Janet Willis, introducing herself as my assigned family liaison officer. She says she wants to come round and see me, and asks me to call her back. I don’t.
I limp into the kitchen and make myself tea. After drinking about half of it, a tsunami of nausea washes over me, and I vomit violently onto the kitchen floor, unable even to make it as far as the sink. I mop at it ineffectually with some kitchen towel, then stagger as far as the study and sit down at Dominic’s desk. I start going through the drawers, looking for something, anything.
At first, I think the bottom drawer is empty, then I glimpse something dark, pushed to the back of it. I pull out a black fleece top, a balaclava and some gloves. I don’t recognise any of them. Surely these are not Dominic’s?
I close my eyes, and suddenly I’m back there in Dalston, being chased by someone in a black jacket and hat. But no; that’s ridiculous. That’s a coincidence. Loads of people dress like that on the streets of London. It means nothing. Even so, I bundle up the clothing and take it outside to the wheelie bin.
Once I’ve managed to keep down half a slice of toast, I summon enough energy to wash the kitchen floor properly with hot water and disinfectant. The smell of the disinfectant makes me gag, but I manage not to be sick again. I go upstairs and have a shower and wash my hair, then dress myself in a clean pair of jeans and a proper sweater, not a hoodie. I strip the sheets off the bed to change them, and as I remove the pillowcases, I find Dominic’s sleep T-shirt under his pillow. I bury my face in it for a while, soaking it with tears. Then, slowly and deliberately, I drop it into the laundry basket with the bed linen.
There’s another message from DC Willis when I go downstairs again.
‘Mrs Gill, I know this is a very difficult time for you, but it’s really important I talk to you about developments in the case. I’ll wait to hear from you, or maybe call round later.’
I load the washing machine and switch it on, then take the hoover out and work it furiously over the sitting-room carpet, as though removing the dirt will somehow alleviate the endless dull pain in my chest. As I switch it off to move it into the hall, I realise the doorbell is being rung insistently and repeatedly. It’s probably that policewoman, I think. I intend to ignore it, but it doesn’t stop, and eventually I yank the front door open to find the man purporting to be Simon Gill standing there.
I go to shut it again, but he holds up a hand. ‘Please. Alice. Hear me out.’
‘I don’t want to talk,’ I tell him. ‘I’m really not up to it. It’s not fair you coming round like this.’
He steps into the hallway anyway. He’s average height, heavily built, thinning on top, and his eyes are a washed-out shade of blue. And he has a distinct Geordie accent. It’s clear he’s not really Dominic’s brother.
‘How did you get my address?’ I demand.
‘It was on some of the paperwork I went through with the police… Look, I understand this is very hard for you, but please, just hear me out. Five minutes.’
With some reluctance I nod, and lead him into the freshly hoovered and tidied sitting room and he sits down and takes some papers out of his shoulder bag.
‘Here,’ he hands something to me. ‘Birth certificates.’
I stare at the pages in front of me. There are birth certificates for Patricia Evelyn Gill and Desmond Peter Gill, and they both appear as parents on the birth certificate of Simon Peter Gill, who is seven years older than Dominic. He then hands me Dominic’s birth certificate. Dominic Stephen Gill. The name and date of birth are correct, but the parents’ details and place of birth are exactly the same as for Simon.
My trembling hands make the piece of pink paper quiver. ‘No,’ I insist, ‘This can’t be right. This can’t be your birth certificate. This whole thing has to be a coincidence.’
He sighs. ‘Alice, it is. Here – have a look at my driving licence. You can see my full name and my photo. And my registration with the Institute of Management Consultants. And my passport.’ He hands them to me one after another, then takes out more documents. ‘Here’s a photo of my wedding, and look – here’s Dominic.’ He points to a man who is slighter, paler and less good-looking than the real Dominic.
‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘That’s not him.’
Simon sighs heavily. ‘Dom and I were never very close; I admit it. I haven’t seen him in four years. But the last couple of times I contacted him on his mobile, he acted a bit off. I usually caught up with him every six months or so when I was in London, and saw him at Christmas. I tried to see him recently, and he agreed, then put me off at the last minute. But the worst thing was him not coming to Mum’s funeral, claiming he’d got ill on a work trip to Africa. He didn’t attend the inquest either.’
‘But he did,’ I insist, confused. ‘It was March 2017, 15 March, I think. He went to Newcastle for the funeral.’
Simon gives me a long look. Eventually he speaks, slowly and quietly. ‘March fifteenth was the day Mum died. Although she wasn’t actually found until the sixteenth. She fell down the stairs at home, after what the coroner decided was either a stroke or a cardiac episode.’
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.