A week later, I receive a letter from the insurance company who provided the joint life policy that my husband took out only a few months ago.
I can’t overlook the irony. Covering my life was the intended benefit of the policy, and yet he was the one who died. And because, after receiving a report from the Metropolitan Police, the policy ‘was the result of fraudulent representation on the part of the applicant’, the insurers inform me, with regret, that the policy is null and void.
As a result of the fraudulent breach in respect of Mr Dominic Gill, under the Insurance Act 2015, we are under no obligation to refund the premiums; however, since you applied for insurance on yourself in good faith, we are refunding 50% of premiums paid in respect of Mrs Alice Gill.
I take out a cheque for £460. It’s hardly going to keep the wolf from the door.
Matt and Milan have been overseeing the work of both Comida offices for me, but I can’t stay away forever. I send an email to Matt telling him I will try to come in later in the week. As I press ‘Send’, an email pops up in my inbox from Janet Willis. Using this method of communication rather than my mobile number seems oddly formal, but once I’ve read it, I understand. Because the focus of the police enquiry is now going to be on discovering the whereabouts of Dominic Gill (they mean the real one, clearly), she will be stepping back in her role as Family Liaison Officer, although she assures me she will always be at the end of the phone if I have further queries.
I reply that that’s fine, and thank her for her input. The insurers have closed their file; the Met’s investigation is stalled; the message is clear. It’s time to start over, to think about the future. I flick through a few nursery design ideas on Pinterest, then go to the ‘My Pregnancy’ website, which I’ve now bookmarked.
Your Pregnancy week by week: Week Nine
Your baby is the size of a green olive when you are nine weeks pregnant. It’s reaching the end of the embryonic phase and becoming a foetus. Fingers and toes are developing, and it’s looking much more human.
I gaze at the photo of the little pink tadpole on the website, but it doesn’t seem in any way connected to me. This is what I should be concentrating on: my baby. But how can I when my mind is still stuck in the recent past? When I still have no idea who I married? Who fathered this life inside me?
I pull up another bookmark on my browser, the one for James Cardle Investigations, and phone the office number.
‘You said last time you needed spousal surveillance?’ The tone is a little less gruff than it was on that earlier occasion, no doubt prompted by my puffy eyes and wan complexion. ‘I take it that was for your husband?’
When I phoned, Cardle told me bluntly that he still had a full workload and wasn’t taking on new cases. This threw me completely, and I burst into tears. He was so dismayed, he agreed to see me anyway. Effectively I wept my way into the appointment.
‘Not exactly.’ I sigh heavily, clasping my hands in my lap. I have no idea how to even begin to explain. ‘Since I visited you here last time, things have changed. My husband – apparently he was actually my husband, despite what he did – the man I married was killed in a car crash. And it turned out he’d stolen another man’s identity and wasn’t who he’d been saying he was.’
Cardle has leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head, his interest piqued. He’s wearing a mid-blue cashmere sweater, rumpled up round the elbows to show the sleeves of his white shirt. ‘Surely that’s a matter for the police?’
‘Sort of. But as a priority they have to concentrate their resources on trying to find the man whose identity he… my husband… was using. That man – Dominic Gill – has been missing for around three years.’
‘And you were married… when?’
‘It’s just coming up to our third wedding anniversary.’ I correct myself, ‘It would have been the first of April. And I still have no idea who he was. Not even a name. Nothing.’
‘But you’re off the hook now.’ He flaps his arms. ‘You’re single. No more husband, real or otherwise. Best just to move on, surely?’
‘The thing is,’ I say levelly. ‘I’ve checked, and under the terms of the Marriage Act, I was definitely married. A person using a false identity is still legally married. If he were alive, I could use his fraud to apply for an annulment. But he’s dead, which makes me still – in the eyes of the law – his widow. And, because of that, I need to know his true identity. I just do.’
Cardle folds his lips inward, making his mouth almost disappear. I assume this means he’s thinking. ‘It’s a bloody pig of a situation, I’ll give you that… Okay, this is what I’m going to do,’ he says eventually. ‘I’ll get back in touch in a few weeks. If at that point I have a slot coming up, I’ll make it my priority to fit you in. If I don’t, I’ll suggest someone else who could help you. Can’t say fairer than that.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, managing a weak smile. ‘I’m very grateful.’ I head towards the door, but he just grunts, and doesn’t stand up. ‘Hopefully we’ll be in touch again soon,’ I add.
‘Don’t go ringing me.’ He’s gone back to staring at his computer screen. ‘I’ll ring you.’
On Thursday of that week, I return to my Tower Hill office.
It’s strange being here. There’s the familiar smell emitted by the coffee machine, the sound of the lift doors pinging outside the reception area and the background click-thump of the printer. It’s all exactly the same, and yet everything has changed immeasurably since I was last here around three weeks ago.
Matt has been running Comida in the City, leaving Milan in charge of the Richmond office. As soon as I have dropped my coat and bag, I go straight into the meeting room for a debrief.
‘Coffee?’ Matt asks.
I pull a face.
‘You love coffee.’ He’s puzzled.
I tell him I’m pregnant. I hadn’t meant to tell anyone until after my twelve-week scan, but my pregnancy will have to be factored into any forward planning we do at work, and besides, I’m still experiencing random fits of nausea.
‘Congrats!’ He squeezes my arm. ‘But, Jesus – what timing!’
All that Matt and my other colleagues know is that I’ve lost my spouse in a fatal traffic accident. Only JoJo, David, Melanie and the police know the rest of the story – the added layers of awfulness – and for now I want to keep it that way.
Matt fetches me a herbal tea and we work through the latest bookings and staffing issues. I go and sit at my desk, but I’m as good as useless. I can’t focus on anything, and I make a complete mess of the financial projections spreadsheet. After only a couple of hours I’m exhausted, and Matt sends me home again.
‘You need to build things up again slowly,’ he tells me. ‘And you need your rest.’
He doesn’t say it, but it hangs there between us – they’ll manage perfectly well without me.
I’m intending to return to the office to be useless again on Friday, for a few hours longer this time. As I’m gathering up my things to go, Matt says, ‘Why don’t you come over for supper tomorrow? You look as though you could use a decent meal, and Milan would love to see you. We both would.’
I want to make an excuse, but I can’t think of one fast enough, and find myself agreeing.
So, the next evening, I drive over the Hammersmith flyover and into Grove Park, where Matt and Milan rent a flat in a large Edwardian mansion block. It’s small but stylishly decorated, and they’ve made a big effort with the meal. There’s fish pie, which Matt knows I love, and Milan has baked a cheesecake. I decide I’m glad that I told Matt about the pregnancy, not least because it means I can stick to mineral water without reproach.
It feels good to forget for a couple of hours and just enjoy a home-cooked meal with people who care about me. As I stick my fork into the fish pie, I realise how ravenous I am, and end up eating three helpings. Milan asks about the date for the funeral, but Matt shoots him a warning look, and thereafter my widowhood and the circumstances around it are avoided in favour of neutral topics.
It’s a mild March evening, and we put on coats and squeeze onto their tiny balcony with the cheesecake and coffee – decaf for me – so that Milan can enjoy a cigarette.
‘Alice,’ Matt begins, resting his hand on my wrist. ‘We wanted to get you over here to give you some TLC, but also to run something by you.’
Milan gives his partner a little nod of encouragement before tipping his head back to puff out a gust of smoke.
‘If this is out of order, then just say no, it’s fine…’
‘Go on,’ I say, carefully replacing my coffee cup in its saucer.
‘Understand we’re only saying this because you’ve got so much other stuff to deal with at the moment, okay?’ He pauses for a few seconds. ‘We’ve got a friend who’s a venture capitalist, and he’s looking for a company to invest in… he’d be interested in forming a partnership with Milan and me to take over Comida.’
My cup is halfway to my lips, but I lower it again. ‘You mean buy me out? Completely?’
‘Yes,’ Matt nods. ‘That’s what it would mean.’
‘But if you’re not into it, no problem, we’re still happy to work for you,’ Milan says quickly, tapping ash into a terracotta plant stand.
‘I… I don’t know,’ I say slowly. ‘My head is so all over the place. Can I think about it and get back to you?’
I think about nothing else as I drive back to Queen’s Park, and again when I’m lying alone in what used to be the marital bed. Once I’ve got past my surprise and, I’ll admit it, a tiny frisson of indignation at the thought of Comida being touted as a going concern behind my back, I begin to think selling might be a good thing. I met Dominic through the business, and Ellwood Archer is still one of our larger clients. I don’t want that reminder popping up in my daily work life. I’ll also need to take some time away from work when I have the baby, and I won’t have the financial cushion of a life insurance payout, even though I still have a couple of investments that I made when my mother died.
As the thin light of dawn starts to filter through the blinds, I throw on a dressing gown and go downstairs to the study. I look for Dominic/Ben’s bank records, but apart from his current account statements and the initial paperwork that was posted to him when he set up our pension savings accounts, there’s nothing up to date. He did it all online. The police have taken his laptop, but even if it was here, I don’t know the password.
At nine o’clock, I phone Scottish Widows and get through their security procedures. I inform them that my husband is dead, and that I want a closing balance on the pension fund account. The girl on the other end informs me, in her lovely lilting Perthshire accent, that it’s £23,564.
‘Are you sure?’ I ask.
‘Mmmhhhh. I’ll pop a full statement in the post, along with your options when it comes to closing the account.’
There should have been at least three times that amount: we saved every month over nearly three years. Where has the rest of it gone?
I sink down in the chair with my head in my hands for a few seconds. Then I send a couple of texts. The first is to Matt.
Let’s go over some figures, and see if we can reach consensus on Comida’s valuation. X
The second is to JoJo.
Can you come over here for a couple of hours? Xx
When JoJo arrives, I’m on my knees surrounded by a mountain of shirts and ties and suits, wrenched from their hangers. I feel suddenly full of fury. Furious that this has all been done to me, and I have no control over it whatsoever.
JoJo kneels down beside me. ‘Hey… what’s going on here?’
‘I can’t think,’ I wail. ‘The baby, the car crash, the identity theft, trying to run the business… it’s all tangled up in my brain like a huge ball of knitting wool.’ I throw an Arran sweater onto the heap of clothes. ‘I thought if I cleared out his stuff it would free up some mental space. But it’s just making me angry.’
‘Deep breaths,’ JoJo urges. ‘You’re being way too hard on yourself. Wait here a sec…’
She darts downstairs and comes back with a roll of black plastic refuse sacks. Rolling up the sleeves of her shirt, she bends down and starts bundling all the clothes into bags.
‘I’ll take this lot to the charity shop for you,’ she says. ‘Maybe once they’re actually gone from the house it will help clear your head.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, sniffing.
JoJo works hard at clearing the bedroom floor, but she’s quiet, and seems troubled.
‘You okay?’ I ask, as she slides salopettes and a ski hat into a bag.
‘Alice, love, I need to say something. It’s hard, but I don’t think it’s really going to help you unless I get it out there.’
‘Go ahead,’ I tell her quietly. I already have an idea what she’s going to say.
‘I never…’ She sighs heavily and drops her hands to her sides. ‘I always had my doubts about Dominic. Or whatever his name now is.’
‘You never told me,’ I say weakly. This is only half true. She said by not saying, not endorsing. His presence made her uncharacteristically passive-aggressive. The two of them – though I never liked to admit it – didn’t get on.
‘I tried to,’ JoJo tries a smile. ‘I was worried when he proposed so quickly, and then at the wedding… remember? He had nobody there who knew him. It bothered me a lot more than it seemed to bother you. I did point it out as odd at the time, but… you seemed so thrilled with him that I didn’t want to labour the point. But I was privately worrying he was just a gold-digger.’
‘We were happy,’ I say stubbornly, despite this being only a partial truth. ‘We were happy most of the time.’
‘Were you, though? Look, don’t get angry, but I did some digging.’
I frown at her, and she flushes slightly.
‘Back when you first got together, I googled Dominic Gill and the hits brought up someone else.’
‘It’s not that uncommon a name,’ I say. Why am I being so defensive of someone who deceived me? And worse.
‘And I went through his Instagram. His avatar was just a glass of beer, and there wasn’t a single photo on there with his face in it. And a couple of hundred supposed friends, none of whom he ever mentioned or asked to his wedding. It just struck me as… sketchy.’
‘Well, clever old you,’ I say sharply. ‘Turns out you were right, doesn’t it?’
She ignores my tone and presses on. ‘Have the police come up with a motive? Do you know why he was doing all this? Only it might help you—’
‘No,’ I lie. ‘They have no idea.’
There’s an awkward silence between us as we heft all the full plastic sacks down the stairs and into the hall, dropping them around our feet like so many PVC-wrapped corpses. The doorbell rings, and I climb past the bags to answer it.
It’s PC Gillespie. She surveys the results of our purge, then pastes on a professional smile. ‘Ms Palmer, would you mind coming down to the station with me? We’ve got a few more questions we need to ask you.’
‘Can’t it wait?’ JoJo asks. ‘We’re in the middle of something here.’
‘It can’t, no,’ PC Gillespie is unapologetic. When a police officer asks if you mind coming to the station, I think to myself, what they mean is, you have to come to the station.
‘You go,’ JoJo tells me. ‘I’ll get this stuff into the boot of the car and offload it for you on my way home. There are a couple of charity places on Kilburn High Road.’
I give a long, last look at the bags that contain the remnants of my marriage, then follow PC Gillespie out to the squad car.