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 tone 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.’