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‘I have now,’ she said, and winked. And in that moment, I remember thinking three things. The first was, had she seen through me? The second was, if not, how many dreams had she abandoned to remain with a man who couldn’t give her the children she craved? And the third was, when it came to our relationship, just who was using who? Was it me, for inserting myself into her life under false pretences, or her, for accepting it so she wouldn’t have to spend the rest of her life alone? The only thing I have to thank Paul for is confirming my and Gwen’s relationship was mutually beneficial. That makes me feel a little less guilty for the lies I told.
‘Oh Gwen,’ I say aloud, and the hollowness I’ve felt in my stomach so often since her death returns. I miss her. I can’t help it. I just do. When you spend every day with someone who’s reliant on you for an extended period of time, especially when it’s as intense and complex as our relationship was, you’re going to be hit hard when they’re taken away from you. Despite her condition and the circumstances in which we met, she was still more of a mother than the woman who gave birth to me.
Everyone in the village is now aware of how Paul manipulated Gwen and why he did it. I’m sure Mary has also told them all I’m convinced that he killed her. Those who’ve spoken to me about it assume I’ve reported my suspicions to the police. And each time I explain I haven’t because I’ve got no evidence to back up my claims. They don’t know the real reason why I’ve kept quiet: that the police wouldn’t need to dig deep before they discovered Gwen and I have no biological link, no family or extended family in common, and no history before the day we met. No one can prove I’ve broken the law, but that, coupled with a string of criminal convictions as long as my arm for scamming and conning people out of money, doesn’t make me a reliable accuser. Add to that me being the sole named beneficiary of her will and they’d laugh me out of the interview room.
My need to steer clear of attention and publicity was the reason why I was a bag of nerves when Detective Sergeant Krisha Ahuja, my police liaison officer when Gwen went missing, twisted my arm into agreeing to film a television appeal. I didn’t want to be recognised by anyone who knew me from one of my many previous lives. And had the story been picked up by the national press, I’m sure I’d have been ratted out. In the end, the local news didn’t bother to broadcast it.
I’ve also got a lot to lose around here from making accusations against Paul that I can’t back up. I currently have my neighbours on side, but their support will vanish with the click of a finger if it becomes common knowledge that she died while I was in prison and we weren’t family.
There’s a beep, beep, beeping sound coming from behind me; it’s my laptop warning the battery needs recharging. I plug it into the mains and wait for the screen to flicker to life before I continue where I left off before my cigarette break. I’m on the homepage of Northampton’sChronicle & Echonewspaper. Most people flick through local rags like this for news or events, but for me, it’s all about the death notices.
First, I focus on the over-sixties. I scan what’s been written about them, paying particular attention to who placed the notice. Was it a family member or the funeral home? I read any names mentioned and their relationship to the deceased. Is there a surviving spouse? Are there children, brothers, sisters or grandchildren? Because the fewer direct family members, the better it is for me. It means I stand more of a chance of slipping into their lives without arousing suspicion. I’ve been to three funerals in the last fortnight but no candidate’s circumstances have even come close to Gwen’s. I was lucky with her because she had no one.
She wasn’t my first. That honour went to Frederick Elms, a curmudgeonly, three-time widower with terminal cancer and nofamily, who was looking for a live-in housekeeper and carer. I put up with his racist, homophobic rants and his wandering hands for the six weeks I stayed under his roof. I might have even made him believe there was more to our relationship than there actually was. Perhaps Paul and I aren’t that dissimilar. I had high hopes for a mention in the will I was going to help him draft until the selfish old racist keeled over from a heart attack in the kitchen while I was upstairs rinsing out his commode.
Gill Remnant was next, a recent widow with no family but suspicious friends and busybody neighbours who wouldn’t give me a moment’s peace to properly get to know her. I walked away from that one when I realised I was on a hiding to nothing.
And then the stars aligned when Gwen came along. We were the perfect match. She was going to be my final attempt at making me like everyone else and not who I am. It was a victimless crime. In fact, it wasn’t even a crime, just a few mistruths here and there. I’d help her and, in return, she’d help me in the form of a payout when she died that’d set me up for years. I wasn’t depriving anyone else because she had no direct family to leave her estate to. Better to give it to me than have the government farm it out to a private company who’d spend a chunk of it trying to trace some distant cousin ten times removed and give it to him. Now the life I wanted is as far out of reach as it ever was.
I unclench fists I didn’t realise I’d balled. I’ve riled myself up again thinking about what I’ve lost. I should call it a day. My heart really isn’t in it anyway. I roll up my next cigarette and promise it’ll be the last I smoke until bedtime. I close the back door and pour a small tin of baked beans into a saucepan and heat it up on the electric hob. I drop two slices of past-their-prime white bread into the toaster, and as I watch the sauce bubble and the bread brown, I recognise what a pathetic meal this is. My forty-third birthday is looming, I’m single, I have no savings, I’m behind on my rent, Ihave no career prospects and I’m eating a meal even most university students these days would shun. My life wasn’t supposed to turn out anything like this.
A white box suddenly appears on my laptop screen with a ping. Someone has written to me using Facebook Messenger, which surprises me; I have no friends on there or even a profile photo, as I only use it for researching others.
I take a closer look and my heart almost stops when I realise who it’s from. And a flicker of hope ignites inside me.
CHAPTER 33
CONNIE
I re-read who has sent the message, just in case my tired eyes are playing tricks on me. Yes, it’s definitely Ann On, the person I messaged months ago after spotting the negative post they’d left about Paul under a photograph of charity work he’d been doing. I remember word for word what they wrote:Don’t let Paul pull the wool over your eyes. He’s fooled you all.
I take a deep breath as I read on.Who are you?they’ve typed. ‘Active now’, it says at the top of the screen, so I write quickly.
Paul conned his way into my mum’s life then married her and stole my inheritance, I write. Three dots appear and I nervously await their response.
Same, comes the reply.
I know what I want to type next but I don’t know if I should. They might think me mad. I do it anyway. What have I got to lose?
I think he might’ve ... hurt her.
The three dots reappear, but at least two minutes pass before they respond. It’s a one-word answer.
Same.
I don’t know what to do, I type.
This time, their answer comes quickly:Find the others.
What others?
I suddenly wonder if this is actually Paul. I wouldn’t put it past him to leave a negative comment about himself just to see if anyone ever responded. It’s better to see your enemies than to live in blindness.
No, I think, I’m being paranoid.
The time replaces the dots, indicating the poster has signed out.What others?I type again and click the send button, but Messenger doesn’t allow it. Ann On has blocked me. Damn it.
I’m distracted by a burning smell. I’ve cremated the beans in the pan and the tomato sauce has evaporated. But I don’t care. I have a more important focus. I leave the computer switched on just in case Ann On has a change of heart, but I suspect they won’t. I throw the pan into the sink and return to the back door and light up the cigarette I was keeping for later.
