Our House by Louise Candlish (43)

44

Bram, Word document

New Year, new arrangements to make regarding the execution of a criminal fraud.

Wendy and I met our solicitor for the first and only time to sign the contracts prior to their exchange on Friday, 6 January. We sat side by side at his desk in the small, down-at-heel practice above a cheese shop in Crystal Palace. Graham Jenson, with his faded eyes and posture of near-collapse, had an air of having met middle age with a more crushing experience of defeat than he’d hoped, which reflected my own mood to an uncomfortable degree. In different circumstances, we might have traded war stories over a pint and vied for the attentions of his perky trainee, Rachel.

Instead, I laid two passports on the desk in front of him: mine and Fi’s.

‘Lucky they don’t ask for drivers’ licences for ID,’ Wendy said to me in an affable aside. Her fingers reached to pick up my passport and, as she flicked to the photograph, she touched my arm as if remembering with fondness this younger version of her husband. In her interpretation of our twisted role play, we were not estranged but very much together.

As for ‘her’ photo, I did not need to hold it up to her face to know that she’d done enough. Though considerably less attractive and at least a stone heavier than Fi, she was of a similar enough facial type to pass herself off. They both had dark eyes and blonde hair – Wendy had had hers tinted to ape Fi’s less strident shade and a fringe cut to conceal her thinner, higher eyebrows. Fi had a sweetly pointed chin, but it wasn’t a dominating feature and not something a casual observer – a qualified conveyancer, for instance, with the authority to handle millions of pounds – would pick up on. (They should make blood tests compulsory, I thought, or fingerprinting.) In the event, only the most cursory comparison was made between passport Fi and fake Fi, the filing of photocopies evidently considered due diligence enough.

I pocketed the passports. Both would be returned to the file at Trinity Avenue at the first opportunity.

‘Right, I think we’re pretty much there,’ Jenson told us. The paperwork was in order, all queries dealt with, the vendors’ multiple searches now complete. Wendy double-checked the details of the bank account into which funds were to be paid on completion, once the mortgage had been redeemed and agent’s and solicitor’s fees automatically deducted. (As I understood the scam from research of my own, the funds would spend a matter of minutes in a UK-registered account before being spirited to an untraceable offshore alternative.) We confirmed that Challoner’s would be taking care of transferring the utilities, having been issued with strict instructions that all final statements should be paperless and, like the rest of their correspondence, sent to the secret ‘joint’ email account.

‘Let’s sign these contracts,’ Jenson said, and I know it was only my imagination, but he made it sound like a set of death warrants.

‘Exciting,’ Wendy said to me, with a little tremble of glee.

‘Hmm.’ As we made eye contact, I imagined Fi’s disgust in place of Wendy’s phoney devotion, the wholesale retraction of any remaining benefit of the doubt, any last positive regard for me.

I’m signing away our house! Right here and now, that’s what I’m doing.

There was a sudden jolt of grotesque lucidity: how had I ever been so short-sighted? If I’d handed myself in after the Silver Road incident, I’d have been jailed, but the crime – and its punishment – would at least have ended there. Instead, it had grown and mutated. This was how human disaster worked: you began by trying to conceal a mistake and you finished up here, the perpetrator of a hundred further mistakes. To avoid a few years in a cell, you sacrificed your whole life – for as long as you chose to go on living the miserable piece of shit.

Go now, I urged myself. Go before you sign anything, before the exchange of contracts. I wouldn’t get the counterfeit passport conditional to the sale completing, but there was nothing to stop me using my own or vanishing somewhere in the UK – it wasn’t like I was on police bail.

Do it now, go!

Mike would go after Leo and Harry, though, wouldn’t he? Could I alert the police? Get some protection for them?

No, the police would be more interested in me.

‘Your turn to sign, babe.’ Wendy showed me the space next to her signature, an impressive facsimile of Fi’s that she had honed over the last few weeks. ‘You’re shaking,’ she added, tenderly. ‘You must still have a bit of that flu. He was wiped out over Christmas and New Year,’ she told Jenson.

‘I’m fine,’ I said. Crazy, when you considered the scale of her theft from me, but I objected just as strongly to her fabricating the intimacies of our life as a couple.

I signed.

Our legal representative’s tiredness and cheapness was evident in his lacklustre congratulations. ‘A bit early for a celebratory drink,’ he added, with discernible dismay.

‘Thank you,’ Wendy told him, mimicking his low-key tone. ‘We’ll wait to hear from you that we’ve exchanged.’ She was very good. Relaxed, polite, but somehow bland. Unmemorable. Not the woman who had caught my eye across the bar at the Two Brewers.

‘Cheer up,’ she said, as we reached the street.

‘What, it might never happen?’

‘Nice one, Bram,’ she said, and giggled. ‘Let me give you a quick kiss, in case whatshisname is watching from the window. Not that he will be. He was phoning it in, I thought, didn’t you?’

‘That’s why Mike chose him,’ I muttered. ‘Don’t act like you don’t know that.’

‘There’s no need to be so grumpy,’ Wendy said.

No need to be grumpy? Was this woman serious? As she craned to kiss me on the mouth, I pressed my lips shut. The traffic braked at the changing lights, the drizzle turning the usual roar into a kind of asphyxiated howl.

‘Spoilsport,’ she said. ‘If I’m your wife now, I should demand my conjugal rights, shouldn’t I? We’re not too far from your place.’

‘We just stole a house together,’ I said grimly, ‘we didn’t get married.’ I thought, fleetingly, of Christmas night.

Shove the thieving bitch under a bus, I thought. The way the traffic was accelerating from the lights, bearing down on us right up against the kerb, drivers unseeing behind steamed-up windscreens, passengers staring at their phones, it would be easy.

Okay, so I’d be wanted for two deaths instead of one, but what was the difference?

*

I had one last meeting with Mike, a surreal affair that began cordially enough for me to experience the illusion of mixed feelings, as if we were partners winding down a business about which we’d once been equally passionate.

‘What about Fi?’ I said. ‘You said you were going to take her away but she hasn’t said anything about it to me yet.’

‘All in hand,’ he said. ‘I’ll take her from Wednesday afternoon to Friday evening. As soon as the money lands, early Friday afternoon at the latest, Wendy will deliver your bits and pieces to the flat. Then you can skedaddle.’

For once his cavalier language was soothing. ‘Bits and pieces’, not illegal passport and blackmail materials he’d dangled over me like a noose for three months; ‘skedaddle’, not flee for my life. Presumably, he and Wendy would be skedaddling off to Dubai on the final Friday night to cash in their winnings, buckling themselves into their seats at Heathrow as Fi arrived to find strangers living in her home.

‘Where are you taking her?’

‘Let me check the kitty,’ he said, ‘see what we can afford.’

The kitty I had supplied.

I’d already begun a fund of my own and had cashed in my last remaining investment, an ISA. Between now and my last day, I would withdraw every last penny from my current account, minus the portion to be debited to the joint account at the end of the month. The joint account I wouldn’t touch – clearly no noble act, given what I would be taking, but still, a gesture, however minuscule.

‘So, on the Thursday,’ Mike said, ‘you’re all booked for taking the day off work and getting the place cleared?’

‘Yes, but we should expect Fi to get messages from neighbours that something’s going on. I’m not going to be able to empty a huge house without being noticed.’

‘Good point. Tell any nosy neighbours you’re redecorating as a surprise for her and if they speak to her they should keep schtum. Will that work?’

Yes, that would work. Those on the street who knew about the separation would know we were cordial. They would also know I was the guilty party – it wasn’t so extraordinary a leap for me to try a grand, symbolic gesture to win her back. ‘What if Fi can’t take days off at such short notice? And so soon after Christmas?’

‘Then I’ll persuade her to pull a sickie. Shouldn’t be a problem.’

I stiffened. He was offensively confident of his powers of persuasion, offensively confident that he could take my house from me and, at the very moment that he took it, distract my wife by checking her into a hotel and fucking her.

‘Oh, Bram,’ he said, sensing my dip in mood and taking pleasure in lowering it further. ‘Who would have thought you’d end up as much of a loser as your father?’

Any illusions of camaraderie vanished at a stroke and I grabbed him by the collar, my knuckles pressing into his throat. Had I been the stronger I would have taken his head in my hands and smashed it into the wall. But I was not and he held me at arm’s length like a weakling until I shook myself off and staggered back. ‘Why did you deliver that list to the house?’ I hissed.

‘What? It was addressed to you, wasn’t it?’

‘Did you think Fi doesn’t know? Of course she knows, she knows everything about me.’

‘Not everything, Bram. Not the assault conviction, eh? And not us. At least I hope not.’ He chuckled, genuinely amused. He was venal, completely and utterly immoral. Almost as horrific as what he was doing was the knowledge that none of it, not a single penny from the house, not a single moment with Fi, was personal.

I could have been anyone.

‘Fi’s Story’ > 02:38:27

New year, new level with Toby. He was taking me to a smart hotel in Winchester for a few days. I won’t use the term ‘romantic getaway’, not now. I realize the horse has bolted in terms of any credibility I may have as a judge of character. Can I just say that it was by no means a foregone conclusion that I should go? I did waver: our regular Saturday nights were one thing, but two nights away from home was another. I even chose Polly as my advisor, subconsciously expecting her to discourage me.

‘Go,’ she said. ‘What’s the big deal?’

‘You’ve changed your tune,’ I said.

‘It’s a holiday! If I were you I would use it.’

‘Use it?’

‘Yes. To dig for the truth. Look in his wallet, check his phone.’

‘What for, Polly?’

‘For photos of his wife, Fi.’

I groaned. ‘Maybe I could wear a wire as well?’

‘It’s a no-lose situation. If you find out he’s not married, great. If you find out he is, and I mean living with her properly, not bird’s nesting or some other trendy set-up, well, it’s better to know.’

‘Perhaps you should go in my place,’ I laughed.

She reminded me of that later. ‘Bram could never have done what he did with you in the house full time,’ she said. ‘He used your custody arrangements against you.’

‘Hindsight is 20/20,’ I said.

Was I falling in love with Toby? I don’t think so, no. Oh, I don’t know. Maybe a little, during that trip away. But what does it matter? Other than talking to you, I’ve done my best not to think about him.

As for work, the timing was perfect in that a presentation I’d been working on with Clara was about to go to our design agency, with feedback due the following week, creating a natural break for me.

‘I’ll need to sort out cover for the boys,’ I told Toby. ‘Otherwise I won’t be able to do it.’

‘Your ex’ll step in, won’t he? I take it he’s moved on from his initial disapproval of us?’

‘You could say that.’

If Bram couldn’t, I knew one of the grandmothers or neighbours would help, but he agreed without question, happy to prioritize family over work and handle every detail of their care. Even so, I lined Alison up for contingency.

‘You didn’t tell me how it went at Christmas,’ she said, when I popped in for a coffee. ‘With Bram?’

‘It was good. To be honest, I’m still trying to forget how good.’

‘I see. But nothing’s changed?’

I paused, admiring the polished stone of her breakfast bar, the vintage roses arranged in the flared vase I’d chosen from our recycled ceramics line a few years ago.

She gave a rueful sigh, forked fingers through her blonde hair, like mine highlighted to deny the grey. ‘I’m not saying I held out hope, but, you know, when you arrived at Kirsty’s together after the carol concert . . .’

‘I know. It felt like old times.’ I looked up. ‘But no, nothing’s changed. It’s too late.’

We lapsed into silence then, almost in tribute.

You know, speaking of falling in love, it’s almost as difficult to say when you’ve fallen out of it, isn’t it? I feel very strongly that just because you do, it doesn’t give you the right to deny the love existed.

I may be many things, but I’m not a revisionist.

Bram, Word document

The solicitor emailed to say that contracts had been exchanged. The vendors’ ten per cent deposit – £200,000, a sum that the medication helped me visualize in Pokédollars – had been received and the final statement sent out to their solicitor. Completion was confirmed for Friday, 13 January (it was far, far too late to note the unluckiness of the date), the balance – minus mortgage settlement, estate agency fees, legal fees and other reimbursements – expected to land by 1 p.m. It would be close to £1.6 million.

Rav met the Vaughans at the house on Saturday 7th for a last check of fixtures and fittings, but I elected not to be there, taking the boys straight from their swimming lesson to Pizza Express for lunch.

It’s not real was my new mantra.

*

The next day, my final Sunday morning at the house, Sophie Reece came to the front gate as I was letting the boys back into the house after a bike ride in the park.

‘Everything all right?’ I said, approaching.

‘Yes, fine. Except I almost called the police yesterday!’

Why the fuck would you do that? ‘Why?’

‘There were some people standing right in your front window and I knew you were out at swimming. They looked innocent enough, but burglars are very sophisticated now, aren’t they? Carrying tools as if they’re on a plumbing job, pretending to measure up for curtains, that kind of thing.’

I smiled at her. ‘That must have been my friend Rav. He runs a decorating business. He’s doing some work for me next week, so you might see some of his team then as well. He was here with some other clients, talking them through his plans.’

‘Ah, that makes sense. Just as well I left it, then. They say you can’t be too careful, but actually you can, can’t you? He’s very well-dressed for a decorator,’ she added.

‘Yes, isn’t he?’ Decades of sales work had taught me that there was no more efficient way of shutting down an unwanted line of enquiry than to agree. ‘He’s more of a creative director, he doesn’t get his own hands dirty. By the way, I wanted it to be a surprise for Fi, so if you don’t mind . . .?’

She did that wide-eyed thing women do when a secret is spilled, breathed a little ‘Ooh!’. ‘Of course. I haven’t bumped into her for ages. You know how it is.’

‘Everyone’s so busy,’ I agreed.

*

All that remained was to book the storage space and removals service and pack up our lifelong possessions without the other members of my family, or my colleagues, knowing anything about it.

Though I did my best to be discreet, Neil overheard me taking a call and hovered by my desk, waiting for me to finish. ‘What’s this? You’re not moving house, are you?’

‘No, no, just helping my mum out. She’s putting some stuff in storage.’

Might the police interview him, I wondered, and discover there’d been no such arrangement? It didn’t matter. He could tell them what he’d heard verbatim; I’d be long gone.

‘Might as well bin it,’ he said. ‘I know that sounds harsh, but apparently the vast majority of people who put stuff into storage never bother getting it out again. Surprised she doesn’t donate it to charity, a good Christian woman like her?’

‘It’s just knick-knacks,’ I said vaguely. ‘No one would want it.’

‘Is that why you’re taking Thursday and Friday as holiday?’

‘Partly.’

He narrowed his gaze. ‘Nothing wrong, is there? I mean health-wise.’

‘No, she’s fine. Other than the delusions of eternal life, of course.’

‘Not her, you mug, you. And I don’t mean this mystery virus.’

What he did mean was the booze, I supposed. The loose jowls and bloodshot eyes, the afternoon beer breath. ‘No, I’m much better now,’ I said.

He was keeping an eye on me, that much was clear, and not only as a revenue-protecting sales director, but as a mate. The fact that I was going to let him down on both counts was somehow worse for knowing that he would bear no malice. He might even find a way to grant me pardon.