The Man She Married: A gripping psychological thriller with a heart-pounding twist(14)

The train pulls into Newcastle Central just after midday. It’s a lot colder than in London, with horizontal sleet scattered by a north-easterly wind, and I’m shivering in my lightweight duster coat, leggings and trainers. I make a short detour into the city centre to buy a pink woollen bobble hat with matching scarf and gloves, then I hail a cab and give the driver the Ponteland address.

Patricia lives in a pleasant, prosperous cul-de-sac of detached bungalows. The street is flanked with broad grass verges and neatly trimmed hedges, and the properties all sit back from the road at the end of curving driveways. Number seventeen is a chalet bungalow, with a couple of first-floor rooms and a dormer window. I walk up to the front door and ring the doorbell. There’s no reply.

I cup my hands against the glass panels in the front door and try to squint inside. There are no lights on, and no signs of life. A heap of mail lies on the front doormat. Slightly perplexed, I climb over a low box hedge and approach the picture window in what must be the living room. There’s a three-piece suite in dusky rose velour, a coffee table with a pile of magazines and a few houseplants. A half-moon Aubusson rug lies in front of the gas fire that provides the room’s focal point. On a side table, there are family photographs in frames, including one of a young man in graduate’s mortar board and gown, but they are too far away to see properly. The room is tidy, and orderly, but with no signs of life.

I walk round to the back of the bungalow and peer into an equally deserted kitchen. Again, it is neat and tidy, but with no dishes in the drainer or fresh fruit in the bowl on the table.

‘Excuse me, miss, can I help you?’

I turn round to see an elderly man with a white moustache, bundled up in a padded anorak and flat cap.

‘Hi…’ I’m flustered, and feel myself blushing. It must look like I’m casing the joint. ‘I’m looking for Patricia. Patricia Gill?’

‘She’s not here, I’m afraid,’ the man says, taking in my trainers and bright pink hat with a beady gaze. He extends a gloved hand. ‘Sidney Fairholme. I live at number nineteen – I keep a key and come by to water the plants and pick up the mail every few days or so while Pat’s away.’

‘She’s not back in hospital, is she?’ I ask.

‘Pat? Nay, lass, she’s right as rain. She’s gone off on her annual cruise left a few weeks ago. She’s not too fond of the cold, is Pat, so she goes off cruising in the Caribbean for three months every winter, starting just before Christmas.’

‘I see.’ This is news to me.

‘And you are?’

‘Alice. Alice Gill. Dominic’s wife.’

The old man raises both eyebrows. ‘Young Dominic’s married, is he? Well I never. She never mentioned that.’

‘You said Patricia goes on a cruise every year? Not last year, though.’

‘Yes, every year.’ The man speaks slowly, as if I’m a halfwit.

I know this can’t be right. Last year, when we were first dating, Dominic was at home for Christmas, here with his mother, texting me frequently because he was bored.

‘But… my husband – Dominic – was here last year.’

The man hunches his shoulders and rubs his gloved hands together, his breath making white clouds in the freezing air. ‘That’s as maybe, but Pat was docked somewhere off the coast of Florida. I remember, because she was excited about playing golf on Christmas Day.’

‘Golf?’

‘Aye, she’s a proper devil for golf, your mam-in-law.’

Dominic has never mentioned golf. When he refers to his mother, it’s as though he’s talking about a semi-invalid.

‘Aye, well, you’d better get yourself in out of the cold, lass,’ the man observes, before turning and trudging away across the frosty grass.



I order an Uber to take me back to the city centre, where I head into the first café I find and order a pot of tea and plate of fish and chips. I eat in silence, staring out numbly at the shoppers scurrying to the seasonal sales, before returning reluctantly to Newcastle Central.

In the comfort of the first-class carriage on the London-bound train, I manage to relax sufficiently to gather my thoughts. If I had found Patricia Gill at home, and spent time with her, then I would definitely tell Dominic about my trip. He would be pleased; at least I assume he would be. But having had a wasted journey, things feel different. It hardly seems worth raising the issue, especially as the plan is for us to visit his mother together, in a couple of months.

The problem boils down to the unfamiliarity of my situation. If Dom and I had dated for years before marriage, then I would know exactly how he would react in a situation like this. I would be able to second-guess him. I’d already have met his family, for a start. But having only met a little over a year ago, we’re each still finding out how the other ticks. He’s a wonderful, considerate husband, but our relationship still has the fragility of newness.

The other obvious issue is him not telling me about his mother’s annual cruise when I presented him with the tickets. Or at any other time. But then, he rarely mentions his family anyway. Perhaps he was so engrossed in the Qatar project he’d simply forgotten about it. Or perhaps because he didn’t think either of us was making the trip north immediately after Christmas, he didn’t consider it worth mentioning.