‘You didn’t tell him about your first marriage?’ she says, leaning back in her chair.
‘I’m not a sharer. And I didn’t want to be seen as a widow. Something old and to be pitied.’
‘Right,’ she says, with a pinched mouth.
‘You look doubtful.’
‘I am just here for legal opinions, but it does look as though your second marriage may not be on firm ground.’
‘But I thought my first husband was dead.’
‘Did you file for divorce or get a death certificate?’
‘Neither.’
‘In which case, I would suggest that legally your current marriage would be considered void.’
‘Surely not.’
‘Not in life, but in law, it would be treated as if it never existed,’ she says quite cheerfully.
‘Oh, but it does exist. We have two children and a house in Muswell Hill.’
‘The relationship exists, but the legal contract of marriage is not valid, because you weren’t entitled to enter into another contract and, unfortunately, you failed to reveal your true situation.’
‘And how does that affect divorce proceedings?’
‘Your husband can just walk away. There’s no contract between you,’ she says as if this is a marvellous thing.
‘And what about financial recompense? Would I still get half of everything?’
‘You could try to argue, but case law suggests that there’s no legal grounds for any financial remedy.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing.’
I leave with great disappointment, loss of faith in the legalsystem, and a new sense of purpose. It’s absolutely clear what has to happen now. If Hollis doesn’t agree to Option 1 (secret divorce and bonhomie), I must move to Option 3 (murder and less bonhomie).
Chapter40Hollis
Monday, 9 December
Trying to get a second with Cait at the police station over the weekend was impossible. She was allowed a lawyer, one phone call (to her mum), and a psychologist. But friends and family – no. The closest I got was a conversation with a duty sergeant via an intercom at some awful holding facility.
We all rallied on Sunday, and found her a better solicitor as she only had a duty solicitor and everyone knows how overworked and underwhelming they are. Anyway, the new solicitor told us that the police applied for an extension to keep her in custody. If they don’t have sufficient evidence, she may be released under investigation, or on pre-charge bail. Whatever happens, they have to release her or charge her today, so we’ll know one way or another soon enough.
I now make my way up the grey concrete ramp to a row of flats in one of the many three-storey blocks that make up the Meadows. The only remnant of a meadow that I can detect from the balcony is a small, diamond-shaped flower bed devoid of all plant life in which a large Staffordshire terrier is crouched down with a concentrated look on its face, while its owner dedicates his attention to his phone.
There are seven near-identical doors along the corridor. One has been finely decorated with graffiti, another with a large hole that reveals the cheap plywood-and-foam construction. The door I stand in front of boasts a large, sticky puddle of dried urine.
I ring the bell. After a minute or so, I hear the sound of bolts and chains being drawn, and finally, the door opens.
Matthew Hollis, my undead first husband, is sitting in front of me, smiling.
‘Long time, no see,’ I say, deciding to keep it casual.
‘What?’ he says, searching my face. He doesn’t recognize me for a moment as he’s looking into the light, but as I move forward, his eyes show recognition and he stares up as pathetically as any drowned kitten swimming to the surface from an ineffectively tied sack.
