They Thought I Was Dead: Sandy’s Story

31 22 July 2007 — Looking back

Maybe the guilt should have stopped me lying, sitting opposite my husband, when he asked me how my day was. I told him I’d gone for a glorious walk along the seafront this afternoon. Probably over-egged it a bit by waxing lyrical about how beautiful the shore looked with the tide out.

All the time I couldn’t stop thinking about Albazi. About how he knew I had deleted his text. Hopefully Nicos could look at my phones again tomorrow and see if he could find something else, something he had missed.

Except, now, I’m starting to doubt Nicos, big time. Have I been a total fool? Is Nicos working for Albazi — and instead of removing a bug or something that Albazi’s put on my phone, has he installed something else? Just schmoozing me to fool me?

And succeeding?

I barely heard Roy talking about his day, about how he’d been in court, in the witness box for most of the day being cross-examined by — in his words — a complete bastard of a barrister called Richard Pedley.

All I could think was that another Valium pill would help with my troubles. I am worried sick.

As Roy stops eating, to check an incoming text — he’s the on-call SIO tonight — I sneak a look at my phone B, which I always keep on silent in the house, hoping that maybe there is a text from Nicos that might reassure me. But there isn’t.

How do I tell Roy that I owe £150,000 to a Brighton hoodlum he’s planning to arrest? It’s just not an option.

What I don’t yet have is a robust plan. My mind feels like one of those IKEA flatpacks you open up, and the contents lie in all kinds of different pieces that you have to somehow assemble to get your finished kitchen cabinet, or whatever it is. The cabinet is my plan, but I don’t know what my plan really is, any more than I know what the cabinet should look like.

Here are the absolutes of what I do know at this stage, and in no particular order:

One: I am pregnant.

Two: I cannot let Roy know what I’ve got myself into.

Three: I have a very short window of time to pay Mr Albazi.

Four: I have almost £30K left, in a rucksack, in the spare room.

Should I take it all to the casino and go shit or bust? It’s big stake money. If I got lucky, it would solve one of my problems. Well, two actually. I could pay back Albazi and I’d have enough to start a new life.

I look at Roy, sitting opposite me at the table in our modern and minimalist kitchen, which I designed and am proud of. And I love the view of our garden behind him — all my ideas, which Roy also liked — but, to be honest, I don’t think furniture and interior — or exterior — decor are his thing. He’d have been happy if I’d told him I wanted a rustic farmhouse kitchen, or an industrial look, or one that was bright purple. I’m not even sure he would have noticed if he’d come home tonight and the kitchen was completely different.

He’d probably do the same as he always did, which was to walk through the door, kiss me and ask me how my day had been, then tap the goldfish bowl, say hello to Marlon and drop in a couple of pinches of food. He’d remove his jacket and tie, pour each of us a drink — no alcohol for him if he was on duty — sit at the table, scan through the Argus newspaper, followed by the website for updates, and maybe ask if I could turn the volume of the television down. And then he’d realize, finally, the kitchen was different but only by going to find something that’s not in the place he was expecting.

To be fair, he does pull his weight about the house and he does his equal share of the meals, something microwavable from the freezer or a salad that he would be unable to overcook or grill or fry to a cinder. And he’s very good with eggs. The best egg scrambler in the world and he has mastered the perfect poached egg. That I shall miss along with everything else.

I watch him now, in the blue-and-white-striped shirt from Gresham Blake I bought him last Christmas, which is creased and crumpled after this long, sticky summer’s day, sleeves rolled up, digging his fork into the macaroni dish (from the freezer), along with a passable Greek salad that I’ve managed to rustle up.

He is still reading something on his phone, and a wild thought crosses my mind. What if he is only pretending this is a work message and really it’s a text from a mistress?

Wishful thinking, I know, to appease my own guilt. He’s too decent to have an affair. Roy’s the virtuous one, and I’m the shallow imposter of a wife. Sometimes in these past months, when I’m lying awake in the middle of the night, while Roy sleeps the sleep of the innocent, I think fair play to him. He doesn’t deserve me, he deserves someone better than me, someone who will love him for who and what he is.

Often, during those long, lonely hours of the night, I question myself. Do I really want a lifestyle like Tamzin’s? Would that actually make me happy? Is my life actually OK as it is? Am I, like so many others, unable to simply be grateful for what I have?

Maybe. There are a lot of shallow people. But there are also a lot of talented people with something to offer the world, whose lives are unfulfilled because they never got the chance they deserved. Maybe because they married the wrong partner.

Like me?

On occasions, when we’ve met a real pair of oddballs, Roy and I have agreed, a bit jokily, that there’s someone out there for everyone. But there is someone out there for Roy, it’s just not me. It’s someone who would be content to play the role of honest, supportive wife — and that is really not me. I’ve failed as a wife and I’m ashamed of what I’ve let myself become. I’ve been unfaithful, I am living a lie, I’m scared — and I can’t deal with his dedication to his job.

Being the other half of a Major Crime detective, I’ve realized, is not something I am good at. The detective gets the glory, the headlines, the press conferences and the promotions. The significant other gets the cancelled birthday and anniversary dinners, the solo Christmas, and short shrift if you put your foot down.

A twenty-year-old university student has just been raped and murdered. Hello, is our dinner date at our favourite Italian really more important than my husband talking to the victim’s parents, trying to comfort them, to reassure them, to help them find some meaning in their lives that have now been destroyed for ever? God, and I had so much been looking forward to the fritto misto!

It’s always going to be an argument you cannot win. So you go with the flow. But, if you want the truth, in my view only dead fish go with the flow.

I may come across as a total flake, but I don’t think I am. I realize my husband does a very important job. But I’m important too. I’m me.

And I’m pregnant. If I do nothing, I am trapped. I’ve desperately wanted a child for so long. There is no way I would get rid of this gift. But the moment I tell Roy, that’s it, I would be stuck. And I’d be stuck with a secret I cannot bear to hold. So that’s not an option. I’m going to have to leave before he finds out. I have a way out but it’s not going to be easy. I will take my gambling problems with me and leave Roy to his career without tarnishing it. Now Nicos has arrived in my life I have another option. Maybe he could stake me to win the money I need, or if he’s really loaded, he could pay off my gambling debt entirely. All things I’m considering. Along with when I can take my next Valium, but I really need to stop taking that.

And actually, the timing of my departure from this life could hardly be better. Albazi expects the money within four days, or a letter from the lawyer confirming my inheritance. As neither are going to happen, I’m going to have to do a runner and go into hiding. Could Nicos really help me?

Ironically, the person who could help me is Roy — by arresting Albazi. Problem solved — or at least delayed.

Trying to sound nonchalant, as if I was merely making small talk, but desperate for some information as I carry this weight on my shoulders, I interrupted his reading of the long message on his phone by asking, ‘How’s that case going with that nasty Albanian guy, the one with the funny name — Abbassy or something? Are you close to an arrest?’

‘I can’t talk about it, Sandy,’ he replied without looking up.

‘Can’t talk about it?’ I said, a little more petulantly than I’d intended.

‘You know I can’t,’ he said.

‘You know I can’t,’ I replied, mimicking his voice. But he ignored me and that annoyed me even more. ‘It’s ridiculous, I’m your wife, we shouldn’t have secrets.’ I nearly bit my tongue, well aware of my hypocrisy. I badly wanted to share this stress with him, with anyone.

Roy looked up. ‘You know there are work things I can’t tell you.’

‘Leslie Pope said Dick tells her everything.’

Dick Pope was a colleague of Roy and the four of us were good friends.

‘Well, he shouldn’t, it’s not professional and it could get him into a lot of trouble.’

‘I’m not asking you to share every detail. You mentioned this guy a while ago, so I was just curious — you said something about torture and murder.’

‘We’re making progress, OK?’ he said abruptly. ‘He and his two henchmen are particularly dangerous people. They’ve even threatened police officers making routine enquiries and they don’t do idle threats.’

‘So is this the headless torsos case you’re working on — Operation Mullet?’

‘Sandy, I can’t say, OK? I’ve said too much already.’

‘I can keep a secret, Roy.’

‘Have you never heard the saying, “If you tell a secret to one person, you’ve told the world”?’

‘Well, that’s bloody charming!’

He excavated another forkful of macaroni.

As I watch him eat, I’m thinking about another problem — it is Roy’s thirtieth birthday in four days’ time and I’ve not yet bought him a present. He has hinted for some while that he’d like a new watch — I’d like him to have one too, the tatty one he wears is an embarrassment. He’s made a big hint about a Swiss Army watch and, at £60, that’s a lot more in my budget range than the six-grand Hublot I saw him admiring in a shop window a while ago.

Although here I’m hesitating and it saddens me. This might be the last gift I’m ever going to buy him; should I go cheap or at least give him a parting gift from my inheritance? Something to remember me by for ever?

My heart tells me to go for the Hublot.

Common sense tells me the Swiss Army watch.

I’ve always prided myself on being sensible.