Dead Man's Footsteps

insurance companies always wriggle.’
    ‘So this one might wriggle?’
    ‘Nah, it’ll be OK, I reckon. Too emotive, this situation. But they’ll give you a good grilling, for sure. So make sure you stick to your story. Appear helpful, but say the minimum you have to. Then there’s going to be the 9/11 compensation fund. I’m told we could be looking at two and a half million dollars.’
    ‘ Two and a half million? ’
    He nodded excitedly.
    She stared at him, doing a quick calculation in her head. ‘That would be about one and three-quarter million pounds? So we’re talking about three and a quarter million quid, give or take?’
    ‘Give or take, yeah. And tax-free. For one year of pain.’
    She sat still for some moments. When she finally spoke there was a tinge of awe in her voice. ‘You’re unbelievable.’
    ‘I’m a survivor.’
    ‘That’s why I love you. Why I’ve always believed in you. I have, you know, haven’t I?’
    He kissed her. ‘You have.’
    ‘We’re rich!’
    ‘Nearly. We will be. Softly, softly catchee monkey…’
    ‘You look strange with a beard.’
    ‘Yeah?’
    ‘Sort of younger.’
    ‘And less dead than old Ronnie?’
    She grinned. ‘You were a lot less dead last night.’
    ‘I waited a long time for that.’
    ‘And now you’re talking about waiting a year? Maybe longer?’
    ‘The compensation fund will pay out fast to hardship cases. You’re a hardship case.’
    ‘They’ll prioritize Americans before foreigners.’
    He shook his head. ‘Not what I’ve heard.’
    ‘Three and a quarter million quid!’ she said again dreamily and rolled the ash off her cigarette into the saucer.
    ‘That’ll buy you a lot of new frocks.’
    ‘We’d need to invest it.’
    ‘I’ve got plans. The first thing we have to do is get it out of the country – and you.’
    He jumped up, went into the hall and returned with a small knapsack. From it he removed a brown envelope, which he put on the table and pushed towards her.
    ‘I’m not Ronnie Wilson any more. You’re going to have to get used to that. I’m now David Nelson. And in a year’s time you won’t be Lorraine Wilson any more.’
    Inside the envelope were two passports. One was Australian. The photograph was a barely recognizable one of herself. Her hair had been changed to dark brown, cut short, and she’d been given a pair of glasses. The name inside said Margaret Nelson .
    ‘There’s a visa stamp in there for permanent residence in Australia. Valid for five years.’
    ‘ Margaret?’ she said. ‘Why Margaret?’
    ‘Or Maggie!’
    She shook her head. ‘I have to be Margaret – Maggie ?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘For how long?’
    ‘For ever.’
    ‘Great,’ she said. ‘I don’t even get a choice in my own name?’
    ‘You didn’t when you was born, you stupid cow!’
    She said the name aloud, dubiously, ‘ Margaret Nelson .’
    ‘Nelson’s a good name, classy!’
    She shook a second passport out of the bag. ‘What’s this?’
    ‘It’s for when you leave England.’
    Inside was a photograph of her again, but in this one she had grey hair and looked twenty years older. The name said Anita Marsh .
    She looked at him in bewilderment.
    ‘I worked it out. The best way to disappear. People remember good-looking women, blokes in particular. They don’t remember little old ladies, they’re almost invisible. When the time comes you’re going to buy two tickets in advance on the Newhaven–Dieppe ferry for a night-time crossing. One ticket in your name, one in Anita Marsh’s name. And you’re going to book a cabin in Anita Marsh’s name. OK?’
    ‘Want me to write this down?’
    ‘No. You’re going to have to memorize it. I’ll be contacting you. I’ll go through it all plenty of times more with you before then. What you’re going to do is leave a suicide note – you’re going to write that you can’t bear life without me, you’re miserable being back at work at Gatwick, life sucks – and the doctor’ll be able to back it up that you were on antidepressants, all that stuff.’
    ‘Yeah, well, he won’t be lying about that.’
    ‘So you get on the ferry as Lorraine Wilson, looking as beautiful as you can, and make sure plenty of people see you. You dump your bag, with a change of clothes, in the cabin booked in Anita Marsh’s name. Then you go to the bar and you start giving the impression that you are sad, and drinking heavily, and not in any mood to talk to anyone. The crossing’s four