Elise went back to the very beginning, looking for his birth online. But either he was an immaculate conception or she was using duff information. He wasn’t there and alarm bells were ringing all over the shop. Mr. Perry didn’t appear to exist. She started again, checking and rechecking each step. Nothing. What about his marriages? Ronnie said he’d had two wives.
But she could find none for Charles Perry. So who is Pauline married to?
Elise decided to chase Pauline down, getting her full name and date of birth from a speeding conviction and digging out her birth certificate. She’d been born Pauline Mary Blackwell in 1944. That makes you seventy-five. Elise grinned. Charlie’s your toy boy.
Pauline had married a Perry—but it was a Henry Perry, who’d died just three years later. This is all getting a bit surreal. Did she marry two men called Perry? Brothers?
Elise fiddled with the search filters and finally found Pauline’s marriage to Charlie. Pauline had tied the knot with a Charles Herbert Williams in 2009 at Islington Town Hall. He’d taken her name.
Elise got another apple and looked for Charlie’s original birth certificate. And there he was: born September 9, 1945, in Watford. Just a week after the end of the Second World War. There was no father’s name listed—just his mother, Maureen. A single mother when getting yourself in trouble still meant being shamed. Was her lover killed in France before he could marry her? Was she raped? Elise found herself looking for Maureen’s birth before she came to, teetering on the brink of a cavernous rabbit hole. Focus! she told herself.
She stuck Mr. Williams into the PNC with a flourish—“Thought you could hide from me, did you?”—but the computer still said no. Elise groaned and banged her hand on the table, nearly upending a forgotten glass of water. Back to the records.
His first marriage had been to the glamorously named Lila Nightingale—and Elise put her nose to the trail, listing the property companies Charlie set up and the grander addresses on London’s electoral registers until the couple moved into a house in an exclusive street in Kensington. Very swish.
It was there that Charlie and Lila parted company. She vanished from the register during the eighties, leaving Charles Williams on his own at the house. In 2000, he moved to east London and stayed there for a few years until he married Pauline and they settled in Hampstead.
Elise tapped her fingers on the table as she put it all together. So when did you become Charlie Perry? And why?
It had always fascinated Elise how people slipped their skins. She’d met only a handful over the years—her favorite was a milkman with three wives/girlfriends who kept a card index of who he was on what day while he claimed three lots of housing benefit. “Hardly worth it, to be honest,” he’d said when his system failed spectacularly under the pressure of a triple-birthday celebration. Elise suspected he’d lived for the almost-being-found-out moments.
She pictured Charlie drilling himself each evening: name of first pet, mother’s maiden name, place of birth, favorite film. . . .
But there must be moments when he stumbles back into his real self, she mused. When he catches sight of himself in a mirror unexpectedly. God, that must mess with your head.
It was certainly messing with hers. And making her mouth water.
Taking on a new identity meant there was something or someone to hide from. Which is it, Charlie?
BEFORE
Thirteen
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 14, 2019
Ten days earlier
Dee
Liam is acting up about my overtime again. I’d had the last of the sugary dust at the bottom of the cereal box and was gathering my stuff when he finally stumbled downstairs in his boxers.
“What time is it? I could murder a bacon sandwich.”
“It’s eight. And do you know how much bacon costs? I’ve let Misty out and I’m off to work.” I kiss the stubble on his cheek.
“You’re never home,” he says. “I had to cook tea for Cal again last night.”
“Oh, poor you. And what did you give him? Frozen pizza again? Try putting a bit of broccoli on his plate next time.”
Cal mimes throwing up and Liam slumps down in a chair beside him. He’s not laughing this morning. It’s not his fault there’s no work at the moment. The developers are bringing in their own men. “Cheap labor from London,” Liam says, “and I bet there’s not a real tradesman among them. How can I compete?”
“Look, love, we need the money. Simple as. There was a bit of waitressing going at the Lobster Shack and Toby asked if I’d do it. I’m not turning anything down until things pick up for you. And they will. Oh, I meant to tell you—Pete Diamond’s given me free tickets for the Friday night of his festival—and Jenny says she’ll babysit.”