The Girl Before(56)

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The examination is thorough; much more thorough than the one I had at this stage with Isabel. I know I’m getting special treatment because of what Dr. Gifford and I have been through together, but that’s fine. I no longer consider myself one of the herd, an average person.

The size and position of the uterus are good. A Pap smear is taken to test for cervical cancer, and a tissue sample to test for STDs. I’m not concerned. There is absolutely no chance that the fanatically fastidious Edward could have an untreated STD. My blood pressure is good. Everything is in order. Dr. Gifford says he’s pleased.

“I’ve always been good at exams,” I joke.

While I’m lying there I tell him about the birth I’d wanted with Isabel, a water birth with Diptyque candles and music. He tells me there’s no medical reason why that shouldn’t happen this time. Then we talk about supplements. Folic acid, obviously—he suggests eight hundred micrograms. Vitamin D is also advisable. Avoid multivitamins that might contain vitamin A, but consider vitamin C, calcium, and iron.



Of course I will take those, all of them. I’m not the kind of person who can ignore a guideline or leave undone anything, however small, that might help. I get the necessary pills on the way back to the house, double-checking the labels to make sure no vitamin A has crept in by mistake. The first thing I do after hanging up my coat is to go to my laptop to see what other dietary changes I should be thinking about.

Jane, please score the following statements on a scale of 1–5, where 1 is Strongly Agree and 5 is Strongly Disagree.

Some house facilities have been disabled until the assignment is completed.

I stop dead. It seems to me these metric tests have been more frequent since Edward’s been away. Almost as if he’s checking up on me. Making sure I’m still calm and serene and living according to the rules, all the way from his distant site office.

More to the point, I would have typed “pregnancy recommended diet” into Housekeeper without thinking, if it hadn’t been disabled. I must remember to use the neighbor’s Wi-Fi for everything now. At least until I’ve told Edward.

And also, I think, until I know what really happened to Emma. Because the two—the revealing to Edward of my secret, and the prizing open of his own secrets—are connected now, and it’s a lot more urgent than it was. For my baby’s sake, I have to know the truth.





THEN: EMMA

Detective Inspector Clarke calls me into the station for yet another chat. The process of the law is clearly speeding up because he takes me, not to his cubbyhole of an office, but to a large well-lit meeting room. There are five people ranged down one side of the table. One’s in uniform—I get the impression he’s quite high up. Next to him is a petite woman wearing a dark suit. Then comes John Broome, the CPS lawyer from the bail hearing. And Sergeant Willan, my support officer, who sits with a space between her and the others as if to indicate that she’s not senior enough to take any real part in this.

DI Clarke, who up to now has been his usual cheery self, indicates that I should sit opposite the petite woman and places himself on the far side of Sergeant Willan. There’s a jug of water and a glass in front of me, but, I notice, no biscuits and no coffee. No Garfield mugs today.

Thank you for coming, Emma, the woman says. I’m Specialist Prosecutor Patricia Shapton, and this is Chief Superintendent Peter Robertson.

The big guns. Hello, I say, waving at them. I’m Emma.

Patricia Shapton smiles politely and continues, We’re here to talk about Deon Nelson’s defense to your allegations of rape and aggravated burglary. As you probably know, it’s a requirement these days for the prosecution and defense to share information before the trial, to prevent cases coming to court unnecessarily.



I hadn’t known, but I nod anyway.

Deon Nelson is claiming misidentification, she goes on. She takes a document from the pile in front of her and puts on some reading glasses. Then she peers at me over the top of the glasses, as if waiting for me to respond.

I didn’t see him at the bail hearing, I say quickly.

There are several witnesses who say you did. But that’s not the specific issue we’re here to discuss.

For some reason I’m not relieved to hear this. Something about her tone, and the silent, watchful faces of the others, is making me uneasy. The atmosphere has turned serious. Aggressive, even.

Deon Nelson has provided medical evidence—intimate medical evidence—that he cannot be the man who recorded himself receiving oral sex from you, Shapton says. The evidence is compelling. In fact, I’d go so far as to say it’s incontrovertible.

I feel a sense of vertigo that swiftly turns to nausea. I don’t understand, I say.

From a legal standpoint, of course, that’s all his defense needs to do to secure an acquittal, she continues as if I hadn’t spoken. She picks up some more documents. But in fact, they’ve gone considerably further. These are sworn statements from some of your colleagues at Flow Water Supplies. The most relevant for our purposes is the one from Saul Aksoy, in which he describes a recent sexual relationship with you. During the course of which, he says, at your request, the two of you made a video fitting the description of the one Detective Inspector Clarke found on your phone.

There’s that phrase I wanted the ground to swallow me up. It doesn’t begin to describe what happens when your whole world implodes, when all the lies you’ve told suddenly come crashing down around your ears. There’s a long, horrible pause. I can feel tears stinging my eyes. I fight them back. I know Patricia Shapton will think they’re just a ruse to get sympathy.