The Dead Ex(38)

I gulp it down.

The nurse has my tablets. I see her clocking the strength. What normally happens after a seizure, she asks. I explain that sometimes they increase the dose. But there’s a limit on how far you can go. I’ve almost reached that now.

‘Is she fit for interview?’ asks the policewoman. I sense from her pink cheeks that she’s been slightly rattled by our conversation. Maybe she knows now that epilepsy isn’t to be taken lightly.

The nurse turns back to me. ‘How do you feel?’

Terrible. But what’s the point in complaining? It would only delay the inevitable.

I am led into another room. It’s smaller than the previous one. The window is dusty, and the sunrays shining through are dancing with little white specks as if mocking the darkness inside me. There is a worn oak desk. Two chairs with stiff backs. The man in uniform indicates that I should take the one on the left. Maybe the other is for my solicitor, whom I’ve asked to be contacted. Don’t say anything about David until she arrives, I tell myself. But it’s tempting. I have to make them see this is all one big mistake.

‘Doesn’t look good, does it, Vicki?’

The detective speaks as though we are old friends instead of a stranger who has intruded into my already troubled life. I fix my gaze on that chin, which merges into the throat without the usual folds or curves. It helps me to remember that no one is perfect.

‘We’ve already got that photograph of you with your ex plus your wedding album. And now there’s this.’

He places in front of me the small black book, which the policewoman had shown to him earlier. My personal diary.

‘I didn’t mean any of it,’ I say quickly, forgetting my earlier pledge to keep quiet. ‘They’re just … you know … thoughts.’

The look on his face can only be described as a ‘Do you think I’m simple?’ stare.

‘I was encouraged to write them down.’

‘Therapeutic, is it?’ His voice is mocking.

I feel the old anger rising up inside along with the bitter taste of bile. I was physically sick for days on end after Mum died. And after Patrick too.

‘Actually, yes.’

He opens one of the pages, which has a chirpy yellow Post-it sticker on it. Not mine. ‘So when you say “I wish he was dead”, you don’t mean it?’

‘No. Of course I don’t. It’s just one of those silly ideas that might pass through your head. It relieves the pressure inside.’

His eyes clear. For a minute, I think I’ve convinced him. Then they harden again. ‘So the “him” and the “he” in this diary of yours, do actually refer to your ex-husband, David Goudman, then?’

Instantly I realize I’ve walked into a trap. I could have pretended this wasn’t mine. That someone had forged my distinctive neat handwriting. Or that I’d been talking about someone else.

‘Yes … No …’

The door swings open to admit a tall woman with blonde hair and a swan-like neck. The kind who is almost beautiful but stops short at handsome. She is well dressed in a tailored navy-blue skirt and cream jacket that’s elegant rather than mumsy. Her handshake is warm but firm. ‘I’m Penny Brookes. I’m filling in for Lily Macdonald. She’s got a lot on so she’s asked me to step in.’

I don’t want someone who is just a reserve. I need a sharp solicitor who can get me out of this hole. How old is this woman? Maybe late forties? Possibly younger. What kind of experience has she had? I suddenly feel cold. My future is in the hands of a complete stranger. How often have I heard that?

‘Is it all right if I call you Vicki?’

I nod. ‘One c, one k, two i’s.’

When you’re different, like me, you feel defensive about your identity.

‘I noted that from your records, although I should add that your divorce files are separate. Because I wasn’t involved with that, I don’t have access to them unless you give me permission.’

‘It’s not necessary,’ I say quickly. ‘This isn’t connected.’

She bends her head as if accepting my point. ‘I should also say that you don’t have to answer any questions from the police if I don’t feel they are appropriate.’

Maybe she knows her stuff after all.

She takes a pen from her bag (a rather nice brown leather design that screams ‘professional’ as well as ‘stylish’) and addresses the inspector.

‘Can you show me the evidence that, in your view, links my client to the disappearance of David Goudman?’

I watch, mouth dry, as she flicks through the diary. Then, to my horror, she reads a passage out loud.

‘ “I wish he was dead. It would be so much easier. Then no one else could have him either.” ’

‘I’ve already told them that they were just feelings,’ I burst out. ‘I would never actually do anything.’

The detective makes a dismissive snort.

My solicitor mutters something. It sounds like, ‘Have you never said or written anything you didn’t mean?’

He immediately picks up on it. ‘Our own personal feelings are not the point, as you know very well. As I’ve told you in the past, it is unprofessional and unusual for a solicitor to get involved in arguments with the police on certain points.’