The Dead Ex(97)

‘Rather like when you broke a prisoner’s collar bone and caused neck injuries to another?’

‘Maybe,’ I whisper.

‘Louder please.’

‘Maybe. But I don’t think I hurt her. Not badly.’

‘How do you know?’

‘She was still talking afterwards. She told me to get out. So I did.’

‘Do you also recall strangling her with a chain?’

‘No.’

‘But is it possible you might have forgotten owing to your medication?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Yet you said just now that you forgot things. So how can you be certain?’

‘I’m not a murderer.’

‘I believe that is for the jury to decide. What did you do with the chain?’

‘I didn’t have one.’

The barrister gives a heavy sigh. ‘The neighbour reported seeing that you were holding something in your hand, which you then put in your bag as you ran.’

‘Yes. I was.’

It’s as though the court is holding its breath. I feel embarrassed now. It seems so trivial, although at the time it seemed the right thing to do.

‘When I went into Tanya and David’s house, I saw something that used to belong to me. So I took it.’

‘You stole something?’

‘No. Like I said, it was mine. It must have got muddled up in David’s half when we divided our things after the divorce.’

‘What was it?’

‘A wooden love spoon that had belonged to my mother, who died when I was young. It had deep sentimental value for me. Tanya picked it up and I thought she was going to hit me with it. Later, after she put it down, I grabbed it. I couldn’t bear to think of that woman having it. David should have known better. He ought to have returned it.’

One of the jurors is nodding as though she agrees.

‘That woman?’ repeats the barrister. ‘Clearly you did not like her.’

‘Of course I didn’t. She stole my husband.’

‘And where is this so-called love spoon now?’

‘It was taken by the police when I was arrested. But when I told my solicitor this, they said they couldn’t find it.’

‘Really? I put it to you that you were holding a key chain. One similar to that which was found in a packing box, wrapped up in your old uniform in the cellar, by the police when they searched your apartment soon after Tanya’s death. It had been wiped clean.’

There’s a gasp from the jury.

I try to choose my words carefully. ‘As I said in my statement, I have no idea how it got there. Besides, the police arrested me at the station, before I went home, so it can’t be the same chain.’

‘Not if you asked someone else to take it back for you. Another of Mr Goudman’s employees, perhaps, with a similar axe to grind.’

‘But I didn’t.’

‘How can you be certain, Mrs Goudman? We’ve already established that your condition and your medication can affect your memory.’

I think of the other things I’d forgotten. The kettle I hadn’t filled before putting it on. The client appointments in my diary. The misplacing of my front-door keys.

‘I’m as certain as I can be,’ I say lamely. Then I feel a surge of anger. ‘Anyway, if you’re so certain, where’s your evidence? And why would a so-called accomplice plant the chain back in my flat instead of just getting rid of it?’

‘Please answer the questions, Mrs Goudman. It is not your job to ask them.’

The judge intervenes. ‘We are going over old ground here. I’ve been very understanding so far in view of the unusual nature of the situation. Is there anything more arising out of Mr Goudman’s evidence?’

There isn’t.

But with any luck, I have given everyone something to think about. Including myself.

The jury doesn’t take long. Despite that last outburst of mine, I wouldn’t hesitate for long either if I was one of the twelve.

‘Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?’

‘Guilty.’

The court explodes with shouts and cheers and hand waving.

I glance up to the gallery. There’s Jackie, looking at me sadly. And next to her is Patrick.

The judge speaks again. My sentence is Life with a minimum term of twenty years.

But my greatest punishment is the fact that I now have to live with myself. Tanya might have stolen my husband. But she didn’t deserve to be murdered.

Least of all by me.





58



Helen


Twenty years! It’s no more than Vicki Goudman deserves, I tell myself, threading my way out through the public gallery and down the court steps, past a crowd of journalists buzzing like bees around the lawyers with their flapping black gowns.

‘No comment,’ I hear one say.

Hah! If I was asked, I’d have plenty to say about that. No length of sentence is too long for that woman.

Breaking out into a run, I make for the coffee shop where I’d left Mum. Shit. She’s not there.

Where is she? I try to put myself in her shoes. Then I get it! Bet she’s outside the court, keen to hear the verdict. Running out – almost knocking into a passer-by – I head back to the large concrete building with its gracious Grecian columns. There are still loads of people there, including a TV crew. No wonder. A disgraced public name. A missing husband. It all made a good story. And then I hear a familiar voice.