by Jane Corry
‘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.’
So my solicitor is a bit of a maverick who isn’t afraid of doing things differently! In one way I’m flattered that she’s fighting my corner. In another, I’m nervous.
Penny looks unrepentant. ‘This diary merely expresses the views of my client at a time when she was under stress. It would not, in my belief, stand up in law as definitive proof of complicity in Mr Goudman’s disappearance.’
Inspector Vine bristles. ‘That’s a matter of opinion. What about the photograph of your client with the victim, taken shortly before he disappeared? She told me that she hadn’t seen him since 2013 and couldn’t apparently remember being there.’
The victim?
He hands over a brown envelope. My solicitor seems to take an age studying it. Then she looks at me. ‘Is that right, Vicki?’
I feel myself burning. ‘OK.’ I swallow hard. ‘I did go to London …’
The detective slaps his knees. ‘I knew it!’
‘I’d … I’d missed David. I know he behaved badly but … well, he left this hole in my heart. It’s like he still had this hold over me …’
There’s another scoffing noise from the detective, which I try to ignore.
‘So I went to some of the places we used to go to together, like this restaurant near the Tate. And then I saw him through the window.’
‘So you went in to see him?’
‘No.’ I am hot with embarrassment. I can feel the heat rising to my face. ‘He came out to tell me to stop following him.’
‘You had an argument?’
‘Yes. Of course we had a bloody argument.’
Penny puts her hand on my arm as my voice rises in distress.
The detective is looking triumphant. ‘Then why didn’t you tell me before, instead of lying?’
I try to keep my voice level. ‘I felt embarrassed and I … well, I thought it would make me look guilty.’
‘I’d say so.’
‘But it’s still not proof that she had anything to do with David Goudman’s disappearance.’ My solicitor’s voice is calm but firm. ‘Besides, I gather that Vicki has already voiced her opinion that Mr Goudman may simply be away on a business trip.’
‘Then why wouldn’t his wife know?’
I can’t not interrupt. ‘I told you before. He often went off when we were married.’
My solicitor lays a hand on my arm again. Just briefly, as if to indicate that I shouldn’t be too aggressive. ‘My client’s ex-husband appears to have had some questionable business practices,’ she says.
‘That doesn’t mean we can dismiss his disappearance.’
‘Of course not. But there may be a valid explanation for it.’
‘What about the stalking?’
‘I gather from the notes that my client has already explained she was merely in the vicinity of her ex-husband’s house at the end of last year in order to see her doctor.’
‘And the phone calls she kept making to her ex-husband after they broke up. Would you say that’s not stalking either?’
‘Actually, I’d call it the sign of a woman who’d been bruised after a divorce.’ My solicitor’s voice is brisk, yet there is a part which indicates personal empathy. For some reason, I get the feeling that she has been hurt too. There’s no wedding ring on her left hand, although that doesn’t mean anything nowadays. ‘I would suggest that unless you can come up with a stronger case against my client, you should release Mrs Goudman immediately.’
He is shaking his head. ‘You’re making a mistake here, Pen.’
The familiar diminutive suggests they know each other.
‘I don’t think so.’
Then I hear him mutter something under his breath. It sounds like ‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’
Great. So my solicitor’s made a mistake in the past. But right now they’re both missing something. ‘Where is David?’ My voice is full of anguish. ‘What if he hasn’t gone on a trip? Supposing he has been hurt? Why can’t you find out exactly what’s happened?’
I’m aware that I sound like a worried wife rather than an ex. But the truth is that I do still care.
I can still feel him touching me. Kissing me. Telling me, before it all went wrong, that I was the most amazing, unique woman he had ever been with. Despite everything, it’s hard to get that out of my head. A court can dissolve a marriage. But it can’t do the same to the heart. After all, there were plenty of good times.
‘I’m sure the police are doing what they can,’ says my solicitor as she gets up, indicating that I should do the same.
Inspector Vine and his chin stand between me and the door. ‘I fully expect to see you again, Mrs Goudman.’
‘That sounds like intimidation, Inspector.’
‘Just making our position clear.’
Outside the police station I gulp in the air, despite the fumes of the passing traffic. Penny Brookes appears to do the same. Then she shakes my hand. ‘Go home,’ she says. ‘Look after yourself. Let me know if there are any more developments.’
‘What do I owe you?’
‘Nothing. It’s what we call a pro bono. We take on a certain number every year.’
Would she feel like this if she knew about my past? ‘So you believe me?’
‘Yes. I do.’
I’m changing my mind about this woman. ‘Will you represent me?’
‘As long as you don’t do anything daft.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well,’ she says slowly, ‘if it was me, I would want to find out what happened to my ex. Please resist that temptation. It could do more harm than good.’
‘I know what it looks like,’ I protest. ‘He cheated and lied to me, and now he’s dead, but …’
‘What makes you think he’s dead?’ says my solicitor sharply.
‘I don’t know.’ I want to curl up in a hole. ‘I’ve just got a bad feeling about this. And I’m scared.’
‘Are you sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me?’ she asks.
I curse myself for my stupid outburst which has – let’s face it – made me look guilty.
‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘I’ve told you everything.’
‘You’re sure?’
I go red again, the way I always do when accused of something. It’s a childhood habit. ‘Quite sure.’
If my instincts are right, there’s only one person who might throw some light on all this.
Tanya. I’d been going to see her before the police had arrived.
Now it’s even more important. I just have to summon up the courage.
18
Scarlet
1 April 2007
What was that funny smell? Scarlet began to sneeze.
The new social worker, noticing, wound up the car window on the side nearest to her.
‘Oilseed rape,’ she said brightly. ‘Makes your nose tickle. They get a lot of it out here. Not far now. You’re going to love it. Dee and Robert are super. They’ve got horses and cows and sheep. You’ll be able to describe all this to your mum when you write to her.’
But writing wasn’t the same as seeing. All she wanted, thought Scarlet miserably, was to feel Mum’s arms around her and her soft face against hers.
The car swung round a bend, lurching Scarlet into the door. ‘Sorry about that. These lanes can be a bit narrow.’
Another left and then a right past a sign that said S–T–A–T–I–O–N. At her last two schools, loads of them hadn’t known their lefts from their rights, but Mum had taught her when she was really little.
‘What do you think, then?’
Scarlet gazed at the house in front of her. It was white with a strange brown roof that looked all bristly like a hairbrush. Yellow flowers were growing up the walls, and there was a dog running around the car, making horrible growling noises.
‘Let’s get out then, shall we?’
‘I can’t,’ whispered Scarlet’s thoughts. ‘It might bite me.’
‘No need to shrink back like that. He’s really friendly.’
A man was walking across towards them, wearing green boots with something round his neck.
‘Hello,’ he said, opening the car door. ‘You must be Scarlet. Get down, Aztec.’
Scarlet’s scream rang in her ears.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ said the man again. ‘He’s just saying hello in his own way. Look, he’s licking your hand.’
‘Scarlet!’ The social worker’s voice was cross. ‘Don’t hit the poor thing like that.’
But it was going to bite her!
‘Robert!’ A woman was running out of the big door by the roses. ‘I told you not to let him out. The child looks terrified.’ Then she put her hands to her mouth and whistled.
To her amazement Scarlet watched the dog turn around and slink back into the house. The woman walked over and knelt down beside her. She wore her hair in a ponytail that swung from side to side and she smelled of roses. Once, Scarlet had taken a bunch from the cemetery for Mum’s birthday. She didn’t let on where they’d come from. Sometimes she still felt guilty about it.
‘I was scared of dogs when I was little too. But you’ll get used to him soon. Just as you’ll get used to us.’ She waved her hand around. ‘All this must be rather different for you.’
Scarlet nodded, but the ‘yes’ stayed stuck in her mouth.
‘Tell you what, why don’t we go inside and I’ll show you your bedroom. I’m Dee, by the way, although I expect they’ve told you that already.’
Silently, she followed. To her relief, the man didn’t come too. The ground made her feet slide from one side to another.
‘Cobblestones,’ said Dee. ‘They’re really old. Just like the house.’
Old was bad. Mum used to say that. It’s why their boiler kept breaking down, although the bloody council should have fixed it.
‘We’ve been here for years. The farm used to belong to my husband’s parents. It’s too big for us, so when we couldn’t … when we decided the time was right, we decided to open up our home to children who needed somewhere to live.’
Scarlet put her hand on the staircase. It felt smooth. There were funny pictures carved into the wood. A lion’s face. An apple.
‘We don’t have any other children staying with us at the moment, so you can have the big bedroom. It’s rather pretty, with a fantastic view over the river. Look!’
This room was all hers? But it was bigger than the flat where she and Mum had lived.
‘You don’t need to come to the window if you don’t want to. Maybe you’d like a bit of a lie down on the bed.’
It was a proper one! Not just a mattress. Big enough for her and Dawn, if she’d been here. But she didn’t deserve something nice like that, Scarlet told herself. Not after what she’d let Mr Walters do. Why hadn’t she tried to stop him? She was a bad, bad girl.
‘Or perhaps you’re hungry?’
The lady called Dee was looking at her with such a kind face that Scarlet knew it had to be a trick. ‘You poor dear,’ she whispered. ‘You’ve been through so much. No wonder you don’t want to talk. And there I am, prattling away like there’s no tomorrow.’
There was a cushion on the bed. A bright red one with a flower on it. Slowly, Scarlet lifted it down and put it on the floor. Then she laid her head on it.
‘Are you sure you’re comfortable there?’
Scarlet put her hands over her ears to block her out. It wasn’t the woman herself. She was nice enough. It was everyone. Everything. Mum. Dawn. The police. But especially those soft white hands which had taken her voice away.
The hands still let the voice through. ‘You know, I find it helps to jot things down when I don’t want to say them. I write poetry myself. Robert is a photographer. He specializes in nature. In fact, he’s had quite a few pictures printed in magazines. Maybe later, when you’ve settled in, you’d like to go on a walk with him.’
Scarlet began to shake. What if he hurt her too?
‘You could leave the dog behind, if that’s what’s scaring you.’
Still no.
‘I’m going to leave you on your own for a bit now, Scarlet. I’ve a feeling that’s what you want. But I’ll be downstairs if you want company. Your social worker is there too. I baked a cake this morning. A Victoria sponge! It’s got plum jam inside that I made myself. Next year, you can help me make some more.’
Next year? But that was ages away.
Dee seemed to understand the thoughts in her head. ‘The plan is, Scarlet, that you’re going to stay here for some time. We’ll help you, Robert and I. Everything’s going to be all right now. I promise you. Now remember. When you’re ready, just come downstairs.’
But Scarlet stayed as still as she could, pretending to be asleep.
Only when she heard the footsteps going downstairs, did she get up. Slowly she went to the window. The Robert man was down by the water. Mum had once taken her to a big river called the Tems that ran through London. She’d had to wait on the huge bridge for a man to come up and give her a package. Then she’d had to run down the other side and give it to a woman selling newspapers. Mum had given her a fiver for that.
Uh-oh. He was turning and looking, as if he knew she was staring out of the window! Getting down on the floor, Scarlet crawled across the carpet so he couldn’t see her any more.
‘Scarlet?’
There was the sound of knocking.
‘Are you all right in there?’ It was the social worker’s voice.
Her eyes darted round the room to see if she could push something against the door to stop them getting in. The chest of drawers was too heavy, but this chair might do.
‘It’s OK if you want to move things around.’ This was Dee’s voice. ‘But don’t hurt yourself, will you?’
Back at the window, Scarlet could see the man walking up to the house again. He disappeared out of sight. Then she heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.
‘If anyone tries to get you, just run.’ Wasn’t that what Mum had always said?
The window catch was stiff. Ouch.
She could hear the chair behind her, moving across the carpet as the door began to open.
‘For God’s sake, child. What are you doing up there?’
The drop below made her feel dizzy.
‘DON’T JUMP!’
She hesitated. For a moment, Scarlet thought she was going backwards into the room. And then she fell.
Every client is a blank sheet. They come to me for so many reasons. More happiness. Less stress. More libido. Better sleep.
I love working out what oils to use.
But it’s the return visits that are important. I need to check that my blends have worked. That I am creating a
new person.
In some ways, it’s like writing a diary. You can start a fresh page whenever you want. You choose your ingredients.
And you can begin all over again. Now the police have taken my diary away, I have simply started another. Old habits die hard. I need to let out my emotions somehow.
If only I could turn over a new leaf with life.
There’s so much I’d change.
And so much that I can’t.
19
Vicki
31 March 2018
It’s nearly a month since I decided to visit Tanya. I’ve been mulling this over for too long. Putting it off. Waiting for the police to arrest me again. But they haven’t. Not yet. For years I’ve been wanting to give Tanya a piece of my mind about stealing my husband. Yet for some inexplicable reason – which I share with other ex-wives, according to some of the online forums I’ve been on – I’m actually scared of seeing my replacement in the flesh.
Why? As one woman wrote, It’s proof that my ex really has moved on. I can’t pretend any more. There were several ‘likes’ for that one, including mine.
Finally, I make a decision. Tomorrow, I tell myself. I have a new client scheduled then for 9 a.m. so I text her, explaining I have to cancel for ‘personal reasons’. Then I realize the date – April Fool’s Day! – and almost change my mind. Travelling from Cornwall up to London on the train is a big deal when you could have a seizure at any time. So, too, is the prospect of visiting your ex-husband’s wife. But it must be done if I’m going to get anywhere.
‘It’s work,’ my husband used to tell me when I questioned why he had to have so many late meetings. And I accepted this. I was even concerned that he was working too hard. How stupid was that?
All these thoughts are whizzing round my head as I try to leave the house the next day. It makes me feel bad and even more stressed. I’ve massaged lavender into my wrists, but it isn’t working. So I take some deep breaths and tell myself firmly that I have to lock up the house, walk down the high street to the station, get on a train and sit there for the best part of six hours without having a seizure. Then I have to make my way across London to my house, where they now live.
