by Jane Corry
I was reeling. Trying to take this in. ‘Were those your parents in the photograph you gave me?’
She nodded. Hurt flickered in her eyes. So she did care.
‘Where are they now?’
‘No idea. And I’m not bothered. Why should I be? They didn’t give me any support. It’s been just you and me, babe. Remember what I used to say? We make a great team. Keep on playing the game. OK?’
And I did. At first it felt weird being a Helen and making up all that stuff about a big family. But the funny thing is that my new identity grew on me. It was easier to sleep with David if I pretended to be someone else. It also helped to erase the memory of Mr Walters. This time, at least, it was me in charge. Then I made the same mistake as my mother. I got pregnant. Who would help me now? When I’d threatened to ring my ‘dad’ during the ensuing argument with David, I’d almost believed my own fantasies.
‘Stupid idiot,’ Mum shouted when I told her. ‘You’re going to ruin your life, just like I did.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘We’ll make him pay. And her. Keep on looking. Find out where the bitch lives.’
And, not knowing what else to do, I did exactly that.
Now I take in her bedraggled appearance as I let myself into the flat. The smell of whisky on Mum’s breath. Her dirty fingernails. ‘I found her.’
Her eyes light up. ‘Go on, then! What happened?’
‘She had a fit.’
Mum rolls her eyes. ‘Great.’
‘You don’t sound surprised.’
‘I’m not. She started having them after the accident.’
What? ‘Why haven’t you told me before?’
She shrugs. ‘Didn’t seem important.’
What else didn’t seem ‘important’, I wonder. Is there anything else she hadn’t told me? Then I have a horrible thought. Mum had been furious when I’d told her about David’s reaction to my pregnancy. What if …
No. She wouldn’t do that. Whatever else Mum is, she’s always had my best interests at heart. We’re a team.
51
Vicki
12 July 2018
The day is here. My trial. Twelve strangers and a judge are going to decide my future.
The other women prisoners watch as I am taken from my cell. Their silence is far scarier than their usual shouting and swearing. I don’t flatter myself that they feel any empathy. Their subdued behaviour arises from the incontrovertible fact that one of them will be next.
I am led, handcuffed, towards the courtyard, where I am put in a prison van. After a short bumpy road followed by a smoother surface indicating a dual carriageway or maybe a motorway, we stop. The door is opened. Sunlight blinds my eyes, and I stagger slightly, staring up at the dirty white high walls around me. I don’t think I’ve seen this court before. At least, not from this angle.
‘You all right?’ asks the officer. She has probably been briefed on my medical condition.
‘Just finding my legs after the journey,’ I say.
They continue to wobble from nerves as I am led in a back door, through a maze of corridors. ‘Do you need the toilet?’ someone asks.
I nod. An officer unlocks my handcuffs and waits outside the cubicle. She seems relieved when I emerge. More corridors. Up some stairs, shaking, trying not to look down. Through a door. Then into a glass box overlooking the rest of the court. The elevation seems ironic.
All eyes are on me. I glance up at the public gallery and see a few faces from my old life. Are they here to support me or merely out of curiosity? There’s Frances. Jackie. And further to the right is Nicole. I try not to catch her eye.
Penny is further down, sitting behind the barrister. She turns round and gives me a smile that is probably intended to be reassuring. I am not fooled. The evidence is stacked against me.
Years ago, as a prison officer, I would be on duty at trials like this. Nowadays it’s usually handled by security firms. Sometimes we had bets on who would be let off and who would go down. If I was doing that now, I wouldn’t wager any money on me.
‘Victoria Goudman,’ says the court clerk. ‘You are charged with the murder of Tanya Goudman. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?’
‘Not guilty,’ I whisper.
‘Can you speak up, please?’
‘Not guilty.’
I sit down. The room is looming in and out. But my dizziness is not, as far as I can see, a precursor to a seizure. I am simply terrified. Still, at least they haven’t charged me with David’s murder. Penny had warned me earlier that with the evidence they had against me, this might be possible, even though there isn’t a body. But clearly they’ve decided against it.
A female barrister is outlining the case against me. In my fear, her words go round and round my head in no particular order.
Certain phrases, however, stand out. ‘You will shortly be told how the defendant was found to have a diary in her possession, declaring her hatred for her ex-husband David Goudman and her desire to kill him so no one else could – I quote here – “have him either”.’
There’s a gasp from the gallery.
‘The jury will also hear how Tanya Goudman was strangled by a dog-toothed chain – similar to the key chain used in prisons. The defendant was once a prison governor, and a chain of this type was found at her home after the murder.’
Another gasp.
One of the jurors shakes his head as if he has already made up his mind.
‘In addition, the defendant was photographed speaking to her ex-husband in a public place shortly before he disappeared. Initially she denied this but she then admitted to having lied.’
Each member of the jury now shoots me a suspicious glare.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, you will hear that Victoria Goudman has freely admitted entering the home of Tanya Goudman through the back door, bold as brass. She also admits to “tussling” with the deceased in anger. To corroborate this admission, the defendant’s DNA was found on the body.’
I want to put my hands over my ears.
‘You will also be told of her history of violence.’
What?
‘The defence will argue that their client is in far from robust health, but Vicki Goudman is no wilting violet. We will produce witnesses from her most recent prison appointment who will say she had a reputation for being tough and, at times, even aggressive in her demeanour. Clearly, she has brought this trait into her personal life.’
I can see from the jury’s faces that I am already guilty.
52
Helen
16 July 2018
I ask Mum to stay at home while I go to court. At first, she agrees. But after the weekend, on the third day of the trial, she kicks up one hell of a fuss. ‘I want to be there. See the bitch get her dues.’
We compromise with a coffee shop round the corner, agreeing that I’ll go straight there afterwards.
As I ease myself into the front row of the public gallery – I’m getting big now – part of me wishes I hadn’t come back to the court today. This place sends shivers through me. How many daughters have sat here and watched a parent being sent down? Or even their own kids. In fact, that could have been me in the dock.
My mind goes back to the time when I’d got caught shoplifting with the kids from the Walters’ house. Then I have a sudden flash of white hands and heavy footsteps coming into my room. Desperately, I stuff my knuckles into my mouth to stop myself from vomiting.
Then the court begins to ripple. Here she comes! Vicki Goudman! Led in by a burly prison officer. You’d never think from her bowed head and lank hair that this was the bully who had made Mum’s life hell. At last, with any luck, she’s going to get what she deserves.
The guv has given her evidence and is now being cross-examined by the prosecuting barrister. ‘Mrs Goudman,’ she says. ‘Could you describe your relationship with Tanya Goudman?’
‘She married my ex-husband.’
‘We are aware of that. Did you like h
er?’
‘Would any woman like someone who broke up her marriage?’
There’s a ripple of laughter through the court.
‘So you hated her, then?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘What would you like to say about the deceased?’
‘She wanted David. I realized that from early on. But I was foolish enough to trust him.’
Her barrister doesn’t look happy. I wonder if Vicki Goudman is enjoying this. It’s her moment for revenge. The women jurors’ faces indicate she’s not the only one who’s been cheated on. Still, she deserved it. Didn’t she?
‘From your statement, you admit to going into the deceased’s house on the day she was murdered.’
‘Yes.’
‘Louder, please.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I wanted to see if Tanya knew where David was.’
‘Did she?’
‘She said not.’
‘Did you attack her then?’
‘No! She attacked me.’
‘Did you defend yourself?’
‘Yes. But I didn’t kill her.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because she was alive – and shouting at me – when I left her.’
‘I see. You’ve had previous experiences of being attacked, haven’t you?’ The barrister makes a play of examining her notes. ‘I believe you were assaulted in prison by an inmate when you were a governor.’
Why are they bringing that up?
‘Yes.’ Vicki Goudman speaks so quietly that I can barely hear her.
‘Would you like to tell us what happened after that?’
‘I was pregnant.’ Her voice is dull, as if she’s given up. ‘The attack caused me to lose my baby.’
What? A shock of horror zips down my spine. Mum never told me that.
‘Why didn’t you mention this when you gave evidence earlier on?’
‘Because it was too painful. I’d instructed my own barrister to leave it out.’
‘How else did the attack affect you?’
‘The head injuries led to epilepsy. My husband found this difficult to deal with. He said I’d become a different kind of person and he got embarrassed when I fitted in public.’
The prosecution’s eyes narrow. ‘Do you still have these fits?’
‘Strictly speaking, they are known as seizures.’
‘I apologize. Please answer the question.’
‘Yes. I do still have them. I usually take quite strong medication, which reduces the number of episodes, but it hasn’t stopped them.’
‘Usually take?’
There’s a nod.
‘Please speak, Mrs Goudman.’
‘Yes, I usually take my medication.’
‘Are we to conclude therefore that there are times when you don’t?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why not?’
‘I might forget or …’
‘Please continue.’
‘I don’t like the side-effects.’
‘What kind of side-effects?’
‘It can affect my memory.’
‘In what way?’
‘I might forget I’ve done something, like turn on the cooker. It’s why I have a microwave instead for food.’
‘Might it also make you forget you had hurt someone?’
‘Possibly.’
‘You originally told the police that you hadn’t seen your ex-husband for some years. Yet the court has already seen a photograph showing you arguing with him outside a restaurant on the thirtieth of November last year, just a few weeks before he disappeared. Would you like to explain that?’
I begin to feel nervous. That had been an opportunity which had simply fallen into my hands. There I’d been, having dinner with David, and then suddenly Vicki appeared outside. I knew what she looked like from her old prison profile online. I’d managed to take a quick picture on my phone. Mum had been beside herself with excitement when I’d told her. ‘Hang on to it. You never know when it will be useful.’
After David’s disappearance, I had simply handed it over to the police, explaining I’d taken it during a business dinner as part of my ‘portfolio’. The obviously aggressive body language in the picture was perfect ‘proof’ that the ex-wife still had an axe to grind. As Mum had said, it was all part of ‘making the guv pay for what she did to us’.
‘I followed him sometimes,’ Vicki is saying. ‘I couldn’t get David out of my head. But I was scared of telling the police that I’d seen him in case they thought I was guilty.’
Too late. The jury already look as though they’ve made up their minds on that one.
‘But where does it all end?’ says a little voice inside me. Vicki had clearly suffered too. She’d lost her baby. I place my hand protectively on my own stomach.
Then I push the doubt away. It’s Mum’s side I’m on. Besides, I know what happened on that day with Tanya. Vicki Goudman deserves to go down.
53
Vicki
16 July 2018
The prosecution is like a dog chewing away at a bone. Me. And there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s partly my fault for being so open when I’d talked about Tanya. But something had taken me over during the questioning. I wanted to tell everyone what kind of a woman she was. Now I wish I’d kept quiet and been more careful.
‘Would you describe yourself as an aggressive person?’
‘No.’
‘Is it true that you attacked a prisoner in your first week as an officer?’
The man who called me in when his toilet was overflowing? ‘I was defending myself. He yanked my hair by the roots and tried to put my head into the toilet.’
‘Anything else you’d like to add?’
‘No.’
The barrister is waving a piece of paper in the air. ‘I gather from these medical reports that you broke his collar bone at the same time.’
I begin to sweat even more. ‘Like I said, I was defending myself.’
‘I see.’
Several members of the jury are beginning to look even more doubtfully at me.
‘I gather that you had to retire from the prison service because of your medical condition.’
‘Yes.’
‘Your marriage then broke down. Was there a final trigger for this?’
My nails are digging into the palms of my hands. ‘Yes.’
‘Can you tell us what?’
‘You mean “who”.’ I raise my face, aware it is hot with anger. ‘Tanya. I told you before. She stole my husband.’
‘Would you like to go into more detail?’
Despite my earlier thoughts about being more careful, all the old anger comes rushing out. ‘I’d always suspected them of being close but then one night, David came home drunk. I asked him where he’d been, and he came straight out and told me that he was in love with Tanya.’
‘This is the woman you refer to in your diary, I believe.’
I nod.
‘The one whom you said you could “happily kill”.’
My mouth is bone dry. ‘Yes but I didn’t mean it.’
‘Why did you write it, then?’
‘Because I was hurt. Angry. Upset.’
‘Enough to murder her?’
‘No! I’ve already said that I didn’t do it.’ I intend saying this in a reasonable manner. But the prosecution’s needling approach has upset me, and it comes out so loud I see the judge flinch.
‘Can you tell us more about how you felt when your ex-husband told you he was in love with Tanya, who was then his PA?’
She sounds almost sympathetic even though the prosecution is not on my side. I find myself telling the court things that I hadn’t done when my own defence had asked me to tell my story. ‘It was when he said he loved her. I could have coped with lust, but this was different. I begged him to stay, but he wouldn’t. He packed a bag and left, saying … saying he had no use for me now.’
The jury is
gripped.
‘What did he mean by that?’
‘I asked him the same question.’ I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. ‘He said that my status as a prison governor had given him standing. Now I was no one. He also said that … that a baby would have “sealed” it. But because I’d lost our child, we were finished too.’
Several members of the jury shake their heads.
‘Did you feel betrayed?’
‘Yes. But I kept hoping,’ I add, ‘that the grief from the loss of our child might have made him act in this way. I still loved him. I couldn’t believe he was leaving me. So I left the door open, as it were.’ Tears are blurring my eyes. ‘It’s why I kept ringing him. Letting him know when I moved each time.’
The prosecution’s tone now becomes steely. ‘Did you ever threaten to kill him?’
‘No! Of course not.’
‘We’ve already heard that during your marriage, your husband asked you to sign a document declaring you were buying a house for $3.4 million in the States. You refused because you “hadn’t seen the house and because he was buying it in cash”.’
I nod.
‘You also said that you believed he was “using my status to hide any wrongdoings” and that you had “prisoners in my care who were in for money laundering. One way of getting rid of dirty money was to purchase houses with it.” ’
‘That’s right.’
‘So your husband’s behaviour could have been professionally damaging to your career. I put it to you that you took out your anger at him on his wife.’
