Page 55 of The Dead Ex
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 walkedinto 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 elegantrather 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 thehands 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 theinspector.
‘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 neveractually 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 policeon 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’sdisappearance.’
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 …’
