The Dead Ex

by Jane Corry

  ‘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.

  ‘Vicki Goudman was the bitch who stopped me being with my little girl.’

  It’s Mum, talking to one of the journalists. She sounds drunk. ‘She was power-hungry, that woman. Never showed an ounce of pity …’

  ‘I think that’s enough.’ I take Mum firmly by the arm. ‘We need to go.’

  ‘But I was just telling this nice gentleman here …’

  ‘What if she lets slip we were at the Goudmans’ house?’

  ‘I said we have to move it.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going back to any bleeding coffee shop. We need a drink to celebrate.’

  When Mum’s in a mood like this, there’s no talking her out of it. Besides, I’m worried that if I argue with her, we’ll only attract more attention.

  ‘Just one. You know what the probation officer said. If you get drunk and make a scene, you could go back Inside.’

  Mum’s lips tighten. ‘Don’t be so boring. This is a great day! Justice has finally been done.’

  We make our way to the nearest pub. There are lots of those little booths round the side and luckily we find an empty two-seater. I buy us each a small white wine.

  ‘Cheers,’ I say uncertainly.

  She knocks it back in one. Then she makes a face. ‘Not as good as the last lot.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She grins. ‘When you were at the bar just now, I helped myself to a couple of drinks that a couple left on that table over there.’

  In the old days, three glasses wouldn’t have been enough for Mum to get smashed. But she doesn’t have the tolerance she used to.

  ‘Twenty years!’ Mum punches her hands in the air and hollers as if she’s just won something on one of the gaming machines behind. ‘Isn’t it great?’

  ‘Shhh.’ I glance around nervously in case there are any more journalists keen to know ‘the other side of the story’. ‘Come on. Let’s go home.’

  ‘You can if you want. But I’m not.’

  I need to distract her. And there’s something I must ask before I lose my nerve. ‘Mum, when we ran out of Tanya’s house you took a minute or two to join me. What were you doing?’

  Go on, I urge her silently. Tell me what you said before about being puffed and not keeping up.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Yes it does.’ I lean across the table and hold Mum’s cold, thin hand. ‘We’re a team, remember. We trust each other. But we can’t do that unless we’re honest. So tell me.’

  Mum grips my hand back. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You can,’ I say.

  ‘You won’t love me any more.’

  There’s a heavy feeling in my chest. ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘I only did it for you, love. She deserved to get punished.’

  ‘Mum. What did you do?’

  ‘I … well, I had one of those key chains from the prison. I nicked one. Just to defend myself in case one of the other women went for me.’

  ‘How did you get it out when you were released?’

  ‘I did one of the prison officers a favour.’ She winks at me. ‘Nice bloke he was.’

  My mouth is dry. ‘Please tell me you didn’t take the chain with you when we followed Vicki.’

  ‘Only as protection.’ Mum isn’t looking at me. ‘I didn’t know what the guv might do if she saw us.’
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  ‘But she didn’t see us … did she?’

  ‘No.’ She lifts her face again. Defiant this time. ‘Vicki ran past me and I was going to follow her when she stormed off, but then Tanya saw me. By then I’d sneaked in through the patio doors which were open. I was scared so I … well, I got my chain out.’

  The baby kicks inside me as though it too is scared.

  ‘Only to frighten her, mind. But then she began yelling and I knew I had to shut her up.’

  ‘You didn’t …’

  ‘I just told you, love. I did it for you. I thought, well, if she’s dead and David’s gone missing – maybe dead too – you’d get all the money once you’d proved it was his child.’

  ‘And you thought all of that on the spur of the moment? You’ve just helped to send down an innocent woman for a crime which she didn’t commit.’

  ‘What about justice? It’s only what she did to me.’ Mum’s voice rises like a spoilt child’s. ‘I knew David’s wife would have Vicki’s DNA on her from the fight they’d just had. You pick up a thing or two in prison. Then I stopped at that phone box to dial 999 and leave an anonymous tip-off in a funny voice claiming to be an old neighbour who heard a commotion and recognized David’s first wife running from the house. Told them that I thought she now lived in Penzance. Then I knew the police would watch the station and the bitch would get blamed for the murder.’

  ‘You lied to me. I thought you said we were a team. How could you be so stupid?’ Tears are running down my face.

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘No. You shut up. All I ever wanted was for you to get out of prison, and now you’ve done it again …’

  ‘Zelda, isn’t it? Zelda Darling. Thought I recognized your voice.’

  I take in the broad-shouldered man in a suit who has stepped round the side of the booth. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name’s Patrick Miles. I knew your mother from prison.’

  No. Mum’s face has gone white.

  The man steps closer. ‘ “The bitch would get blamed for the murder”, would she? Would the bitch you’re referring to be Vicki Goudman by any chance?’

  Oh my God.

  ‘I think we need to speak to the police, don’t you?’

  ‘Fuck off.’ There’s a glint. Mum has a knife in her hand.

  ‘Don’t!’

  ‘Police,’ the man yells, grabbing her wrist. The knife falls to the ground.

  ‘Scarlet,’ shouts Mum. ‘Help me.’

  But this time, there’s nothing I can do.

  59

  Vicki

  I know exactly what is going to happen now. I’m back in the remand prison where I’d been while waiting for the trial to come up. In a few days, or maybe weeks, I will be assigned a different prison: one suitable for lifers.

  Life. It can mean so many things. If you’ve never been in prison, you take it for granted. Breathing in fresh air. Being free to walk down the street. To go into a shop. To have a drink. To read a book in companionable silence. To make love …

  But my sentence means I will never have any of this, at least for a very long time. I won’t have a chance to find the right man, if such a person is out there. I won’t have a normal existence. Mind you, my epilepsy has already taught me about that. And worst of all, I will know I have been responsible for taking another life.

  For the more I think about it, the less clear I am regarding the exact events after throwing Tanya to the ground.

  ‘Sign in here, if you please,’ says the officer. We’re in what’s known as Reception, the area where prisoners are booked in and out. I am frisked in case I have managed to secrete some dangerous weapon or illegal substance during my court appearance or at some point during our drive back here.

  Then I am led to a cell. It’s a different one from before. ‘Your padmate didn’t fancy sharing with a lifer, let alone an ex-governor,’ says the officer tightly. ‘Nor did anyone else. You’re on your own now.’

  A single cell is usually a luxury with today’s overcrowding. But this feels like more of a punishment. There is barely room for the narrow bed. Nor is there much light through the tiny window, which looks out onto a concrete wall.

  ‘No loo?’ I ask.

  ‘You’ll have to press the bell if you want to risk the shared bathroom.’

  Her meaning is clear. It isn’t unknown for lifers to be assaulted – especially ex-prison staff. The showers are a favourite place for this. You’re at your most vulnerable.

  ‘Or there’s a pot under the bed.’

  She slams the door behind her. I am alone with my thoughts. My library book from my old cell isn’t here. No one, I realize suddenly, has mentioned my medication, which I need to take soon. I hammer on the door. Silence. I haven’t had a seizure for some months now – in fact, not since that day in Penzance. Long lapses can sometimes happen, as I knew from the consultant. But what if I have one now and no one comes? I could swallow my tongue. Hit my head on the floor when I fall …

  Panic begins to smother me. It’s like an invisible suffocating blanket wrapping itself around me and choking my breath. ‘Help!’ I call out. ‘Help!’

  Two hours pass. I have been timing every minute on the clock on the wall which has a ‘Do Not Remove Me’ sign next to it. Two hours ten minutes. Two hours twenty minutes. Someone has to come soon, if only to feed me.

  Footsteps! At last.

  It’s a different officer.

  ‘My meds,’ I gabble. ‘I need to take them.’

  ‘What meds?’

  ‘Haven’t you read my medical notes? I have epilepsy.’

  Her expression changes. ‘Right. We’ll get that sorted on our way to the governor’s office.’

  ‘Governor’s office?’ I repeat. ‘Why?’

  She gives me a strange look. ‘Your solicitor has rung. She wants to speak to you. Urgently.’

  60

  Helen

  4 September 2018

  ‘Zelda Darling. You are accused of the murder of Tanya Goudman, the obstruction of justice and attempted grievous bodily harm towards Patrick Miles. On the first charge, do you plead guilty or not guilty?’

  I hold my breath. Ever since Mum had been arrested, she’d kept changing her mind about the murder bit. We don’t know exactly what Patrick overheard in the noise around us in the pub. She couldn’t very well plead not guilty to the second and third, though. There’d been too many witnesses to her attack on Patrick.

  Some discussion had gone on about me being a witness too, but I’d been having some bleeding and my GP had written a letter to say that, in his view, the stress of taking the stand could be harmful to my pregnancy. Thank God. I didn’t know whether I could lie for Mum again.

  I have at least managed to find a solicitor for her who does legal aid, which means we don’t have to pay anything. He’s an earnest young man who keeps checking and re-checking his notes. ‘It’s essential,’ he told me before the case, ‘that your mother is honest about what happened on the day she visited Tanya’s house.’

  He spoke as if I had control over Mum, who had – no surprises there – been denied bail.

  Does my mother really know what honesty is any more?

  There’s something else too that’s really scaring me as I sit up in the public gallery once again with the baby floundering around inside me. If Mum killed Tanya, then maybe she has it in her to have attacked Vicki Goudman on the prison staircase all those years ago.

  ‘Not guilty,’ rings Mum’s voice defiantly through the air.

  The trial begins. The accusations and questions come thick and fast. We find out that Patrick had been contacted by Vicki’s solicitor. When they had found out about Mum’s release, they had traced her. They couldn’t prove anything, but once the trial started he had decided to keep an eye on her. He followed us to the pub.

  Mum’s barrister argues (convincingly, I think) that Patrick overheard the ‘confession’ when she was drunk, so that piece of evidence could not be relied on.


  Mum denies it all. But the police found a prison key chain under her bed in our flat which had on it not only Mum’s fingerprints but also traces of Tanya’s blood.

  ‘I put it to you that the murder was premeditated,’ declares the prosecution. ‘You hid the chain in the ripped lining of your handbag. We found Tanya Goudman’s DNA in there too.’

  The very handbag that I had bought her – the one that she had been so proud of.

  ‘I carried a knife and chain in case I got attacked,’ snaps Mum. ‘Prison makes you like that. You’re always on the lookout.’

  It’s the same on the estate, I want to say. Loads of people have illicit weapons as protection in the way that posh people have rape alarms.

  But it’s clear from the jury’s faces that they don’t believe her.

  Yet it’s the next question which really freaks me out.

  ‘Was anyone with you when you went to Tanya’s house?’

  My ears begin to sing with the pressure. What if Mum says more than she means to?

  ‘Course not.’ There’s a toss of the head. ‘I wasn’t exactly going to bring my bleeding probation officer, was I?’

  One of the jury members sniggers.

  ‘Murder is no laughing matter,’ thunders the judge. ‘Any more and I’ll declare you in contempt of court.’

  But I’m trembling at the lie. ‘If I tell them the truth, you’ll be charged as a conspirator,’ Mum had argued during one of my visits to prison. ‘If you’re sentenced, your kid will be adopted at eighteen months. Do you really want that?’

  So I’d agreed. Now, though, part of me feels I should stand up in court and share the blame – even though it would mean losing my child. That’s if I decide to keep it. There are days when I am convinced it would be better off with someone else.

  I start to get up. Prepare myself to call out the truth. Then I remember Mr Walters. The young offenders’ institution. The foster parents. So I sit down again. My hands clenched by my side.

  The jury is out now.

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

  Blood pounds in my ears.