Page 104 of The Dead Ex

Is that a command or a date?

‘But that’s your birthday. Won’t you be spending it with your wife?’

‘No.’

I step closer to him andstroke the lobe of his left ear.

‘Why not?’

His mouth makes that strange shape it does when he’s aroused. I lean in closer, willing him to kiss me. But then he steps back.

‘Because dates like that don’t matter. It’s what you do with your days that counts.’

I think of all those expensive properties in his files. ‘You mean make money?’

‘Got it in one.’ He chucks my chin. Back to his charmingface rather than the ugly one. ‘Know what I like about you, Helen? You’re ambitious, like me. You take chances.’

I hold my breath.

‘Just look at how you put me on the spot in front of that journalist in order to get this job.’

I relax.

Then his eyes harden. ‘Just don’t ever try to get one over on me, Helen. I don’t like to be messed around. See you at eight o’clock tomorrow night. And thistime, don’t be late.’

39

Vicki

20 June 2018

‘I need to ask some personal questions about your marriage,’ Penny says. We’re in a special room for legal visits. It’s cold and bare with metal chairs. The atmosphere doesn’t encourage confidences.

‘How exactly did you meet your ex-husband?’

I suddenly feel dizzy. Sick. Wobbly. ‘Why is this relevant?’ I stutter.

‘I don’t know yet. It might not be. But you know as wellas I do that you have to tell me as much as you can so I can brief the barrister who will be pleading your case in court. The smallest detail might be relevant.’

I look down at my bare left hand. There hasn’t been a white band of skin there for some years now. Nothing to show that David and I were man and wife apart from a decree absolute and my broken heart.

‘It was at a dinner,’ I say …

My fortieth had come and gone without anyone else knowing. Out of the blue, I was invited down to London for a prison fundraising dinner. There were going to be various philanthropists attending and my superiors thought it might help if I was there to generally raise awareness.

Ironically, it was Dad’s birthday. Except that he wasn’talive to see it. Three years earlier, when dealing with a womanwho’d been hiding weed in her prison library book, I’d received a phone call from one of my uncles to say that Dad had died suddenly of a stroke. In the months after, I was numb with grief, guilt and regret. Sure, my shifts had made it difficult to see each other frequently. But I could have put myself out by going back more often than just Christmas or birthdays. I should have spoken to him moreon the phone too. In fact, I could barely remember our last conversation.

‘Still enjoying life as a screw, are you?’ asked one of Dad’s union friends as they’d filed past me at the funeral, offering their condolences.

‘Actually, I’m in senior management now.’

The face tightened. ‘Course, it was your job that helped kill him.’

My blood ran cold. ‘He had a stroke.’

‘Yes but stress added toit. Had to cope with a lot of flak, he did. People round here don’t like screws, or the police.’

Later when going through Dad’s things, I had come across a faded newspaper cutting about Billy Jones’s arrest. There was a yellow Post-it sticker on top with Dad’s distinctive loopy handwriting.