He didn’t have time to argue with her at that exact moment. What he had to do was get to the hospital and see Emma. Talk to her. Wasn’t that what any right-thinking husband would do? Furthermore, it was what he wanted to do. He wanted to see Emma. He wanted to know if she was OK. He wanted to know what she remembered. It was difficult to be sure which mattered to him the most. Everything about his relationship with Emma was complex. That wasn’t surprising considering how it had begun, but now it struck him as sad. Part of him wished he could be who she thought he was.
His trip to the hospital turned out to be a waste of time. He’d run through the corridors at speed, only stopping at the shop to briefly consider whether he should arrive with a gift. He thought flowers would be appropriate; he could see himself dashing to her bedside with an enormous, impressive bouquet of roses, irises, maybe some eucalyptus. A bright cluster, vibrant and cheerful. He was frustrated to discover that there wasn’t so much as a bunch of carnations, because hospitals discouraged taking flowers to patients. ‘People have allergies, and it just makes work for the nurses, dealing with that and finding vases and such,’ the shop assistant explained. She suggested a crossword puzzle book or a sandwich. He declined. Neither would make the impact he was hoping for. It didn’t matter, as it happened. When he arrived at the ward, he was told that he couldn’t see Emma.
‘Why not?’ he demanded.
The nurse who had stopped him at the ward reception looked uncomfortable, agitated. She glanced up the corridor, her eyes resting on the policeman sitting outside the door of Emma’s room. It was the same policeman who had been there earlier that morning and had suggested Matthew go to the station. Matthew couldn’t work out if the nurse was apologising for the policeman’s presence or if she was trying to get his attention so that he could deal with Matthew. He decided to take things into his own hands. He strode towards the officer and asked, ‘Is my wife under arrest?’
‘No, sir, she is not. Although she is helping with police inquiries.’
Matthew tried to peer over the man’s shoulder, through the small window in the door of Emma’s room. He could see the corner of the foot of the bed. He could see that the police officers who had interviewed him earlier were in the room, but Emma was out of view. He was surprised by the jolt of longing he felt.
‘Well in that case, I’d like to be in there with her.’
‘That’s not possible.’
‘Is there a legal reason why not? I can’t think there is if she’s not under arrest. Does she have a lawyer in there with her?’ He was giving himself a director’s note right then: his tone should be anxiety manifesting in irritation or even anger. He had found it helpful over these last few months to pretend the entire thing was an acting job, as Becky had originally suggested. He’d often read that actors who worked on soaps for years started to blur where they ended and their characters began.
‘I’m not obliged to share that information with you, sir.’ The ‘sir’ was delivered in a way that wound up Matthew further. It struck him as the opposite of respectful, more a reminder of who was really in charge.
‘If she’s fit enough to speak to your boss, she must be fit enough to speak to her husband,’ Matthew snapped.
‘That’s the issue, sir, she doesn’t want you in there. We’re keeping you out of her room at her request.’
Matthew glared at the officer. He wanted to ask why Emma didn’t want to see him, but he knew the answer and it wasn’t in his interest to have it articulated aloud. She was scared of him. Terrified. The last time they had been together, she had run away from him. He’d hoped that she might not recall the minutes just before the accident. He’d hoped that even if she did, she would give him a chance to explain why he was chasing her, why he was trying to stop her getting in the car. Why he didn’t want her to drive anywhere. If she’d speak to him. However, as it was, there was no point in making a fuss. He turned on his heel and left the hospital. His footsteps, clip-clopping along the echoey corridor, sounded very loud.
Back at Woodview, the first thing he did was check the security footage. He thought it was highly likely Becky would have done the same after she had tampered with Emma’s laptop. She was as competent with this security software as he was – more so, in fact; she had taught him how to cut, pause, loop and alter the dates of footage so that they could eradicate the evidence of her visits there.
But this time, thank fuck, she had slipped up. It was all there, everything he had expected and more. Thank fuck. She had failed to check and delete the recent footage. He supposed it was because that wasn’t her goal today. She’d been focused on framing Emma, and she was perhaps in a hurry; certainly she was a mess, grieving, manic. Or maybe it was the opposite. She had been careless because she felt relaxed about monitoring the security cameras since Emma was in hospital and unable to check the recordings any time soon. Most likely she trusted Matthew to do it for her as he had on so many occasions.
Just after 4 p.m., the police came and asked if he was happy for them to search the house. ‘We have a warrant if you’re not happy,’ the female officer said laconically. The threat, the power, spelt out.
‘Be my guest, of course. We have nothing to hide. But I can’t think what you imagine you’ll find.’ He held the door wide open. They wanted Emma’s laptop, of course.
They went straight to it. He didn’t doubt that they were acting on an anonymous tip-off. One that Becky would have phoned in. They also took her phone.
‘Odd that she went out without it, don’t you think?’ mused the officer. ‘Did she leave the house in a hurry?’
‘Yes, she did.’
‘Did she tell you where she was going?’
‘No, just that she wanted to go for a drive. She wasn’t at her most communicative because we’d had a bit of a disagreement.’ There was no point in denying it. Chances were Emma had already said as much. A lot was going to come out. It was best if he told the truth where he could.
After the police left, he took a swim. Fifty hard lengths, front crawl and butterfly, at speed. He wanted to feel the power and potency of his own body. He wanted to exert himself. Exhaust himself. He was wired. Adrenalin charged through his blood. Despite everything going on, the undoubted drama and trauma, he felt different. He did not feel that the ground was rising and falling, sloping beneath his feet. For the first time in a long while, he felt that he at least had a plan of his own. After the swim, he took a sauna, helped himself to a very lovely full-bodied glass of red and waited.
People often complained that the police were slow, in every sense of the word. Matthew had never bought into that derisive stereotype. He’d always respected them. Not the chauvinistic, racist ones, obviously – they were an abomination – but you got those sorts of wankers in all walks of life. His upbringing was such that he held a traditional, generally unfashionable respect for the police. He thought they were doing their best in a world where they constantly encountered people who were doing their worst. He liked to believe in a world where kids could stop and ask a police officer for directions or the time. The reality was that kids nowadays carried smartphones, so that was never going to happen, but still he held onto the vague belief that it could. He accepted that the police were under-resourced, swamped with paperwork, constantly playing catch-up with the bad guys. Mistakes would be made. Shortcuts taken. Thoroughness sacrificed for expediency and results targets.
Wasn’t that what Becky was counting on? Wasn’t he?
He was not disappointed. At 10 p.m., he received a call informing him that the police had pressed charges against Emma. She was being charged with the murder of Susan Morden.
44
The next day
‘No. That’s ludicrous. Emma would never … How can you think that?’ Matthew had travelled to the police station first thing the next morning and demanded to speak to the officer in charge. He wanted them to see his shock and outrage. He thought it was important that they witnessed his belief in his wife’s good character and moral value. To be fair, this didn’t require any acting talent. He one hundred per cent believed that Emma was a good person. She had not murdered Susan. She had no idea of the connection between Susan and her parents. ‘She didn’t do it, at least not deliberately. It was an accident,’ he went on staunchly. ‘She was driving at speed, yes, I can believe that. I told you we had a row. I’m as much to blame as she is.’
‘You weren’t in the car, sir, let alone driving it,’ the officer pointed out. ‘I don’t think we can charge you.’
Matthew wondered if it was part of their training, this particular line in sarcasm. His old-school respect for the police was somewhat pricked, but he was determined to remain calm, cool and collected. It was important. ‘Charge her with careless driving, accidental death, if you must. But murder? That’s ridiculous.’
‘Touching,’ said the young policewoman. ‘But Emma has a lawyer, and I’m sure once you talk to her, she’ll tell you we have a strong case. Your wife is still in hospital, too fragile to move, but she is under arrest. Her bail has been set; she can meet it quite comfortably, apparently.’
There it was again, the advantages of money, and it seemed the policewoman was aware of it too. Aware and resentful. Did she think bail ought to have been set at a higher level? Was it fair that Emma could find the £40,000 necessary to secure her relative freedom until the trial?
‘Here is a list of bail conditions. Thanks for bringing in her passport. Very helpful.’
‘Well, you asked me to, not that she can go anywhere right now.’
‘Once she’s out of hospital, she’ll have to report to the station every second day. Her lawyer will go over the details.’
Matthew hesitated. He looked around the now familiar interview room. Flat, dismal, small. Like his life had been before Emma. It smelt stale; the Old Schoolhouse had a similar stench. He thought it was something to do with the endless trail of people who would have sweated in both places. In this room, criminals fearful, brutal; in the schoolhouse, kids oppressed, filthy. Their stench had seeped into the floorboards, the brickwork.
He sighed. This wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever done. Not the biggest betrayal. He could, if he put his mind to it, justify his decision. Dropping off the passport was one thing, but now he had to do what he had really come for. It was difficult when it came down to it. Sad. Sixteen years he’d been with Becky. But she’d brought this upon herself. She’d left him no choice. ‘I’m between a rock and a hard place.’ He dropped his head into his hands.
‘What do you mean by that?’ the officer asked, immediately sensing that he was about to deliver up something important. Matthew thought he saw her neck lengthen, her nose actually twitch, like a hunting dog.
‘Fuck it.’ He suddenly sat bolt upright, indicating his commitment to doing the hard thing but the right thing. ‘I have information that will make you look at everything differently. This entire case.’
