‘Do you believe these incidents were accidents, Ms Morden?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Do you have any idea who might have been responsible for them, then?’
‘I think my mother might have been responsible.’
‘Did she ever discuss her intention to harm Ms Westly with you?’
‘No.’
I have to testify too. Part of the prosecutor’s job is to establish the harm inflicted, as it dictates the sentence that is likely to be attached to the crimes. I’m expected to describe the pain I suffered when injured and the horror of the confusion as this campaign of assault unfolded. I try to remain calm and clear-minded as I answer the questions that expose me as a woman of a certain age who fell in love with a liar who was only interested in my money. I’m a private person and not one who looks for sympathy; I shy away from pity, so I don’t really want to have to tell the court that I’m still in physio to correct the damage to my shoulder and back that happened in the car crash. I would rather not have to admit that at night I repeatedly check that doors are locked, the alarm is set, and it is beyond humiliating to have to admit how my reasoning was so damaged that at one point I thought I was being haunted. Giving testimony feels like a further assault, but I answer the questions fully and thoughtfully. I try not to give the headlines in the tabloids any of my attention. Although I’m aware that I’m known as the ‘Haunted Hottie Heiress’ because someone at work let it slip.
‘At least they think you’re hot,’ said Edward, my PA, and then asked me not to report that to HR.
Despite trying to remain dignified and carry on, the truth is, Becky’s trial absorbs me completely. Not only because it centres around whether she did or did not plan to kill me, but because I’m still processing the fact that when I met Matthew, I was told that this woman was dead. I find my gaze is glued to her nearly all the time I am in court. I watch her as though she is a miracle. A Lazarus. I now have all the answers to all the questions that have plagued me this last year. I know what she looks like. I was right to think she was beautiful. She is, even in her ill-fitting, unflattering prison uniform. She has good posture, excellent skin. I am fascinated by how she moves, speaks, thinks. I still have no idea as to what her personal style might be, but I drink in her physicality. It’s fair to say he has a type. Becky is a slim, tall brunette, like me. She has eyes that are just a shade darker than mine. We both have strong cheekbones. I don’t know what to make of this coincidence. It’s not as though there’s any reason to believe Mathew selected me or fancied me or wanted me in the real sense. I was simply a financial target. A mark. I wonder how clever she or her mother might have been. Did she consider that our general similarity would make the whole scam more palatable to him?
Becky has continued to insist that her mother was responsible for all the violence against me and that she was unaware of any of the incidents until after they had occurred. She did not plan to harm me physically. This is a wise position to take, as all the other counts combined are unlikely to carry a sentence as big as attempted murder, if that is proven. On day six of the court case, the prosecuting lawyer shows video footage of her entering the garage on the night of the accident and then leaving again with something concealed under her jumper. It’s suggested it was the locking wheel nut key that was used to tamper with the wheel and cause it to come off when I was driving.
‘It was a shrunken cashmere sweater,’ Becky claims when asked what she was carrying.
Then the prosecutor reveals that the wheel nut key was found in her mother’s flat, and Becky’s defence collapses. If Susan Morden had tampered with the car, how was it possible that the nut key had been returned to the flat above the pub? She died at the scene that night. Becky looks horrified. Trapped in her own lies. The court lets out a collective gasp. I’m glad to be sitting down, as I feel my body slump. I know it’s over for her. A logical conclusion has been reached, even if she continues to deny her culpability.
‘I just don’t think she is capable of accepting responsibility; she’s just too deluded or damaged or something,’ comments Gina, shaking her head.
The jury only debate for a matter of hours before they return with a unanimous decision. Guilty of attempted murder. Becky is sentenced to four years. Matthew was also charged and prosecuted for intention to commit fraud and conspiracy to murder. He is found guilty of the first count and innocent of the second. I’m surprised to discover I feel some level of relief when his verdict is read out. I suppose I don’t want to believe I slept with a man who wanted to kill me. No one wants to think they are fool enough to fall in love with a would-be murderer. Now the courts say I did not. He receives two hundred hours of community service.
‘It was as clear-cut as it was possible to be,’ comments Gina as we leave the court. We slip out of the back in order to avoid the press, who will be waiting at the front.
‘Which makes it the first clear-cut thing about either of them,’ Heidi retorts. She smiles at me. ‘It’s over. You can put it all behind you and move on with your life now.’ Her face switches from serene to panicked in a heartbeat. ‘Oh my God, come on, let’s get into a cab.’ She practically yanks my arm out of the socket in her rush to get away.
I look about me to see what she wanted me to avoid. I expect a tenacious journalist to be stalking me, but no, my eyes meet Matthew’s. He too is being ushered out of the back door. I watch as he shakes hands with his lawyer.
Heidi tugs at my arm. Gina suggests, ‘Let’s go and get a celebratory drink.’
‘I need to speak to him.’
‘No, no, you don’t.’ Heidi looks aghast.
‘I do. He’s my husband.’
‘Only on paper.’
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right? I slip out of her grip. ‘You two have been amazing. Honestly, I am so grateful to you, but right now you need to go home to your families. I’ll call you tonight. I’m OK, but I need to talk to him. I want to.’ Heidi looks furious and Gina looks like she wants to cry as I turn from them and walk towards Matthew.
47
Matthew
Matthew watched her walk towards him. He was buoyant on fresh air and freedom. Two things he thought he might lose today, but they were his to enjoy again. He took deep breaths. He had been living under extraordinary pressure, never quite daring to believe that the justice system would come through for him. Up until now, he hadn’t, if he was honest, given much thought to how Emma might be bearing up. Since the charges against her were dropped – all thanks to him – he’d known she was going to be OK. Whatever happened, she would be able to slink back to her beautiful home, get on with her life. He’d ensured that. The prosecuting lawyer had dwelt endlessly on the trauma she had been through and the physical injuries she had sustained, but Matthew hadn’t had the space for empathy or sympathy, or anything really other than survival. Now, looking at her, really looking at her, he felt another whip of guilt. When they met, she had bloomed; now she looked shrivelled.
Things weren’t great between them. She hadn’t spoken to him directly since the crash. All communications came via her solicitors. She had insisted he move out of Woodview before she was released from hospital. He’d returned to Susan’s flat, taken over the rental. Graham was glad to have him as a tenant. Once the story broke, the only other people interested in taking the place were ghouls. The sort that listened to true-crime podcasts. Graham didn’t want that type of person creeping about. Matthew had seen an opportunity and negotiated the rent down a bit; he’d always thought Susan was overpaying. It would have stood empty otherwise; he was doing Graham a favour. Becky couldn’t raise her bail, so she was in prison awaiting trial.
Now, as Emma walked towards him, sunshine in her hair – making it appear a little more coppery, more fiery than usual – he wondered about her. About them. Was there a chance? Even a fleeting one? An iridescent hope flickering on the horizon. How charming was he? Was there a world where they could put this behind them? Stranger things had happened.
‘Hello, Matthew.’ Her voice at least was crisp, certain. Like it had been at the beginning. She straightened her shoulders, tentatively taking back the space she had once owned. He found that at once intimidating and attractive. ‘You must be very pleased.’
‘Well, I’m not sure pleased is the right word, considering everything.’ He looked at his feet. He wanted her to note his shame, his repentance. ‘I’m relieved, though,’ he admitted.
‘Were you uncertain of the outcome?’ she asked testily. She was staring at him; he could feel her hard gaze on his bent head. He forced himself to meet her eyes. Her expression settled somewhere between accusatory and challenging. Nothing good. He had to change that. He had convinced a jury of his innocence, that was one thing, but he’d never hurt the jurors personally; he hadn’t lied to them while making them come. He rallied as he knew he must.
‘Obviously I know what I’m guilty of and what I’m innocent of, but what is that old saying? “The law is an ass.” I didn’t know if I’d be believed.’
‘Right.’
‘Am I?’ He shot out that look. The look lovers shared. The one he hoped she still found irresistible. The one that said he found her irresistible.
She sighed. ‘I keep wondering if you have ever said anything truthful to me. Anything at all.’
‘That’s stupid, of course I have.’
‘Like what?’ It was awkward, because he wanted to fix them if he could, but at that exact moment, it was tricky articulating exactly what he had ever truly felt or thought when he was with her. He wasn’t sure. She let the silence stretch into indisputable discomfort, and then barked out a harsh laugh. ‘I’ve been thinking back to our first meeting, when you told me I was the reason you were at the conference. That, at least, was true. That meeting was the very start of your game. I think that was possibly the last true thing you said to me.’
‘No. God, no.’ He reached for her arm, but she moved away from him, out of reach. The pavement was narrow, and so she stepped onto the road; a cyclist had to swerve to avoid clipping her. She didn’t seem to care. Her only concern was avoiding his touch. He backed up against the wall so that she could mount the pavement again, stay safe.
‘The shame and humiliation of being duped scalds every cell in my body.’ Her confession was simple, and he recognised in it an honesty he hadn’t often experienced with Becky, certainly not for years.
‘I did love you. Maybe I still do,’ he blurted.
