Nelson’s lawyer, a short, trim woman wearing an elegant little power suit under her black gown, looks up, suddenly thoughtful, and makes a note.

How do I feel about the prospect of Deon Nelson getting bail? I say. I feel sickened. Having been threatened at knifepoint by him, having been robbed and raped by him in the most humiliating way possible, I know what he’s capable of. The idea that he could be free to walk the streets terrifies me. I would feel terrified just knowing he was out there.

This last point is something DI Clarke has hinted I should include. It’s all very well for Nelson’s lawyer to argue that her client has no intention of approaching me. If I feel threatened by the very fact of his freedom, there’s a risk I might withdraw my testimony and the trial would collapse. Right now, I’m the most important person in this courtroom.

Both magistrates are still watching me. The public gallery, too, is silent. Before I started I was nervous, but now I feel powerful and in control.

Deon Nelson didn’t just rape me, I say. He made me live with the fear he was going to send the video of what he’d done to everyone I know. Threats and intimidation are how he works. I hope the justice system will treat his bail application accordingly.

Bravo, a little voice inside my head says.

Thank you, Miss Matthews. We will certainly take your views into very serious consideration, the male magistrate says kindly. Feel free to take a moment to sit down in the witness box, if you wish. Then, when you are feeling well enough, you may go.

There’s silence in the courtroom as I gather up my things. Nelson’s lawyer is already on her feet, waiting to approach the bench.

NOW: JANE

“What do you mean, danger?” I’m smiling at the ludicrousness of what she’s just said, but Carol Younson, I can see, is deadly serious. “Not from Edward, surely.”

“Emma told me…” Carol stops and frowns, as if breaking this taboo doesn’t come easily to her. “As a therapist, I spend most of my time unpicking unconscious patterns of behavior. When someone asks me ‘Why are all men like that?’ my answer is ‘Why are all the men you choose like that?’ Freud talks about something he called repetition compulsion. That is, a pattern in which someone acts out the same sexual psychodrama over and over again, with different people allotted the same unchanging roles. At a subconscious or even a conscious level, they’re hoping to rewrite the outcome, to perfect whatever it was that went wrong before. Inevitably, though, the same flaws and imperfections they themselves bring to the relationship destroy it, in exactly the same way.”

“How does this relate to Emma and me?” I say, although I’ve already started to guess.

“In any relationship there are two repetition compulsions at work—his and hers. Their interaction may be benign. Or it may be destructive—horribly destructive. Emma had low self-esteem that was lowered still further when she was sexually assaulted. Like many rape victims, she blamed herself—quite wrongly of course. In Edward Monkford she found someone who would give her the abuse she at some level craved.”

“Wait a minute,” I say, shocked. “Edward—an abuser? Have you met him?”

Carol shakes her head. “I’m going by what I gleaned from Emma. Which, by the way, was no easy matter. She was always reluctant to be open with me—a classic sign of low self-esteem.”

“It simply isn’t possible,” I say flatly. “I do know Edward. He’d never hit anyone.”

“Not all abuse is physical,” Carol says quietly. “The need for absolute control is another kind of ill treatment.”

Absolute control. The words hit me like a slap. Because I can see that, viewed a certain way, they fit.

“Edward’s behavior seemed reasonable enough to Emma so long as she colluded with it—that is, so long as she allowed him to control her,” Carol continues. “There were things that should have served as warning signs—the strange setup with the house, the way he made even small decisions for her, or separated her from her friends and family: all the classic behaviors of the narcissistic sociopath. But the real problems started when she tried to break away from him.”

Sociopath. I know professionals don’t use that term quite the same way the general public does, but even so I can’t help thinking of what Emma’s previous boyfriend—Simon Wakefield, Carol had called him—said that time outside the house. First he poisoned her mind. Then he killed her…

“Does any of what I’m describing sound familiar, Jane?” she prompts.

I don’t answer her directly. “What happened to Emma? After all this other stuff, I mean?”

“Eventually—with my help—she started to realize how destructive the relationship with Edward Monkford had become. She broke up with him, but it left her depressed and withdrawn; paranoid, even.” She pauses. “That was when she broke off contact with me.”

“Hang on,” I say, puzzled. “How do you know he killed her, then?”