Carol Younson frowns. “I didn’t say he killed her, Jane.”

“Oh,” I say, relieved. “So what are you saying?”

“Her depression, her paranoia, the negative feelings and low self-esteem the relationship had fostered—to my mind these were undoubtedly contributory factors.”

“You think it was suicide?”

“That was my professional opinion, yes. I think Emma threw herself down the stairs at a time when she was suffering from extreme depression.”

I’m silent, thinking.

“Tell me about your own relationship with Edward,” Carol suggests.

“Well, that’s the strange thing. From the sound of it, there aren’t really many similarities. It started not long after I’d moved in. He made it very clear that he wanted me. But also that he wasn’t offering a conventional relationship. He said—”

“Wait,” Carol interrupts. “I’m just going to get something.”

She leaves the room and after a short time comes back with a red notebook. “The notes from my sessions with Emma,” she explains, leafing through the pages. “You were saying?”

“He said there’s a kind of purity—”

“?‘To the unencumbered affair,’?” Carol finishes for me.

“Yes.” I stare at her. “Those were his exact words.” Words he’d previously spoken to someone else, it would appear.

“From what Emma told me, Edward is an extreme, almost obsessive perfectionist. Would you agree with that?”

I nod reluctantly.

“But of course, our previous relationships can’t ever be perfected, no matter how many times we act them out. Each successive failure simply reinforces the maladaptive behavior. In other words, the pattern becomes more pronounced over time. As well as more desperate.”

“Can’t a person change?”

“Oddly enough, Emma asked me the exact same question.” Carol thinks for a moment. “Sometimes, yes. But it’s a painful and difficult process, even with the help of a good therapist. And it’s narcissistic to believe that we’re going to be the one to change another person’s fundamental nature. The only person you can ever really change is yourself.”

“You say I’m in danger of going the same way as her,” I object. “But from what you describe, she was nothing like me.”

“Perhaps. But you’ve told me that you suffered a stillbirth. It’s striking, isn’t it, that you were both in some way damaged when he met you. Sociopaths are attracted to the vulnerable.”

“Why did Emma stop seeing you?”

A look of regret crosses Carol’s face. “I don’t know. If she’d only stayed in therapy, perhaps she’d still be alive today.”

“She had your card with her,” I say. “I found her sleeping bag in the attic at One Folgate Street, along with some cans of food. It looked like she’d been sleeping up there. She must have been planning to call you.”

She nods slowly. “I suppose that’s something. Thank you.”

“But I don’t think you’re right about everything else. If Emma was depressed, it was because the affair with Edward was over, not because he was controlling her. And if she killed herself—well, that’s horribly sad, but it’s hardly his fault. As you said yourself, we all have to take responsibility for our own actions.”

Carol only smiles sadly and shakes her head. I get the impression she’s heard something similar before, perhaps even from Emma.

Suddenly I’ve had enough of this room, with its soft furnishings and its clutter, its cushions and tissues and psychobabble. I stand. “Thank you for seeing me. It’s been interesting. But I don’t think I want to talk to you about my daughter, after all. Or about Edward. I won’t be coming back.”

THEN: EMMA

I can’t go to the public gallery after reading out my impact statement because of the Special Measures. So I hang around outside the court, waiting. It’s not long before DI Clarke and Sergeant Willan rush out, looking troubled. With them is the lawyer for the prosecution, Mr. Broome.

Emma, come this way, Sergeant Willan goes.

Why? What’s going on? I say as they whisk me off to another part of the lobby. I look back at the courtroom doors just as Nelson’s lawyer emerges. With her is a dark-skinned teenager in a suit. He turns in my direction, and I see a flash of recognition in his eyes. Then his lawyer says something and he turns back to her.

Emma, the magistrates have granted bail, Sergeant Willan is saying. I’m sorry.

What? I say, bewildered. Why?

The magistrates agreed with Mrs. Fields—the defense counsel—that there were some difficulties with our case.

Difficulties? What does that mean? I say. From another door, the one leading to the public gallery, Simon appears. He makes a beeline for me.

Procedural difficulties, DI Clarke says grimly. Principally around the issue of identification.

No DNA, you mean?

And no fingerprints, the barrister says.