But he stole my things. No one’s disputing that, are they?

Yes, actually, Chief Superintendent Robertson says. Deon Nelson claims he bought the phones from a man in a pub. We may not believe him, but in evidential terms there’s absolutely nothing tying him to you.

But you can’t think—

Emma Matthews, I am arresting you on suspicion of attempting to pervert the course of justice and wasting police time contrary to section five point two of the Criminal Law Act 1967. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?

I can’t speak.

Emma, I need you to answer. Do you understand the nature of the allegations against you?

Yes, I whisper.

—

After that there’s a numb sense of having stepped through a looking glass. Suddenly I’m not the victim anymore, to be treated with kid gloves and sympathy and brought mugs of coffee. Suddenly I’m in a different part of the station altogether, where the lights have metal cages over them and the floors stink of vomit and bleach. A custody officer looks down at me from a raised platform behind a desk and explains my rights. I empty my pockets. I’m handed a copy of the Custody Code of Practice and told I’ll be given a hot meal if I’m still here at suppertime. My shoes are taken away and I’m escorted to a cell. There’s a bed built into one wall and a short shelf on the opposite side. The walls are white, the floor gray, the light diffused through the ceiling. The thought occurs to me that Edward would be quite at home here, but of course he wouldn’t really, it’s grimy and smelly and uncomfortable and cheap.

I wait three hours for a duty lawyer. At some point the custody officer brings me a copy of my charge sheet. Written down, it looks even bleaker than it sounded upstairs.

I try not to think about the expression on DI Clarke’s face as I left the room. The anger was gone, leaving only disgust. He’d believed in me and I’d let him down.

Eventually a plump young man with gelled hair and an over-large Windsor knot in his tie is shown in. He stands in the doorway and shakes my hand over an armful of files.

Er, Graham Keating, he says. I’m afraid the lawyers’ rooms are all in use. We’ll have to talk in here.

We sit side by side on the hard bed like two shy students who can’t quite get it on and he asks me to say in my own words what happened. Even to my ears it sounds feeble.

What will happen to me? I say when I’m done.

It really depends on whether they go down the time-wasting route or the perverting-the-course-of-justice route, he says. If it’s the former, and you plead guilty, you could be looking at community service or a suspended sentence. If it’s the latter—well, there’s no limit on the sentence a judge can impose. The maximum’s life imprisonment. Obviously, that’s only for very extreme cases. But I should warn you, it’s a crime judges do tend to take seriously.

I start to cry again. Graham delves into his briefcase and finds a pack of travel tissues. The gesture makes me think of Carol, which in turn reminds me of another problem.

They won’t be able to question my therapist, will they? I say.

What sort of therapist are we talking about?

I started seeing a psychotherapist after I was burgled. It was the police who suggested her.

And you’ve told this therapist the truth?

No, I say miserably.

I see, he says, although he’s plainly baffled. Well, as long as we don’t introduce state of mind, there’s no reason for them to involve her.

He’s silent a moment. Which does rather bring us to what our defense is going to be. Or rather, our mitigation. I mean, you’ve already told the police what happened. But you haven’t really said why.

What do you mean?

Context is everything in RASSOs—Rape and Serious Sexual Offenses. And because these charges originated with an allegation of rape, they’ll continue to be handled under RASSO regulations. Sometimes I’ve acted for women who’ve felt pressured or bullied into making or withdrawing an allegation, for example. That helps a lot.

That didn’t— I begin, then stop. You mean, being frightened of someone might get me off?

Not completely. But it might dramatically reduce the sentence.

But I was frightened, I say. I was frightened of telling Simon. He’s violent sometimes.

Right, Graham says. He doesn’t say Now we’re in business, but that’s his body language as he flips open a yellow pad and prepares to make notes. What sort of violence?

NOW: JANE

“DI Clarke?”

The man in the brown windbreaker nursing half a pint of beer looks up. “That’s me. Although I’m not a DI anymore. Just plain Mister. James, if you prefer.” He stands up to shake my hand. At his feet is a grocery bag full of fruit and vegetables. He gestures at the bar. “Can I get you a drink?”