Debbie was waiting for Constance downstairs, tapping one foot lightly on the floor, her face pale and drawn.
‘You did really well just then, especially talking about the diaries. It must have been hard,’ Constance managed, as she entered and sat down next to Debbie. Debbie took a bottle from her pocket, tipped out two large capsules and threw them to the back of her throat, swallowing loudly.
‘I know I shouldn’t have got angry,’ she said. ‘But it was such bullshit and I just lost it.’
‘It’s OK. You did better than you think, really.’
‘Is that what Judith thinks?’
‘Yes, absolutely.’
‘What’s happening next? Do I get my chance to explain?’ she asked.
‘Judith wants the jury to hear from Inspector Dawson, then you’ll get your chance. It’s important to tell things in the right order.’
‘If you say so. I would have explained then, if someone had let me.’
‘I need to ask you again about “Rapunzel”.’
‘Oh. That.’
‘This might jog your memory.’
Constance placed her tablet on the desk, in front of Debbie. She scrolled through some screens and then she pressed ‘play’ on the video she had shared with Judith on Saturday.
At first the video was dark and grainy, but then it grew lighter and the background noise transformed into clapping and cheering, with a couple of cat calls. A tall, blond woman was centre-stage of some intimate venue, burgundy velvet curtain for a backdrop, her hair tied in two long plaits, which hung down her back. She was wearing only a black lace corset and stockings and seated on the knee of a smartly dressed man. As she rose to her feet, teetering in three inch stilettos, the man withdrew from the stage and the Amazonian beauty came forward into the spotlight. The crowd grew silent, the beam of light intensified. She drew herself up to her full height, her bosom over-spilling the tight bodice and then she began to sing.
There was no mistaking. It was Debbie.
Debbie watched all the way through, some light tremors in her fingers revealing her struggle to control her emotions. At the end, she sat very still with her head down.
‘Someone sent this video to Rosie, back in 2017. Do you have any idea who it was?’
‘No,’ Debbie whispered.
‘We’re assuming that it was supposed to make her feel embarrassed, or worse; we’re searching for data on who sent it and why. We may want to use it, as evidence, in the trial.’
‘No! Can you imagine? No! I won’t let you.’
‘It might help you.’
‘How? How could this possibly help me?’
‘We think it may be connected to Rosie’s murder.’
Debbie sat back and placed both hands over her face. After a while, she removed them and sat up straight.
‘Did you see everything that happened over the weekend?’ she asked, ‘the attacks, those poor men, their faces all battered?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did you hear what they were shouting this morning, outside court, when I arrived?’
‘Some of it, yes.’
‘I don’t want more people to get hurt because of me – because that’s what will happen if you show that.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I do. And, if I’m wrong and you’re right, that some people – decent people – they might begin to be able to understand…I don’t want to get out of here because people feel sorry for me,’ Debbie said. ‘I don’t want it to be that those eleven people find me not guilty because they feel responsible for what happened in Salford or at that publishers, or because they listened to what Dr Alves said about the “tragic life of trans women”. Do you understand that?’
‘Yes.’
‘I want to get out of here because the jury, the public, the people watching at home, believe that I, Debbie Mallard, never killed my wife. How is that video going to help with that?’