The Cradle in the Grave by Sophie Hannah

sake!’
    Maybe I was naïve. Maybe if Leah Gould’s testimony was the only so-called ‘proof’ the prosecution had had at its disposal, I’d have walked free, and Paul and I would have been allowed to keep our daughter. But though I didn’t know it yet, Leah Gould’s utterly baseless lie would sound frighteningly convincing alongside the expert opinion of somebody far more mature, articulate and highly esteemed, someone the jury would take very seriously indeed. It’s hard to believe, looking back now, that there was once a time when I’d never heard of Dr Judith Duffy, the woman who would play the leading role in the destruction of the rest of my life.

4
    8/10/09
    The first irritation was Charlie walking into the kitchen. Her kitchen . Simon had been living with her at her place for the past six months. Most of the time he preferred it, though the exceptions to this rule were frequent enough to make him certain he wasn’t yet ready to put his own house on the market. The second irritation was Charlie yawning. No one who’d had several hours of sleep had any business yawning. ‘Why didn’t you give me a nudge when you got up?’ she said. ‘You’re my alarm clock.’
    â€˜I didn’t get up. Haven’t been to bed.’
    He was aware of her staring at him, then at the book that lay on the table in front of him. ‘Ah, your reading homework: Helen Yardley’s tear-jerker. Where are Proust’s yellow markers?’
    Simon said nothing. He’d told her last night, he’d rather saw off his own head than read the copy the Snowman had given him. Did all women make you answer the same question twenty times over? Simon’s mum did it to his dad; both his grans did it to both his grandads. It was a depressing thought.
    â€˜That can’t be the copy you ordered yesterday from Amazon . . .’
    â€˜Word,’ he said abruptly: a one-word answer, both in form and in content. Word on the Street was an independent bookshop in the town centre, far less trendy than its name suggested. Local history, gardening and cookery books competed for space in the window. Simon liked it because it had no café; he disapproved of bookshops selling coffee and cakes.
    â€˜They had an evening event on last night. I popped in on the off-chance on my way home from work, they had the book, so I thought I might as well buy it, read it overnight, speed things up a bit.’ Simon was aware of his right heel drumming on the kitchen floor. He forced himself to keep still.
    â€˜Uh-huh,’ said Charlie lightly. ‘So when the Amazon one arrives, you’ll have three copies. Or did you put the one the Snowman gave you through the shredder at work?’
    He would have done if he could have guaranteed Proust wouldn’t catch him in the act.
    â€˜If you’ve still got it, I wouldn’t mind having a look at it.’
    Simon nodded at the table. ‘There’s the book, if you want to read it.’
    â€˜I want to see which bits Proust marked out for your special attention. I can’t believe he did that! The man’s ego knows no bounds.’
    â€˜The bits about him,’ said Simon quietly. ‘As if those are the only parts of her story that matter. She thought he was Martin Luther King, the Dalai Lama and Jesus Christ our saviour all rolled into one.’
    â€˜What?’ Charlie picked up Nothing But Love . ‘The opposite, right?’
    â€˜No. She rated him.’
    â€˜Then she’s guilty of bad judgement at the very least. Do you think she killed her children?’
    â€˜Why, because she’s full of praise for Proust?’
    â€˜No, because she was sent to prison for murdering them,’ said Charlie with exaggerated patience.
    â€˜I’ve been told to look out for people like you. The Snowman wants names. Traitors’ names.’
    Charlie filled the kettle. ‘Can I say something without