The Guilty Mother

by Diane Jeffrey

  Then, early one morning, about three weeks after I’d found Ellie dead in her cot, they came for me. I was still in my pyjamas when they arrived and Michael was in the shower. Six of them arrived in two police cars. I knew four of them personally. Perhaps out of courtesy, this time there was an officer with the same rank as me. DCI Nicholas Baker. All this could only mean one thing.

  I let them in and offered to make tea, but they refused. Out of nerves, I tried to strike up a mundane conversation – about the weather, probably, but they remained unresponsive, perching awkwardly on the edge of the armchairs and sofa and avoiding eye contact, while we all waited for Michael to get dressed.

  When he came into the living room, Michael sat down beside me and took my hand. My head started to spin and I only caught snippets of what DCI Baker said. Inconsistencies … not natural causes … suspicious death … unlawful killing …

  At one point, Michael let go of my hand and turned to me with loathing in his eyes. He hadn’t once questioned my innocence. Not once. It was only much later – in court – that I realised he was probably too busy feeling guilty himself. The expression on my husband’s face shocked me far more than the chief inspector’s words. Michael was sitting right next to me, but he was already distancing himself from me. I was alone in this. I’d been alone for a long time.

  Then Baker cautioned me. You do not have to say anything … anything you do say … Words I’d uttered countless times, never imagining that one day they would be spoken to me.

  I remember, as I was being led away, glancing over my shoulder at my home – the house in which I’d lived with my husband and my son; the house in which my daughters had died. My world had already been turned inside out and it seemed to tip over then. I wasn’t sure if it would ever be upright again.

  Chapter 7

  Jonathan

  May 2018

  She’s pissed off with me. She doesn’t have to say anything – I can tell from the silence over the phone. Hardly surprising. It has taken me over a week to call her after cancelling our night out at the theatre. And I’ve just given her the impression that I’m only doing it now because I want her to do something for me.

  ‘All right,’ she says eventually, to my surprise. ‘Where do you want to meet up? At yours?’

  That was probably deliberate, and if so, I deserved it. I’ve never invited her to my house, for obvious reasons.

  ‘I … you … my …’

  She remains silent. She’s not going to help me out here. Picking up a ballpoint pen from the pot on my workstation, I start spinning it around on my thumb and index finger.

  Taking a deep breath, I try again. ‘Holly, I haven’t told Noah and Alfie about you and me yet. But I will. I just need a little more time.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ she says, but her tone of voice belies her words. I’m not being fair on Holly. I really do need to sort this out. Soon.

  ‘There’s a nice new French restaurant on Chandos Road. They do delicious steaks, apparently.’

  ‘It’ll be nice to eat out for a change.’ It doesn’t sound like a dig this time. I think she’s being sincere, but her words remind me that she usually cooks for the two of us at her place and I wince. ‘I’m a vegetarian, don’t forget,’ she adds.

  ‘Right,’ I say, doodling absent-mindedly with the biro on the back of the voucher on my desk. ‘I’ll check the menu and get back to you.’

  ‘Will you ask me over dinner, then?’

  That grabs my full attention as for a split second I think Holly is fishing for a marriage proposal. Then I pick up the note of humour that has crept into her voice. ‘Ask you what?’

  ‘You said you were calling to ask me out on a date and ask me for a favour.’

  ‘Ah.’ The way she puts it makes me sound – and feel – like a total bastard, but that’s not quite how I phrased it. ‘Well, no, I can tell you now, if you’ve got a moment.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘Are you at work, by any chance?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I was wondering if you could get your hands on an old report for me.’

  ‘A coroner’s report?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That depends. How old? Was the post-mortem done here? Can you give me the name of the deceased?’

  ‘Yes, the post-mortem was carried out in 2012 by your office. The name is Ellie Slade. The Slade baby?’ There’s another silence, longer this time. ‘Holly, can you hear me? Holly?’

  ‘Yes, I’m still here. I’ll try and get hold of Ellie’s report for you. It shouldn’t be a problem. I can definitely show you the one on Amber’s death if that’s of any use. She died a few weeks before her twin?’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ I say, ‘but Amber’s death wasn’t—’

  ‘I know. I’m the one who did Amber’s post-mortem,’ Holly finishes. That shuts me up. It hadn’t occurred to me that Holly might have been the pathologist who did the report. She and I met long after Melissa Slade’s trial and we’ve never discussed it. I wonder why she carried out Amber’s post-mortem, but not Ellie’s.

  Holly promises to see what she can dig out and when I’ve said goodbye, I google the restaurant on my laptop. Damn it! It doesn’t look veggie friendly. I opt for a Thai restaurant in Clifton instead. Holly lives in the suburb of Cotham, so Clifton will be as handy for her as Redland. Distracted by Holly’s involvement in the Slade case, it takes me longer than it should to make the reservations online. Then I text Holly the address of the restaurant. But when I ring Nina to ask her to look after the kids, she’s unavailable.

  ‘Bollocks!’ I mutter, ending the call.

  ‘How old are they?’ Kelly asks, making me jump. I hadn’t realised she’d been listening in.

  ‘Who? My boys?’ I swivel round in my chair so that I’m facing her. ‘Noah’s twelve and Alfie’s nine.’

  ‘The offer’s still open,’ Kelly says.

  ‘What offer?’

  ‘I’ll babysit if you like.’ Kelly is looking at me earnestly.

  I’m not sure who else I can ask, but I hesitate even so. Perhaps it’s because I’ve never liked to mix my private life with my professional life. Or maybe it’s because she used the word “babysit”, which my sons would object to. Or is it because I doubt her capabilities?

  ‘I could use the cash,’ Kelly adds.

  I’m about to ask if she’s had any experience childminding, but I check myself. ‘Thank you, Kelly,’ I say instead. ‘That would be great, if you’re sure you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all. So, is Holly your wife, then?’

  ‘Er, no, my wife …’ I trail off as I notice Kelly peering at my wedding ring. She doesn’t know, and she doesn’t need to know. ‘Holly’s just a friend,’ I say. ‘Here, you may as well have this.’ I hand her the voucher I’ve been fiddling with.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s for two free meals at a posh French restaurant that has just opened in Redland. You’re not a veggie, are you?’ I realise I didn’t ask before buying her the bacon sarnie the other day.

  ‘No way. I love meat.’

  ‘Is there someone you’d like to take out to dinner?’

  ‘I’m single at the moment.’

  ‘Oh. Well, do you have any brothers or sisters? Or what about asking a friend?’

  Kelly’s face clouds over and I wonder if I’ve said something to upset her. ‘My sis …’ She doesn’t finish her sentence. Then her smile comes back, although it seems a bit forced. ‘My mum likes juicy steaks. I’ll treat her. Do I need to write up a review?’

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘OK. Cheers for this.’ She waves the voucher at me, winking conspiratorially.

  I spend the rest of the afternoon updating stories from my patch, making phone calls, proofreading Kelly’s copy for the next print edition and writing up my notes on Melissa Slade.

  The whole time I’m working, I have Holly on my mind. Holly is sexy, smart and funny. She’s
perfect for me. She’s perfect, full stop. I met her through an online dating website and when I first started seeing her, I was slightly put off by the thought that the hands touching me had been manipulating dead bodies all day. But Holly made me laugh; she made me feel like myself again. But a year and a half later, I’m still holding back.

  She’s kind and patient, she loves kids, although she doesn’t have any, and I know she’ll make a great stepmum. But I’m not sure if my boys are ready. Until recently, Alfie still crept into my bed in the middle of the night and Noah has only just started bringing home good marks and reports again from school. I was so devastated after Mel’s death that the boys suffered not only because they’d lost their mum, as if that wasn’t bad enough, but also because their father was struggling to look after himself and consequently doing a lousy job of taking care of them. We seem to be finding our feet now. I’m worried that if I bring Holly into the equation, it might upset the balance. And I don’t want my boys to think I’m replacing their mother.

  An instant message pops up from Claire and so, banishing Holly from my mind, I get up and head for the Aquarium.

  ‘How are you getting on with Melissa Slade?’ Claire says without preamble as I close the glass door and breathe in the smell of stale cigarette smoke.

  I consider her question. It’s strange, the way she has formulated it. I feel an aversion towards Melissa Slade, even though I’ve never met her. Perhaps, given what happened to me, I should feel a connection. I have something in common with Melissa Slade, but it seems to have sprung from a very different experience. I hope I never do meet the woman. I don’t think I’d get on with her at all.

  ‘I’m not much further along than when we discussed it the other day,’ I say. ‘I’ve spoken to Simon Goodman, her first husband. He could be a useful contact, I think, as long as we stick to the facts and don’t paint his ex-wife in a bad light.’ I tell Claire about my brief conversation with the superintendent.

  ‘It’s a bit thin for the moment. We’ll sit on this for a while until you’ve talked to a few more family members. What about the husband?’

  ‘You mean Michael Slade? He’s an ex-husband now too. He’s next on the list.’

  ‘OK. Try and find something The Post won’t. There’s a story in here somewhere, I can feel it, and I don’t want them breaking news before us. Timing is everything. Keep me in the loop.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘That’s all.’

  Back at my workstation, I attempt to find out where Michael Slade lives. I try my usual People Finder website, then Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. Nothing. There are several Michael Slades, but none of them is the right one. The man seems to have gone underground after Melissa’s trial. His name barely pops up again, even around the time of the appeal.

  Out of ideas, I fire off a short email to Simon Goodman, feeling sure he’ll know where Slade lives. An hour later he writes back, asking me to ring him and giving me two or three windows to call him over the next couple of days. I sigh, frustrated and confused as to why he won’t answer my question by email.

  The rest of the afternoon goes by quickly as I have a mountain of work to get through. It’s ironic that our print edition has never had a lower readership and yet I’ve never had so much to do. The Internet and new technologies have revolutionised journalism and I need to constantly add different perspectives to stories I’ve posted online as the situations evolve. Readers expect to be able to follow what’s happening in real time. With members of the general public tweeting about events they’ve witnessed and uploading their own videos to websites, journalists have to analyse and portray the bigger picture. It’s also a job you take home with you. In a connected world, you can’t ever really disconnect. I can’t wait to go out this evening and get away from it all for a few hours.

  Despite getting caught in traffic on the way to and from dropping Kelly off at my house, I arrive at the restaurant a little early, before Holly. When she breezes in, her dark hair is sitting beautifully on her slender shoulders even though there’s a gale blowing outside, and the knee-length colourful dress she’s wearing shows off her figure to perfection.

  She kisses me on the cheek and I pull out her chair for her.

  ‘Here you go,’ she says, handing me the brown A4 envelope she was carrying under her arm. ‘I’ve photocopied the reports for both the Slade twins. I’m not supposed to … you know …’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’ll be careful how I use it.’

  I sit down again, putting the envelope on the table. Trying not to eye it longingly, I ask Holly how she has been and how her day was.

  ‘It’s OK, ‘Holly says, when I get on to the weather. ‘You can open it. That way, if you want anything clarified, I’m here.’

  So, once we’ve ordered food and we’re sipping wine, I slide out the printed pages and start by speed-reading Amber’s report. Sudden infant death. Natural causes.

  ‘Upper respiratory tract infection and inflammation of the mucous membranes of the nose,’ I read aloud. ‘What’s that in layman’s terms?’

  Holly looks up from her phone, which she has been playing with while she waits for me to finish reading. ‘Basically, Amber had a cold,’ she says. She slept on her stomach to relieve colic and there are signs of asphyxia, which would suggest she suffocated in her sleep. Her blocked nose would have hindered her breathing and I expect she ended up with her face turned down into the mattress.’

  I nod. This confirms what I thought. Cot death. It’s also the reason I hadn’t thought to ask Holly for Amber’s post-mortem report.

  ‘I found nothing suspicious. There was nothing at all to suggest violence or abuse,’ Holly continues. ‘There was no bruising other than slight haematomas around the nose and mouth and a broken rib, both of which were certainly caused by attempts made to resuscitate the baby. I didn’t see the need for an inquest.’

  Something in Holly’s words and tone of voice niggles me. She almost sounds defensive. And that’s when it comes back to me – I feel like slapping my forehead with the palm of my hand. I skimmed an online article about this only the other day, but if Holly was named in it, I missed it. In court, the pathologist who had examined Amber’s body stuck to her interpretation of her findings. I hadn’t been in court that day, but by all accounts, she was resolute in her argument that Amber’s death had been an unpreventable tragedy. She would not change her verdict despite pressure to reconsider during cross-examination by the prosecution.

  Holly puts her mobile away in her handbag. I say, ‘I remember now. In court they tried to make out Melissa Slade had murdered both twins.’

  ‘Yes. She was charged with two counts of murder. They said it was very fortunate for her that Amber had been cremated and that her little body couldn’t be exhumed for another examination.’ I think I see tears in Holly’s eyes, although I’m not sure why. I give her hand a quick squeeze under the table.

  Letting Holly recover her composure, I turn to the second report. This one is very different. Minor retinal haemorrhages. Bruises. Blood in the lungs. Fibres in the lungs. Fractured second right rib. Fractured first left rib. The cause of death is given as asphyxia consistent with deliberate smothering and/or shaking.

  ‘Why didn’t you do Ellie’s post-mortem?’ I ask Holly.

  ‘Quite simply because I was away on holiday,’ she replies.

  ‘Do you agree with its conclusions?’

  ‘The post-mortem was carried out by my colleague Roger Sparks. He’s the best pathologist I’ve ever worked with. He’s one of the most meticulous people I know. His conclusions were confirmed in court by other experts, including an eminent ophthalmologist and one of the best paediatric neurosurgeons in the country.’

  She hasn’t answered my question, so I ask her again.

  ‘I think it’s more a case of Roger disagreeing with my findings,’ she says. ‘He thought both deaths had been deliberate. But I was the one who examined Amber and I’m as certain as I can be that
she died of natural causes.’

  ‘And Sparks performed the post-mortem on Ellie,’ I say, thinking aloud. ‘Could Ellie’s bruising and broken ribs have been caused by efforts to resuscitate her?’

  ‘That was the big question in court,’ Holly says, shrugging. ‘Probably not.’ She doesn’t elaborate.

  ‘So, one unfortunate natural death and one deliberate murder.’ The details of the court case come flooding back to me now.

  ‘That’s how it seemed.’

  ‘That’s also the verdict the jury delivered. She was accused of two murders, but found guilty of one.’

  ‘It doesn’t make much sense though, does it?’

  ‘No,’ I agree. ‘No, it doesn’t.’

  I look down again, turning to the last page. Two words seem to jump out at me, as if they have been highlighted. Antimony and liver.

  ‘This is the toxicology report? The part that went missing and has now resurfaced. The evidence that might free Melissa Slade …’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Holly says. ‘All hell broke loose in our office when that turned up. Roger Sparks is denying any involvement in a cover-up – actually he’s denying he wrote the document at all – but it was found among his papers and on his computer when he retired. It all reflects very badly on us.’

  ‘I can imagine. Do you believe him?’

  ‘I don’t know what to believe anymore,’ she says. ‘Anyway, I hope this helps.’

  After that, Holly is uncharacteristically quiet. The food is delicious and I top up Holly’s wine glass several times, but that doesn’t help. She evidently has something on her mind. I assume it’s me dragging up the memories of the dead Slade babies, so I stay clear of that subject for the rest of the evening.

  When I pull up in front of Holly’s place, near Saint Michael’s Hill in Cotham, she turns to me and I think she’s going to invite me in, as she always does. I haven’t told her yet that I don’t have my usual childminder and I didn’t ask Kelly to sleep over at mine, which is what Nina does. Nina sleeps on the sofa bed in the sitting room, even though there is a bedroom in my house that no one ever sleeps in. I couldn’t bring myself to explain that to Kelly, so I won’t be able to stay the night with Holly, but I can come in for a while. I look out of the car window at the beautiful old building, once a large house now converted into modern flats, and tip my head towards it, raising my eyebrows suggestively.