The Guilty Mother

by Diane Jeffrey

  But Holly isn’t on the same wavelength. ‘Thank you for a lovely dinner, Jonathan,’ she says, and it sounds rather definitive. She normally calls me Jon and I’m not sure I want to hear what’s coming. ‘I think it might be a good idea if we took a break for a while,’ she continues. ‘I can’t keep hanging on forever.’ She looks down, at her hands, clutching her handbag on her lap. ‘I want to be part of your life instead of watching it from the sidelines, but you won’t introduce me to your family or your friends.’

  ‘Holly, I—’

  ‘It’s too late, Jon. I came tonight because I wanted to tell you in person, but I’d already made up my mind.’

  She gets out of the car and I watch her walk away. I sit in the car for several minutes with the engine idling, looking up at Holly’s window, berating myself for messing up so badly with Holly and for messing her around.

  When I get home, the boys are asleep and Kelly is dozing in front of the TV on the sofa. I pay her what I normally pay Nina and use the Uber app on my phone to request a ride to take her home. While we’re waiting for the driver, I bring her up to speed with the latest in the Slade case.

  ‘So, let’s get this straight,’ Kelly says. ‘It was originally thought the mother lost one baby and murdered the other one?’

  ‘That was the way the evidence pointed at the trial and the jury’s verdict, yes.’

  ‘And now fresh evidence – a missing post-mortem report that has resurfaced – suggests both babies died of cot death?’ She sounds incredulous.

  I consider this before answering. ‘Well, that’s what Superintendent Goodman and Melissa’s defence team are hoping to prove. That report is their main ground for appeal. And it has happened before. There are precedents.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re too young to remember, but there were several women in the nineties and noughties who were imprisoned for killing more than one of their babies. It turned out their babies died of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome and their convictions were gross miscarriages of justice.’

  Kelly doesn’t appear to have listened to me. ‘Is it possible the missing report your friend gave you is inconclusive and Melissa Slade killed both twins?’

  ‘I suppose we can’t rule that out,’ I concede, getting the instant sensation I’m betraying Holly. She was sure of herself, so sure that she stood her ground in court. ‘She was my girlfriend, actually,’ I blurt out, ‘but she’s not anymore. As of this evening.’ I don’t know why I say that. It only makes me feel even more disloyal towards Holly.

  ‘Oh.’ Kelly doesn’t sound very sympathetic, barely breaking flow. ‘Or maybe neither Amber nor Ellie died of cot death but Melissa Slade is innocent,’ she says, steering the conversation back on track.

  ‘Hmm,’ I say dubiously. ‘But then, what killed them? A genetic disease?’

  ‘Possibly. You’d think that would have shown up in the post-mortems, though. I wonder if the question is not what killed them, but who? No one seems to have considered it could have been murder, but that Melissa Slade wasn’t the murderer.’ She starts to say something else, but she’s interrupted by the sound of a car horn.

  ‘Looks like your Uber’s here,’ I say, unnecessarily.

  As Kelly leaves, I try to think over the different theories we’ve just come up with, but I can’t concentrate. My thoughts keep racing back to Holly. I tap out several texts on my mobile, but end up deleting each one. In the end, I write three words. I’m so sorry.

  Chapter 8

  Melissa

  December 2013

  Murder. In my experience – and I’d worked on a few murder investigations in my time as a police officer – the fact that someone had deliberately killed someone else was a given. Our task was to collect evidence and use it to identify the murderer.

  But in this instance, the big question wasn’t who had done it, but had murder been committed at all? If the answer was yes, then I was the murderer. It all seemed back to front.

  Much of the evidence against me would be circumstantial, but a lot of it would be based on expert opinions. Since the medical experts, in particular the pathologists, had differing opinions, I was charged with two counts of murder in the end. My case was committed to the Crown Court, where my trial – for the alleged murders of both my babies – began six weeks later. It was expected to last a fortnight.

  I could feel the eyes of every single person in the courtroom on me as, flanked by two security guards, I was led in that first morning. My legs threatened to give way and it took all my concentration to put one foot in front of another.

  I could still feel everyone staring at me after I’d taken my place in the dock. At first I kept my eyes down, but then I became worried about how that would make me seem. Did I look guilty? So, I glanced around me. It was far bigger than the courtroom at Bristol Magistrates’ Court, where my committal proceedings had been held.

  And yet, this courtroom, with its wooden pews and wood panelling and very little natural light, was forbidding and claustrophobic. There were far more people here than at my committal hearing; the gallery was packed to the hilt. I tried to find a sympathetic soul to concentrate on, but as I scanned the crowd, I saw only unfriendly faces. I desperately needed my husband and my best friend, but Michael and Jenny, who would be called as witnesses for the defence, weren’t allowed in court until it was time for them to give evidence.

  As they were sworn in or affirmed, I studied each juror in turn, peering through strands of hair that had fallen in front of my face. There were six men and six women. Five of the men and three of the women looked very young, barely out of their teens, and I doubted they had children of their own. Some of them had chosen the affirmation rather than the oath. I didn’t know if there were any conclusions to be drawn from this.

  Two female jurors appeared to be around the same age as me. I had no idea if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Would they sympathise with me or judge me? One of them was matronly and I imagined she had a large family. The other was skinny and wearing shabby clothes. She stumbled over the words of her affirmation as she read it. I hoped this was due to nerves. If she struggled with reading, what chance did she stand of grasping legal proceedings? As soon as this thought entered my head, I realised I shouldn’t have judged her. She would be judging me.

  Finally, there was a woman of African descent, whose age I could not determine, and an elderly man in his sixties, a grandfather, perhaps, who might have been part Asian. They were the only two people in the jury box who weren’t white. Both of them took the oath. The man was bearded and sprightly. His kind face was distorted and his forehead was crinkled into a frown. I could tell he didn’t want to be here and I could relate to that. The woman stared at me and I tried not to flinch as her large black eyes locked on to mine.

  I observed the members of the jury as the judge gave them their preliminary instructions. They looked as intimidated as I was as we listened to Mr Justice Hardcastle, an imposing man, whose deep voice and dress – a black and purple robe with a red sash and a short wig – instantly commanded respect.

  I continued to try and gauge their reactions during the Crown’s opening speech. I saw the grandfather scribble notes. As witness statements, mainly by my fellow police officers, were read out before the court, the black lady yawned. When the prosecution’s first witness, Dr Holly Lovell, stated that Amber had died of natural causes, I observed the thin scruffy woman wipe away her tears. Two of the young men on the jury were clearly perplexed as Dr Roger Sparks, who had examined Ellie, then refuted his colleague’s post-mortem findings for Amber and argued that both babies had been deliberately smothered.

  Boredom, sympathy, confusion. At first, I found it impossible to predict which way each member of the jury would vote. I didn’t even know what verdict I was hoping for. I didn’t need other people to judge me; I judged myself. Whatever they thought of me, my conscience was what mattered. And even if I were found not guilty, I’d still have a guilty conscience.
It would never be completely clear. How could it be? What sort of a mother can’t look after her babies? What sort of a mother lets them die?

  By the time the case for the prosecution was closed several days later, I thought I would be found guilty. Guilty of murdering Amber and Ellie, my baby girls, my own flesh and blood. I told myself that when you’re to blame, you get what you deserve. I tried to resign myself to my fate.

  But deep down, I felt a cowardly glimmer of hope. I found myself wondering if the jury could find me guilty beyond all reasonable doubt. That’s the key phrase, isn’t it? Beyond all reasonable doubt? I didn’t hear those words uttered in the Crown Court as often as I would have expected, but they were embossed in my head and I’m sure they crossed every juror’s mind. Could these twelve people listen to everything that was said and honestly conclude that there wasn’t a shred of doubt or a scrap of evidence to suggest I might be innocent? That’s all it would take for me to be able to walk free.

  This thought then made me morose. I’d ask myself what it would actually mean to walk free. As I was on bail, every evening I was allowed to go back home. Home to a husband who no longer loved me. To a house where my babies’ cots were now empty. Was this what I wanted? Would I return to a career catching criminals alongside colleagues who would always wonder if I was one myself? Was that even possible?

  As the first witness to be called by the defence, I had to take the stand before Michael or Jenny. I hadn’t wanted to give evidence, but my barrister, Martin May QC, had argued that the jury would draw an “adverse inference” from this. In other words, it wouldn’t look good.

  May had grey-white hair that curled up at the nape of his neck and when I’d first met him it had struck me that even without his wig he would look at home in a courtroom. In his silk robe he looked as if he belonged on the set of a film. Even his demeanour and gestures gave him the aura of a movie star. He exuded confidence, but didn’t seem arrogant.

  My barrister had never once asked me if I was guilty or innocent. I supposed he must have thought I’d killed my children, which bothered me. I wanted him to believe in me. But I trusted him and his optimism. His game plan, as far as I understood it, was to sow some seeds of doubt in the minds of the jurors so that they would give me the benefit of the doubt. He’d been over the questions he would ask me and I felt ready. That part went as planned.

  May had also anticipated many of the questions that Eleanor Wood QC would put to me during the prosecution’s cross-examination. She was a dainty woman, but her forceful voice was at odds with her appearance. She made me nervous and I was only too aware of how some of the questions – no matter what answers I gave – would make me seem.

  Wood made me out to be a bad mother, resentful of my twins, the result of an unwanted pregnancy, because I’d had to give up a promising career and my sporting activities to bring them up. She highlighted my postnatal depression, which rendered me incapable of looking after my babies properly, and she even managed to hint that my decision not to breastfeed the twins was proof of my lack of love for them.

  The fact that I’d found both my babies dead in the evening also pointed towards suspicious deaths rather than SIDS, Wood argued in her potent voice. Mothers were tired and short-fused late in the day whereas cot deaths almost always occurred during the night.

  As I listened to the barrister’s accusations, a growing feeling of shame engulfed me. I wanted to call out: No! No! That’s not how it was! That’s not who I am! But at the same time, I recognised myself in her description. I’d been an unworthy mother. I hadn’t cared for my babies the way I should have.

  I was a trembling mess when I left the witness box to walk back to the dock. I hoped that once my husband had given evidence, no one in the courtroom would doubt my innocence. And Jenny, as a character witness, would have a better impact on the jury than I must have had. I convinced myself that the worst was over.

  Michael was called to the stand next. He took the oath, which surprised me as he was an atheist. My heartbeat slowed down slightly and I started to breathe more easily. After all, May was on my side and, like me, Michael knew what was going to come up and had prepared his answers.

  But Michael didn’t stick to the script.

  ‘Where were you on the evening Ellie died?’

  Until now, Michael had said he was out. He’d gone for a walk to clear his head. He’d told the police this and he’d told me this. I’d shouted for him when I’d found Ellie, lifeless, in the cot because I’d thought he was home, but he didn’t come. So, when he said he was out, I had no reason not to believe him.

  ‘I was in a different part of the house.’

  I felt my head jerk up.

  Martin May QC, however, recovered quickly. ‘So, you didn’t hear your wife call you?’

  ‘No, I did not.’

  But it was the first thing Eleanor Wood QC asked in cross-examination.

  ‘In your statement to the police, you said you weren’t at home at the precise moment the defendant, your wife, found your daughter Ellie dead. But you’ve just said – under oath – that you were in a different part of the house. Were you or were you not at home, Mr Slade?’

  ‘I was at home, but I was in a different part of the house.’

  Why had Michael changed his story? Was it because he was under oath?

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘I was in a bedroom at the back of the house.’

  ‘Mr Slade, were you alone?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t.’

  ‘Could you tell us who you were with?’

  ‘I was with Clémentine Rouquier. Our French au pair.’

  ‘And what were you doing in the bedroom at the back of the house with your French nanny?’

  In the gallery, someone sniggered loudly.

  ‘I … er … She was my mistress.’ Michael now started to weep in the witness box. ‘While my wife was trying to save our baby, I was with my mistress.’ He was crying loudly now. I saw the expressions on the faces of some of the jurors and realised to my astonishment that Michael was eliciting sympathy.

  ‘Did your wife know about your affair?’

  Michael didn’t answer immediately. The question didn’t seem relevant and I expect, like me, he was waiting for May to object. ‘I think she might have, yes,’ he mumbled. And then I understood why Wood had asked that.

  I hadn’t known he was having an affair. Of course, any wife would say that because the shame of people knowing you were a weak woman who turned a blind eye to your husband’s infidelity is almost greater than the shame of everyone finding out your husband was sleeping around. But I genuinely hadn’t suspected a thing. I should have done. After Amber died, I asked Michael to send Clémentine home to France, but he insisted she should stay. She was of no use to us, wandering around the house with her long face, but he kept her on. It wasn’t until after Ellie died that he paid her three months’ wages, bought her a plane ticket and took her to the airport.

  I could see the skeletal woman and the black woman staring at me. They were obviously nearly as taken aback as I was. Although I was reeling from shock, I had enough lucidity to realise how I would come over now. Everyone would think that I’d perjured myself to cover for my husband, so as not to destroy his reputation more than I already had done, or so as to hide my own embarrassment. I’d said he wasn’t at home. He’d said he thought I knew about the affair. The jurors would now think I was unreliable, dishonest, a liar. And of course I was all of those things.

  Until now, though, I’d assumed that Michael trusted me implicitly, but I found myself wondering if he believed I was guilty of murdering our babies. Did he admit to committing adultery knowing it would make me look worse than him? If the jury believed I knew about Clémentine and him, they might even deduce that Michael’s affair had given me a motive: revenge.

  Perhaps that was taking it too far. But whatever my husband’s reasons, his confession had just sealed my fate. There was no way Jenny could make up for
this. No way I was ever going home.

  Chapter 9

  Jonathan

  May 2018

  Michael Slade doesn’t seem to be at home. I give a shrug in the direction of my car, parked in front of the gate at the bottom of the driveway, where Kelly is waiting out of the rain – by her own admission, she hadn’t dressed for the sudden change in the weather. Taking a few steps back, I consider the house. It has an off-white façade with red bricks on the side. Judging from the size of the place, it has at least four bedrooms, maybe more. In my inexpert opinion, the property must have cost a bomb. Granted, it’s right on the A369 and you could probably hear the traffic if it wasn’t for this downpour, but it’s also situated on the edge of the Leigh Woods Nature Reserve.

  I thought Michael Slade might have moved away from the Bristol area altogether, but he’s barely outside the city boundary. I wonder how he could have afforded a place in this rather coveted corner of suburbia, especially if he paid any of Melissa’s legal fees, but this is definitely the address Simon Goodman gave me and I saw Slade’s name on the letterbox on the gatepost. There’s a flashy red Mercedes Benz SLK in the driveway, which smacks of a midlife crisis. It also suggests that Slade is in, although I hadn’t really expected him to be home during the day, even at lunchtime.

  I ring the doorbell once more and this time the intercom sputters into life.

  ‘Third time lucky,’ I mumble, and then stoop to give my name through the microphone. As I bend down, a raindrop falls onto the back of my neck and rolls down the top of my spine, making me wince. The speaker splutters back at me incoherently. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,’ I say loudly, wiping the nape of my neck with my hand.