Sitting back down, I try to block out the film and concentrate on what I’m reading. Melissa starts with an account of her post-partum depression. She relates how she felt in a detached way – her tone is almost matter-of-fact. She doesn’t dwell on her feelings, and although this makes her come over as slightly cold, I think I’m beginning to understand her. She has tried to tell her story, but she has had to tell it as if it happened to someone else so she could get the words down.
She writes about how supportive her friend Jenny was and how unsupportive her husband was, and I find my dislike for Michael Slade intensifying. She mentions how she gave up her career and her sporting activities to bring up her twins. This jogs my memory. I remember in one of the online articles – not one of mine – the journo had depicted an uncaring, bitter mother, who had hired a nanny to raise her children so that she could go out and get fit.
Something else occurs to me, but I don’t know if it’s relevant. Melissa’s relationship with her second husband seems to have been far from hunky-dory. On the other hand, she has received no end of support from her first husband. Simon Goodman has been campaigning for her appeal and her release since she went to prison. He’s still on her side now. I jot this observation down on my pad and then chew the end of my pen pensively. Perhaps he’s still in love with her.
Then I read the entry about the dinner party. I’ve never met Melissa – and still have no desire to meet her – and yet it’s as if I can hear her voice in my head, recounting the events of that evening. She describes the lengths she went to in order to look her best. I can almost picture her desperately trying to stop Amber crying so that she could put on her make-up and new dress before the guests arrived.
When I get to the part where Melissa finds Amber dead in her cot, my own heart stops for a couple of beats. I copy down everyone’s reactions, although, again, I’m not sure if they’re important. Melissa started screaming; Callum went deathly white when he realised his little sister was dead; Bella rushed to her stepmother’s aid; Jenny comforted her friend. Michael and Clémentine, who attempted to resuscitate the baby, and Rob, who rang for an ambulance, managed to stay level-headed.
I read on. The next section is about Melissa’s paranoia. She was terrified that the same fate might be awaiting Ellie, too. I imagine Melissa in the bedroom, rocking in the chair, watching her baby’s tummy rise and fall. I can see the room in so much detail. Then it dawns on me that I’m visualising Melissa in Rosie’s nursery, the bedroom the boys and I packed up this morning.
I know what’s going to happen next and I don’t want to read it, but somehow I’m compelled to keep going. Another paragraph; another page. Until I get to the end of that diary entry. The bit where Melissa finds Ellie, lifeless in her cot. Then I put the journal down on the coffee table. I can’t take any more for now.
I know how it feels to lose a child. It’s not something I can put into words, but I do know how it feels. Melissa lost two children. She must have thought nothing could get worse than that. But she was wrong. Heaped on top of the searing pain of losing her twin babies, was the ordeal of being charged with their murders.
My mind wanders to Callum and Bella. I imagine how they were affected by losing their siblings, well, technically half-siblings, although I doubt that made much difference. According to Michael Slade, Bella went back to her mother’s for a while, but Callum’s mother was taken from him. Locked up for life. I expect Bella and Callum lost each other, as well as Amber and Ellie.
I look at my sons, whose eyes are glued to the screen. Our tragedy has left an indelible, caustic mark on them for life. Alfie’s memories of his mummy fade a bit more every year, and neither he nor Noah ever knew their sister, but sorrow is etched on their father’s face as a constant visual reminder that our family is fractured.
My thoughts turn back to Melissa. Could she be innocent? It’s the first time I’ve considered this seriously. Of course if she didn’t admit to killing her babies at the time, she was hardly going to fess up in a diary that could have ended up in anyone’s hands – and has ended up in mine. After reading part of her journal, I feel a sliver of sympathy for her. But I still don’t believe her.
I can’t quite shake the impression that I’m somehow being manipulated. By whom, I don’t know. Goodman? Melissa? Is her account what actually happened? Or is it fabulation? I have no way of telling. But if Melissa didn’t murder Ellie, then this is one hell of a tragedy. Not to mention a gross miscarriage of justice. I’m just not sure I buy that version of events.
As Miguel sings “Remember Me” and I notice Alfie surreptitiously wiping away a tear, I realise my eyes are also threatening to brim over. I can’t remember the last time I cried before this morning, and yet here I am, on the verge of blubbering, for the third time in one day. I resolve to get to the bottom of Melissa’s story, to get to the truth. For her children’s sakes. For her daughters and her son.
Chapter 14
Melissa
I’d stopped writing my diary. It wasn’t really helping and there was nothing more to say anyway. I’d given my account of the events leading up to my imprisonment: the death of my baby girls, my arrest, my trial, my sentence. But now it seems that isn’t the end. It has all started up again.
April 2018
When I was arrested, I’d wanted it over. I decided to enter a guilty plea. I knew if I did this at my first court appearance, I could avoid a trial. Go to jail. Go directly to jail. My days were shaped by the endless cycle of sunrise and nightfall, the light becoming dark and then light again. But my world was in darkness even during the daytime, and at night I could hardly sleep. My life had become one endless nightmare. I just wanted it to end. The nightmare, that is, although if my life had been coming to an end at that moment in time, I wouldn’t have put up much of a fight.
Martin May QC had tried to convince me to plead not guilty, but I wouldn’t listen. Then Simon had begged me. And against my better judgement, I’d let him talk me round. I did what Simon said. He told me there was no way I’d be found guilty. I went through a trial and was sentenced to life imprisonment. Simon persuaded me to lodge an appeal. He said my conviction would be quashed and I’d be acquitted. My conviction was upheld and I stayed in prison.
Nearly four years down the line and today Simon was sitting opposite me in the visits room at Her Majesty’s Prison Haresfield Park, using much the same arguments as he had back then.
‘Your son lost his sisters, and his mother, too,’ he said. ‘He needs you. You’re no use to him in here.’
‘Our son is an adult now, Simon. And the first appeal was dismissed. Why should this one be successful?’
‘He still needs you. Right now he needs you more than ever.’ I winced. According to Simon, Callum is in a bad way. ‘We’ve got good grounds for this one, Melissa,’ Simon continued. ‘The prosecution sat on vital inform—’
‘I can’t take any more, Si. What if the court orders a retrial?’
‘Lissa, you’re the strongest woman I know. You’re still young—’
‘I’m middle-aged.’
‘—enough to start again. You can do this. This time we’ll win.’
‘You said that last time,’ I said, sounding like a petulant child.
‘Come on, Lissa! Come home.’
‘Home? Where is that?’
HMP Haresfield Park has been my home for the last four years. I share a room now with Cathy and we’ve made it comfortable. As lifers, we’re allowed curtains, a phone, which is monitored of course, and a television in our room. We even have photographs of our respective sons in glassless frames on the desks.
Where would I go if I ever got out? I’ve divorced Michael, and he has sold our house. It has been a very long time since home has been with Simon and Callum.
‘Clear your name.’ His voice was laced with charm. ‘Think of Callum.’
‘I have been thinking of Callum. You know I have.’
I thought about Callum all the time. I was terr
ified of how all this was affecting him. He’d had to go through his teenage years without any maternal support. But what sort of mother was I when I’d let my daughters die? Sometimes I thought I deserved to rot in jail and that Callum was better off without me. I hadn’t seen him for several months. He didn’t want to come and see me anymore, which was understandable, I suppose.
‘Lissa, you can only help him now if you come home. Let’s get this guilty verdict overturned. Please.’
Simon put his fingertips together, holding his hands almost as if in prayer with his lips and nose pushed against his forefingers, while he waited for my answer. He was looking at me over the top of his hands with the same puppy expression he’d used on me when he’d proposed.
Unwilling to think about what I’d have to go through – again – if I was granted permission for another appeal, I allowed my mind to wander back to that day. I’d just told Simon I was pregnant. We’d only been together for three months, although we’d known each other for a lot longer. I’m pretty sure we conceived our son on the first night, the night Simon and I wound up at his place, roaring drunk, after celebrating a successful investigation with colleagues.
I’d prepared my speech. I was about to say I’d decided to keep the baby and he could have as much or as little to do with him or her as he wanted. Blah, blah.
But I didn’t get to spout my spiel. Simon hadn’t missed a beat. ‘Marry me,’ he’d said, gazing at me with his intense, blue eyes.
To say I was surprised would be putting it mildly. I stood there, gaping at him. The brilliant, handsome Simon Goodman who everyone said was married to his job. And here he was asking me to marry him. You couldn’t say no to him. Like in the playground game, Simon says. He was like a pit bull. Once he’d found something to sink his teeth into, he wouldn’t let go. And I’d become his goal.
‘I want to do the right thing by you. Let’s do this together.’
I could see he was still trying to do the right thing by me now. And, as always, he was right. I had to consider Callum. I had to focus on what I had, and not what I had lost.
I looked around the room at the other prisoners talking to members of their family or friends. I could see a few women from my wing here. The first time I had visitors – Simon and Callum – I had to wait for them in the visits room. I’d expected it to have uncomfortable wooden chairs, and tables bolted to the floor. But Haresfield is a “rehabilitative” prison, and I was surprised to discover a warm, welcoming room with low tables and colourful wide foam chairs, part of a programme introduced by the prison staff here to make prisoners feel as human as possible. The idea is that if we feel normal, we’ll act normal.
Similarly, we’re encouraged to refer to our cells as “rooms”, and for those of us who have earned the privilege through good behaviour, we have laptops in our “rooms”. Obviously, we don’t have any Internet access, but we can use them for our studies or to arrange visits or to leave feedback on the meals, that sort of thing. I’ve typed my diary on mine.
‘What if you made a mistake? Have you ever considered you might be wrong?’
At those words, I snapped my eyes back to him. I felt my eyebrows pinch into a V. I knew what he meant, but I wasn’t about to discuss it. I knew I wasn’t wrong. I’d done what I had to do.
I felt panic fluttering inside me. I scratched my left arm with my right arm. Three times at the top; three times at the bottom. Then I swapped arms. I’d picked off the scabs from my left forearm and I could see spots of blood appearing on my sleeve. Simon placed his hand gently on mine to make me stop, so I had to start all over again. Top left. One. Two. Three. Bottom left. One. Two. Three. Top right …
I dreaded to think of all the routines I would have to do once I was back in my room. Wash my hands. Check there was no dust under the bed. Unfold my clothes and fold them again. Rituals, the prison psychiatrist called them. If I didn’t perform all these rituals, I’d be putting Callum in danger. Deep down, I knew this wasn’t rational behaviour, but I’d given up trying to resist the urges. If I didn’t go through the motions and something happened to Callum, I would never forgive myself. In any case, it wasn’t like I had anything better to do with my time, and once everything was done – three times – the anxiety abated. A bit.
As these thoughts went through my head, Simon’s voice faded to static. But I knew he was pulling out all the stops. And I was sure he knew I’d give in.
‘All right,’ I said, more to shut him up than anything else.
Simon smiled then, his eyes boring into me. I sensed danger. Its colour wasn’t a fiery red, but a piercing, ice blue.
I’m not sure if caving in to Simon was the right thing to do. Is this my chance? Will I be given a get out of jail free card this time? I think it has only just hit me as I’ve been typing all this up. I’m going to ask for leave to appeal. I’m going to get my hopes up, and probably dashed, all over again. A familiar heaviness has lodged itself between my stomach and my heart. I know from experience I’ll have to get used to it. It will take up residence there for a while. But I have to do this. For Callum.
Chapter 15
Jonathan
July 2018
Claire isn’t so much hopping mad as stomping. As much as her high-heeled shoes will allow, anyway. I can see her pacing up and down in the Aquarium several minutes before the editorial meeting is due to begin that Monday morning.
Once we’ve all filed into Claire’s office, two other senior members of The Rag and I sit in our chairs around Claire’s desk while everyone else perches their buttocks on windowsills or props their backs against the walls. Claire begins the meeting with her usual summary of sales, insights, figures, feedback and so on. The Redcliffe Gazette’s readership is up, Claire informs us without a smile. There’s a timid ripple of applause, but it doesn’t catch on. In a funereal voice, Claire congratulates Kelly on her good work. Her entertainment vlog now has more followers than The Rag has readers for its print edition. I try not to smirk.
I scan the Aquarium and tune out as Claire directs the discussions about leaders and stories for this week’s online news and print edition. There aren’t many of us – twenty at most, including the advertising department, but this room is bursting at the seams. The builders are knocking two offices into one on the next floor up. One day, if the work is ever completed, this will provide us with a larger room for meetings such as this. But for now we’re squashed like sardines in the Aquarium, shouting at each other in order to make ourselves heard over the drilling and hammering directly above our heads.
As far as I can tell, listening with only half an ear, everything is running smoothly. So what’s the matter with Claire? She’s definitely wound up about something. Her shoulders are tensed up, her lips are pursed and she has taken the pencil out from behind her ear to tap on her desk with it.
She places a hand on my shoulder as everyone else troops out after the meeting. I stay seated.
‘Is something wrong?’ I ask as she closes the glass door behind the last one out. I wonder if I’m about to get a bollocking for something.
She walks slowly back to her desk, her energy seemingly depleted, and sinks into the swivel chair. She looks at the pencil in her hand as if just realising it’s there and puts it in the pen holder on her desk.
‘No, I’m fine. Thank you. I was wondering if you had anything for me on the Melissa Slade appeal.’
This reminds me I still haven’t found out what she and Goodman were discussing. She may already know what I’ve got. ‘I have her journal. Well, what looks like extracts from it. Simon Goodman, when he came to see you, handed some papers to Kelly.’
‘Yes. Melissa kept a diary in prison. When she was told about you, she thought it might be useful for you to read it. She edited it so that you didn’t have to wade through too much irrelevant material, apparently.’
Edited? Hmm. That doesn’t sound like the right word. Redacted, maybe? What did Melissa cut? So Claire already knew about the journal. In
fact, she knew more about it than I did. But there’s something bugging me more than that.
‘What do you mean, when—?’
‘Have you read it?’
‘Erm … yes. This weekend.’ So much for not taking any more shortcuts. I haven’t read past the part where Melissa found Ellie. ‘What do you mean, when she was told about me?’
‘I haven’t been entirely open with you, Jonathan.’
‘Oh?’ It comes out coated with sarcasm. I’ve been wondering what she has been scheming ever since the day I saw Simon Goodman with her in the Aquarium.
She lets out a big sigh. ‘Can I buy you lunch? I can’t talk on an empty stomach.’
Without waiting for an answer, she slips off her heels and pulls a pair of flat-soled shoes out of a desk drawer. When she straightens up, she has shrunk by about three inches. I follow her through the silent offices towards the exit. Everyone has gone on their lunch break, including the workmen upstairs. Only Kelly is still here. Damn! I was supposed to grab a bite with her so we could discuss where to go next with Melissa Slade.
I almost ask Claire if Kelly can come with us, but I sense Claire has something she wants to confide in me, so I throw an apologetic look in Kelly’s direction as I go past. She nods to show she has understood and turns back to her computer.
The smouldering glare of the sunlight hits me as we step outside and I realise I’ve left my sunglasses in the car. It takes Claire a minute or two to locate hers in her outsized handbag. Then she starts to power walk in her sensible shoes and I have to do an undignified skip every now and then to keep up with her. Luckily it’s only a short distance to the little café that Claire takes me to in a side street behind St Mary Redcliffe Church. I’ve never been here before, didn’t even know this place existed, but Claire is greeted by name as soon as we enter.
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