The Guilty Mother

by Diane Jeffrey

  ‘I see.’ I probably don’t sound very convinced. I’m not. ‘Mrs Slade—’

  ‘Do you mind if we use first names? It’s less formal. Do you prefer Jon or Jonathan?’

  I do mind and I don’t want to be less formal. ‘My friends call me Jon,’ I say, meaning that she should use Jonathan, or better still, Mr Hunt.

  ‘Jon it is, then.’

  I can feel myself scowl. As long as she doesn’t expect me to call her Mel. I can’t do that. There’s just no way. Somehow, to me, she’s not worthy of that name. No one could be now.

  ‘And you can call me Melissa. Or Lissa, if you like. My friends do.’

  I’m a little thrown by what she has just said, but at least she doesn’t go by “Mel”. I try to get back on track. ‘Melissa, with your appeal coming up, you must be—’

  ‘I didn’t want to ask for leave to appeal to begin with,’ she says.

  That wasn’t the route I wanted to go down. I wanted to know if she felt more optimistic this time, what her plans were if she were released, that sort of thing. But Melissa Slade is leading this interview. Perhaps she has prepared for it as much as I have. I decide to play ball. For now. ‘Why not?’

  She sighs. ‘I got my hopes up the first time, but our grounds for appeal weren’t very solid—’

  ‘What were the grounds for appeal?’

  ‘Things like the two cases should have been tried separately and that the judge was wrong a few times in the way he directed the jury. I can’t even remember. As I said, not very solid. I didn’t want to ask for leave to appeal this time in case I ended up disappointed again.’

  ‘What made you change your mind?’

  ‘Simon and Callum. You see, Callum is having a rough time right now. Everyone found out at uni that he was the son of a … that he was my son. He was ostracised by his peers, his girlfriend dumped him and he’s taking it all very badly. Well, he’s depressed.’ She looks dejected but I can’t tell if it’s an act. ‘He has dropped out and come home. Simon says – quite rightly – that Callum needs me to come home too.’

  I nod. I remember reading that in one of her diary entries. ‘Right. So, you were worried about having your hopes raised and dashed with another appeal, but you decided to go for it for Callum’s sake.’ I wonder if there’s more to it than that.

  As if reading my mind, she says, ‘Also, somewhere deep inside I felt … I was to blame and this was the price I had to pay.’

  ‘To blame for what?’

  ‘For my babies’ deaths. I was their mother. I didn’t protect them. They died. On my watch, as it were. Both of them. I felt I deserved to be punished for that.’ For a second, she looks like she’s about to cry, but then she bites her lip and regains her composure.

  ‘Melissa, I wonder if you would talk me through it all. The moments when you found your two little girls. Just in case there’s anything significant that you didn’t write in your journal.’ I bite down the urge to add or that you edited out.

  Melissa relates the events, and from time to time I interrupt her to ask a question or to check something that has crossed my mind, but it all tallies with what she wrote in her diary. She doesn’t tell me much I don’t already know.

  As she talks, I study her, as discreetly as possible. I notice that at the difficult parts, for example when she discovers her babies are dead, her voice becomes quieter and almost monotonous, and her eyes become more vacant as if she’s distancing herself from her memories or pretending it didn’t happen to her. Some of what she says is word for word what she has written. She must have been over it, and through it, so many times, and it’s almost as if she has learnt her lines by heart.

  I also notice she fidgets a lot, rubbing her arms, or rubbing one leg against the other. It’s not until I realise that she has repeated the movements using the other hand and the other foot that I remember the obsessive rituals she described in her diary.

  When she has finished, she looks pale and exhausted. Part of me still wants to hate her, but she seems so vulnerable that I find myself thinking I should be protecting her instead. I’ve put her through an ordeal that hasn’t turned out to be helpful to me anyway. For the moment I haven’t found out anything new and I can’t have much time left. I need to get on with this.

  ‘What do—’

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  I don’t want one, and I think she might be stalling. ‘I’ll get them,’ I say, reaching into my jeans pocket to fish out my change.

  I buy three coffees as the media liaison officer, who has said nothing since hello, seems to be nodding off and looks like he could do with a caffeine fix.

  ‘Did any of that help?’ Melissa asks as I hand her the plastic cup.

  ‘Yes,’ I lie.

  ‘I could do with a cigarette.’ I follow her gaze to a no smoking sign on the wall.

  ‘I was just thinking the same thing. Always tastes good with coffee, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Or alcohol. None of that in here, though.’

  We’re making small talk, wasting time. ‘Melissa, can I ask you a question?’

  ‘That’s what you’re here for,’ she says with an attempt at a smile. I don’t return it.

  ‘What do you think happened? Do you think both your daughters died of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome?’

  She doesn’t answer immediately, which makes me suspicious. Then she says, ‘It’s what I think now, yes.’

  I’m about to ask what she thought before the new evidence came to light, but she gets there before me.

  ‘When Amber died, I genuinely thought it was cot death, even before the coroner’s report. She slept on her stomach and she had difficulty breathing. But when Ellie died, too, well … it seemed like too much of a coincidence. And Ellie was so healthy, so full of life.’

  Her voice is quiet and I have to strain to hear her. I lean forwards, my arms folded across my knees, although it seems too intimate a gesture, as if I’m invading her space.

  ‘The only other explanation I could come up with at the time was that maybe they both died of some genetic disease that wasn’t found in the post-mortems,’ she continues.

  As she speaks, her eyes flit from left to right and she rubs her arms. I get the distinct impression she’s not telling the truth. It sounds rehearsed to me and her body language is all wrong, eyes all over the place and scratching herself like mad with what’s left of her bitten nails. I have no choice but to let it go. I’ve come up with all these possible scenarios myself, anyway. Somehow I feel further from the truth than ever.

  ‘Either way, though, whether your babies died of a genetic disease or cot death, that would be from natural causes,’ I say. ‘You’ve never considered the possibility that their deaths were deliberate?’

  ‘No, never.’ Her answer comes back at me quickly. Too quickly. As if she’s on the defensive. ‘I can’t think why anyone would have wanted either of them dead. They were only babies, innocent babies.’

  I think I’m pushing it, but I pursue this line of questioning. ‘Did anyone resent them? Was anyone in your family jealous of them? After all, they arrived somewhat unexpectedly, according to what you’ve written in your memoirs.’

  She gives a hint of a wistful smile. ‘Very unexpectedly. It was a complete surprise.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ I say. If I were to find out now, at the age of forty, that I was about to be a dad again, it would be a shock rather than a surprise, but I keep this thought to myself.

  ‘No, in court they made out I resented them, but that’s not true. Having twin babies made things tense between Michael and me, but he doted on them. And Callum and Bella were very good with them. They helped out. Bella kept a watchful eye on them whenever she was staying with us. And when she was at her mother’s, she rang frequently to ask how they were.’

  ‘Do you know where your stepdaughter is, Melissa?’ I ask. ‘My colleague, Kelly, has drawn up a list of people we need to talk to, but she has been unable to locate Bella.’


  ‘I have no idea. She had problems at home – with her mother, I mean – and left.’

  ‘Why didn’t she come back to live with her father?’

  ‘It was such a difficult time. I’d been arrested. Michael was moving house. You’ll have to ask him if he knows any more than I do.’

  ‘I already have,’ I mutter.

  ‘Oh, that’s right.’ She sounds vaguely amused. ‘Simon told me you went to see Mike. What did you think of him?’

  I remember what Melissa said right at the beginning of this interview about being honest with each other. It was intended as a joke, but I think she meant it even though I’m not sure she has held up her end of the bargain. If I’m honest, I think Michael Slade’s a prick, but I can’t admit that. ‘You first,’ I hazard.

  She leans back and folds her hands over her stomach. ‘I met Mike in a bar one evening – I was out for a friend’s hen night. He lavished attention on me, and made me feel like the centre of his world. He swept me off my feet. I fell for him completely. Simon was a wonderful man, but he was so wrapped up in his job that he had very little time for me. After a while, we had nothing to talk about but work. I left him for Michael.’ She casts her eyes down and I wonder if she regrets that decision now. She looks up again. ‘Your turn.’

  ‘Your ex-husband and I don’t have much in common and we didn’t exactly hit it off,’ I reply, watching Melissa’s face break into a grin. ‘But as my wife used to say, I can be too quick to judge people and I’m a poor judge of character.’

  ‘She doesn’t say that anymore?’ Melissa puts her fingertips over her mouth, but the words have come out. They hang in the space between us. I, too, have said too much.

  I don’t answer. The question is too personal. I don’t want her to know anything about me. This isn’t about me. I’m the one who’s supposed to ask the questions, but she has turned it around. Force of habit, maybe. Once a police officer … She glances at my hand, sees the wedding ring and then looks up.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, and I realise she has understood. She doesn’t ask how it happened. Instead she asks, ‘Have you got children?’

  ‘Yes, two boys,’ I tell her. It sounds curt, and I feel compelled to add to this in a softer tone. ‘Twelve and nine.’

  ‘Such great ages. I’m sure you’re a terrific father,’ she continues. ‘We’d do anything for our sons, wouldn’t we? Run into a burning building to save them; drown to keep them afloat. I know I would for mine. I’d give my life in a heartbeat if I had to. Such unconditional love.’

  I nod, anxious to steer the conversation away from this topic. ‘You and Michael divorced after you were sent to jail, I believe?’

  ‘That’s right. I’d been inside for just over two years when I filed for divorce.’

  ‘I had no idea you could do that from prison.’

  ‘Yes, in certain circumstances. In my case, I’d been living apart from my spouse for the requisite two years and he agreed to the divorce.’

  ‘But you kept his name?’

  ‘I didn’t, actually. I’m using my maiden name. But I’m probably the only one using it. Outside I’ll always be known as Melissa Slade, the baby slayer, and inside I’m just a number.’

  I have a few more questions, but the mousy-haired guy sits up, looks pointedly at the digital clock on the wall and then coughs.

  Taking his cue, I stand up. ‘Well, Melissa Moore, I think our time is up.’ She brightens at my use of her maiden name.

  ‘I won’t see you again, will I?’ she says.

  ‘I only get one visit, if that’s what you mean. But I’ll see you in court, as they say. In the meantime, if there’s anything you think of, anything at all, you can write to me. And if I need to know anything else, I’ll write to you.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  I try to find something encouraging to say. Not: “I hope your appeal will be successful” or “all the best” because I only wish that for her if she’s innocent and I still don’t know what to think on that score.

  ‘I sincerely hope justice will be done, Melissa.’ My last words to her before leaving. Her face falls. She has grasped the subtext.

  As I walk back to the car park, reminding myself to pay at the machine before trying to leave this time, some of Melissa’s words replay in my head. We’d do anything for our sons, wouldn’t we? Run into a burning building to save them, drown to keep them afloat. It’s only now that her words strike me as odd. Melissa had a son and two daughters. Why didn’t she say we’d do anything for our children? Why did she say for our sons?

  She said she would lay down her life in a heartbeat for her son. Wouldn’t she have done the same thing for her daughters? I know I would have given my life to save my daughter the day Adrian Pike killed her.

  Then I remember reading in Melissa’s journal that she didn’t immediately feel the boundless love for her twin baby girls that she had instantly felt when Callum was a newborn. Did she really not care about Amber and Ellie?

  I dismiss my train of thought. It was just a turn of phrase or a slip of the tongue and I’m reading too much into it. Melissa’s daughters are dead after all – she couldn’t give her life for them now even if she wanted to.

  PART TWO

  Chapter 20

  Kelly

  August 2018

  At midday there’s still no word from Jon, so I ring him on his mobile to find out how it went with Melissa Slade. I’ve been unable to concentrate all morning – I’m that keen to know what she said to him.

  ‘Kelly, I don’t like using the phone in the car, even on hands-free,’ he says, ‘but I’m on my way in. I need to do a couple of things before taking off on my hols tomorrow.’

  As soon as he arrives, though, Claire starts waving at him with both arms from behind her glass wall, like she’s drowning in the Aquarium. He makes his way straight to her office, pulling a discreet face at me on the way past.

  There’s something different about him and it takes me a moment to realise I’ve never seen him without his glasses on before. Plus he’s kind of smart in an old-fashioned way. He must be sweating in that tweed suit, though. It’s like twenty-eight degrees outside and it’s not as if we have air con in here. His hair is sitting right, too, instead of standing on end as it usually does.

  For want of something better to do, I fetch a coffee from the machine in the corner. It’s gross, but it’s caffeine. It’s abnormally quiet today and I’m super bored. Resisting the urge to go on Facebook, I examine the list I made the other day of people who may have information about the Slade babies’ deaths.

  – Melissa Slade

  – Michael Slade

  – Bella Slade

  – Jennifer Porter (friend)

  – Rob Porter

  – Sophia Porter (daughter)

  – Simon Goodman

  – Callum Goodman

  – George & Ivy Moore (Melissa’s parents)

  – Clémentine Rouquier (au pair)

  – Holly Lovell (pathologist: Amber)

  – Roger Sparks (pathologist: Ellie)

  – Martin May QC (Melissa’s barrister)

  John and I both interviewed Michael Slade and Simon Goodman, Melissa’s ex-husbands; Jennifer Porter called Jon on the phone, and Jon rang Melissa’s lawyer to get a quote for his article. So I’ve crossed out those names. Jon went to visit Melissa Slade in prison this morning, so I score a line through her name too. He has also talked to Melissa’s father. Melissa’s mother is still on the list. But she wouldn’t talk to Jon, so she’s unlikely to talk to me. She hates reporters, apparently.

  No one seems to know where Bella Slade is, so we can’t interview her. She was there the night Amber died. She may know something that could point us in the right direction, but as Jon pointed out, if her parents don’t know where she is, we’re unlikely to be able to find her.

  And Bella’s not the only one who is conspicuous in her absence. As far as I’m aware, the au pair didn’t stick around for the tri
al, either.

  I go on Facebook after all, glancing around to check no one is looking over my shoulder, even though I’m doing this for research purposes. Clémentine Rouquier sounded like it might be a common French name to me, but to my surprise, only one comes up when I type it in the search bar. There aren’t many public posts. I scroll through the stuff that’s not hidden by her privacy settings. Photos of bottles of wine and grapes. It’s her.

  In one of the latest posts, there’s a photo of a book cover. Le Guide Hachette des Vins 2018. And a second photo next to it of a page inside that book. I read the entry that has been highlighted. I get the gist. Côtes du Rhône. Appellation d’origine contrôlée. Château des Amoureux. A rating of two stars, out of three, presumably. I google Château des Amoureux. There’s an English version, so I click on the Union Jack. The vineyard has belonged to the Rouquier family for more than a century and it is situated in Saint-Martin-d’Ardèche, in the Rhône Valley, near Montélimar, less than two hours south of Lyon.

  A plan begins to form in my mind and I jot down the address but then I whirl round, sensing someone looking over my shoulder.

  ‘Tut tut,’ Jon says, nodding towards my laptop screen, but I can tell from his tone he’s joking.

  ‘It’s for work, honest,’ I return. ‘You’re looking cool, by the way.’

  ‘Cool, huh?’

  ‘Yeah. Nice suit.’ It amuses me that he got scrubbed up to go and see Melissa Slade in prison. Like he’s the one who had to make a good impression.

  ‘Hot suit,’ he says, chuckling, as he shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair.

  ‘So, come on. What was she like? Did she do it? Or is she innocent?’

  ‘Hmm. The jury’s still out on that one, so to speak.’ He plugs his laptop into the docking station. I know he was worried about this visit, but I was excited. I want to know all about it, but he seems distracted.