He swivels round in his chair to face me. I know I’ve got his full attention when he starts staring at my nose stud.
‘She was OK. Pleasant. Polite. Pretty. I thought she’d be self-pitying and attention-seeking, but she was, well … normal, I suppose. But I’m still not convinced she’s innocent.’
‘Why?’
‘I got the impression there was something she wasn’t telling me. When she told me about finding her babies dead, she used the same words she’d written in her diary. Some of it was verbatim. It’s all a bit … contrived. Rehearsed.’
‘So did you get anything useful out of her?’
‘No, nothing at all,’ he says, still addressing my piercing. ‘But she said something I found strange. She said she’d do anything for her son.’
‘What’s weird about that?’
‘I just wondered why she didn’t say children instead of son.’
‘She’s only got one child now,’ I point out. ‘Her son.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I told myself.’
‘So, what do we do next?’
‘I’m not planning to do anything else,’ he says. ‘Claire wants me to update the story online and upload some photos I took of the outside of the prison. For the print edition, I’ll write an article about meeting a convicted killer, that sort of thing. Simon gave Claire a photo of Melissa holding a twin in each arm and looking radiant for that one. Here, look.’
He slides a photo across his desk towards me.
‘Where did Simon get this?’ I ask, thinking that the photographer must have been Michael Slade.
‘From Melissa’s parents, I suppose. The photo alone should do the trick. In any case, after that, I’ll have served my purpose. This will no longer be a scoop. It will be national news. It’ll be on TV. It’s going to become much bigger than The Rag. By the time Melissa’s appeal comes round in November, there will be journos everywhere.’
‘I thought Claire wanted an exclusive. Interviews with family members et cetera.’
‘Yeah. I think what Claire actually wanted was for us to set the tone.’ He sounds pissed off now and I’m not sure if it’s with Claire or me. ‘If the first person to report in any detail on a possible miscarriage of justice is on the side of the defendant, or the appellant, or whatever she is, then everyone will follow suit.’
‘I don’t get it. Are you saying Saunders was hoping to influence public opinion? Why would she want to do that?’
‘Let’s just say I think she owed Superintendent Goodman a favour.’
‘So you’re just going to swan off to France and forget about all of this?’ The words are out before I can stop them. Jon is my boss. Sort of. I can’t speak to him like that.
‘Pretty much, yeah. I was determined to get to the truth, too. But we may never get to the bottom of this, you know.’
‘But someone knows the truth.’ I’m aware I’m raising my voice, and there are people in the room gawking at us now, but I can’t stop myself.
‘Sure, but if that person is Melissa, no one else will ever find out what really happened to those poor babies.’ He combs his hair with his fingers and it stands on end. ‘She won’t ever confess if she did it.’
‘What if Melissa doesn’t know what happened? Have you considered that?’
‘So now you think she’s innocent?’ He turns back to his computer and I think I’ve lost him and the argument. I can’t believe he’s going to give up on this story.
‘I don’t know about that,’ I say more softly. ‘I’m just saying, someone knows the truth, but maybe Melissa doesn’t. We can’t give up, Jon.’
He grunts and logs in. ‘Look, the month of August tends to be quiet in journalism, as you know. Apart from the fact nothing newsworthy really happens, everyone is away on holiday. You can spend some time working on this while I’m on holiday. If you manage to find anything, you can tell me all about it when I get back. I’ll only be gone a week.’
‘While you’re away, I thought I’d carry on working my way through the list. I’d like to pay Callum a visit. Which uni does he go to?’
‘He dropped out, according to his mother. So he’s back home, at his father’s, I should think. He’s the main reason she wants to get out of jail.’
‘I see. Is it OK with you if I ask him a few questions?’
‘Maybe check with Simon Goodman first.’ He grabs a Post-it and brings his emails up on his laptop screen. He scribbles something down and then hands me the Post-it. It has Simon Goodman’s email address and mobile number on it.
‘I’ve got a contact for you, too.’
‘Oh?’ He sounds completely uninterested. Undeterred, I hand him the piece of paper with the address I wrote down a few minutes ago. ‘What’s this?’
‘Clémentine Rouquier, the Slade twins’ nanny. This is the address of her father’s vineyard. I thought as you were going to the south of France on holi …’ I break off when I see the stern look he’s giving me. ‘It’s two hours south of Lyon,’ I add, but I think my voice is drowned out by the hammering from upstairs.
‘I’m taking a well-earned break, Kelly. It’s not a working holiday. It’s a family holiday. Just me and my boys. And anyway, we’re going to the Camargue. It’s nowhere near Lyon.’
I want to point out that this place isn’t near Lyon either, and it’s probably only a few hours’ drive from the Camargue, but Jon opens a small box and takes out his earplugs, a clear signal that our conversation is over. But I notice he puts the piece of paper down on his desk, which I take as a good sign. He won’t drop our investigation. Will he?
A drill starts up somewhere in the building.
Jon turns to me. ‘Hopefully the workmen will have finished by the time I get back. It’s been months.’ I’m not sure if he’s shouting to make himself heard over the noise or because he has earplugs in, but either way, he’s not angry with me, which is a relief.
I write an email to Simon Goodman, explaining that I’ll be continuing to report on Melissa’s miscarriage of justice during Jon’s absence and asking if I can meet up with his son. I don’t know what I expect Callum to tell me if I do get to see him. I’d like to find out what he thinks of his mother and what she was like before his baby sisters died. And before they were born, come to think of it, when he was little. That would be a good start.
I check my emails every now and again, but there’s no reply from Superintendent Goodman by the end of the afternoon when it’s time to go home. Crap! I close down my computer.
Jon starts to undock his laptop.
‘Have a nice time,’ I say when he has taken out his earplugs. ‘The Camargue, you say? White horses and flamingos?’ I remember going camping there with my parents when I was little. We were eaten alive by mosquitoes despite spraying ourselves liberally with insect repellent and burning citronella candles.
‘And sea and sun,’ Jon says, standing up and hooking his jacket over his shoulder. ‘This time tomorrow, we’ll be on the plane.’
His words from earlier come back to me. Just me and my boys. He’s married, though. He wears a wedding ring. And I remember seeing photos of the four of them all over the living room when I babysat for Noah and Alfie.
I wonder why his wife isn’t going. I don’t dare ask him. Besides, it’s none of my business. But my mind tries to fill in the blanks. Perhaps she’s working and couldn’t get time off. Or maybe his marriage has broken down. I’m sure he was seeing that pathologist, Holly. His wife may have found out. Jon’s a good guy on the whole, but I can’t stand infidelity. If he got caught with his trousers down, it serves him right.
When Jon has left the office, I pack up my own things. Just as I’m about to leave, my phone pings with an incoming mail. I plonk everything down on my desk and fish my mobile out of my handbag. It’s from Simon Goodman. He suggests I come round to his place at the weekend. Fab! I fire off a quick reply.
I happen to glance down on my way past Jon’s desk and spot a piece of paper, scrunched up in his was
te paper bin. Bending down, I pick it up. I know what it is even before I smooth out the creases. It’s the piece of scrap paper I wrote the address of the vineyard on. My heart sinks. It looks like I’m on my own with the Melissa Slade case from now on.
Chapter 21
Jonathan
August 2018
‘There’s no way I’m going across that, Daddy,’ Alfie says.
We’re standing on the banks of the River Gardon, admiring the Pont du Gard. Well, I’m admiring it. Alfie is staring fearfully at the tourists walking on the lower level of the aqueduct.
‘That wasn’t part of the plan,’ I say.
‘Ba-by. How old did you say it was, Dad?’ Noah addresses both Alfie and me in the same breath without taking his eyes off the screen of my mobile as he takes photos.
‘About two thousand years old.’
‘And it’s still standing,’ Noah muses.
This, of course, is what’s troubling Alfie, who was glued to the TV, watching the images on repeat a fortnight ago when the viaduct in Genova collapsed.
‘The Romans were incredible builders. We could do with some of them in the offices of The Rag, actually.’
‘Shame the Italians didn’t inherit their skills,’ Noah comments wryly.
I’m about to point out that when the Ponte Morandi was built, no one could have foreseen how much traffic would be using it sixty years later, but Noah already knows this. He’s very clued-up on current affairs for his age. I bite my tongue and let it go.
It has been a lovely day so far and I want it to continue that way. We visited Nîmes – the amphitheatre this morning and the temple of Diana this afternoon. Despite the heat and the lack of shade, the boys were on their best behaviour, largely thanks to my promise of ice cream after the visits. But I’m sensing they’ve had enough of Roman ruins for one day.
‘What do you want to do?’ I ask. ‘Go back to the gîte and play a game? Go for a swim? Visit something else?’
‘I want to watch a DVD,’ Alfie says.
‘We’ve watched the ones we brought with us,’ Noah argues.
We go back to the hire car with its steering wheel on the wrong side. Noah, who is allowed in the front seat as long as he reminds me to drive on the right every time we set off, activates Siri on my phone. Between them, they find an Auchan a few miles – correction, kilometres – away. In the supermarket, we stock up on food – baguettes, cheese, crisps, pâté, popcorn and sweets mainly – and buy two DVDs. Noah chooses Thor: Ragnarok, and Alfie goes for The Incredibles 2, or Les Indestructibles 2, as it’s apparently called in French. I check the DVDs have the English language version.
I spot a DVD on the shelf with the title Amoureux de ma Femme. I only got a ‘B’ in my French GCSE, but I know what that means. My heart skips a beat as I picture Mel on our wedding day. I was madly in love with my wife.
Then my mind leaps to the piece of paper I balled up and threw into the paper basket under my workstation a few days ago. Château des Amoureux. The name of the vineyard Kelly wanted me to go to.
‘Let’s go and pay, lads,’ I say, snapping out of my reverie.
As I open the boot to put the shopping in, Alfie points at the car DVD player. It was a present from my parents for their grandsons and we brought it with us in one of the suitcases. I’ve kept it in the boot in case we do a lot of motorway or get stuck in traffic so the boys don’t get too bored.
‘Can we watch my one now?’ Alfie pleads.
‘We’ll be back at the gîte in a little while. Wouldn’t you rather wait till then?’
‘No.’
I’m about to refuse and hand him the packet of Carambar chews instead, but then I change my mind. Not just about the DVD. ‘All right. Why not?’
Noah hops into the back and gets the DVD player sorted out while I mess around with google and then fiddle with the satnav.
After driving for ten minutes in the opposite direction to the gîte, I glance in the rear-view mirror. Both Noah and Alfie are fast asleep with their earphones in. I unplug the power cable of the DVD player from the cigarette lighter socket. According to the satnav, I should be there in another forty-six minutes. Saint-Martin-d’Ardèche, the place is called. As I slow down at a roundabout, I switch on the radio to a station called RTL2, which is playing a U2 track, and I sigh.
‘You win, Kelly,’ I mutter, then start singing along with Bono.
Half an hour or so later, after several minutes of incomprehensible adverts, a French song – something halfway between rap and hip-hop – comes over the airwaves and through my car speakers. Switching the radio off, I begin to wonder if it was a mistake to come here. At the very least I should have rung ahead. This is a family estate. Clémentine’s father probably still runs the place. For all I know, Clémentine doesn’t even work in the wine industry herself.
I don’t have a clue what to ask her anyway. What do I want to know, exactly? I’ve been too impulsive, coming here on a whim – Kelly’s whim. My boys are still fast asleep. I could turn round and head back. They’d never know. No one would.
Just then I see the first signpost for Saint-Martin-d’Ardèche pointing across a bridge over the Ardèche River. There’s a group of kayakers paddling down the river, and the gorges, dark green and chalky white, are reflected in it. I’m almost here now. I may as well go and see if Clémentine’s around.
Once in the village itself, I get a bit lost. The satnav sends me up a tiny road, which is little more than a footpath. At the end of it, I’m instructed to turn left. I look dubiously at the field I’m supposed to drive through and reverse all the way back down the track.
Turning around at the bottom, I spot a couple of joggers. They stop obligingly when I sound my horn and open my window. ‘Pour aller au Château des Amoureux, s’il vous plaît?’ I say, my GCSE French coming back to me in my hour of need.
They both turn and point in the direction I’m facing. One of them pulls out his earphones and garbles directions. I don’t catch a single word. But I can see the vines stretching across the hillside and a domineering white stone castle perched on top of the hill, nothing but blue sky above it.
Noah stirs and asks where we are. I tell him I have to make a stop on the way back to the gîte for work. To my surprise, he doesn’t moan. When I get to the Rouquier family’s vineyard, both Noah and Alfie are wide awake. I park in front of the main building and see a little wooden sign for “dégustation”, which fortunately has the translation – wine tasting – underneath.
A Border collie bounds towards us, its tail wagging, as we get out of the car and I leave the boys fussing over it as I follow the sign around the back of the property. There’s another sign with the same word on a door and a bell tinkles as I open it. I enter a dark, cool room, my eyes taking a second or two to adjust to the dimness. There’s a musty smell in here, overlaid with the odour of tannin and wood. A barrel is pushed to one side of the room with empty wine glasses sitting on top of it, and a couple of high stools are lined up along a bar. I notice some certificates or awards framed and hanging on the stone walls.
A man in his early sixties materialises behind the bar. Damn. I was expecting Clémentine. I’m not entirely sure what she looks like, but this certainly isn’t her.
‘Je veux Clémentine,’ I say. The man says nothing, but his eyebrows, shooting up towards his balding head, tell me my three-word sentence isn’t quite right. ‘Je voudrais voir Clémentine,’ I try again, adding, ‘s’il vous plaît,’ as an afterthought.
He gets out his mobile and talks down it in French. Then he ends the call, giving me a tight smile. After a few minutes, just as I’m beginning to think that maybe the phone call had nothing to do with my request, the bell goes again. I whirl round and find myself face to face with a tall, slim woman in her mid-twenties. She’s wearing a singlet over denim shorts and her skin is bronzed from the sun. She has the same dark brown eyes as the man. Clémentine.
‘On se connaît?’ she asks me.
I get
it when she repeats her question. I reply in English. ‘No, we don’t know each other, but we have an acquaintance in common.’
She makes her way behind the bar and opens a fridge. Twisting the cap off a plastic bottle of Evian, she takes several gulps. Her hands are stained, from the grapes I imagine. ‘C’est bon, Papa,’ she says, dismissing the man. ‘C’est l’ami d’un de mes copains.’
Her father grunts and leaves the way he came in – through a door behind the bar. I climb up onto a bar stool. For a few seconds, neither of us speaks, each appraising the other.
Then I say, ‘My name is Jonathan Hunt. I’m a reporter for The Redcliffe Gazette. I was on holiday not far from here—’
‘Redcliffe? You come from Bristol?’ Her inquisitive look is replaced by a wary one. ‘Is this about Michael Slade?’
‘No, it’s more about his ex-wife, Melissa,’ I say, wondering why Clémentine would think I’ve come about Michael. Because of her affair with him?
‘Ex?’
‘Yes, they divorced while she was in prison.’
‘Was?’
‘She’s still in prison. But she has an appeal pending. I’m investigating a possible miscarriage of justice. Would you mind talking to me? I won’t take up much of your time.’
‘I have nothing to say. I considered myself lucky that I didn’t have to go to court before. I only had to provide a statement. I’d rather not get involved.’
‘You don’t have to answer anything you don’t feel comfortable with and I don’t need to name you as a source.’ When she doesn’t respond, I try a different tactic. ‘Please? I’ve come all this way.’
‘I had understood you were on holiday near here?’
‘Well, yes …’ I’m not sure how to implore with my eyes, but I aim for that expression now.
‘OK. As long as this is … off the record … Is that how you say it?’
‘Yes. Off the record. You have my word. Your English is perfect, by the way. My French is terrible.’
The Guilty Mother Page 15
