The Guilty Mother

by Diane Jeffrey

  ‘Kelly, I don’t think you should mention this to anyone else,’ I say when she has finished. I lower my voice and add, ‘I think a juror who reveals anything that happened in a deliberation room is in contempt of court and liable to a hefty fine or …’ I break off. I don’t want to scare her too much.

  But Kelly finishes my sentence for me. ‘Prison.’

  ‘Yeah. Let’s keep this to ourselves, OK?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  I don’t catch what she says after that and I have to ask her to say it again.

  ‘You couldn’t make it up,’ she repeats, more loudly to make herself heard over the noise of the rain. ‘I mean, it’s one hell of a coincidence, right?’

  ‘Yes, it certainly is.’

  ‘Jon, I’m home. Thank you so much for this.’

  ‘Not at all, Kelly. Any time.’

  ‘Have a nice evening, Jon. See you on Monday.’

  Kelly ends the call and Holly bombards me with questions. I fill her in on Slade, but I don’t mention the jury service. If Holly heard any snippets of my side of that conversation, she doesn’t probe. I push Kelly’s phone call to a recess of my mind for now. I’ve got to concentrate on something else.

  I pull Holly in for a hug.

  ‘Now I know I’ve chosen the right man,’ she says.

  ‘Because I give good hugs?’

  ‘No! Because you have wonderful paternal instinct.’ I think she’s referring to Noah and Alfie, but she adds, ‘You’re very good to Kelly, you know.’

  I straighten my arms, holding Holly away from me so I can look at her – my bright, beautiful girlfriend, who is carrying my baby. She’s wearing a thin waistcoat over a warm shirt. I keep staring at her tummy, but you can’t see she’s pregnant yet. For the moment, the boys only know that Daddy has a girlfriend. We’re going to break the news to them about the baby this evening over dinner.

  Holly and I have decided to put her flat and my house on the market and start looking for a place together, with the boys. We’ll be looking in the Kingswood area so that they don’t have the extra upheaval of changing schools. How soon we can start house-hunting depends on the boys’ reactions. It’s big enough for all of us, including the baby, here, and I’d like Holly to move in with us in the meantime, if the boys are all right with that, but both Holly and I would like to choose a place together and start over. I’m worried Noah and Alfie won’t jump on board with all our plans, but I’ll do my best to sell it to them.

  ‘One thing at a time,’ Holly reminds me as I call the boys to the table. This has become her motto when we’re discussing Noah, Alfie and the baby.

  As the boys are tucking in to their meatballs and pasta, I feel a tightening in my stomach. I play over in my head exactly what I want to say. This is an announcement I need to rehearse a bit. I can’t just wing it.

  ‘Now, before dessert—’ I begin, adopting a serious tone of voice and a serious expression on my face.

  ‘What’s pudding?’ This from Alfie.

  ‘You can have ice cream, if you like—’

  ‘Yay!’ says Alfie.

  ‘But Holly and I have something to tell you first.’

  ‘You’re getting married,’ Noah says. It doesn’t sound like a question.

  ‘No. Not quite. Not yet. We’re having a baby. You’re going to have a little …’ We went for the scan yesterday. I was overjoyed when I found out we were having a boy, although I think I’d have been delighted either way. But a boy, well, it really does feel like a new beginning. ‘… baby brother. Next February.’

  Holly squeezes my hand under the table. It gives me support and warmth at the same time. I squeeze back.

  Alfie looks crestfallen. ‘Does that mean we’ll have to turn the games room back into a baby’s room?’

  ‘Er … no. The baby can sleep with … me … us … Holly and me, to begin with.’ This could get awkward. ‘And when we’re all ready, we’ll move into somewhere a bit bigger. It will be somewhere near here so that you can keep your friends and stay at the same schools.’

  The boys are silent as this sinks in.

  ‘You can help us choose the new house,’ Holly says gently. ‘The baby will have his own room in the new house. And we’ll make sure we find somewhere where you can have a games room.’

  ‘Maybe we should share it with the baby. He can have a play area,’ Alfie suggests, making me choke up. That’s my boy.

  ‘Can we help choose the baby’s name, too?’ Noah asks Holly.

  ‘Yes! That would be very helpful!’

  ‘The baby can sleep in my room with me until we move house,’ Noah offers. Now I’m struggling not to cry.

  ‘Can we have our ice cream now?’ asks Alfie.

  Holly doesn’t stay over. She thinks it’s better to let Noah and Alfie digest what we’ve told them. The boys are surprised she’s not there when they get up. But Holly’s right. One thing at a time. And it’s one thing telling the boys they’re going to have a baby brother. It’s quite another announcing to my parents when they pick up Noah and Alfie the next morning that I’m going to be a father again. I can’t be sure of their reactions and I’m glad Holly’s not there for that part. I’ll go round to her place when the boys have left with my parents.

  It goes better than expected, my mum reminding me that I promised her a third grandchild once before, and my father congratulating me by thumping me on the back so hard that I nearly fall over. Then they’re ushering their grandsons out of the door. They’ll have a great day out. Mum and Dad are far better grandparents than they ever were parents.

  I grin like a loon on the way to Holly’s, feeling relieved. I’m looking forward to building my future with Holly and the three boys. We’ll be a family. I’m trying to enjoy this as much as possible and not let what happened in the past – with Mel and Rosie – make me paranoid.

  ‘That went well last night,’ are her first words as she lets me into her flat.

  ‘Couldn’t have gone better,’ I say, taking Holly into my arms and kicking the front door shut behind me.

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Yes, please. Shall I make it?’

  ‘No, you take a seat.’ She nods towards the sofa. ‘I’ll do it.’

  Leaving my shoes by the door, I flop down on the sofa, while Holly makes her way to the kitchen. I’ve always liked Holly’s place. She has good taste in interior design and I hope with her eye for deco, we’ll make our new house into a beautiful home.

  Holly’s slippers are under the coffee table and her laptop is on it. I smile, reminiscing about evenings when I would watch the news and she would work, her feet up on the table and her computer on her thighs.

  My eyes rest on the wallpaper picture on Holly’s computer screen. It’s a photo she took on a safari holiday with some friends in South Africa. Two zebras standing next to each other, facing in opposite directions, the one behind bigger than the one in front. What’s great about this photo is that the stripes of the two animals are perfectly aligned, as if they have been painted across both mare and foal with long, sweeping movements.

  Then I spot it. A Word document, nestling among the numerous folders on the desktop. It only catches my eye because no other Word documents are visible, presumably all tidied into the folders. Its name consists of two capital letters whereas the folders all seem to be clearly labelled in lower-case letters.

  At first, I think nothing much of it. Sitting back comfortably on the sofa, I cross my arms and put my feet up on the table, the way Holly always does. Then it hits me. I sit bolt upright as if I’ve been stung by a wasp. I think I know what those letters stand for.

  I glance to my right. The door from the living room to the kitchen is ajar and I can hear Holly bustling around, but I can’t see her. More importantly, she can’t see me. Leaning over, I double-click to open the file. But a dialogue box appears, asking me to enter a password. The document is encrypted.

  Now I’m convinced I’ve guessed correctly. I even have a hunch I know
what this document is about. Oh, God! Oh, no! From the corner of my eye, I notice the door from the kitchen open. Quickly, I close the dialogue box and sink back into the sofa again, just as Holly comes in, carrying our mugs of tea.

  ‘Everything OK? What do you fancy doing? We have the whole day to ourselves. Wa-hey!’

  I paint a smile on my face as Holly sits down beside me and I try to answer naturally. Everything I say echoes strangely in my ears and my voice no longer sounds like my own. Our conversation is out of step with the question going through my head. What should I do now?

  We decide to go for a walk, so we head to the Clifton Suspension Bridge and cross it to stroll around Leigh Woods. It’s sunny and the view over the Avon Gorge is spectacular. I do my best to relax and enjoy the moment.

  But my mind keeps wandering back to the document I’ve just seen on Holly’s laptop. Could this be a coincidence? I hear Kelly’s words in my head. One hell of a coincidence. That’s what she said on the phone. This whole Melissa Slade case is riddled with coincidences and it’s making me feel uneasy. Did both Amber and Ellie die of cot death? Or would that be too much of a coincidence? Melissa Slade asked herself the same question. On top of that, Ruby Fox was one of the jurors and Dr Holly Lovell, my Holly, was the pathologist who carried out the post-mortem on Amber.

  But this document. This can’t be a coincidence. Not if my hunch is right. A chill runs down my spine, as if someone is trailing their cold fingers down my back.

  Chapter 28

  Kelly

  September 2018

  On arriving at The Rag’s offices, it’s obvious that something is different, but I can’t quite figure out what it is. I’m still half-asleep. As I flop down at my workstation, I notice everything has gone from Jon’s desk – the lamp, the notepads, the pen pot, the pile of books, his wastepaper bin, the computer cables, everything. Then I get it. Jon won’t be working next to me anymore. The thought unsettles me a little, although I’m not sure why. I guess I’ve just got used to him sitting there, keeping an eye on my copy and keeping me company.

  I make myself wait for a few minutes before knocking on the door of his new office. Unlike the Aquarium, it’s not glass-walled – the walls are made out of plywood or plasterboard or something flimsy – and I can’t see if he’s there or not.

  ‘Come in,’ he calls.

  Pushing open the door, I peer cautiously round it. He’s unpacking books and things out of a cardboard box. ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I wanted to play you the recording, you know, of Slade. Is now a bad time?’

  ‘Good morning, Kelly. No, it’s fine. Have a seat.’ He gestures at the chair on the opposite side of the desk to his and sits down on his own swivel chair.

  ‘Nice office.’ Jon raises his eyebrows at that. I look around the room. Small. Dark despite the white walls. One desk, two chairs, three shelves. ‘Well, it’s a bit minimalist, but it could be all right.’

  ‘It’s dark and stinks of paint. And there’s not even enough room to hold meetings with more than one colleague at a time. Now, let’s hear what Slade had to say for himself.’

  I sit down and play Jon the recording. It’s patchy in places, but you can just about make out the whole conversation. ‘What do you think?’ I ask, when it’s finished.

  ‘Well, as you said yourself, he doesn’t deny it when you accuse him of abusing Bella. On the contrary, it sounds more like he’s admitting it, but knows he’ll get away with it.’

  ‘That bit about me not being able to prove it, right? Can I tell you what I think?’ I’m aware I’m speaking too fast. I couldn’t sleep last night and now I’m wired after drinking too much caffeine this morning. It’s an effort to sit still and not jump up and start pacing across the limited floor space.

  Jon looks amused. ‘Go on,’ he says.

  ‘I think Slade’s words could have a darker, hidden meaning. He said Bella wouldn’t talk to me even if I found her. What if she’s dead? If he knew that, he’d know there was no way I’d find out anything from Bella even if I could find Bella herself.’

  Jon makes a disgusting snorting sound. I realise I’m not pitching this idea very well. I’m not making much sense. ‘What makes you think she’s dead?’ he asks.

  ‘Think about it. It would explain why no one knows where she is and why no one is even looking for her.’

  ‘But her mum spotted her. Mrs … what’s her name?’

  ‘Brock.’

  ‘Brock, that’s it. Mrs Brock told you she saw her daughter in the Old City.’

  ‘Yes, but she didn’t get to talk to her. According to Brock, when she called out, Bella ran off. And perhaps she didn’t see Bella at all.’

  ‘You mean she was mistaken? She called out to someone who looked like her daughter, who bolted?’

  ‘Well, yes, maybe. She might have been bladdered and thought it was Bella when it wasn’t. Or she might have been lying, covering up for her ex-husband. She made up the story so that everyone would think Bella was still alive.’ Jon doesn’t say anything. ‘So, what do you think?’ I prompt.

  ‘Honestly?’ I nod. ‘I think it’s pure conjecture.’ He says this gently, which softens the blow. ‘Slade may well have sexually abused Bella, which would make him a paedophile and a pervert. But it doesn’t make him a killer. What possible motive could Slade have for bumping Bella off? And why would Mrs Brock cover up for it with a fake sighting of their daughter? I’m sorry, Kelly. I don’t buy it.’

  Jon’s scepticism is rubbing off on me. My theory seemed watertight when I came up with it at three a.m., but now I can see it’s full of holes. It’s one of those flawed ideas that seem like a brainwave in the middle of the night, but in the cold light of day you realise it’s total crap.

  ‘I just wondered if there might be a connection between one daughter being missing and the other two being murdered,’ I say.

  ‘If they were murdered.’

  ‘I can’t help thinking Slade’s involved somehow.’

  ‘Listen, I want to ring Simon Goodman about Michael Slade following you on Saturday evening. I’d like his take on it. I’ll ask him if he’s got anything on Slade. I expect Goodman will tell me Slade is a prick, but a harmless one, but in the meantime, Kelly, stay clear of him. And don’t go looking for Bella without me. It might provoke Slade. We haven’t got any proof he’s a murderer, but he does seem to have a predilection for young women and we don’t know if he’s dangerous.’

  Around half eleven, we have the usual Monday morning editorial meeting, only today it’s being held upstairs. For once, we all arrive on time, keen to check out the new “conference room”.

  It smells like Jon’s office, of paint and turps. But the windows the length of the far wall make it much lighter in here. Most of the space is taken up by a long Formica table with more than enough room – but not enough chairs – for every member of the reporting and advertising staff to sit around it. I remain standing, leaning against the wall, while the more senior employees of The Rag claim their seats. Jon, however, stands next to me.

  ‘I’ve arranged to see Goodman in a day or two, hopefully,’ he whispers, his eyes on Claire as she struts across the room to open a window.

  That sounds like a vague sort of arrangement. Does Jon need to see Goodman? I thought a phone call would do the trick. ‘Should I be worried?’ I ask. ‘That you’re actually discussing this with him in person, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, no, not at all, Kelly. I need to see him about another matter. Fairly urgently.’

  ‘So, in a day or two, hopefully.’

  ‘Yeah. Just … um … busy schedules, that’s all.’

  ‘OK.’ Jon’s not telling me everything, but it probably has nothing to do with me.

  ‘Careful!’ Jon gently pushes my shoulder away from the wall. ‘I think the paint might still be a bit wet.’ He points with his other hand at the floor and I follow his gaze. We’re standing on sheets of newspaper, speckled with paint and littered around the perimeter of the conference room.

/>   Claire starts to talk and the excited buzz of chatter peters out. She likes everyone to attend these meetings, encouraging us all to participate and moderating our lively debates. Most of the input, though, comes from Jon, who drafts a list of stories beforehand and pitches them to Claire. All the decision-making ultimately comes from Claire after we’ve discussed which stories to run in that Thursday’s print issue. She’s the one who determines what stance the paper should adopt for any controversial articles.

  Today’s meeting will be a long one as we’re starting to work on the October edition of The Mag. I can sense my concentration waning when we get to that point. I make a conscious effort to stay attentive. But after a while, I tune out. I need more coffee. Even my legs feel tired. Some of the others are sitting on the floor, so I allow myself to sink down to the ground, too. Careful to keep my back away from the wall in case the paint isn’t dry, I hug my knees to my chest and rest my chin on them. I let my mind wander back to Bella and Michael Slade.

  Was my theory that far-fetched? No one knows for sure what happened to any of Slade’s daughters. Two died in suspicious circumstances and one is missing. He can’t be squeaky clean. But Jon’s probably right. How did he put it? There’s a huge difference between being a molester and a moron and being a murderer. Not those exact words, but that was the gist of it.

  I can feel my eyelids getting heavy, so when I see it on the floor beside me, I’m not sure if I’m dreaming. It’s a double-page spread. Written by me. Picking it up, I study the photos illustrating the article. I’m awake now. This has had the effect of ten cups of coffee on me. My article is punctuated with white spots and stripes, but one of the pictures is unblemished. It’s like it was protected from the paint spattering so it would grab my attention. I can’t tear my eyes away from it. I can’t move, although I’m vaguely aware that everyone else is filing out.