The Guilty Mother

by Diane Jeffrey

  ‘Are you all right, Kelly?’ Jon asks. He reaches out his hand, as if to pull me to my feet, but then retracts it. Too familiar a gesture, maybe, especially with Saunders still in the room.

  ‘A quick word, Jon?’ she calls.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, leaping up. ‘Look!’ I hold the newspaper page out to him.

  He frowns, then says, ‘Oh, don’t worry. There are loads more copies in Archives.’

  He’s not on the same wavelength and it takes me a second to work out what he’s thinking. I wrote that feature and it’s covered in paint. He must think I’m devastated the decorators used that edition to protect the floor. It’s sort of funny, but I’m not in a laughing mood. This is it! This is the clue that’s been right under my nose. I can’t believe I didn’t join the dots before.

  ‘It’s not that.’ Sensing Saunders approaching, I lower my voice. ‘She’s alive, Jon.’ I wave the article at him and he takes it from my hands.

  ‘Excellent piece on distracted driving, Kelly,’ she says. ‘I can’t wait to see what you come up with next. Well done.’ Saunders doesn’t often give praise. I get the impression it’s really a dismissal in disguise.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Jon throws me a bewildered look as Saunders takes him by the elbow and leads him back to the table. I hear him enquire politely after the health of Saunders’s son.

  Our conversation is over for now. I’ll have to wait to talk to him. But I’m not waiting to go to her. I run out the door and downstairs to fetch my handbag.

  Chapter 29

  Jonathan

  September 2018

  I hardly take in a word Claire is saying. It’s nothing important, nothing urgent. It could have waited. I can’t. I’m desperate to get out of here.

  Claire’s in full-monologue mode, but it’s Kelly’s voice I hear in my head. She’s alive, Jon. At first I think she means her sister, Lily. But I reject that thought as soon as it enters my head. She means Bella. Of course she does. I’m not sure what Kelly is up to, but I don’t think she should be doing it alone. Something is niggling me, but I can’t put my finger on what it is. I need Claire to stop droning on so I can think straight.

  ‘We’re done here.’ Claire’s voice breaks into my thoughts. It’s my cue to leave.

  I leg it down the stairs to the newsroom, but Kelly’s not there. Neither is her bag. Damn!

  ‘Does anyone know where Kelly is?’ I get a few blank looks in response, but most of the reporters don’t even glance up from their screens. They obviously haven’t even noticed she has left the building.

  I realise I’m still holding the double page of newspaper I took from Kelly. I sit down at her workstation and examine it. The article is stippled with so much paint that it’s unreadable and two of the photos are defaced, too. But not a single drop has fallen onto one of the pictures, which stands out, framed by white drops and splashes. It’s the photo Kelly took of one of the homeless women. As I stare at it, it seems to morph into the photo Kelly showed me, the one from the album she’d taken from Margaret Brock’s house. A close-up of Bella, a beautiful girl with shiny black hair and sad dark eyes. And a forced smile.

  The homeless woman in the newspaper illustration looks very different. She has shabby clothes and knotty lank hair. She wasn’t smiling at all when Kelly snapped that shot with her phone. But there’s no doubt about it. This homeless twenty-something is Bella Slade.

  Kelly was right. She did recognise Bella when she saw her photo in Mrs Brock’s album. But it wasn’t because Michael Slade had a photo of his daughter on the mantelpiece, as I’d suggested; it was because Kelly had interviewed Bella for her article on Bristol’s female beggars and buskers.

  Kelly must have gone to find Bella. Pulling my mobile out of my back pocket, I call her, but it goes straight to voicemail. I leave her a message. Drumming my fingers on her desk, I wait for her to call back. Kelly’s a capable, bright woman. What is it that’s bothering you, Jon?

  It suddenly occurs to me that this article came out before we went to Slade’s house. He’d behaved in a lecherous manner, ogling Kelly. Didn’t he realise Kelly had written that feature? What was Slade playing at? Why did he let us in?

  Then I remember he didn’t ask Kelly her name when we paid him a visit. This only struck me because he’d interrupted me when I was introducing her and I’d found it ironic that he then insisted on Kelly calling him by his first name when he hadn’t bothered to find out hers. Call me Michael.

  He can’t have known Kelly had written that article when we called round. He probably hadn’t even seen his daughter’s photo in the paper. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have talked to us. When we showed up on his doorstep, he knew we wanted to ask him about Melissa. He didn’t ask if it was about Bella. He can’t have realised we were on to him at the time. We didn’t realise ourselves.

  But Slade has certainly put two and two together now. He may have googled Kelly after she interviewed him. I seem to recall she left her business card when I gave him mine. Or maybe he only stumbled across Kelly’s article recently. Perhaps he did his homework after talking to Margaret Brock.

  One thing’s for sure – he has worked out that Kelly has all the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle and just needs to put them together to see the whole picture. That would explain why he followed her. He was stalking her, but not in a sexually predatory way. He was trying to scare her off. Threaten her. Because he’s wary of her.

  I need to find Kelly. We were originally investigating the Slade babies’ deaths and tracking down Bella feels like going off on a tangent. Maybe a risky one. I know Kelly is determined to find her, but she can’t go looking for her alone. Slade might be one step ahead. Where are you, Kelly? Where’s Bella? Because that’s where Kelly will be.

  Squinting, I try to find the answer in the article. But it’s no use. The print is obliterated by white paint, as if someone has deliberately put copious amounts of Tipp-Ex all over it so that I can’t make out the words. And although the photo of the homeless Bella is clear, I can’t tell where it was taken.

  Then, remembering we ran Kelly’s article on our website too, I leap up from Kelly’s chair and head for my office. I bring up the online article on my laptop and scroll down to the bit about Bella. She didn’t give her name, unlike Rose, the homeless violinist Kelly interviewed. I read Bella’s story to refresh my memory. Abused by her father, failed her exams, started taking drugs, kicked out by her mother, sexually assaulted on the streets. The poor girl. Here, in Bella’s own words, we have the confirmation we were looking for. Spelt out in black and white. Michael Slade abused his daughter. The sadistic bastard.

  Pero’s Bridge. The words seem to leap off the page at me. Kelly interviewed Bella at Pero’s Bridge on Harbourside. Snatching my jacket from the back of my chair, I sprint out of my office, across the newsroom, through the door and down the steps to the exit. It’s probably about a mile from here. There’s no point in taking the car. I’ll be quicker on foot if I run. Besides, Kelly will have headed there on foot.

  I regret taking my jacket almost immediately. I haven’t put it on and it’s impractical trying to jog with it slung over my shoulder. I regret not taking the car when I reach Redcliff Hill – only three or four minutes from The Rag’s offices. God, I’m so unfit. Walking now, I decide I really need to do some regular sport, find a moment to slot some jogging or cycling into my working week. Then I remember I’m about to be a father for the third time and shelve that plan. Sleepless nights aren’t conducive to mustering the energy and willpower required to get fit.

  Passing a pedestrian sign for the city centre, an image of the wooden wine tasting sign at the Rouquier family’s vineyard flashes before my eyes. Clémentine’s words come back to me. I don’t ’ave an address for her, if that’s what you mean. I can hear her chuckle in my head. She was making a joke, albeit one in poor taste! Bella doesn’t have a fixed address. The last I ’eard she was always in Bristol, in the centre. I’d assumed Clémentine had meant "s
till" instead of "always" and got the wrong adverb. But now I realise she knew all along where Bella was.

  A thought hits me and I feel a wave of fury flood through me, winding me for a few seconds. I stop running. Clémentine got that information from Michael Slade. He knew his daughter was in the centre of Bristol, living on the streets! He didn’t want us to find her, so he was careful not to let that slip. Mrs Brock must have known, too. She caught sight of her daughter one day in the Old City. Why didn’t she tell Kelly? Was Mrs Brock ashamed of Bella? Did she assume Kelly knew Bella was homeless? Maybe she simply didn’t trust Kelly. Whatever her reasons, she has failed her daughter.

  Poor Bella. What hope was there for the kid with parents like that? I realise I’ve clenched my fists at my sides and I force myself to take a deep breath and calm down. I’m of no use to Bella or Kelly if I let anger override me.

  I half-jog, half-walk the rest of the way and when I get there, I have to bend over, my hands on my knees, to catch my breath. I hear someone curse behind me, and turn to see a cyclist who has braked to avoid hitting me. He gives me a tight smile, dismounts and starts to push his bike over the pedestrian bridge.

  I expect Kelly found Bella somewhere back from the waterfront on the opposite bank when she interviewed her, so I start to cross the bridge. How ironic that Bella was only a mile away from our offices the whole time Kelly was trying to track her down. Even more ironic that Kelly has met her. What was it Clémentine said when we discussed the possibility that both Slade babies died of cot death? I don’t believe in coincidences. I think I am starting to.

  Then I spot Kelly leaning on the railing, peering out over the murky waters of the Floating Harbour with its boats moored along the quay. She’s partly hidden by one of the bridge’s peculiar horn-shaped counterweights, which Alfie always says look like Shrek’s ears. But I can see it’s her.

  A bubble rises inside me and transforms into a giggle, surprising me as much as an elderly lady walking the other way. I think it might be more relief at seeing Kelly than the Shrek memory. Or perhaps it’s just the adrenaline from worrying about Kelly and the endorphins from the fresh air and exercise.

  ‘She’s gone,’ Kelly says, seeing me approach. ‘I couldn’t find her.’

  ‘It’s been cold and wet recently,’ I say. ‘It’s probably a good sign she’s not outdoors. Maybe she’s got accommodation in a hostel.’

  Kelly straightens up and turns towards me, brightening at this idea. ‘You’re right,’ she says.

  ‘While we’re here, why don’t we walk around and see if we can find her? Where was it Mrs Brock claimed to have seen her? Somewhere in the Old City?’

  ‘Yes, Corn Street or Wine Street, she said.’

  ‘That’s not far. Shall we?’

  For the next hour, we walk around the Old City. We even go through The Arcade, although I can’t see why Bella would have come here. Kelly asks some of the shoppers along Wine Street and Corn Street if they come here regularly and brings up both photos of Bella on her phone – the one she took of Bella on the streets and the one from the photo album – to show to anyone who does. No one recognises Bella.

  As we walk past the Exchange for the second time, Kelly points up at the clock. ‘Did you know Bristolians refused to adopt Greenwich Mean Time at first and insisted on keeping local time? That’s why there are two minute hands on that clock. Bristol time was ten minutes behind.’

  ‘That’s fascinating, Kelly,’ I say, although it comes out sounding sarcastic as I’m fed up tramping around the Old City now. ‘GMT or local, I think it’s time to call it a day.’

  We trek back to Redcliffe and get back to work, Kelly at her desk and me in my smelly, sterile office. I think of The Exchange clock. There’s no clock in here. I need to get one and maybe a framed print of something, decorate the walls a bit.

  I have things to do – Claire is planning a special supplement of The Rag for the Armistice Centenary – but my mind keeps wandering. I check the time on my mobile again. I seem to be doing that every five minutes. Two hours until I can bunk off work. Then I’ve got a job to do.

  I’m going round to Holly’s this evening to give her a hand. She’s clearing out some things from her flat so she can make it look good for viewings. It’s going on the market in a few days. I’m picking up some of her stuff to take back to my place.

  But there’s one thing of hers in particular I need to get hold of. And I doubt she’ll put it in the bags of clothes and boxes of books for me to take home. I’ll have to try and slip it into a suitcase when she’s not looking. Holly’s laptop. I have to know for sure what’s in that document. It might just hold the key to everything – I can’t pretend I never saw it or give Holly the benefit of the doubt. I feel dishonest about this, but I think Holly has been dishonest with me.

  Chapter 30

  Kelly

  October 2018

  All anyone can talk about at work at the moment is the special supplement for the centenary. Saunders wants true stories from local people, about war heroes and heroines in their families, soldiers who fought and fell in The Great War and nurses who braved the bombs to save lives.

  She also wants us to remember those who died in more recent wars. I’ve already written one article, after interviewing some local veterans, mostly over the phone, who fought in Iraq and Afghanistan. The focus of my piece is on their hidden war wounds: depression, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, insomnia … I find their accounts of struggling to readapt to normal life heartbreaking. Writing up their stories, I want readers to remember and honour not only those who fought and died on foreign battlefields, but also those who survived and came home, for whom the fight is far from over.

  It’s only when I’ve handed my copy to Jon one afternoon later that week that I can finally get back to my quest to find Bella. Sitting at my workstation, with the help of the Internet and a local charity, I find ten places that accommodate homeless people in and around Bristol. I ring a hostel for the homeless in the city centre, but the person I speak to refuses to give me any information. I try another one. This time I’m told there’s no one there by the name of Bella. This makes me wonder if Bella would give her real name. So, instead of ringing round the hostels, I make a list.

  I leave work an hour or so early and walk into town to check out a night shelter near Pero’s Bridge. Jon has made it clear he doesn’t want me looking for Bella without him, but this might take a while and he gave me the impression that he has something important to do this evening. I send him a text message before I go.

  The double white doors of the night shelter are closed. I ring the bell and wait, then knock, but there’s no answer. Maybe it opens later in the evening. I’ve noted the name and address of a hostel about fifteen minutes away on foot. I decide to go there.

  Just then my mobile goes. It’s Jon.

  ‘Where are you?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m on my way to check out a hostel along Cheltenham Road.’ There’s a pause and I wonder if we’ve been disconnected. But then Jon says, ‘Kelly, can you text me the exact address and send me a message as soon as you’re done? I’d feel happier knowing where you are and I don’t want you taking any risks.’

  Not for the first time, I’m touched by how much Jon looks out for me. He’s almost paternal, in a way my father once was, before alcohol consumed him. With a wistful smile, I end the call, text Jon the address, then bring up Google Maps on my phone.

  The hostel is inside a large grey stone townhouse. It’s both the oldest and most beautiful building in the street. I’m surprised by this, although I don’t know what I was expecting. Something resembling a school sports hall, maybe. This time the door opens when I push it, so I go inside. I’m immediately accosted by a young woman with a ponytail wearing an orange fleece. She’s also wearing a badge identifying her as MATHILDA VOLUNTEER but she introduces herself anyway and asks how she can help.

  ‘I’m looking for someone who was on the streets a few months ago,’ I say. ‘B
ella Slade?’

  ‘Bella. That name’s familiar,’ Mathilda says. ‘I’d need to check the books. Can you tell me why you’re looking for her?’

  ‘I’m a journalist.’ I find my press pass and flash it at her for good measure. ‘I’ve written a feature about the plight of homeless women in Bristol. I interviewed Bella for it, and I’d like to do a follow-up.’ I’m shocked that the lie slips so easily off my tongue. But it’s close to the truth, I guess.

  ‘I’d need to check with someone if it’s all right for me to give out information. It might be better if you leave your mobile number or business card and I can try and track down Bella, then ask her to get in touch with you.’

  ‘You can’t tell me if she’s here now?’

  ‘There’s no one called Bella here at the moment. This is an emergency hostel. People tend to stay here temporarily before moving on somewhere else.’

  I’m about to ask where when someone calls my name.

  I whirl round. ‘It is you!’ A girl in khaki trousers, a beanie and fingerless gloves is marching down the disinfectant-smelling corridor towards me. ‘Remember me?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ It’s Rose, the busker I also interviewed for my article. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m good. I’ve got a flat in a housing project now. I work here a bit. Try to help the homeless like the volunteers here helped me. Pay it forward, you know? What are you doing here? Are you writing another article?’

  ‘Sort of. I’m looking for someone, a woman about your age who was also living on the streets.’ I’m still holding my mobile, which I used for directions to get here, so I flick through the photos until I find the one I took of Bella.

  ‘I know her!’ My heart skips a beat and soars, but then plummets when Rose adds, ‘That’s one of the other girls you wrote about. I bought the newspaper, you know. I’d never been in the paper before.’