* * *
—
Her hands stilled. There it was, halfway through the autopsy. Evidence of suffocation. Blood in the lungs. Fibers. Shit, Julia thought. Shit.
No matter how many times Julia saw such things, the hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention each and every time.
Right then, she thought grimly. Now. We are looking at suffocation.
She checked the scans. She couldn’t wait. She leafed through them quickly. Nothing on the tox screen. Blood cultures normal.
She turned to the eyes. And there they were, as she expected. Retinal hemorrhages. Little, dotted red sunspots on the retina. Blood where there shouldn’t be. She checked the mouth, too. Bruised gums.
It was one of the most obvious cases Julia had ever seen. And she was of the opinion that this could only mean one thing: Layla had died from being smothered, whether accidentally or deliberately, she couldn’t tell. But she had died because she couldn’t breathe.
Something had obstructed her airway.
Something or someone.
39
Martha
I can feel that my eyes have filmed over, the courtroom blurred, but I am not crying, not really. Julia’s detached way of talking has helped to delude me. It is not Layla she’s talking about. No. It is someone—something—else. We’ve had the funeral. It’s gone. I’m glad I didn’t know then what had happened to her in that postmortem.
I try again—I’ve tried so often—to recall whether or not Layla had a birthmark behind her ear. I’ve looked at hundreds of photographs of her, but none capture the correct angle. I’ve gone over and over my memories of her, but I can’t recall. I just can’t. I am the world’s worst mother.
“Thank you, Julia,” Ellen says. “It is agreed between the parties that the experts who examined the pathologist’s slides—the ophthalmologist as to her eye injuries, for example—will not be questioned. Their evidence is not in dispute.” Ellen says it more to the judge than to anybody else. “I wasn’t sure, Your Honor, when to address that agreement with the jury.”
“That’s fine, Ms. Hendry.” He turns to the jury. “Does everybody understand this? The evidence you are hearing has been agreed by other experts. We have deemed only Ms. Todd’s evidence to be relevant, because the other findings have confirmed her views, and we wished to avoid a parade of experts in the court, confusing matters.”
The jury nods at him, one uniform mass of heads.
“Okay, then,” he says, turning back to Ellen. “Please resume.”
“All right, Julia. Almost done,” Ellen says. “Let’s just be clear about these findings.”
“Let’s,” Julia says, pleasantly, as if they were discussing what they would eat for dinner that evening. “I found evidence of asphyxia in Layla’s postmortem.”
“What evidence?”
“Each piece?”
“Yes,” Ellen says slowly, slightly exasperatedly, I think.
“She had blood in her lungs, together with fibers. She had little hemorrhages around her nose, mouth, and eyes, which indicate struggling to breathe, or a physical struggle. She had bruised gums.”
“And the significance of this is . . .”
“They all point to asphyxia. And the bruising can indicate smothering.”
“Why?”
“Because pressure is applied.”
“Thank you,” Ellen says, clicking her pen and looking down at her notes. She lets the pause yawn. She lets the jury digest it.
“Let’s talk about the bruised earlobe.”
“Yes. Layla had a bluish mark on her earlobe, at the back.”
“What can this be an indicator of?”
“Non-accidental injury. It’s unusual for areas of soft tissue to bruise in this way. Layla wasn’t mobile, so I would expect her carers to be aware of what had caused it.”
“What could a bruise there be caused by?”
“Not many things. Trauma. Inflicted by someone or something.”
“Thank you.”
Becky and I went through a phase, when we were sixteen and thirteen or so, of leaving notes for each other at home, on one of the pillars on our landing. They never said much of anything. They were more diary-like, about our days and our thoughts on school. I try to find something damning in the memory now. I am always doing this, these days. Reexamining the past in the light of our current situation. Were her notes angry? Were they sociopathic? Once, we were passing on the landing, me heading into the bathroom, she coming out with a towel over her hair, steam curling around her shoulders. I could see the water evaporating off her hot skin, like water in a hot frying pan. “I owe you a note!” she said in that way of hers. There was nothing malicious about it. Nothing angry, nothing suspicious. She signed them with hearts next to her name.
I look across at her now.
“Now one more question. This is very important, Julia. The attending A&E doctor took baby Layla’s temperature. You have seen that temperature, and you have also seen a report from the scenes-of-crime officer, who has not given oral evidence. That report shows the ambient room temperature, which is an agreed fact between the prosecution and defense.”
“Yes.”
“And so, in your report, tell us how you have arrived at the time of death in the case of Layla.”
“When you know the weight of the deceased, the ambient temperature of the environment they died in, and you have a temperature reading taken at some point after death, there is an algorithm called the Henssge nomogram, which enables you to tell at what time the baby died.”
“And what time of death did your calculation give?”
“Between eight and nine thirty,” Julia says, pushing her glasses up her nose. “It’s impossible for it to be after nine forty.”
“Why?”
“Because of the differential between the ambient temperature of the bedroom and Layla’s temperature on arrival at A&E. It places the time of death between eight and nine thirty, but it would be impossible to be later.”
“How sure are you?”
“One hundred percent. There is no way Layla was alive after nine thirty, nine forty.”
“And at between eight and nine thirty, only Becky was in charge of Layla,” Ellen says to the jury. “Becky alone.”
“Okay,” Julia says.
“And ten past nine was right after the neighbor heard the defendant shout at the baby,” Ellen says.
“That’s hearsay,” Harriet objects.
“Thank you. Nothing further.” Ellen smiles at Julia and ignores Harriet: They’re old pals.
Harriet stands up. She seems about to speak, then stops, running a finger down a sheet of paper in a binder and taking a breath.
“Ms. Todd,” she says. “I only have a few questions.” Her voice is strong, loud, in the courtroom, but she wipes her brow.
I wonder what Becky’s said to her. “The bruise. What else could this be?”
“A congenital mark called a Mongolian blue spot. It’s a birthmark.”
“Is there any way to tell whether it’s a bruise or this blue spot?”
“Not now Layla is deceased,” Julia says, bowing her head. “A bruise would fade if she were living. A birthmark wouldn’t.”
“And without photos of the back of Layla’s ear, or recollection from the parents—who say they don’t know, can’t remember, understandably—it’s impossible to say. And it’s impossible for you to say, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You say the toxicology screen was normal?”
“Yes.”
“There was no evidence of Calpol’s active ingredient, paracetamol, in Layla’s bloodstream?”
“No, none.”
“And so certainly not an overdose?”
“No.”
“And finally, if Layla had someh
ow rolled over and became stuck in the Moses basket . . . if she hadn’t been able to turn her head . . . would her injuries look like this? The bleeding around the eyes, nose, and mouth? The bruised gums?”
“Yes. Maybe. It’s very hard to distinguish between accidental and homicidal smothering. But these do indicate . . . pressure applied.”
“Nothing more from me, then,” Harriet says, but she remains standing, allowing Julia’s words to linger in the courtroom.
Impossible to tell. It could be a horrible, tragic accident that we will never understand.
It is over. The pathologist is led out by the usher.
I look straight at Becky. I’m not watching her, as I have been for the rest of this case, instead just exchanging a glance with her, as is natural to me, to us.
She is turning her head to look at me at the same time and our eyes meet. And there it is. That understanding. She widens her eyes and—
No. I cannot do this. I cannot connect with her. Not until I know. I think of my notes that I hide from Scott, back at the flat. Reams and reams, copied out from the internet, about wrongly accused women: women whose babies died for no reason, whose babies had accidents. Women released from prison years later, exonerated but unbearably damaged. But that’s not her. Not yet. I can’t exchange glances with her like this, and certainly not in open court. But I can still feel her gaze on me and I can’t help but dart a glance up again. God. She looks awful.
What’s her barrister going to do about it? What’s their explanation for this damning evidence that’s been given? There was blood where it shouldn’t have been in my baby’s body. Somebody made that happen to my baby’s tiny eyes, nose, and mouth that I grew inside myself, every single cell.
The bruised gums.
The fibers in her lungs.
The overheard shouting.
Like finding the knife, the body, and Becky’s DNA on the fucking handle. How could it be an accident? How could it not be Becky?
And yet, against all the odds, something seems to rear up in my gut and speak: It wasn’t Becky.
There was somebody else there that night. I think back to what Marc said: came over.
She wasn’t alone. He was there.
I need to see him.
40
Becky
4:00 p.m., Thursday, October 26
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
I promise myself I will go back in again when I get to fifty. I’m sitting in my car. Well, hiding in my car, really.
I don’t understand why it is like this. Xander was such a fantastic baby. The judgment I felt toward other women, women whose babies were non-sleepers, whose babies wouldn’t accept dummies, bottles, who wouldn’t be weaned. Xander was easy; he did all of that. And, even then, it was too hard for me and Marc. We drifted apart. But then I cheated, severing us entirely from each other.
We ended in separation, like so many couples before us. I remember his clear blue eyes meeting mine as we said our wedding vows. I would’ve put money on us. We used to laugh so much. That was the healthiest way through life, we agreed.
But then he changed. Not fully. But a little bit. Some of the time. He developed an edge that I’d never seen before. “Get to your bedroom and out of my sight,” he once said to Xander, after he’d discovered Xander had lied about having spent his pocket money on fidget spinners. It hadn’t been fair, and I’d told him as much, and he’d thumped the arm of the sofa, not looking at me, his jaw set. I’d opened a bottle of wine that night. That beautiful tannin lining my mouth, staining my lips. And, later, that lovely numbing effect.
Layla is upstairs, crying, and I am in the car, breathing. It’s 4:00 P.M. and Xander is with his dad after school. I have tried everything with her. I googled it.
Wind.
Food.
Cold.
Hot.
Tired.
The internet no longer offers up answers. The search results are all purple, not blue, already clicked on. I haven’t asked Martha. Not while she’s in Kos. I could kill bloody Scott for leaving her with me for a second night, though I sent him a breezy text back.
Why am I like this? I wish I was one of those people who could say coolly, “No, that doesn’t work for me.” No explanation. No second-guessing. No self-flagellation. But I’m not. I’m just not.
My phone beeps. It’s Marc.
Samuel, his text begins. How you getting on?
I smile at that. He has called me Samuel for years. Martha and Scott find it bizarre, always exchanging glances when Marc uses that special name that has its roots in the time when we used to love each other.
It originated when we were watching University Challenge. We liked to smirk at the nerdy team members. “Their mothers didn’t love them,” Marc would say. We would hoot with laughter at their geeky sweaters and milk-bottle glasses.
Anyway, at the precise moment Paxman asked, “Which Beckett served as a member of parliament for Whitby from 1906?” Marc said, “Drink?” and I said, “Samuel.”
How we laughed. “Sorry, drink, Samuel?” Marc said, and we chuckled some more. The answer wasn’t even Samuel Beckett; it was Gervase Beckett—Samuel Beckett was a ridiculous guess. He was an Irish writer who lived in Paris, not a Whitby MP! That just made us laugh even more.
I don’t think Marc has ever called me anything else since. Not even when it all unraveled, when we forgot to kiss each other properly—dry kisses, perfunctory kisses before work—and forgot to be Marc and Becky, not Xander’s parents. I was still Samuel, then, to him. Even the day he left, he said, “Bye, Samuel,” in this sad, mournful way that I’ve never forgotten.
All right, I reply to him now, but nothing more.
There’s no time. Besides, he’s just checking in with me, I think. I hover on his name, wanting to call him. To say, “I love it when you call me Samuel.” To say, “I miss you, thanks for checking up on me.” But I can’t. No matter how nice he is now, he won’t want to hear it. The romance is over. Those laughs, that life, snuffed out. By me. Because of me. I’m lucky we can even remain friends. That he remains nice at all after what I did.
I glance up at the darkened bedroom window where I know Layla is still crying, still bright red, still writhing around.
I have to go back in, soon. I didn’t ask for this, didn’t know what it would involve, but here we are. There’s no point being furious about it, I tell myself. But nevertheless, fury burns through my veins.
I’m angry at myself. But I’m also angry with her.
With Layla. For crying.
It’s irrational, but it’s true.
Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty.
41
Martha
There is a pediatric neurosurgeon up next. She is wearing a blazer that is the exact color Layla’s cheeks used to be: the pale blush of an apricot.
“Please state your name for the court,” Ellen says.
“Helena Armstrong.”
“And what is your job?”
“I’m a consultant pediatric neurosurgeon.”
“And how many years’ experience do you have?”
“Twenty,” Helena says.
She folds her arms and tilts her head to the side. She doesn’t look forty-five to fifty. She barely looks thirty-five.
“Seven as a consultant.” She reaches and takes a sip from the plastic cup of water on the edge of the witness box.
Her hands are steady. She is utterly used to this, I can tell. Ellen is staring down at her papers. This is her moment, after all. This medical evidence is what the case turns on.
This is her proof.
“Let’s take it injury by injury,” Ellen says to her witness.
I feel my mouth filling with saliva.
“Okay,” Helena says.
A pediatric neurosurgeon. I can hardly imagine what her
life is like.
“The pathologist told us that Layla had hemorrhages around her nose and mouth. Blood in her lungs, together with fibers. And bruised gums.”
“Yes, she did have those, according to the scans and reports I have seen.”
“And why is that so unusual, Ms. Armstrong?”
“If there is blood around the nose and mouth, it indicates that the baby was struggling for breath, or perhaps even struggling hard against somebody who was inflicting harm. When strained, veins and arteries burst. The same happens in the lungs, with forced attempts to breathe before death. The bruised gums indicate force.”
“Force?”
“Yes. The bruised gums are indicative of Layla perhaps having had something applied quite tightly across her nose and mouth.”
“I see. So, in your expert opinion, Layla died from asphyxiation. But do you have a view as to whether this was accidental or deliberate?”
“It looks deliberate to me. The bruising is suspicious. The hemorrhages could be down to the body struggling for breath, or down to violence being inflicted on Layla. It’s impossible to tell.” She indicates the folder again. “I have replicated the scans.”
“Please turn to pages thirteen and fourteen, jury,” Ellen says.
“Here are Layla’s MRI scans, performed after she died,” Helena says. “You can see the blood in her lungs very clearly: the white spots on the scans. Likewise the white lines on the retinas, which indicate retinal hemorrhages.”
“Thank you,” Ellen says. “How sure are you that these injuries are attributed to deliberate and not accidental smothering?”
“With the bruised gums, as sure as I can be.”
I swallow the saliva. What was I doing in Kos, the moment it happened? At 8:30 P.M., 9:00 P.M., 9:30 P.M. The experts are all sure. It was between 8:00 P.M. and 9:30 P.M.
Asleep, perhaps. Perhaps I was removing my makeup in methodical swipes. A mother, becoming an ex-mother, in one unknowing motion.
The Good Sister Page 19
