WOULD YOU BELIEVE HER?

2013

Melissa Slade had it all: beauty, money, a successful husband and beautiful twin babies. But, in the blink of an eye, her perfect life became a nightmare – when she found herself on trial for the murder of her little girls.

PRESENT DAY

Jonathan Hunt covered the original Slade Babies case for the local newspaper. Now that new evidence has come to light, Jon’s boss wants him back on the story to uncover the truth.

With Melissa’s appeal date looming, time is running out. And, as Jon gets drawn deeper into a case he’d wanted to forget, he starts to question Melissa’s guilt.

Is Melissa manipulating Jon or telling him the truth? Is she a murderer, or the victim of a miscarriage of justice?

And if Melissa Slade is innocent, what really happened to Ellie and Amber Slade?

About the Author

DIANE JEFFREY grew up in North Devon, in the United Kingdom. She now lives in Lyon, France, with her husband and their three children, Labrador and cat.

Diane’s debut psychological thriller, Those Who Lie, was a Kindle bestseller in the USA, Canada and Australia and spent several weeks in the top 100 Kindle books in the UK.

He Will Find You, set in the Lake District and Somerset and published in August 2018, is her second novel. The Guilty Mother is Diane’s third book.

Diane is an English teacher. When she’s not working or writing, she likes swimming, running and reading. She loves chocolate, beer and holidays. Above all, she enjoys spending time with her family and friends.

Readers can follow Diane on Twitter @dianefjeffrey or on Facebook.com/dianejeffreyauthor

Praise for Diane Jeffrey

‘Tense and compelling, a genuinely thrilling read’

Elizabeth Haynes

‘Brimming with tension, riddled with doubt and suspicion, insidious and compelling with a terrifying ending that had me catching my breath’

Sue Fortin

‘A tense, gripping domestic noir that shows just how fast the dream of a new life can turn into your worst nightmare’

T.M. Logan

‘A scorchingly good thriller’

Lisa Hall

‘This is a must read for anyone who lives to delve into psychological thrillers!’

Linda Strong

‘With brilliant main characters and a wonderful plot, this book is a real page-turner. I would highly recommend this book.’

Stephanie Collins

‘I absolutely adored this book.’

Lu Dex

‘Great book … keeps you guessing!! If you love twists and turns then this book is for you!’

Diane Merrit

‘With twists and turns that will wrong-foot you all the way, a dash of dark humour and a strong emotional punch, this is an excellent debut that more than earns its place within the genre.’

S.J.I. Holliday

Also by Diane Jeffrey

Those Who Lie

He Will Find You

The Guilty Mother
DIANE JEFFREY

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Diane Jeffrey 2019

Diane Jeffrey asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © August 2019 ISBN: 9780008297619

Version: 2019-07-05

Table of Contents

Cover

Blurb

About the Author

Praise for Diane Jeffrey

Also by Diane Jeffrey

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue: Melissa

Part One

Chapter 1: Jonathan

Chapter 2: Melissa

Chapter 3: Jonathan

Chapter 4: Melissa

Chapter 5: Jonathan

Chapter 6: Melissa

Chapter 7: Jonathan

Chapter 8: Melissa

Chapter 9: Jonathan

Chapter 10: Melissa

Chapter 11: Jonathan

Chapter 12: Melissa

Chapter 13: Jonathan

Chapter 14: Melissa

Chapter 15: Jonathan

Chapter 16: Melissa

Chapter 17: The Redcliffe Gazette

Chapter 18: Melissa

Chapter 19: Jonathan

Part Two

Chapter 20: Kelly

Chapter 21: Jonathan

Chapter 22: Kelly

Chapter 23: Jonathan

Chapter 24: Kelly

Chapter 25: Jonathan

Chapter 26: Kelly

Chapter 27: Jonathan

Chapter 28: Kelly

Chapter 29: Jonathan

Chapter 30: Kelly

Chapter 31: Jonathan

Chapter 32: Kelly

Chapter 33: Jon

Chapter 34: Kelly

Epilogue: Melissa

Acknowledgements

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

For my mum and dad,

with much love and many thanks.

Prologue

Melissa
October 2018

The screaming inside had stopped. But the thoughts in my head still clamoured for attention. I studied my hands, turning them over to examine my palms. Perhaps my future was written on them, along my lifeline. I started to twist an imaginary gold band around the third finger on my left hand. One, two, three times. The smooth skin here, where previously there had been a wedding ring, proved that I was once married. No, not once. Twice.

The nausea came in waves every time we went over a bump in the road. I wanted to tell the driver I thought I might throw up. The taste of fear was foul in my mouth and I needed some fresh air. But the driver couldn’t have heard me even if I’d shouted. You’re supposed to look out of the window when you’re carsick, but the one in here was small and too high. When I craned my neck, I could just make out flashes of grey sky between bare branches, or occasionally the upper floors of tall buildings we passed. Looking up made me dizzy. Lowering my head, I stared again, in shame, at my hands. Gnarled and dry-skinned, they might have been a sweet old lady’s hands rather than those of a cold-blooded killer.

I felt as though I was retracing my steps, travelling back in time. Five years ago, I’d been taken away in a white van just like this one, and now I was being taken back again. It wasn’t the same place, it wasn’t even the same city – this was London, not Bristol, but people here would scrutinise me and judge me and determine my fate, just as they had done before. At least this time there would be two or three friendly faces among the sea of hostile ones. Two or three people who believed in me.

I hoped it would be three. It was my lucky number.

When I’d been taken away last time, my only thought was that I’d never see Amber and Ellie again, never again hold them in my arms. This memory forced itself on me now. It still seemed so fresh and was so physically painful that I gasped.

Just as I was wondering how far we had left to go, we stopped. I was helped out of the van. We’d reached our destination, but my journey was far from over. I took in my surroundings. It was early and there were only a few people milling around in this side street. Maybe they weren’t even there for me.

I inhaled deep breaths of air as if I’d been starved of oxygen and gradually the queasiness abated. It occurred to me that I was more appropriately dressed for a funeral service in a church than an appeal in a court of law. I smoothed down my black skirt as best as I could with my right wrist now handcuffed to the female officer’s left one. Then, my legs feeling weaker with each step downwards, I was ushered to the holding area beneath the majestic court buildings.

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Jonathan
April 2018

I watch helplessly as Noah hits Alfie for the second time.

‘Give it back!’ Alfie wails.

‘Stop it, you two,’ I snap, giving them a stern stare in the rear-view mirror. They haven’t seen me, and they might as well not have heard me either. I shift my gaze to the dashboard clock. They’re going to be late for school. Again. That’s the third time this week. And it’s only Wednesday.

Switching off the radio with a sigh, I glance at them in the mirror again. Alfie tries to hit Noah back, but Noah dodges his younger brother’s fist and then laughs at him, which upsets Alfie even more. He starts to cry.

‘Noah, you’re three years older than him,’ I scold. ‘Try and act your age.’ I wince. Sometimes my mouth opens and my parents’ words tumble out. ‘Please give Alfie back his spinner.’ Now I’m pleading. That sounds more like me. Life would be easier if I gave in to Noah’s demands and allowed him to sit in the front.

As I pull up at the bus stop a few feet away from the entrance to Kingswood Secondary School, Noah hands over the toy. Then he leaps out of the car and strolls away without so much as a goodbye.

I drive around the corner to the junior school. Stopping on the yellow zigzag lines, I flick my hazards on. Alfie and I get out of the car.

‘I’ll come in and apologise to your teacher,’ I say, grabbing Alfie’s bag from the passenger seat.

‘I can go in by myself,’ he says, slamming his door shut and peering up at me through his mother’s chocolate eyes. Invisible fingers pinch my heart.

‘I know you can, but we’re late and—’

‘Dads never come in.’ The way he says it implies it’s only mums who do, and now the hand gives my heart a hard squeeze. ‘Anyway, she knows you have a problem with punctuality. She’s used to it,’ he adds. ‘Plus if you park there …’ he points an accusatory finger at my Ford Focus ‘… you’ll get another fine.’

I can’t believe I’m hearing my nine-year-old son correctly. I ruffle his hair and hand over his bag before getting back in behind the wheel. A wave of sadness breaks over me as he turns away. He reminds me so much of his mother. Too much. Putting the key into the ignition, I watch him sprint through the school gates.

Fifteen minutes later and fifteen minutes late, I slide into the chair at my workstation next to Kelly, our junior reporter, who grins at me. I smile back, pretending not to notice as she hastily closes the Facebook window on her laptop.

A drill starts somewhere in the office so I take my earplugs out of their box and push them into my ears. Now I’ve been officially made chief reporter, I’m to have my own private office. As far as I can see, this is about the only perk to a promotion that amounts to a token increase in salary and a large increase in my workload. At the moment, however, everything is being refurbished to our new editor’s requirements. The need to get rid of the open-plan office space for our reporters is about the only thing we’ve agreed on since she took over six months ago.

The idea now is to put up a combination of Perspex and plywood walls to create cubicles with the aim of reducing not only noise levels in the workplace but also the stress levels of the journalists working there. In addition, it’s supposed to boost productivity at The Redcliffe Gazette – or The Redcliffe Rag as we call it, although I imagine in Kelly’s case she’ll be able to spend more time on social media without feeling like she’s under surveillance.

I’ve booted up my laptop, replied to a few emails and fetched myself some coffee before Kelly speaks to me.

‘What was that?’ I pull out one of my earplugs and try not to stare at the diamond stud in Kelly’s otherwise perfect button nose.

‘Just remembered. Saunders wanted to see you in the Aquarium as soon as you got in.’

‘Thanks,’ I mutter.

‘You’re welcome.’ Not picking up on my sarcastic tone, or maybe choosing to ignore it, she turns back to her computer screen.

‘Did she say what she wanted?’

Kelly shakes her blond bobbed head. Claire doesn’t usually call me into her office first thing in the morning. This can’t be good.

I raise my hand to knock on the door of our news editor’s glass-walled office, but she has already noticed me, and waves her hand for me to come in. She’s standing at the open window, blithely flouting the law by lighting up a Marlboro. My favourite brand. I gave up years ago, just before Noah was born, in fact, but every time I come in here, the old habit beckons to me and I feel like a cigarette.

Between puffs, she purses her thin lips and flutters her long eyelashes at me. It’s a look I know well. It means this isn’t open to discussion. Nope, I’m not going to like this.

Suppressing a sigh and adopting a military at-ease stance, I give a fairly good impression of a patient man while I wait for Claire to finish her cigarette. Eventually she stubs it out in an ashtray on the windowsill, and closes the window.

A petite, slim woman, Claire has a long, straight nose and an angular jawline, high cheekbones and hollow cheeks. Her cropped hair is dyed jet black. A pencil lives almost permanently behind her right ear, but I’ve never seen her use it. She has striking green eyes, which bore into me now.

She gets straight to the point. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard about the Slade woman’s appeal application,’ she says.

‘Yes, of course.’ It doesn’t sound very convincing, even to me. I worked late last night, updating an online story, so I didn’t watch the news, and this morning I turned off the radio in the car because the boys were fighting. I have no idea what Claire is talking about, but I’m not about to admit that.

‘I’d like you to look into it,’ she continues, arching an eyebrow at me. She’s not fooled. ‘All we know is that new evidence has come to light. Find out what’s going on. Interview family members. There’s a front-page news story here, I’m sure of it. I don’t need to tell you that a good article could attract digital display ads for our online paper, too. I want to run this scoop for The Gazette before The Post even gets wind of it.’

The Rag is only a small-market weekly newspaper. We’re understaffed, underpaid and overworked and we’re all multi-tasking. But Claire is very ambitious and has set her sights on having a bigger circulation than The Bristol Post one day and a larger online readership than their website, Bristol Live. Personally, I doubt that will happen any time soon, if ever.

‘I’m thinking a big front-page splash,’ Claire continues, spreading her arms in an expansive gesture. ‘I’m thinking exclusive interviews with her son and her husband. I’m thinking never-before-seen baby photos …’

Claire continues in this vein and I tune out. I’m thinking pizza and Paddington 2 with Noah and Archie after this evening’s homework. Then I groan inwardly, remembering I’ve got to go to a Chekhov play tonight to write a review for our monthly print magazine. I can hear the rise and fall of Claire’s voice, but it sounds muffled, as if I’ve put my earplugs back in. Lost in my thoughts, I nod and shake my head in what sounds like the right places and grunt periodically.

I snap out of my reverie when Claire barks, ‘Understood?’

‘Yep.’

‘Good.’

I still haven’t a clue what she’s on about. Slade. It’s a very common surname in the Bristol area, but it does ring a bell. An alarm bell. A distant, dormant memory stirs lazily in a corner of my mind. I can’t quite bring it to the surface. Something unsavoury, though, I’m certain of that. A knot forms in my stomach. Although I can’t recall who this woman is, a voice in my head is warning me not to rouse this memory. Some strange sixth sense is telling me to stay away.

‘We’re done.’ I’m being dismissed. ‘Oh, and Jonathan? Send Kelly in here, will you? How that girl got an English degree with grammar as terrifying as hers is beyond me.’ Claire pauses and tucks a non-existent strand of hair behind her ear, knocking the pencil to the floor. I find myself wondering if she used to have long hair as I pick it up for her.

‘Yes, of course.’ I leave the office. Poor kid. If there’s anything sharper than Claire’s features, it’s her tongue, and I think Kelly is about to be on the receiving end.

‘It’s your turn,’ I say to Kelly, slipping back into my swivel chair. I follow Kelly into the Aquarium with my eyes and then I watch Claire through the glass of her office as she paces the floor, shakes her head in an exaggerated manner, wags her finger, and finally stands still with her hands on her hips. I can’t hear what she’s saying from here, but everything in her body language indicates she’s giving our trainee reporter a severe tongue-lashing. Kelly has her back to me, but I can tell from the way she’s hanging her head and hunching her shoulders that she’s not taking this well. Claire looks up and catches me staring, so I swivel my chair round to face my laptop.

I allow myself to gaze at the wallpaper image on my screen for several seconds. It’s a holiday snap, taken nearly four years ago. Alfie and Noah, all smiles, are sitting on Gaudí’s mosaic bench in Park Güell in Barcelona. Mel, sandwiched between the boys, is looking directly at me as I take the photo with my phone.

It’s a terrible shot, blurred and overexposed, with Noah doing rabbit ears behind his mother’s head. But it’s the last picture I ever took of Mel. It was our last summer as a family.

Get a grip, Jon. Get to work!

When I type “Slade Bristol appeal” into the search engine and hit enter, I get several hits. The most recent articles online – from The Plymouth Herald, The Bristol Press and The Bristol Post – were posted yesterday. Words catch my attention as I scroll down. Will the Court of Appeal grant Melissa Slade leave to appeal? … Melissa Slade to appeal against her murder conviction.

Melissa Slade.

Seeing her full name brings it all flooding back. My hand starts to shake over the touchpad of my laptop. I’m reluctant to go any further. But then I spot a piece from The Redcliffe Gazette at the bottom of the results page. Recognising the headline, I click on it. I feel my brow furrow as I catch sight of the byline: J. Hunt. I start to read the article, but I can’t take any of it in. It’s as if I’m reading a foreign language.

I go back to the top and start again. The words themselves remain meaningless, even though I’m the one who wrote them. But I know the gist of what they say.

I glance at the date. December 2013. Just after Slade’s trial. Eight months before our holiday in Barcelona. That was another lifetime. A different life.

A few seconds ago, I’d been staring at the holiday photo I’d taken of Mel and our boys. Now I find myself looking into Melissa Slade’s mesmerising green-blue eyes as she smiles her wide white smile at me, her sheer beauty at odds with the headline below her picture.

MELISSA SLADE SENTENCED TO LIFE FOR MURDER

This woman killed her daughter.

I’m not doing this. I’ll tell Claire to find someone else.

I’m suddenly aware of Kelly next to me, her loud sniffing filtering through my earplugs. I didn’t notice her come back. I delve into the inside pocket of my jacket, hanging across the back of my chair, and take out a clean handkerchief, which I offer to Kelly. When she has blown her nose, she manages a watery smile.

She says something, so I take out my earplugs and get her to repeat it.

‘Why’s she so hard on me?’

Claire can be hard on everyone. Because of her own quick competence and keen intelligence, she has little patience with people when she thinks they’re not pulling their weight. ‘I’m not sure, Kelly,’ I say. ‘Claire’s a perfectionist and expects high standards from everyone.’

I intend that to end the conversation, but I notice Kelly’s lower lip wobbling.

‘What did she say exactly?’ I ask. I don’t want her to start sobbing again. I don’t know how to deal with that sort of thing.

‘She said my latest copy was “unreadable due to numerous grammatical errors and spelling mistakes”.’

‘Well, that doesn’t sound too big a problem to sort out. Do you type up your stuff with the spellcheck on?’

I end up proposing to have a look at one of Kelly’s feature articles, more as a welcome distraction than out of the kindness of my heart. It’s an interesting story, about Bristol’s homeless, but it’s not particularly in-depth. While I correct it, I give Kelly a few pointers and tell her to find and interview someone living on the streets to add human interest to her article.

‘And get some photos,’ I say.

Next I read through a draft of one of Kelly’s pieces for the arts and entertainment page of our monthly print magazine. It’s a follow-up on an on-going local celebrity scandal, the sort of gossipy article I wouldn’t even glance at normally, but Kelly has written it in an appropriately sensationalist tone, and it only contains one spelling slip-up.

‘This is good, Kelly,’ I comment, which elicits a small smile.

She takes this as invitation to talk to me about her idea of setting up a weekly entertainment vlog.

‘I’ll have a word with Claire,’ I promise. ‘She should probably consider a rejuvenating facelift.’

Kelly grins, then pinches her eyebrows into a quick frown.

‘For The Rag, I mean,’ I add hastily. ‘Keep it,’ I say, as Kelly tries to hand the cotton hanky back to me. She scrunches it up in her hand.

She looks at me, a puzzled expression on her face, as if she’s trying to work me out. ‘I think my granddad is the only person I ever knew who carried cloth handkerchiefs on him.’

I’m not sure how to answer that, and I’m about to make a joke about her unflattering comparison, but I think the better of it. ‘I use them to clean my glasses,’ I say, shrugging.

It’s mid-afternoon before I can talk to Claire again. I’ve reread several articles on the Slade case, including my own. I’m still a bit hazy on some of the details, but I am clear about one thing. I’m not doing this.

It smells of cigarettes in Claire’s office. I suddenly feel like one – the itch has never completely disappeared, even after all these years as a non-smoker. I decide to scrounge a fag if she lights up, but she doesn’t appear to need one herself. She leans forward in her chair, resting her elbows on the desk and her chin on her hands.

I start by pitching Kelly’s vlog idea to Claire, aware that I’m putting off talking about Melissa Slade.

‘We’ll discuss it more fully at the next editorial meeting, but why not? She’ll be more presentable on screen than on paper,’ Claire comments dryly.

There’s a short silence, which Claire breaks. ‘Was there anything else?’

‘Er, yes. About Melissa Slade’s request for an appeal …’

‘Yes?’

‘Is there anyone else you could assign that to?’

‘Jonathan, it’s an interesting story and you’re the best I’ve got.’

‘Thank you, but can one of the others do it?’

Claire sighs. She takes a stick of chewing gum out of a packet on her desk, unwraps it and folds it into her mouth. ‘Is there some reason you can’t?’

Yes. There’s a very good reason I can’t. But there’s no way I’m going to tell Claire what it is. I don’t talk about it. Not to her. Not to anyone.

‘Well, it’s just that I’m really busy at the moment. You know?’ I can see from the expression on her face that I’m not convincing her. ‘Work-wise, I mean,’ I add. I don’t know if Claire has children, but I do know that she doesn’t tolerate anyone using their kids as an excuse for missing a deadline or as leverage for a lighter workload. ‘I’m going to the theatre tonight so I can write a review of The Cherry Orchard for The Mag, I’ve got a Sports Day to cover at the local comp tomorrow and—’

‘Jonathan, I’m giving you the opportunity to get in there ahead of the pack. This is investigative journalism.’

‘Claire. I can’t do it.’

‘Why the hell not?’

‘It’s personal.’ I have to make an effort not to raise my voice.

‘So is this.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean it has to be you. It can’t be anyone else. It wasn’t my idea. It came from … Your name …’ She breaks off, as if she realises she has said too much.

‘Who asked—?’

‘Anyway, you know as well as I do, there is no one else.’

I rack my brains, trying to think of another journo who could take the job. I have to get out of this.

‘You never know, Jonathan. Maybe they got it wrong and Melissa Slade was innocent all along.’

‘Yeah, right,’ I scoff.

‘That would be a great angle,’ Claire continues, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘She did time when she didn’t do the crime.’

An image bursts into my mind. Melissa Slade, sitting in the dock at Bristol Crown Court. Impassive and cold. I was in that courtroom nearly every day. I didn’t see her shed a single tear. Not once during the whole three weeks of her trial.

‘She was found guilty,’ I argue. ‘She did it.’

I storm out of the Aquarium, only just refraining from slamming the door behind me.

Chapter 2

Melissa

I’ve been seeing someone since I arrived here. A shrink. There’s no stigma attached to it the way there is when you’re on the outside. All the inmates I know have regular appointments with the prison psychiatrist. Anyway, he suggested it might be therapeutic if I wrote down my version of events. I don’t like that term – it sounds as if my version is just one possible account of what happened instead of the truth.

At first, I was reluctant to go through everything again, to relive something that was – and still is – so traumatic. But I’ve decided to give it a go and see if it helps. And although one day someone else may read my story – my son, Callum, perhaps – I’m really writing it for myself, so I can always skip the parts that are too painful.

So, this will be a sort of diary, I suppose, but I don’t intend to write an entry about what’s going on in here every day. Where should I begin? I should focus on the events leading up to my imprisonment. It all started when my daughters, Amber and Ellie, were newborn babies. If I could turn back time – and every single day I wish I could – that’s the moment I would go back to.

January – February 2012

It wasn’t the same when I brought Callum home. Back then, I was on cloud nine. It really was the happiest time of my life, just as everyone tells you it will be. He was a calm baby and this gave me the impression I was getting everything right. To my delight, the pregnancy weight fell off my body in next to no time with a little exercise and no dieting whatsoever. Simon and I continued to see our friends, many of whom had children themselves. My best friend, Jenny, was expecting her first baby, too. Once she was on maternity leave, she popped round nearly every day to see Callum and me and, as she put it, “learn the ropes”.

I would spend several minutes a day just watching Callum sleep, marvelling at how perfect he was, this tiny human being that I’d created. I’d devoured at least half a dozen maternity books during my pregnancy, but nothing had prepared me for the tsunami of feelings that hit me with motherhood. Unconditional love like nothing I’d ever known before, but also such intense fear. I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to protect him. He was my responsibility, a huge responsibility. From the instant I brought him into this world, he became my world and I became his. My beautiful baby boy, my life.

With Ellie and Amber, however, it was very different and I didn’t know why. Perhaps it was because Michael wasn’t as supportive and helpful as Simon had been. Or maybe it was due to my age. I was thirteen years older, about to fall into my forties. It might have been because there were two of them. I don’t know.

I remember vividly the first time I realised something was wrong with me. It when I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror above the sofa one afternoon. The woman looking back was unrecognisable. My hair was greasy and lank, my face blotchy and my eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. It struck me that I’d been wearing my pyjamas for at least three days and nights. The top had baby sick down the front. I couldn’t recall when I’d last taken a shower. I looked awful; I felt awful.

Amber – or maybe it was Ellie – started to scream. It was time for a feed. Instead of going to her, I headed for the bathroom.

‘Your mummy is smelly,’ I threw over my shoulder in a voice that didn’t sound like mine. ‘She needs a shower.’

I took my time, spending several minutes under the hot jet. Afterwards, I sprayed on some deodorant, put on a bit of make-up and dried my hair. Then I got dressed – into a maternity outfit – I couldn’t fit into my normal clothes yet, but at least I felt cleansed.

That feeling didn’t last long. It was quickly replaced by a crushing guilt as I came back into the living room and realised both girls were wailing now. Their racket would have been audible in the bathroom – except for when I was in the shower or when my hairdryer was on – and deafening from the bedroom, directly above, but I must have blocked out their cries.

I went through the motions on automatic pilot, laying them on nursing pillows so I could feed them each with a bottle at the same time, and then changing their nappies one after the other. When they’d calmed down and were strapped into their baby bouncers, I went into the kitchen and made myself breakfast. It was three in the afternoon.

Sitting at the wooden table, I remember glancing up at the clock and noticing it was now half past three. My porridge was still in the bowl, in front of me, untouched. I’d been staring at it. I had no appetite. What had been going through my head for the last half an hour? I had no idea.

It didn’t even occur to me to clean up the mess I’d made in the kitchen. I walked back into the living room, my legs heavy and unwilling, as if they’d been chained together. I looked at the twins. My baby girls. They were perfect. Amber had dark hair, like Michael and his daughter, Bella, and Ellie was fair like Callum and me.

I remembered waking up in a pool of sweat the previous night after a particularly vivid nightmare. In my dream, I’d fallen asleep, a baby in each of my arms, and they were about to fall to the floor. It wasn’t the first time I’d dreamt that. Far from it. It had become a recurring nightmare.

When I thought about the dream, two things occurred to me. Firstly, it reflected my fear that I was a bad mother. But I thought it also proved I cared about my girls. I didn’t want them to come to any harm. I found that reassuring because it meant there couldn’t be anything chemically wrong with me. Could there?

Looking at them jiggling on their rocker chairs, I could see how adorable they were. I just didn’t feel any bond. There was no emotion in me at all. I couldn’t connect. No matter how cute they were, or how much they smiled, the bottom line was I didn’t love my baby girls. Apart from a sort of detached numbness, I didn’t really feel anything.

I tried to discuss this with my husband. ‘Do you think I resent them?’

‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘I do too sometimes if I’m honest. After all, we didn’t exactly plan this pregnancy.’

That was true. It came about after I’d had a tummy bug. I must have thrown up my contraceptive pill. Of course, I only realised this about two months later – when it was too late – as I started throwing up again, this time with morning sickness.

‘Our sex life is pretty much non-existent at the moment,’ Michael added, looking at me in a way that implied he blamed me, more than the twins, for that.

‘It will get better.’

‘And we don’t see much of our friends anymore.’

‘I’m sorry, Michael. I can’t help it. I’m simply not up to socialising – I feel exhausted all the time.’

It wasn’t just that. I no longer seemed to have anything in common with my friends. Their kids were around the same age as my son, Callum, and my stepdaughter, Bella, and they were into terrible teens and GCSEs or A levels with their offspring, as we were, but unlike us, they were done with nappies and night feeds and baby paraphernalia.

‘At least you get to go to work,’ I said with a sigh.

Perhaps this was my main regret. I’d had a high-flying career in the police force. I’d made chief inspector at the age of thirty-six and I was heading my second major murder investigation three years later when I found out I was pregnant. In the end, I’d had to hand over the command for that particular case to take my maternity leave. Any aspirations of one day climbing another rung on the ladder had been put on hold. I hoped this was temporary, although in the weeks after the twins were born, I couldn’t imagine ever having the energy to go back to work.

‘Someone has to earn the bread,’ Michael said.

‘I know. I just feel a bit … housebound.’

‘Why don’t you go for a run? The exercise would do you good.’

I’d been completely addicted to sport before I found out I was pregnant. I ran two or three marathons a year, and did ultra trails. When I had the twins, Michael bought me a special buggy so I could go for a jog with them. But the winter was dragging on, Amber seemed to have a constantly runny nose and sniffles, and I was constantly tired. I hadn’t used the sports stroller once. I hadn’t done any sport whatsoever for ages. Michael’s suggestion was a good one, but I didn’t feel like it.

I wasn’t sure how to pull myself out of the dark abyss I’d fallen into. But then one afternoon, Jenny came for a visit. I thought she’d been avoiding me, but perhaps it was just her busy life that had got in the way and kept us apart, even though she only lived up the road, or maybe I was the one avoiding her.

Jenny hadn’t given me much notice and as she stepped into the house, I saw it through her eyes. The place was a pigsty. She made us a mug of tea and rang her cleaner. Ten minutes later, a young woman arrived on my doorstep and introduced herself in a strong Eastern European accent as “Irena the cleaner”. In other circumstances, her greeting might have sparked some amusement, but sleep deprivation had robbed me of my sense of humour.

‘Let’s get the girls ready,’ Jenny said. ‘We’ll go out for some fresh air.’

So while Irena cleaned my house, Jenny and I took Amber and Ellie to the park. It must have been just after school finished for the day because there were lots of children. As we walked along the path, Jenny pushing the buggy, I saw a woman sitting on a bench. She looked how I felt, drained and dazed. She was unwrapping a chocolate bar for her little girl, who was jumping up and down impatiently.

But in the other direction a couple of women walked by, one with a pushchair and one holding a toddler by the hand. They were talking and laughing together, their animated made-up faces glowing with youthful energy. They made it all look so easy; they made me feel like a failure, as if I was inferior to these yummy mummies and would never be up to scratch. I burst into tears.

Using one hand to push the stroller, Jenny took my elbow with her other hand, and led me to a free bench a few feet away. She held me and rubbed my back while violent sobs racked my whole body. I’m not sure how long I cried. I was aware of passers-by staring at us, and I was embarrassed, but Jenny didn’t seem to be.

‘You need help,’ she said, when I’d finished, without asking me what was wrong. ‘You can’t possibly cope with two teenagers and twin babies by yourself.’ She fished a packet of tissues out of her handbag and handed me one.

‘Bella helps me out when she’s home,’ I said. ‘And Michael …’

What did Michael do exactly? An image came to me, then, unbidden – Michael raising his eyebrows disapprovingly. I couldn’t pinpoint an actual event to go with the image; he seemed to be giving me that look a lot lately. When he came home at a reasonable time and dinner wasn’t ready. Or when he came home late and the house was still untidy.

Jenny didn’t push it. ‘Wasn’t your mum helping you out?’ she asked instead.

‘She was, but we had a row.’ I didn’t go into details. It was a petty argument, caused partly by my inability to take advice and partly by my mother giving criticism and instructions rather than suggestions and assistance. I needed to pick up the phone and call her, but I wished just for once that she would make the first move.

‘I’ll have a word with Irena when we get back to your place,’ Jenny said. ‘We’ll set up something permanent with her. Then we’ll make a doctor’s appointment for you. And from now on, you must have some time out for yourself. Some “me time”, as they say. Every day. To do some exercise, to have a haircut and a facial, or just to relax and breathe.’

I stared at Jenny blankly. I could hardly find the energy to get out of bed, or the time to do basic household chores. On an exceptionally good day, I managed to get dressed and clean my teeth before Michael came home in the evening. How on earth was I going to get out and do some sport or get a makeover?

Jenny answered my unspoken question. ‘You need a nanny. We’ll find you a nanny,’ she said.

I wasn’t sure if this was a good idea or how Michael would feel about it. We could easily afford it, although Mike was tight with money – well, he called it “frugal” – but I had my maternity pay.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You’re a brick.’ I welled up again, thinking I didn’t deserve her.

‘Of course you do,’ she said firmly, and I realised I’d voiced that thought. ‘You have to stop thinking like that. You’re not yourself at the moment, that’s all.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Well, you might have sailed through motherhood last time with Callum, but I found it a bit of a struggle with Sophia.’

I knew that must be an understatement. Jenny wasn’t the sort of person to seek attention for herself and she wouldn’t have wanted me to feel sorry for her. I hugged her.

In the end, Jenny didn’t find a nanny; she found an au pair. With hindsight, of course, it was a mistake letting Clémentine into our home. But we couldn’t have foreseen how she would change our lives. Especially mine.

Chapter 3

Jonathan
April 2018

Just as I’m undocking my laptop to leave the office for the day, my phone beeps with a text. It’s from Nina, my childminder. I read it, swearing under my breath.

‘What’s up?’ Kelly says, turning to face me.

‘I was supposed to go to see The Cherry Orchard this evening,’ I say absent-mindedly, my finger typing out a short reply on the keyboard of my phone, ‘but Nina has let me down.’

I hit the arrow to send the text and look up to see the blank expression on Kelly’s face as she ponders this.

‘It’s a play,’ I add, ‘by Chekhov.’

‘I know,’ Kelly says. She doesn’t sound at all indignant, but I feel slightly guilty for underestimating her. ‘I haven’t seen that one,’ she continues, ‘but I’ve seen The Seagull and read Three Sisters. More of an Ibsen fan myself.’

There’s an awkward pause and I don’t know how to fill it. I can’t stand Ibsen or Chekhov, personally. I’m not a keen theatregoer at all, except for the Christmas pantomime, but that doesn’t seem like the right thing to say.

In the end, Kelly puts a stop to the pause, but adds to the awkwardness. ‘Is it for a review for The Mag?’ She doesn’t pause for me to answer. ‘I’ll go with you if you don’t want to go by yourself.’

‘What? Oh, no. Nina was supposed to look after my kids. She’s not my date.’

Holly, my girlfriend, is my date. Holly is pretty and intelligent – she’s a pathologist – and I’ve been seeing her for about eighteen months now. My heart sinks at having to cancel my plans with her this evening, although part of me is thrilled at not having to sit through the play. But I still need to fake a review somehow.

‘Oh.’ Kelly actually sounds disappointed and I realise the play is probably more her bag than mine. ‘Well, I can babysit if you like,’ she says, ‘to thank you for your help earlier.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Kelly, but it’s part of my job description to oversee your work, and I couldn’t possibly accept your kind offer. I’ve got two tickets, though. It’s on at Bristol Old Vic. Is there someone you could go with?’ Her angelic face brightens up and she nods.

‘Yeah. My mum’s quite arty. I’m sure she’d love to go with me!’

I open my desk drawer and pull out the envelope containing the tickets. ‘I’ll need some feedback I can use for my write-up,’ I say. Kelly nods again. ‘I’ll give you a hand with your feature on the homeless if you like.’

On my way home, I call Holly to cancel.

‘Oh, never mind. That’s OK,’ she says, although I can tell from the sound of her voice that it’s not. ‘If you like, I could …’

She doesn’t finish her sentence, but I can guess what she was about to say. Even though we’ve been dating for a year and a half, I still haven’t told anyone about her, least of all my boys. Holly is desperate to come round and meet them. It’s a topic she has been bringing up a lot lately and that I’ve been circumventing. I’m sure Holly thinks I’m commitment-phobic, but it’s not that. I think I’m doing a good job of moving on, and it’s what Mel would have wanted; it’s just that at the moment I’m happy with the way things are.

‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’

As I make pizza and watch Paddington 2 with my sons that evening, I’ve all but forgotten about Melissa Slade. I can feel her crouching at the back of my mind, ready to jump out at me, but I’m doing a good job of shutting her out for the moment.

But once I’ve turned off the TV and put the boys to bed, there’s no distraction and no buffer against my thoughts, and I can’t seem to get Melissa Slade out of my head.

I can’t be bothered to boot up my laptop this evening, but on my phone I skim through some more of the online articles from the trial and her first appeal.

Mel was obsessed with the case. She dreamt of having a baby girl – we were trying for another baby at the time – and she didn’t believe that this woman could have killed hers. But that was Mel. She was a good person and she only ever saw the good in other people. ‘Innocent until proven guilty, Jon,’ I remember her saying when we discussed Melissa Slade’s trial in the evenings when I got home from the courtroom.

We didn’t discuss the appeal that followed in November 2014. Mel had died two months earlier.

I feel a tear snake its way down my cheek. I wish Mel were here now. I’d like to ask her for advice. I don’t know what to do. What would you do, Mel? But as soon as the question enters my head, the answer comes to me.

You can do this, Jon. The voice in my head is Mel’s. The voice of reason. It has nothing to do with us. Nothing to do with what happened to our family.

‘Innocent until proven guilty, huh?’ I say aloud. ‘But she was found guilty as charged.’

Leaning back on the sofa, I doze off for a while, but it’s a fitful sleep. I wake up with a start and a crick in my neck. I get up and check on Noah and Alfie before making my way to bed.

The following day, after covering Sports Day at the local school, I write a review from Kelly’s enthusiastic comments about the play and the programme, which she has brought with her to show me. She has also taken a few photos with her smartphone and I choose one of the better ones. I add Kelly’s name to mine at the top of the article.

At lunchtime, I honour my promise to Kelly. At first she’s confused when I buy three sandwiches, but she gives her trademark grin when she gets it. There seem to be roadworks all over the city at the moment, so instead of taking my car, we walk to Temple Way and then get on the bus for Cabot Circus. With my mouth full of BLT sub, I brief Kelly before we get off at the shopping centre.

‘You need originality. You wrote that the number of Bristol’s homeless is twice the national average, which is shocking, and you mention that a local charity has made shipping containers into homes to get people off the streets, which is fantastic, but this is old news. We need the faces behind the facts and figures. You have to add something new.’

Kelly bobs her head vigorously then bites into her sandwich. When she’s not grinning, she’s nodding, I think unfairly.

As we wander up and down the pedestrianised streets around the shopping centre, I start to think we should have come after work, in the evening. But then we see a woman sitting in the doorway of a shop, hugging her knees to her chest, her sleeping bag rolled up beside her. The shop has “clearance sale” stickers across its windows and has evidently now closed down.

‘There’s your angle,’ I say to Kelly, pointing.

‘What? Oh, I see. The irony. Someone sleeping rough in front of an empty building when the council promised to open up empty buildings to house them.’

‘No. That’s not what I meant. Although, that could work, too. I was thinking more—’

‘Bristol’s Homeless Women,’ Kelly finishes my sentence.

‘Exactly,’ I say. Handing Kelly a bacon sub and a ten-pound note, I tell her I’ll be waiting for her in Costa Coffee a few doors up the road. ‘Don’t forget to take her photo,’ I remind her.

While I’m waiting for Kelly, I open the Notes app on my phone and type in the names of Melissa Slade’s family members.

Michael Slade, her husband, father of the twin girls.

Simon Goodman, her ex-husband, father of her son.

What was the kid called again? I look up my article online. I haven’t mentioned his name, only his age. At the time of the court case, he was thirteen. I check out other online articles, but the boy’s name doesn’t appear to have been mentioned in the press. Melissa’s mother was mentioned in The Post, though. I add her name to my list.

Ivy Moore.

Next, I go onto a People Finder site. This one should help me locate some of Melissa’s family members as long as they’re on the electoral roll and haven’t opted out of this online directory. I don’t bother with Michael Slade for now – I already have an address for him from five years ago, but I can’t imagine that he would have stayed in that house after what happened in it. There must be thousands of Slades in and around Bristol, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he has moved away. Either way, he’ll be hard to track down.

Simon Goodman throws up about twenty results. I frown. I’ll filter them a bit later when I can use a bigger screen. Ivy Moore is a hit, though. Only one result with that name in the area. On the electoral roll. Full address. Under “other occupants” there is a George Moore, presumably Melissa’s father. The age guide seems to fit. They’re in their sixties.

I’ve just finished copying and pasting their address into the notes app of my phone when Kelly materialises in front of me. Getting up, I drain my coffee, grimacing because it has gone cold, and grab my jacket.

‘Any good?’

Nodding, Kelly flashes me a wide smile. Her two body language tics are now in sync, I think.

‘Back to the office, then.’

The address I’ve noted down for Melissa Slade’s parents is in Hanham, which isn’t far from Kingswood, where I live, so I decide to make a short detour on the way home. Hoping to avoid the traffic, I leave the office earlier than usual, punching the name of their road into my satnav at the first red light.

As I pull up in front of Ivy and George Moore’s house, I notice there’s a car in the driveway. Looks like I’m in luck. Well, looks like they’re home at least. I know from my many years as a journalist that they may not be willing to talk to me. I take in the terrace house, wondering if Melissa grew up in it. Did she have any siblings? Did they go to school nearby? I make a mental note to ask her parents these questions. If they let me in.

George Moore opens the door when I ring the bell. He has an instantly likeable face, bushy grey eyebrows cascading out above kind blue eyes. I know him to be in his sixties from the age guide on the online directory, but his hunched shoulders and sluggish movements make him appear a lot older. His hair – what’s left of it – is a slightly lighter shade of grey than his eyebrows.

‘Mr Moore? I’m Jonathan Hunt. I’m a journalist from The Redcliffe Gazette,’ I say, holding out my hand. He hesitates, but then he shakes it, which I take as an encouraging sign. ‘I wonder if we could have a chat about your daughter Melissa. I’ve been asked to write a piece about her appeal application and I’d like to give an accurate account.’

‘Usually my wife doesn’t …’

‘Is your wife here, Mr Moore?’ I ask gently, thinking that she is probably the decision-maker for this couple.

‘Er, no, but she’ll be back soon.’

‘Then maybe you and I could talk until she gets home.’ When he doesn’t react, I add, ‘Mr Moore, you have my word, I always endeavour to report objectively. I don’t write sensationalist articles. I don’t misquote or misrepresent. I’m only ever concerned with the truth.’

To my surprise, he opens the door and leads me into the small living room. The television is on and The Beast seems to be making mincemeat out of the three contestants remaining in the final chase.

The room is clean – it has been recently vacuumed judging from the hoover marks on the worn pink carpet – but it houses a lot of clutter. Every spare inch of dark wooden furniture has a magazine or a book on it; china ornaments jostle for space on the window ledges, and paintings by numbers and children’s felt art pictures hang on the walls.

I admire the artwork. ‘My sons do a lot of craftwork,’ I say. ‘They like making model planes and cars. And the younger one, Alfie, loves drawing.’

‘My grandson, Callum, liked drawing when he was younger. And Lego and Meccano.’ Pointing at the pictures, he says, ‘Melissa did those when she was a little girl.’ His eyes lose some of their brightness when he mentions his daughter’s name, as if he’s overcome by the nostalgia of a time when his daughter was still an innocent child.

I clear my throat. I don’t want to scare Melissa’s father by taking notes, and as I expected Melissa Slade’s parents to refuse to talk to me, I haven’t prepared any questions, so I start with the ones I asked myself earlier.

Melissa is an only child, her dad informs me. The Moores moved into this house when Melissa was five. She attended local state schools. I try to commit this information to memory. I’ll need to make a Voice Memo as soon as I get out to the car before I forget it all. Mind like a sieve. Mr Moore relaxes as we talk, but I have to tread carefully. I sense he’s wary of me, so I need to keep building up his trust and avoid catching him off guard with tricky questions.

‘Would you like to see some photos?’ Mr Moore blurts out as I’m trying to think of a line of questioning to fast-forward from Melissa’s childhood to her having children of her own.

‘Yes, I would.’ I plaster a smile on my face. ‘Very much.’

Mr Moore gets up and, to my dismay, reaches down five volumes of photo albums from a shelf on the bookcase. We move to the sofa and he comments on some of the photos as he turns over the pages of the first album. It starts with Melissa’s baby photos, some of which have lost at least one of their self-adhesive corners and become crooked. Mr Moore straightens them before he flips each page over. By the end of the album, there are pictures of her as a toddler.

It’s a good half an hour before we get to the fifth and final album, this one a photo book that Mr Moore tells me Melissa created online. We seem to have gone full circle as, like the first volume, it starts with photos of Mr and Mrs Moore with a baby. I realise that the photo albums have got me to where I need to go.

‘Is that Melissa’s son, Mr Moore?’

‘Yes. That’s Callum, our grandson.’

‘And that’s your wife holding him, is it?’

‘That’s right.’

I wonder where Mrs Moore is and when she’s due home, but before I can ask, George turns another page and from the next photo Melissa Slade stares out at me through bewitching turquoise eyes. She has a heart-shaped face, long blond hair and a huge smile. I find myself transfixed. She’s sitting next to a man, who has his arm round her as she holds their baby son.

‘That’s Melissa with Simon and Callum,’ Mr Moore says, using his index finger to point on the photo at each of them in turn.

Thinking that there may be some photos in this album of Melissa with her baby girls, I remember Claire’s words. I’m thinking never-before-seen baby photos. But I don’t like the idea of asking George for a photo to put in the newspaper. Even if I find one that shows Melissa as a loving mother, I’d feel as if I was invading this family’s privacy and abusing the trust George is showing me.

‘What was Melissa like?’ I ask. I realise I’ve used the past tense, but if George finds that odd, he doesn’t show it.

‘She was a bright child. A wayward teenager. She and my wife Ivy were always at loggerheads with one another. She was kind and funny.’ He smiles wistfully. ‘She was a good mother to Callum.’

He pauses for a moment, and I mull over that last sentence, noting Mr Moore’s use of the past tense, too.

‘We – Ivy and I – don’t see as much of Callum as we’d like to. He’s all grown up now. I suppose he prefers to hang out with friends his own age. But when Melissa first …’

He breaks off, staring vacantly at one of Melissa’s felt pictures on the wall. This time he remains silent for so long that I don’t think he’ll finish his sentence. But then he says, ‘Well, we used to see more of our grandson.’ His voice wavers slightly. ‘We tried to help Simon out. We picked Callum up from school, took him to his activities and clubs, that sort of thing. Ivy gave him a hand with his homework assignments. He had dinner with us and slept here when my son-in-law had to work late.’

I note that he refers to Simon Goodman as his son-in-law despite the fact he and Melissa had divorced and she was remarried. I’m about to ask how old Callum is now, but then it comes back to me that he was thirteen years old at the trial. I do the mental arithmetic in my head. Eighteen. ‘What’s Callum doing these days?’ I ask instead.

But before George can answer, the front door slams and we hear a woman’s voice. At first I think she’s with someone, but I soon realise she’s talking to George from the hallway. She’s plump and she waddles into the living room, unwrapping a ludicrously long scarf from around her neck.

‘So, I asked to see the manager!’ she continues, without looking our way. ‘So rude! I’m dying for a cup …’ She stops mid-rant when she catches sight of me. Mr Moore leaps to his feet and helps her off with her jacket, and I stand up and approach her, introducing myself and holding out my hand. She doesn’t take it. ‘A journalist? We don’t talk to reporters.’

Up close, I can see she’s wearing abundant make-up that doesn’t completely conceal the wrinkles criss-crossing in furrows across her face. I know she was once attractive from the photographs I’ve just seen, but the only trace that remains of her beauty is her eyes. She has the same striking eyes as her daughter.

‘But he’s from The Redcliffe Gazette,’ George says. They must buy The Rag, I realise.

‘I heard about your daughter’s application for an appeal, Mrs Moore,’ I explain. ‘My editor has asked me to cover it and I just want to get my facts straight.’

‘Perhaps next time you can phone before showing up on our doorstep,’ Mrs Moore says. ‘George, I’ll make some tea while you show your visitor out.’ She kicks off her shoes, bends down to pick them up and about-turns to leave the room.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say to Mr Moore as we step outside.

‘Don’t mind Ivy,’ he says. ‘She hates the press. We had reporters and photographers practically camping outside our house for weeks. A proper media circus, it was. We couldn’t open the front door without them bombarding us with questions and shoving cameras in our faces.’

‘I’m sorry about that, Mr Moore,’ I say, a strange mixture of shame and culpability washing over me at the thought that the Moores were hounded by people in the same profession as me.

‘The media branded Melissa as guilty from the start,’ he continues. ‘How could they prove she was innocent when everyone’s minds were already made up?’

I go to leave, but he grabs my arm. I turn to face him. He frowns, pinching his thick eyebrows together.

‘She didn’t do it, you know. My daughter could never have hurt anyone.’ His voice is loud, to override his emotion, I suppose, and for his sake I hope his wife can’t hear him.

‘Who was in the house when Melissa’s baby died?’ I ask. The words fly from my mouth before the question has fully formulated in my head, and I realise my mistake as soon as I see George’s face cloud over.

‘Which baby?’ he whispers at the same moment his wife shouts his name from within the house, putting an end to our conversation.

Chapter 4

Melissa
April 2012

I hadn’t wanted to host the dinner party in the first place, but Michael insisted it was high time we invited our friends round. It was only Rob and Jenny, he said. They were coming with their daughter, who was a few months younger than Callum. Michael’s daughter, Bella, would be there, too. She seemed to spend as much time as possible at her mum’s – she was taking her A levels that year and apparently it was quieter for her to study there – but, to Michael’s delight, she’d agreed to come to us for the weekend. With Clémentine, our au pair, that made eight of us, not counting the twins.

Clémentine helped out with all the food preparation. She was a godsend, that girl, or so I thought at the time, and I’d been hoping she would extend her stay with us after her year was up. I realised just how much I’d come to rely on her in the short two months she’d been with us and I didn’t know what I’d do without her. She shopped and cooked and helped me look after the twins. Her patience was boundless and self-confidence oozed out of every pore of her flawless olive skin. No matter what I asked her to do, she did it graciously. She often took the initiative, too, anticipating what needed to be done before I could make a to-do list in my head.

Clémentine had even impressed Michael, who had initially been reluctant to employ an au pair. But once my husband, a self-professed wine buff, found out that Clémentine’s parents were winegrowers in the Rhône Valley, it was a done deal. The two of them had taken to discussing and tasting wines in the evenings and Michael had started to take Clémentine with him to his oenology classes once a fortnight.

As for Callum, he was besotted with her. His eyes practically popped out of his spotty face on stalks whenever she sashayed into the room, a cloud of Chanel’s Coco Mademoiselle invariably wafting in with her. I’d heard him stutter more than once as he tried out his schoolboy French on her and then witnessed him blushing when she answered in her native tongue and he didn’t understand. I think it amused Clémentine.

I couldn’t fault her except for one thing. For some reason, she always seemed to tend to Ellie, leaving me to look after Amber. I’d tried to talk to Michael about this, but he argued that at only a few weeks of age, it probably didn’t matter one iota to the twins who looked after them as long as someone fed them, changed them and talked to them. I sometimes wondered if I wished Clémentine would take Amber more often because she was prone to colic and colds whereas her sister Ellie was considerably calmer. I kept that thought to myself, though, feeling guilty whenever it wormed its way into my mind.

I tried to convince myself it would be lovely to see Jenny again, but in truth I wasn’t looking forward to having guests. Despite that, I’d put a lot of thought into making myself presentable for them coming. I’d had my hair layered and highlighted that afternoon, and as I still didn’t fit into my pre-pregnancy clothes, I bought a new outfit in Oasis, opting for dark colours in the hope of concealing my bulges.

If I’d spent a little money getting ready for this evening – too much for Michael’s liking – I didn’t get to spend much time. Amber cried for what seemed like hours and by the time I finally got her down, I was running late. I did a quick job with my make-up and I was doing up my dress when the doorbell went. I appraised the result in the bedroom mirror. Not perfect, but not too bad. It would do.

When Jenny arrived, though, self-doubt consumed me in one big gulp. ‘Sleek’ and ‘slim’ were the words that sprung to mind when I looked at her. In comparison, I could only come up with ‘fat’ and ‘frumpy’ to describe myself. The same age as me, Jenny didn’t appear to have aged at all since I’d known her whereas I would need to apply a whole bottle of foundation to stand any chance of masking my wrinkles. And although she was normally the same height as me, in her kitten heels Jenny towered two inches over me in my slippers.

‘Ooh, your hair looks fantastic,’ were the first words she said when I opened the door. Good old Jen. She always said the right thing.

As she, Rob and their daughter, Sophia, stood on the doorstep, I noticed with a prick of envy that Rob had his arm around Jenny’s waist. It was months since there had been any genuine affection between Michael and me. I thought the twins would bring us closer again one day, but for the moment the unexpected upheaval in our lives had driven a wedge between us.

Michael shepherded everyone into the living room and served pre-dinner drinks. I was already feeling detached from it all, as though I was on the outside looking in. I made an effort to laugh in the right places, but it didn’t sound like my laugh; I attempted to make small talk, but it was stilted, as if I were trying to string together sentences in a foreign language.

At the table, at least three discussions were going on at the same time and I couldn’t follow a single one. The chatter grew louder and everyone’s words merged into a confused din in my head. Once or twice there was a slight hush and I realised someone had spoken to me and was waiting for my response. It all felt as if I’d walked onto a stage and had to play a part, but I was missing my cues and hadn’t learnt my lines.

I’d decided against breastfeeding – it just seemed easier not to and I felt too old to do all the nightly feeds myself – so I could have a drink or two, which I’d been looking forward to. I knocked back the expensive wine without even tasting it, hoping it would loosen my tongue, or at least loosen me up. I was relieved when everyone had finished their starters and I could busy myself with clearing the plates and serving the main course.

Everything was forced – my contribution to the conversation, my smile, which stretched into a rictus across my face. I felt like a fraud. I was faking it, feigning an interest when I had no idea what was going on around me. After a while, I couldn’t keep up the pretence. When the baby monitor crackled, I leapt to my feet, seizing the opportunity to get away for a few minutes.

But Clémentine got there first. ‘It’s Ellie,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and get her.’

‘She’s terrific, isn’t she?’ Jenny said.

I was so grateful to Jenny for finding Clémentine to help with the twins and Irena to clean the house that I sat down again, nodded at Jenny and left Clémentine to it. I checked the baby monitor every few minutes, willing Amber to wake up, too. I turned up the volume, although it was unnecessary. Whenever Amber screamed with hunger, you could hear her even without the baby phone.

After the meal, Bella packed the dishwasher while Callum sloped off to his room, Sophia in tow, to play on his console. Blaming the wine, I popped to the toilet before flopping down on the sofa in the living room next to Jenny.

Clémentine was already sitting in an armchair holding Ellie. Her eyes fixed on the baby, she didn’t notice me studying her. She was wearing a low-cut white top and a short black skirt. Earlier I’d thought, rather unkindly, that she was a frilly apron short of a French maid’s outfit, but now I found myself jealous of the way her clothes showed off her cleavage and shapely legs to perfection.

Bella came into the living room to join us, perching on the arm of Clémentine’s chair. I observed my stepdaughter reaching across Clémentine to stroke her half-sister’s fair head. Bella was only a year or two younger than Clémentine and they got on well at the time.

Rob and Michael had been talking animatedly about something – I had no idea what – and there was one of those abrupt silences you sometimes get at parties when everyone stops speaking for a moment. It was broken by the noise of Ellie guzzling from her bottle.

‘I think we need our own bottle!’ Michael said, opening a bottle of Armagnac. He arched his eyebrows at me when I asked for a glass, but he poured me some without comment. It must have been a very small measure because when I picked up my glass a minute or so later, there was no brandy left in it.

Turning to Jenny, I whispered so Michael wouldn’t hear, ‘Have you got any fags?’

‘Of course,’ she said and stood up, grabbing her handbag from the floor by her feet and slinging it over her shoulder.

Jenny always carried a packet of cigarettes on her for emergencies and evenings out. I sometimes accompanied her outside and smoked passively while she puffed away, but it had been a while since I’d felt like a smoke myself. Holding the baby monitor in one hand and the cigarette in the other, I relaxed a little for the first time that evening.

When we came back in, stinking like ashtrays, Rob winked at us while Michael scowled at me.

‘I think I’ll go and check on Amber,’ I said. ‘It’s not like her to sleep through a feed.’

‘No, she ’asn’t cried for a while,’ Clémentine said, her French accent more pronounced than usual. ‘She’s usually so ’ungry.’ She turned to look at Michael with her dark brown eyes, and he chuckled.

Bella offered to go for me and Jenny offered to come with me, but I declined both of them and made my way across the room and up the stairs.

I walked along the landing on slightly wobbly legs, wondering if I was in a fit state to carry my baby and taking deep breaths to try and sober up. The door to the nursery was open and I froze on the threshold, my head suddenly clear, as if someone had just thrown a bucket of icy water over me.

I knew before I walked into the room that something was very wrong. I never told the police that, of course, or anyone else for that matter. But as I stood in the doorway, the room somehow seemed unnaturally still. I strained my ears, but I could hear none of the gentle grunting sounds Amber usually made when she slept.

I can’t recall walking towards the cot. I can’t remember looking down at my baby, if she was face down, or if her face was purplish or pallid. I obliterated those seconds from my memory and left it to my imagination to fill in the blanks.

I remember collapsing to the floor. I remember someone screaming. I didn’t realise it was me until everyone else rushed into the room. Kneeling down next to me, Bella, Jenny and Callum all held me. The colour had drained from Callum’s face and I thought he might need support more than I did. Bella made him sit down. She was pale, too.

Clémentine lifted Amber out of the cot and thrust her into Michael’s arms. I wanted to call out and tell Clémentine to be gentle with my baby, but I said nothing. I knew it was useless. So I just watched as Clémentine put her mouth over Amber’s mouth and nose, and then pushed down on her little sternum with two fingers. Rob rang the ambulance from his mobile, although I heard someone – I think it was Michael – say that there was no point. Amber had been dead for too long.

Chapter 5

Jonathan
April 2018

‘She wouldn’t tell me her name,’ Kelly says. I’m standing behind her, leaning on the back of her chair as I read the article over her shoulder. ‘I found her at Pero’s Bridge on Harbourside begging for small change.’ I’ve just read this sentence word for word on Kelly’s laptop screen.

I start to quote aloud, mainly to prevent Kelly from commenting while I’m trying to read. ‘“I was abused at home by my father. When I flunked my exams, I started taking drugs. I even stole money from my mother to pay for them. Long story short, my mother eventually threw me out. Can’t blame her, really. I was a mess. I thought I’d get away from it all by leaving home, but I’ve been sexually assaulted several times since I’ve been on the streets, too.”’

‘That’s terribly sad,’ I say, looking at the photo Kelly has taken of a woman in her early twenties. She’s wearing clothes that have seen better days, and her black hair is either tangled or in dreadlocks – I can’t tell which.

‘She’s around the same age as me,’ Kelly says.

Kelly has also interviewed a busker called Rose. ‘She was playing the violin in an underpass in The Bearpit,’ Kelly informs me, although, again, I’ve just read that bit for myself. ‘She’s very good. I recorded her. Do you want to hear it?’

‘Er, maybe later. I’ll just finish—’

‘She’s got a bed in a hostel at the moment rather than sleeping rough.’ In the photo, Kelly has captured Rose, bow poised above her instrument, concentration displayed on her face alongside numerous nose and ear piercings. Her drab clothes – khaki trousers, black vest, black fingerless gloves and grey beanie – contrast sharply with the colourful graffiti on the walls behind her.

‘So, what do you think?’ Kelly asks, when I look up from the screen.

‘It’s excellent,’ I say, sitting down in my chair and rolling it towards Kelly’s workstation so that I can still see her computer screen. ‘I like the fact you’ve done a piece on three women – the one we saw at Cabot Circus and these two. Their different stories and circumstances make it an interesting read.’ Kelly seems encouraged by these remarks. ‘It needs a few nips and tucks, though. But I can help if you like. First up, that headline has to go.’

Kelly looks crestfallen. ‘It took me ages to come up with that,’ she says.

‘Well, it’s just my point of view, but you have a fascinating feature here, and “Gimme Shelter” is a clever … um, pun, but well …’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘How about: WOMEN SLEEPING ON THE STREETS, colon, Bristol’s Female Beggars and Buskers?’ I move my hand from left to right to indicate the headline, my fingers and thumb showing capitals; then I repeat the gesture, conveying a smaller font for the subheading. Noticing Kelly suppress a smile, I slide my hands under my thighs.

‘Alliteration.’

‘It sounds more upmarket, more newsworthy. Secondly, it’s great that you have these women’s accounts, but perhaps you could use your voice as a journalist a little more instead of reporting all of it verbatim.’

As I continue to make suggestions, Kelly makes changes to her article.

‘You should ask Claire to run the story online as well as in print,’ I say when we’ve finished. ‘That way, you can add the video of Rose playing the violin.’ Kelly’s face lights up at that idea.

An hour or so after the news meeting that afternoon, Claire summons me into her office.

‘How are you getting on with the Melissa Slade case?’ she begins.

‘Um … I’ve interviewed the parents,’ I say. I feel myself reddening as an image of an irate Ivy Moore flashes before my eyes. Her words echo in my head. We don’t talk to reporters. ‘I need to work my way through the other family members to get a clearer picture.’

‘You should get in touch with her first husband, Simon Goodman,’ Claire says tucking a non-existent strand of hair behind the ear that doesn’t have the pencil. ‘I’m sure he’ll be able to throw some light on the details of the appeal.’

‘Yep. I’ll do that.’

‘That article Kelly wrote is brilliant, by the way. She won’t take the credit. She wants to have your byline on it as well as hers.’

‘No, don’t do that. It’s her own work. I didn’t do much. Just helped her tweak it a bit.’

‘It was good of you.’

‘Is that all?’ I know full well it’s not. Claire’s got that eyelash-fluttering thing going on, which means she’s about to ask me to do something I won’t want to do.

‘No. I wanted you to take Kelly under your wing, mentor her for a while.’

‘Well, I’ve been overseeing her copy. I can certainly continue to do that.’

‘I was thinking more along the lines of taking her with you—’

‘But she has her own patch. And she doesn’t need me to hold her hand. She’s quite cultured, you know. Very bright.’

‘—when you’re working on the Slade case,’ Claire continues as if I haven’t interrupted, ‘so she can see how good investigative reporting is done.’

‘Do I have a choice?’ I don’t want to work on the Slade case anyway, but if I must do it, I’d rather do it alone.

‘Not really, no.’

There’s a pause during which my mouth opens and closes like a goldfish’s as I grapple for a valid argument. Before I can come up with anything, Claire says, ‘We’re done.’ I resist the urge to swear until I’ve left the Aquarium and closed the door behind me.

‘Grab your coat, Kelly,’ I say curtly, striding past all the workstations towards the door leading to the stairs. She catches me up before I make it down the two flights of steps to the exit.

‘Where are we going?’

‘To meet a man called Simon Goodman.’ Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the expression on Kelly’s face and realising I’ve snapped at her, I add, more gently, ‘I’ll bring you up to speed on the way there.’

Simon Goodman hadn’t been hard to find. He’d launched a campaign for his ex-wife’s release back in 2013 when she was found guilty of murder. He seems to have been inexorably proclaiming her innocence ever since. His email address was on the melissaslade.org.uk website and so I wrote to him, asking if we could talk.

Kelly and I walk the short distance to the Watershed Café and we’re sitting at a table when Goodman arrives.

‘Jonathan Hunt?’

I’ve been looking out of the window, enjoying the view of the Floating Harbour and I was expecting Goodman to be wearing a uniform rather than in plain clothes, so he’s the one who spots me. He shakes my hand, considering me through narrow blue eyes as I introduce my new mentee.

‘I don’t have much time,’ he says.

Kelly takes this as her cue to get up and fetch the coffees, leaving me to make a start.

‘Do you mind if I take notes?’ I ask.

‘Not at all. In fact, I’d prefer you to.’ He takes a seat opposite me. He’s at least ten years older than me, pushing fifty at a guess, but he’s wearing it well. He has thick dark hair, which shows no sign of receding or greying, designer stubble and a long straight nose.

Goodman is based at Bristol’s Central Police Station in Broadmead, which is why he chose to meet at the Watershed Café – it’s about halfway between his place of work and mine.

‘Superintendent Goodman—’

‘Simon.’

‘Simon …’ I pause. If he’s uncomfortable at what must be a role reversal for him – after all, he’s the one who generally gets to ask the questions – he doesn’t show it. He unbuttons his shirt at the neck and then steeples his hands, waiting. I’ll bet he’s good at interrogations whereas I’ve come unprepared, as usual. I decide to begin by checking a few facts. ‘You and Melissa were colleagues. Is that how you met?’

‘Yes. We met in 1995. We were both at the Bridewell Police Station. A whirlwind romance, really, but in the end, working together and living together, it became too much. I was obsessed with my job and when I was married to Melissa, I made the mistake of never switching off from it. We often worked on the same cases. We carried on working on them at home. I didn’t give her enough attention.’

He pauses, but I’m so surprised at the candid account he has just given me of his marriage and its breakdown that I don’t know what to say. I try to come up with another question. Fortunately, he saves me the trouble.

‘As you can probably imagine, Melissa has suffered terribly in prison at the hands of other inmates because she was a police officer.’

I think the fact she’s a convicted baby killer might have helped make her a target for her fellow prisoners, but I don’t share this thought. ‘Was she good at her job?’ I ask.

One side of Simon’s mouth turns down, which I interpret as an expression of disapproval. He’s obviously not impressed by my interview technique. ‘Yes, she was. Very good indeed.’

‘And you had one child together?’

‘Yes, a son: Callum. He’s at university now, but he comes home every weekend and helps out with the campaigning. And before you ask, Melissa was an excellent mother, too.’ His irritation is palpable.

‘Sorry.’

Simon lets out a long sigh. ‘No, I’m sorry. Melissa was vilified in the media when she was arrested. Everyone had made up their minds she was guilty long before she appeared in court. I’m hoping the media might be kinder to us this time round. I’ve read some of your articles about the case online, and, well, I know you try to report objectively.’

I wince, as the headline of one of my articles springs to mind. SLADE: THE BABY SLAYER. And then another one: FROM COPPER TO KILLER. They hadn’t been my original headlines – I can’t remember them now. Claire’s predecessor had changed them as they weren’t sensational enough for his liking. He’d kept my impartial tone in the articles themselves, though.

‘I’ll do my best to stick to the facts,’ I say. ‘As I told you in my email, I’ve been asked to write about Melissa’s application for leave to appeal, but I’m not familiar with the ins and outs of it all.’ I need to brush up a bit more on the case itself, even though I covered it. I should have done that before meeting Goodman. I ought to get hold of the court transcripts, but I don’t really want to wade through them.

‘Well, as I’m sure you know, her conviction was upheld at the first appeal four years ago,’ he says, stroking his stubble. ‘But since then, we’ve uncovered fresh evidence and an application has been made to the Criminal Cases Review Commission. We have high hopes we’ll be granted another appeal.’

Kelly comes back carrying a tray of mugs. I wait until she has sat down and we’re sipping our coffees. Then I ask, ‘May I ask what this new evidence is?’

‘The twins slept on mattresses that contained added fire retardant chemicals. Studies have shown that Sudden Infant Death Syndrome can be—’

‘Cot death?’ Kelly asks.

‘Yes. Cot death. Research shows it can be caused by toxic gases, which are the result of an interaction between these chemicals and common household fungi. A baby who sleeps on its tummy, like Amber did, would breathe in dense fumes. But even a baby who sleeps on its back would be repeatedly exposed to these potentially fatal gases.’

‘But this isn’t new,’ I say. I remember reading something about this before, back when Mel was expecting Noah. Mel was obsessed with doing everything right. We had read up about SIDS, so we bought a mattress along with a special cover for it. And Mel made me give up smoking. ‘Surely they banned mattresses containing those chemicals?’

‘No, it’s not new. And yes, the chemicals were banned. Eventually. But Melissa’s ex-husband—’

‘Ex-husband?’

‘Yes. Well, he wasn’t then. He is now. She divorced him.’

‘Of course.’ I nod knowingly, although this is news to me.

‘As I was saying, her second husband was a bit of a cheapskate by all accounts.’ Dislike flashes across his face, but he quickly hides it. ‘He decorated the babies’ bedroom to surprise Melissa. The mattresses he got were brand new, but they didn’t conform to British Safety Standards. Michael says he doesn’t remember where he bought them.’

‘So, are you saying that the mattresses weren’t tested at the time?’

‘No, they were analysed when Melissa was arrested. They found phosphine, arsine and stibine in the air immediately above the mattresses.’ I stop him for a moment and ask him to spell all three gases. When I’ve written them down, he adds, ‘It’s just that the evidence presented in court against Melissa was more compelling.’

‘Then I don’t get it,’ I say. ‘What are the grounds for Melissa’s appeal this time? What’s this new evidence?’

He takes a deep breath. ‘In Ellie’s post-mortem, high levels of antimony were found in her liver and body tissue from the flame retardant in the mattress,’ he explains. ‘We’ve only recently managed to get hold of the toxicology report. This information wasn’t disclosed to Melissa’s defence team and, as you can imagine, it could be considered exculpatory evidence.’

‘Let me get this straight,’ I say. ‘New evidence has been uncovered that points towards cot death, and it is in fact old evidence that was somehow buried? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘That’s the gist of it, yes.’ Simon drains his coffee, glancing at his watch as he does so. ‘I have to go, I’m afraid.’ As he stands up, he adds, ‘You can always send me an email if there’s anything else you’d like to know.’

When Simon Goodman has left, I huddle over my notebook, ostensibly to scribble down a few more notes, but really to collect my thoughts. Talking to Goodman has made me uncomfortable. The whole Melissa Slade case is bringing up memories that I want to leave alone. I don’t want to associate her past with mine. I wish I hadn’t allowed Claire to push me into covering this case.

Putting down my pen a few seconds later and looking up, I notice Kelly furrowing her brows. I realise this is all rather technical. It’s hardly surprising she’s lost.

‘That was complicated, wasn’t it?’ It comes out sounding patronising and I instantly regret my question.

‘No, I followed everything he said about cot death and the poisonous gases and the new evidence that has come to light. It’s not that.’

‘Then what?’

‘What I don’t understand is that he said Amber slept on her stomach …’ She pauses mid-sentence, apparently thinking something through.

‘Yes, I don’t know why. You’re supposed to sleep babies on their backs.’

Kelly shakes her head. ‘That’s not what I meant,’ she says. ‘Superintendent Goodman said Amber breathed in the fumes directly, but then he talked about the results of Ellie’s post-mortem. And he mentioned twins. Did he get them muddled up?’

‘No, he didn’t,’ I reply, realising it’s my fault that Kelly’s confused. I’ve given her a piecemeal account of the events.

‘Then, which one died?’

‘I’ll start again from the beginning,’ I say, ‘and this time I’ll tell you the whole story.’

Chapter 6

Melissa
April – July 2012

When a baby dies unexpectedly, there’s always a thorough investigation. The police interviewed everyone who had been in the house when Amber died. I’d recognised the officer who asked me the questions, although I hadn’t known his name until he introduced himself. Constable Patrick Carter. Tall and skinny with short ginger hair, he was sympathetic and kind towards both Michael and me. A young female constable took notes during the interview.

Even though the police came to our home and I was sitting on my own sofa, it was unsettling to be the one answering the questions instead of asking them. There were lots of questions. Had I had an easy pregnancy? Did I have complications giving birth? Were the twins premature? How old was Amber? Had she been a healthy baby? Why did she sleep on her tummy? Had I given her any medicine, to help her sleep for example? Could I describe my relationship with my son when he was a baby? How did I get on with him now? Was I on good terms with my stepdaughter? What was my marriage to Michael like?

Despite the sobs that punctuated my sentences, I tried to give comprehensive, coherent replies. The pregnancy had gone smoothly even though I was expecting twins at the age of thirty-nine. I’d experienced no difficulty giving birth three weeks before the due date. Amber was twelve weeks and two days old when she died. She’d had numerous colds during her short life and she’d suffered from colic. I’d taken to laying her on her stomach as this seemed to ease her tummy pain. I’d given her Calpol occasionally, but nothing else. Callum and I had always been close. I got on well with both Bella and Michael.

I asked myself questions, too. Over and over again. Should I have attempted to resuscitate Amber as soon as I realised she was dead? What went wrong? And above all, why me? But I could come up with no answers.

A week later, the coroner’s officer called. Dr Holly Lovell, the pathologist who had performed the post-mortem on Amber, had recorded a verdict of sudden infant death from natural causes. There would be no inquest. The woman on the phone was compassionate, reassuring me that there was nothing Michael or I could have done to prevent Amber’s death.

In the days that followed, I tried to keep busy, organising Amber’s funeral. Michael and I had decided on a small ceremony and a cremation. I also took over with Ellie and spent as much time with her as possible. She became my therapy. I started to drink to ease my pain, but although initially this took my mind off the situation, it quickly became another problem to deal with.

Clémentine cried so much that anyone would have thought Amber was her baby. She was no use to us in that state and as I was tending to Ellie now, we didn’t need her anymore, but Michael didn’t think it fair on the girl to send her home just yet. He said she’d pull herself together before long and be good company for me. But she hovered around me most of the time, looking sullen, and I wondered if Michael was expecting her to keep an eye on me.

My mother, who had made amends for her part in the argument we’d had back in January, rang every day, which I appreciated. Callum threw himself into his studies without me having to ask him if he was up to date with his schoolwork, and he cooked dinner every evening, although no one had any appetite. Bella wanted to go to her mother’s but Michael said she should stick with us at a time like this. I think he needed her around in much the same way as I needed Callum.

To begin with, I checked up on Ellie about every ten minutes when she was sleeping during the day and I got up several times during the night. Or I would stay in her room, sitting in the rocking chair, watching her little chest rise and fall.

‘There was nothing genetically wrong with Amber,’ Michael said after about a week, ‘and Ellie was always a much healthier baby. You don’t need to worry.’

Jenny, who was very supportive after I lost Amber, agreed with Michael. ‘You’re paranoid,’ she said, ‘which is perfectly understandable. But you know, it’s true what they say. Lightning doesn’t strike twice. You need to remember that.’

Jenny always said the right thing. But this time she was wrong.

At first, I didn’t panic. I thought I was dreaming. One evening, a month or so after Amber’s funeral, I walked into the nursery and found my baby lying lifeless in her cot. Certain objects seemed out of place, as though the room was untidy, but I didn’t immediately grasp why. In a trance, I straightened the rug on the floor by the cot. I folded up the soft woollen blanket and picked up the cushion, placing them on the rocking chair where they belonged. Then I looked around the room, trying to work out what felt wrong. My heart didn’t even skip a beat until I clocked the blond hair. That was when I understood this wasn’t a nightmare. This was Ellie, not Amber.

The realisation was like a light bulb exploding painfully in my head and it galvanised me into action. She was still warm; there was still a chance. Lifting Ellie out of the cot, I screamed for Michael, but he didn’t come.

Laying Ellie on the floor and kneeling beside her, I attempted resuscitation. Images of Clémentine trying in vain to revive Amber forced their way into my head, but I ignored them, somehow recalling my first aid training in the police force and going through the manoeuvres automatically. I had my mobile on me and while I was doing this, I called the emergency services, putting the speaker on and setting down the phone on the floor next to my daughter while I tried to get her heart to beat again. The ambulance crew took over when they arrived. But they couldn’t bring my baby girl back to life either.

With Ellie, it was nothing like the first time. No reassurance or kindness over the phone from the woman at the coroner’s office; no sympathy or support from our best friends, who seemed to suspect before we did that something was going on. I rang Simon, my ex-husband, to ask if he’d heard anything at work, but he was evasive in his replies. Whatever he knew, he wouldn’t tell me.

An inquest followed. And an inquiry. Michael and I were interrogated separately. At the station this time, by my own colleagues. As I was being led down the corridor to the interview room, I passed Patrick Carter. He’d come out to the house after Amber died, asking his questions gently and using such sympathetic words. This time, he didn’t even greet me. His face and neck flushed blood red as he looked the other way. I didn’t see Simon.

I knew all the tricks, so I was aware the interrogation room was designed to make me feel ill-at-ease. I recognised the deceptive tactics, the good cop/bad cop act, the playing me off against Michael. I also knew that if they could read my body language and see I was telling the truth that I would be fine, so I was careful not to appear as guilty as I felt. I followed the advice of my solicitor to the letter. Fortunately, my colleagues looked as uncomfortable as I felt and it was over quickly. After that, the police questioned Bella and Callum even though I’d told them they weren’t even home the night it happened. No one was home except me.

Then, early one morning, about three weeks after I’d found Ellie dead in her cot, they came for me. I was still in my pyjamas when they arrived and Michael was in the shower. Six of them arrived in two police cars. I knew four of them personally. Perhaps out of courtesy, this time there was an officer with the same rank as me. DCI Nicholas Baker. All this could only mean one thing.

I let them in and offered to make tea, but they refused. Out of nerves, I tried to strike up a mundane conversation – about the weather, probably, but they remained unresponsive, perching awkwardly on the edge of the armchairs and sofa and avoiding eye contact, while we all waited for Michael to get dressed.

When he came into the living room, Michael sat down beside me and took my hand. My head started to spin and I only caught snippets of what DCI Baker said. Inconsistencies … not natural causes … suspicious death … unlawful killing …

At one point, Michael let go of my hand and turned to me with loathing in his eyes. He hadn’t once questioned my innocence. Not once. It was only much later – in court – that I realised he was probably too busy feeling guilty himself. The expression on my husband’s face shocked me far more than the chief inspector’s words. Michael was sitting right next to me, but he was already distancing himself from me. I was alone in this. I’d been alone for a long time.

Then Baker cautioned me. You do not have to say anything … anything you do say … Words I’d uttered countless times, never imagining that one day they would be spoken to me.

I remember, as I was being led away, glancing over my shoulder at my home – the house in which I’d lived with my husband and my son; the house in which my daughters had died. My world had already been turned inside out and it seemed to tip over then. I wasn’t sure if it would ever be upright again.

Chapter 7

Jonathan
May 2018

She’s pissed off with me. She doesn’t have to say anything – I can tell from the silence over the phone. Hardly surprising. It has taken me over a week to call her after cancelling our night out at the theatre. And I’ve just given her the impression that I’m only doing it now because I want her to do something for me.

‘All right,’ she says eventually, to my surprise. ‘Where do you want to meet up? At yours?’

That was probably deliberate, and if so, I deserved it. I’ve never invited her to my house, for obvious reasons.

‘I … you … my …’

She remains silent. She’s not going to help me out here. Picking up a ballpoint pen from the pot on my workstation, I start spinning it around on my thumb and index finger.

Taking a deep breath, I try again. ‘Holly, I haven’t told Noah and Alfie about you and me yet. But I will. I just need a little more time.’

‘It’s OK,’ she says, but her tone of voice belies her words. I’m not being fair on Holly. I really do need to sort this out. Soon.

‘There’s a nice new French restaurant on Chandos Road. They do delicious steaks, apparently.’

‘It’ll be nice to eat out for a change.’ It doesn’t sound like a dig this time. I think she’s being sincere, but her words remind me that she usually cooks for the two of us at her place and I wince. ‘I’m a vegetarian, don’t forget,’ she adds.

‘Right,’ I say, doodling absent-mindedly with the biro on the back of the voucher on my desk. ‘I’ll check the menu and get back to you.’

‘Will you ask me over dinner, then?’

That grabs my full attention as for a split second I think Holly is fishing for a marriage proposal. Then I pick up the note of humour that has crept into her voice. ‘Ask you what?’

‘You said you were calling to ask me out on a date and ask me for a favour.’

‘Ah.’ The way she puts it makes me sound – and feel – like a total bastard, but that’s not quite how I phrased it. ‘Well, no, I can tell you now, if you’ve got a moment.’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘Are you at work, by any chance?’

‘Yes, of course. Why do you ask?’

‘I was wondering if you could get your hands on an old report for me.’

‘A coroner’s report?’

‘Yes.’

‘That depends. How old? Was the post-mortem done here? Can you give me the name of the deceased?’

‘Yes, the post-mortem was carried out in 2012 by your office. The name is Ellie Slade. The Slade baby?’ There’s another silence, longer this time. ‘Holly, can you hear me? Holly?’

‘Yes, I’m still here. I’ll try and get hold of Ellie’s report for you. It shouldn’t be a problem. I can definitely show you the one on Amber’s death if that’s of any use. She died a few weeks before her twin?’

‘I’m aware of that,’ I say, ‘but Amber’s death wasn’t—’

‘I know. I’m the one who did Amber’s post-mortem,’ Holly finishes. That shuts me up. It hadn’t occurred to me that Holly might have been the pathologist who did the report. She and I met long after Melissa Slade’s trial and we’ve never discussed it. I wonder why she carried out Amber’s post-mortem, but not Ellie’s.

Holly promises to see what she can dig out and when I’ve said goodbye, I google the restaurant on my laptop. Damn it! It doesn’t look veggie friendly. I opt for a Thai restaurant in Clifton instead. Holly lives in the suburb of Cotham, so Clifton will be as handy for her as Redland. Distracted by Holly’s involvement in the Slade case, it takes me longer than it should to make the reservations online. Then I text Holly the address of the restaurant. But when I ring Nina to ask her to look after the kids, she’s unavailable.

‘Bollocks!’ I mutter, ending the call.

‘How old are they?’ Kelly asks, making me jump. I hadn’t realised she’d been listening in.

‘Who? My boys?’ I swivel round in my chair so that I’m facing her. ‘Noah’s twelve and Alfie’s nine.’

‘The offer’s still open,’ Kelly says.

‘What offer?’

‘I’ll babysit if you like.’ Kelly is looking at me earnestly.

I’m not sure who else I can ask, but I hesitate even so. Perhaps it’s because I’ve never liked to mix my private life with my professional life. Or maybe it’s because she used the word “babysit”, which my sons would object to. Or is it because I doubt her capabilities?

‘I could use the cash,’ Kelly adds.

I’m about to ask if she’s had any experience childminding, but I check myself. ‘Thank you, Kelly,’ I say instead. ‘That would be great, if you’re sure you don’t mind.’

‘Not at all. So, is Holly your wife, then?’

‘Er, no, my wife …’ I trail off as I notice Kelly peering at my wedding ring. She doesn’t know, and she doesn’t need to know. ‘Holly’s just a friend,’ I say. ‘Here, you may as well have this.’ I hand her the voucher I’ve been fiddling with.

‘What’s this?’

‘It’s for two free meals at a posh French restaurant that has just opened in Redland. You’re not a veggie, are you?’ I realise I didn’t ask before buying her the bacon sarnie the other day.

‘No way. I love meat.’

‘Is there someone you’d like to take out to dinner?’

‘I’m single at the moment.’

‘Oh. Well, do you have any brothers or sisters? Or what about asking a friend?’

Kelly’s face clouds over and I wonder if I’ve said something to upset her. ‘My sis …’ She doesn’t finish her sentence. Then her smile comes back, although it seems a bit forced. ‘My mum likes juicy steaks. I’ll treat her. Do I need to write up a review?’

‘You got it.’

‘OK. Cheers for this.’ She waves the voucher at me, winking conspiratorially.

I spend the rest of the afternoon updating stories from my patch, making phone calls, proofreading Kelly’s copy for the next print edition and writing up my notes on Melissa Slade.

The whole time I’m working, I have Holly on my mind. Holly is sexy, smart and funny. She’s perfect for me. She’s perfect, full stop. I met her through an online dating website and when I first started seeing her, I was slightly put off by the thought that the hands touching me had been manipulating dead bodies all day. But Holly made me laugh; she made me feel like myself again. But a year and a half later, I’m still holding back.

She’s kind and patient, she loves kids, although she doesn’t have any, and I know she’ll make a great stepmum. But I’m not sure if my boys are ready. Until recently, Alfie still crept into my bed in the middle of the night and Noah has only just started bringing home good marks and reports again from school. I was so devastated after Mel’s death that the boys suffered not only because they’d lost their mum, as if that wasn’t bad enough, but also because their father was struggling to look after himself and consequently doing a lousy job of taking care of them. We seem to be finding our feet now. I’m worried that if I bring Holly into the equation, it might upset the balance. And I don’t want my boys to think I’m replacing their mother.

An instant message pops up from Claire and so, banishing Holly from my mind, I get up and head for the Aquarium.

‘How are you getting on with Melissa Slade?’ Claire says without preamble as I close the glass door and breathe in the smell of stale cigarette smoke.

I consider her question. It’s strange, the way she has formulated it. I feel an aversion towards Melissa Slade, even though I’ve never met her. Perhaps, given what happened to me, I should feel a connection. I have something in common with Melissa Slade, but it seems to have sprung from a very different experience. I hope I never do meet the woman. I don’t think I’d get on with her at all.

‘I’m not much further along than when we discussed it the other day,’ I say. ‘I’ve spoken to Simon Goodman, her first husband. He could be a useful contact, I think, as long as we stick to the facts and don’t paint his ex-wife in a bad light.’ I tell Claire about my brief conversation with the superintendent.

‘It’s a bit thin for the moment. We’ll sit on this for a while until you’ve talked to a few more family members. What about the husband?’

‘You mean Michael Slade? He’s an ex-husband now too. He’s next on the list.’

‘OK. Try and find something The Post won’t. There’s a story in here somewhere, I can feel it, and I don’t want them breaking news before us. Timing is everything. Keep me in the loop.’

‘Of course.’

‘That’s all.’

Back at my workstation, I attempt to find out where Michael Slade lives. I try my usual People Finder website, then Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. Nothing. There are several Michael Slades, but none of them is the right one. The man seems to have gone underground after Melissa’s trial. His name barely pops up again, even around the time of the appeal.

Out of ideas, I fire off a short email to Simon Goodman, feeling sure he’ll know where Slade lives. An hour later he writes back, asking me to ring him and giving me two or three windows to call him over the next couple of days. I sigh, frustrated and confused as to why he won’t answer my question by email.

The rest of the afternoon goes by quickly as I have a mountain of work to get through. It’s ironic that our print edition has never had a lower readership and yet I’ve never had so much to do. The Internet and new technologies have revolutionised journalism and I need to constantly add different perspectives to stories I’ve posted online as the situations evolve. Readers expect to be able to follow what’s happening in real time. With members of the general public tweeting about events they’ve witnessed and uploading their own videos to websites, journalists have to analyse and portray the bigger picture. It’s also a job you take home with you. In a connected world, you can’t ever really disconnect. I can’t wait to go out this evening and get away from it all for a few hours.

Despite getting caught in traffic on the way to and from dropping Kelly off at my house, I arrive at the restaurant a little early, before Holly. When she breezes in, her dark hair is sitting beautifully on her slender shoulders even though there’s a gale blowing outside, and the knee-length colourful dress she’s wearing shows off her figure to perfection.

She kisses me on the cheek and I pull out her chair for her.

‘Here you go,’ she says, handing me the brown A4 envelope she was carrying under her arm. ‘I’ve photocopied the reports for both the Slade twins. I’m not supposed to … you know …’

‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’ll be careful how I use it.’

I sit down again, putting the envelope on the table. Trying not to eye it longingly, I ask Holly how she has been and how her day was.

‘It’s OK, ‘Holly says, when I get on to the weather. ‘You can open it. That way, if you want anything clarified, I’m here.’

So, once we’ve ordered food and we’re sipping wine, I slide out the printed pages and start by speed-reading Amber’s report. Sudden infant death. Natural causes.

‘Upper respiratory tract infection and inflammation of the mucous membranes of the nose,’ I read aloud. ‘What’s that in layman’s terms?’

Holly looks up from her phone, which she has been playing with while she waits for me to finish reading. ‘Basically, Amber had a cold,’ she says. She slept on her stomach to relieve colic and there are signs of asphyxia, which would suggest she suffocated in her sleep. Her blocked nose would have hindered her breathing and I expect she ended up with her face turned down into the mattress.’

I nod. This confirms what I thought. Cot death. It’s also the reason I hadn’t thought to ask Holly for Amber’s post-mortem report.

‘I found nothing suspicious. There was nothing at all to suggest violence or abuse,’ Holly continues. ‘There was no bruising other than slight haematomas around the nose and mouth and a broken rib, both of which were certainly caused by attempts made to resuscitate the baby. I didn’t see the need for an inquest.’

Something in Holly’s words and tone of voice niggles me. She almost sounds defensive. And that’s when it comes back to me – I feel like slapping my forehead with the palm of my hand. I skimmed an online article about this only the other day, but if Holly was named in it, I missed it. In court, the pathologist who had examined Amber’s body stuck to her interpretation of her findings. I hadn’t been in court that day, but by all accounts, she was resolute in her argument that Amber’s death had been an unpreventable tragedy. She would not change her verdict despite pressure to reconsider during cross-examination by the prosecution.

Holly puts her mobile away in her handbag. I say, ‘I remember now. In court they tried to make out Melissa Slade had murdered both twins.’

‘Yes. She was charged with two counts of murder. They said it was very fortunate for her that Amber had been cremated and that her little body couldn’t be exhumed for another examination.’ I think I see tears in Holly’s eyes, although I’m not sure why. I give her hand a quick squeeze under the table.

Letting Holly recover her composure, I turn to the second report. This one is very different. Minor retinal haemorrhages. Bruises. Blood in the lungs. Fibres in the lungs. Fractured second right rib. Fractured first left rib. The cause of death is given as asphyxia consistent with deliberate smothering and/or shaking.

‘Why didn’t you do Ellie’s post-mortem?’ I ask Holly.

‘Quite simply because I was away on holiday,’ she replies.

‘Do you agree with its conclusions?’

‘The post-mortem was carried out by my colleague Roger Sparks. He’s the best pathologist I’ve ever worked with. He’s one of the most meticulous people I know. His conclusions were confirmed in court by other experts, including an eminent ophthalmologist and one of the best paediatric neurosurgeons in the country.’

She hasn’t answered my question, so I ask her again.

‘I think it’s more a case of Roger disagreeing with my findings,’ she says. ‘He thought both deaths had been deliberate. But I was the one who examined Amber and I’m as certain as I can be that she died of natural causes.’

‘And Sparks performed the post-mortem on Ellie,’ I say, thinking aloud. ‘Could Ellie’s bruising and broken ribs have been caused by efforts to resuscitate her?’

‘That was the big question in court,’ Holly says, shrugging. ‘Probably not.’ She doesn’t elaborate.

‘So, one unfortunate natural death and one deliberate murder.’ The details of the court case come flooding back to me now.

‘That’s how it seemed.’

‘That’s also the verdict the jury delivered. She was accused of two murders, but found guilty of one.’

‘It doesn’t make much sense though, does it?’

‘No,’ I agree. ‘No, it doesn’t.’

I look down again, turning to the last page. Two words seem to jump out at me, as if they have been highlighted. Antimony and liver.

‘This is the toxicology report? The part that went missing and has now resurfaced. The evidence that might free Melissa Slade …’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Holly says. ‘All hell broke loose in our office when that turned up. Roger Sparks is denying any involvement in a cover-up – actually he’s denying he wrote the document at all – but it was found among his papers and on his computer when he retired. It all reflects very badly on us.’

‘I can imagine. Do you believe him?’

‘I don’t know what to believe anymore,’ she says. ‘Anyway, I hope this helps.’

After that, Holly is uncharacteristically quiet. The food is delicious and I top up Holly’s wine glass several times, but that doesn’t help. She evidently has something on her mind. I assume it’s me dragging up the memories of the dead Slade babies, so I stay clear of that subject for the rest of the evening.

When I pull up in front of Holly’s place, near Saint Michael’s Hill in Cotham, she turns to me and I think she’s going to invite me in, as she always does. I haven’t told her yet that I don’t have my usual childminder and I didn’t ask Kelly to sleep over at mine, which is what Nina does. Nina sleeps on the sofa bed in the sitting room, even though there is a bedroom in my house that no one ever sleeps in. I couldn’t bring myself to explain that to Kelly, so I won’t be able to stay the night with Holly, but I can come in for a while. I look out of the car window at the beautiful old building, once a large house now converted into modern flats, and tip my head towards it, raising my eyebrows suggestively.

But Holly isn’t on the same wavelength. ‘Thank you for a lovely dinner, Jonathan,’ she says, and it sounds rather definitive. She normally calls me Jon and I’m not sure I want to hear what’s coming. ‘I think it might be a good idea if we took a break for a while,’ she continues. ‘I can’t keep hanging on forever.’ She looks down, at her hands, clutching her handbag on her lap. ‘I want to be part of your life instead of watching it from the sidelines, but you won’t introduce me to your family or your friends.’

‘Holly, I—’

‘It’s too late, Jon. I came tonight because I wanted to tell you in person, but I’d already made up my mind.’

She gets out of the car and I watch her walk away. I sit in the car for several minutes with the engine idling, looking up at Holly’s window, berating myself for messing up so badly with Holly and for messing her around.

When I get home, the boys are asleep and Kelly is dozing in front of the TV on the sofa. I pay her what I normally pay Nina and use the Uber app on my phone to request a ride to take her home. While we’re waiting for the driver, I bring her up to speed with the latest in the Slade case.

‘So, let’s get this straight,’ Kelly says. ‘It was originally thought the mother lost one baby and murdered the other one?’

‘That was the way the evidence pointed at the trial and the jury’s verdict, yes.’

‘And now fresh evidence – a missing post-mortem report that has resurfaced – suggests both babies died of cot death?’ She sounds incredulous.

I consider this before answering. ‘Well, that’s what Superintendent Goodman and Melissa’s defence team are hoping to prove. That report is their main ground for appeal. And it has happened before. There are precedents.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re too young to remember, but there were several women in the nineties and noughties who were imprisoned for killing more than one of their babies. It turned out their babies died of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome and their convictions were gross miscarriages of justice.’

Kelly doesn’t appear to have listened to me. ‘Is it possible the missing report your friend gave you is inconclusive and Melissa Slade killed both twins?’

‘I suppose we can’t rule that out,’ I concede, getting the instant sensation I’m betraying Holly. She was sure of herself, so sure that she stood her ground in court. ‘She was my girlfriend, actually,’ I blurt out, ‘but she’s not anymore. As of this evening.’ I don’t know why I say that. It only makes me feel even more disloyal towards Holly.

‘Oh.’ Kelly doesn’t sound very sympathetic, barely breaking flow. ‘Or maybe neither Amber nor Ellie died of cot death but Melissa Slade is innocent,’ she says, steering the conversation back on track.

‘Hmm,’ I say dubiously. ‘But then, what killed them? A genetic disease?’

‘Possibly. You’d think that would have shown up in the post-mortems, though. I wonder if the question is not what killed them, but who? No one seems to have considered it could have been murder, but that Melissa Slade wasn’t the murderer.’ She starts to say something else, but she’s interrupted by the sound of a car horn.

‘Looks like your Uber’s here,’ I say, unnecessarily.

As Kelly leaves, I try to think over the different theories we’ve just come up with, but I can’t concentrate. My thoughts keep racing back to Holly. I tap out several texts on my mobile, but end up deleting each one. In the end, I write three words. I’m so sorry.

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