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‘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.