A few seconds later, the front door swings open and I find myself face to face with Michael Slade. He’s several inches shorter than me, although his position on the doorstep gives him a temporary boost to my height, and he’s ten to fifteen years older. He’s wearing a navy T-shirt tucked into a pair of light green Bermuda shorts, which I find disconcerting, and no socks or shoes.
‘Damn thing doesn’t work very well,’ he says, pointing at the intercom on the wall. ‘Neither does the one at the gate.’
‘Jonathan Hunt. The Redcliffe Gazette,’ I say, holding out my hand. He doesn’t take it. ‘The gate was open.’ I nod my head towards the end of the drive. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘This about Melissa?’ he asks gruffly.
‘That’s right. I’ve been asked to write a piece—’
‘I’m not interested.’ He starts to close the door, then stops and stares at something over my shoulder. Following his gaze, I turn to see Kelly swinging her long bare legs out of the car. She straightens up, smoothing down her skirt and opening her umbrella. Then she closes the car door and walks up the short drive towards us in her sandals.
I turn back to Slade, whose eyes are still very much glued to Kelly. I seem to remember Michael Slade had a reputation for being a womaniser. I’m not sure how I know that – some blurred memory I can’t quite zoom in on. Clearly he still has an eye for the ladies.
Reaching my side, Kelly smiles politely at him, and then shoots me a puzzled look. I’m not sure if the message is What’s going on? or What’s with the beachwear?, so I just shrug at her again.
‘This is my colleague—’
‘I’m working from home today,’ Slade says, ‘but I can spare a few minutes.’ He steps back and holds the door open for us. Kelly has made an impression on him, but he doesn’t seem interested in knowing her name, so I don’t bother to complete my introduction.
‘What is it you do for a living, Mr Slade?’ Kelly asks him politely as we traipse behind him along the hallway and into the living room. I’d been about to ask him the same thing. Kelly’s taller than him, too, I note, in those chunky sandals anyway.
‘I’m a chartered surveyor,’ Slade replies over his shoulder. Then in a patronising tone, he adds, ‘I work in property and building consultancy.’
I feel offended on Kelly’s behalf and then I remind myself that on more than one occasion I, too, have underestimated her intelligence.
Slade offers to make some tea and disappears, leaving Kelly and me alone in the living room. I dry my glasses on my handkerchief and then put them back on. I look around. Slade seems to have decorated the whole room without any colour. The sofas and curtains are oatmeal; the rug with some geometrical pattern on it is a light fawn. Even the coffee table is off-white. The cream walls add little variety.
Over the central fireplace, there’s an ornate gilt mirror at such a crooked angle that it can only be deliberately hung that way. A charcoal sketch of a young naked woman kneeling by a fountain hangs on the wall opposite us. It strikes me as vulgar rather than erotic.
‘Who knew there were so many tones of white?’ I whisper.
‘I know, right?’ Kelly whispers back. She’s staring at the picture and doesn’t look at me. ‘It’s like fifty shades of beige in here.’
I chuckle, taking in the double doors at the far end of the room that lead into a conservatory. I imagine there must be terrific views when it’s not belting it down outside.
The weather has been glorious for the last couple of weeks. Ever since Holly left me, in fact. Until today. I’ve been wallowing in self-pity and feeling very down, and my mood wasn’t lifted in the slightest by the sun. But I’m a lot happier today, despite this torrential rain, although I’ve a sneaky suspicion it may be a high before another low.
‘Tastelessly decorated interior, but awesome house,’ Kelly comments, breaking into my thoughts. ‘Biggish.’
‘He’s in the right business.’
‘I noticed the Merc, too. Is he compensating for something, do you think?’
‘I have no idea what you mean.’ I arch an eyebrow at her, my mouth twitching. You couldn’t fail to notice the car, and I’m impressed Kelly recognised the make. Then I reprimand myself for thinking that way. I’m being judgemental again, not to mention sexist.
‘Oh well, he’s been hospitable so far,’ Kelly says. I have it on the tip of my tongue to retort that if she hadn’t alighted from my Ford Focus at exactly the right moment, we wouldn’t have been admitted inside this awesome biggish house.
Before we left the offices this morning, I told Kelly what Simon Goodman had said on the phone when I’d called him to ask for Michael Slade’s address. He’d warned me that Slade could be very arrogant and prone to exaggeration. He also said Slade was sly. It was plain to me that Melissa’s first ex-husband wasn’t particularly fond of the second one. I think the subtext was that I should take anything Michael said – if he deigned to speak to me at all – with a pinch of salt. It occurs to me now that Slade might open up more to Kelly than me. He seems quite taken with her, after all.
‘Do you want to handle this, Kelly?’ I ask.
‘What? Interview him, you mean?’ When I nod, her face lights up briefly and then falls. ‘But I haven’t prepared anything,’ she says.
I don’t tell her that I haven’t, either. Just then Slade appears in the doorway holding three mugs at precarious angles. He has put some slippers on. I whisper to Kelly, ‘Just wing it. You’ll be fine.’
Once we’ve sipped our teas, Kelly fishes a smartphone out of her handbag. ‘Do you mind if I record this?’ she asks, fiddling with her mobile.
‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ Slade says.
‘Ah. OK. Do you object to me taking notes?’
‘No, that’s fine, I guess.’
Kelly swaps her phone for a notebook and pen and uses one of her thighs to lean on. ‘I’m very sorry if this drags up traumatic memories for you, Mr Slade,’ she begins, ‘I can’t imagine—’
‘Michael, please,’ says Slade, with what he probably hopes will pass for a winning smile on his face, but looks more like a lecherous leer to me.
‘Could we start with the evening Amber died? Were there many people in the house?’
‘Not a lot, no. Some of our friends. Our family. That’s all.’
‘Can you tell me who was there?’
‘Well, Melissa, obviously, her son Callum, my daughter Bella, our friends Robert and Jennifer Porter, and their daughter Sophia.’
‘So, including you, that would make seven people.’
‘That sounds about right. Plus the twins, obviously.’
I wonder what she’s going to ask next. If it were me, I’d steer Slade firmly onto the subject of the babies. He has just given Kelly her cue.
She pauses briefly before saying, ‘Mr Slade, were you satisfied with the coroner’s verdict of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome for Amber?’
Nicely done!
‘Call me Michael.’ He sighs. ‘Amber was a sickly baby. She always had a cold and tummy ache. I was forever telling her not to, but Melissa positioned Amber on her front in the cot. It all added up logically. So, yes, at the time, I accepted the conclusion of cot death.’
‘At the time?’
‘Well, with hindsight, it seems less likely, doesn’t it?’
Kelly doesn’t miss a beat. ‘What do you mean, Mr Slade?’ she asks gently.
‘Well, given that Melissa was found guilty of murdering Ellie, it … one has to ask oneself … it stands to reason that …’
‘You think she might have killed both babies,’ Kelly offers, when Slade doesn’t seem inclined to finish any of his sentences.
‘Well, yes, obviously.’
‘You believe your wife was guilty, then?’
‘My ex-wife,’ Slade says. After a second or two, it becomes clear he isn’t going to answer the question, but his silence does that for him. Simon Goodman had told me Slade blamed Melissa. I got the impression
he was reluctant to give me this address for that very reason.
‘Was anyone with Melissa on the evening Ellie died?’ Kelly asks, undeterred.
‘No. Melissa was alone when she claims to have found Ellie dead in her cot. I was at home. She said she shouted for me, but I didn’t hear her. I must have been in a different part of the house.’
‘Was anyone else at home?’
Slade pauses, just a fraction of a second too long, before answering. ‘No, not as far as I remember.’ He stares into his mug. ‘It was a long time ago. I’ve forgotten some of the facts.’
It strikes me that you’d recollect such dramatic events very clearly, even five years later. The police would have questioned Slade about this, perhaps even several times. He must have been over every detail of what happened that evening – who was where, and what everyone did and said. And yet, here he is, pretending his memory is hazy.
And then it comes to me. Michael Slade admitted on the stand – in front of a courtroom full of people – that he’d been cheating on his wife. That’s what I was trying to recall earlier when he was ogling Kelly.
I see Kelly narrow her eyes at him. She doesn’t believe him. I’ll fill her in later.
‘Do you know where your daughter and stepson were?’ she asks.
Another pregnant pause. ‘No, I can’t say I do,’ Slade replies eventually. ‘Bella made the mistake of moving into her mother’s house permanently. She stayed with us for a while after we lost Amber – I did everything I could to keep her – but she may have left by then.’
‘Mistake? Why was it a mistake for her to move in with her mother, Mr Slade?’
‘Bella’s mother, Margaret, had no control over her. Bella went a bit wayward before she went AWOL.’
‘Your daughter ran away from home?’
He nods. ‘Some boyfriend her mother didn’t approve of. I think she ran off with him. I think she sends her mother the odd card, but as far as I know, no one has seen her since.’
‘How long ago did Bella run away?’
‘I’m not sure if you’d call it “running away” at her age. She was eighteen – an adult.’
‘I see. And how long ago was it?’
‘She left her mother’s home about four years ago.’
I’d like to hear more about this, but Slade’s bitter voice wavers a little, and I wonder if he’s going to cry. I decide to keep quiet. It’s not my interview.
Kelly scribbles notes furiously in her notebook. I think she’s giving him time to pull himself together. I glance down at her lap, but although her handwriting appears very neat, my glasses are smeared now and I can’t make out what she has written.
‘And Callum?’
‘He was around less often for a while, then not at all after Melissa was arrested. Melissa’s ex collected Callum’s stuff and he lived with his father for a few years until he went to university.’
I’m intrigued that Slade refers to Goodman as “Melissa’s ex” when the same term could be applied to him. ‘Her ex?’ I say before I can stop myself.
Slade snaps his head up. He looks surprised, as though he’d completely forgotten I was there. ‘Simon Goodman. Melissa’s first husband. Callum’s father,’ he says, standing up to signal that we’ve outstayed our welcome.
I drain my tea, and Kelly and I stand up too. This time Slade does shake my hand when I offer it at the door. I hand him a business card and Kelly does the same. Then she picks up her umbrella from where she left it on the doorstep, and holds it over the pair of us. It covers half of me and half of her, and we both get soaked in the few seconds it takes us to walk briskly down the driveway to the car.
‘That raised more questions than it answered,’ Kelly says wryly as I turn the settings for the heater and the windscreen wipers as high as they will go. ‘He didn’t seem at all concerned about Bella even though he hasn’t seen her for at least four years.’
‘No, you’re right.’
‘I think we need to find her. She might be able to help us.’
‘If her parents don’t know where she is, there’s little chance that we—’
‘And he was definitely lying about who was in the house. For Amber’s death as well as for Ellie’s. I got the impression someone else was there. Both times.’
‘Ah, about that—’
‘He looked down a lot,’ Kelly says. ‘Did you notice that?’
I did, but I assumed he was admiring Kelly’s legs.
‘He was deliberately avoiding eye contact,’ she continues. ‘A sure sign he was being dishonest. Do you think he’s protecting someone?’
‘Kelly, I was reminded of something earlier,’ I say. ‘Slade was having an affair. With the au pair. It came out in court. I think that might be why he was being evasive.’
‘Oh. Wow. I see.’
Neither of us speaks for a second or two. I let Kelly take in what I’ve just told her while I concentrate on overtaking a learner driver.
Then Kelly says, ‘It’s odd. Simon Goodman is convinced his ex-wife is innocent whereas Slade—’
‘I know. I got the feeling he’d have been quite happy for her to go down for murdering both babies.’
‘Do you think he might have done it?’
‘What? Killed the babies? And framed Melissa? The first time it didn’t look enough like murder, so the second time he made it clearer?’
‘Too far-fetched?’
I consider this. My gut feeling tells me Melissa is guilty as charged; guilty as sin. And Ex-Hubby-Number-Two seems to believe she killed both babies even though she went down for only one count of murder. Unless that’s just what he’s pretending to think.
‘I’m not sure we have anything to suggest that Michael Slade is a killer,’ I say. ‘But I agree. He’s a slippery sod.’
‘I’ve got a feeling he knows more about what happened to those babies than he’s letting on. He’s hiding something.’
Chapter 10
Melissa
I haven’t always been a monster. Until a few months ago, I was just a bad mother, but prison has changed me. From bad mother to beastly monster. Quite a journey. You have to toughen up in prison to survive, as I soon learnt. Especially when you’re a police officer and a convicted baby killer.
December 2013
I was taken directly from the holding cells underneath Bristol Crown Court to Her Majesty’s Prison Haresfield Park in Gloucestershire. I arrived late in the evening and my personal property was immediately confiscated, labelled and logged. I had the choice between a smokers’ or a non-smokers’ welcome pack. I’d only ever been an occasional social smoker – the odd fag with Jenny – but I opted for the smokers’ one. Then I took a shower before putting on my prison-issue clothing, although I was told I could wear my own clothing here before long. I was given a prison number and allowed a phone call. The only number I knew by heart, apart from my own mobile, was our landline. So I rang Michael, but we didn’t have much to say to each other.
The next day, I went through the reception process. I was interviewed by the health care team. A doctor then examined me and strongly advised me to sign up for the prison’s drug and alcohol awareness course. I watched a video about prison life. I had more interviews and assessments. Everyone was friendly and I was fine all the while I was in the induction unit. I felt safe, separated from the other prisoners.
Finally, a prison officer escorted me to the single cell I’d been allocated in one of the main units. Lying on my bed that night, I thought about my babies. I heard their cries all the time, not just when I slept. It was like having bad tinnitus. It drove me mad, but I didn’t want it to stop. It was all I had left of my baby girls. Mostly, it was just background noise, white noise, but that night I really listened.
I could distinguish Amber’s agonised squalling from Ellie’s hungry mewling. I could tell my twin daughters apart. Even now, I could hear them, calling for me, as if I was still their mother. I don’t know why, but I’d thought their cries in my head wo
uld stop when I was sent to jail, as though my life sentence would turn a page in my life story and begin a different chapter.
I didn’t think I would fall asleep. The strong smell of bleach didn’t quite mask the lingering reek of vomit, although my cell looked bright and clean. I tossed and turned on the narrow bed, shivering under the starched sheets. It was a far cry from the king-sized bed I used to share with Michael with its soft Egyptian cotton bedclothes, infused with the smell of washing powder mixed with the scent of our bodies. I felt terrified and isolated; lost and unspeakably sad.
But I was mentally and physically exhausted, and my eyelids grew heavy. I could feel sleep taking hold of me. Just as I was nodding off, there was a thud from the other side of the wall. Followed by another one. The third was accompanied by a squeal. It went on for at least a minute before it dawned on me that the inmate in the next cell was banging her head against the wall. I wondered if she’d always been disturbed or if everyone in here ended up with psychiatric problems. Perhaps I’d lose it, too. Maybe I’d get out of prison one day only to go to an asylum.
The headbanging continued. I’d have expected the twins to screech in fright at the racket, but abruptly they stopped crying and became silent. Any sympathy I felt for the woman in the next cell was now booted out by anger. How dare she silence my children! Not so long ago, I’d been wishing myself that Amber wouldn’t squall so much. Life is full of little ironies.
‘Be quiet!’ I yelled at the wall.
But there was another thud and another shriek.
I tried again. ‘Stop it!’ I tried to bang the wall myself with my hand, but it only served to make my wrist throb in pain. The sound my fist had made was muffled compared to the sound my fellow inmate was making with her head.
Yet another bump and yelp.
‘Shut the fuck up!’ I shouted at the top of my voice.
And this time, she did, leaving an eerie calm. Third time lucky.
The Guilty Mother Page 8