‘Thank you. It’s a bit rusty, but I am expanding the export side of my father’s business, so I need to practise my English.’
I wonder if this is why she agreed to talk to me. A good opportunity for her to work on her speaking skills. Suits me.
Or perhaps she’s just curious. She leans towards me. ‘You said a miscarriage of justice? You mean she didn’t kill her babies?’
‘She was convicted of murdering only one of them, officially, but yes, there’s new evidence to suggest that she’s innocent.’
‘Only one,’ Clémentine repeats. ‘What’s this new evidence?’
‘A medical report that was kept from the defence.’ I can’t let Clémentine turn the tables and ask me questions. So, I add quickly, ‘You worked there as an au pair, is that right?’
‘Yes. It was supposed to be during one year, but I came home after three months. Then I got another job in the States during six months.’
‘As an au pair?’
‘No, as a waitress, cleaner, general dogsbody at a hotel in California.’
‘Hard work, huh?’
‘I was given accommodation and it was good for my English. That was the important thing.’
‘What was it like working for the Slades?’ Clémentine crosses her arms and narrows her eyes, and I realise I’m close to demolishing the trust I’ve been building up. I need to skirt round her relationship with Michael Slade. I amend my question. ‘What was it like working for Melissa Slade?’
‘She was moody. One instant she was in a bad mood, the next she was fine. She had no patience with her babies. She didn’t ’ave any confidence either. Amber cried a lot. Melissa could never stop her to cry … I mean, stop her crying. Sometimes Melissa, she cried, too.’
‘Were you able to calm Amber?’
Clémentine pauses. Then she says, ‘I looked after Ellie more.’
‘Because she was less fractious?’
‘Fractious?’
‘Calmer. Did you prefer to look after Ellie because she was easier?’
She hesitates again before answering. It’s as though she’s struggling to find her words. Not because she needs to work out what she wants to say in English, but because she’s trying to give the right answer. ‘No. I left Amber to Melissa because I hoped if Melissa pacified her, then she would become a mother more confident … a more confident mother.’
I’m not sure I believe this. I think if Melissa had looked after Ellie more she would have felt like she was doing a better job, but I’m no expert on childcare – my sons attest to that.
‘What were the other members of the family like?’ I ask, keeping my question as vague as possible.
‘They were all nice. Callum was like a younger brother; I got on well with his half-sister Bella.’
‘His stepsister.’
‘Yes, his stepsister.’ Clémentine shifts from one foot to the other, her eyes darting all over the place. Then she looks at her wrist. She’s not wearing a watch, but she says, ‘I don’t have any more time, I’m afraid.’
‘I know about you and Michael, Clémentine, if that’s what you’re worried about. That’s not why I’m here. Unless it has any bearing on Melissa’s situation, we don’t have to talk about it.’
She nods. ‘I don’t know if Melissa guessed about us while I was there. I didn’t know her before she had her babies. Maybe she was different. But she was not a good mother and she was not a good wife when I knew her. She didn’t love her children and she didn’t love her ’usband. She didn’t even like herself. I often ask myself if she found out about us and that’s what pushed her.’
‘Pushed her?’
‘I mean, if she found out that Michael and me, we were in love, maybe that had something to do with why she killed her babies. I blame myself a lot.’
In love. Clémentine can only have been nineteen or twenty and Michael must have been around thirty-nine or forty, around the age I am now. It seems clear to me he took advantage of her, but six years later, she still views their relationship through rose-tinted spectacles.
‘So you think she’s guilty?’ I say.
‘Who else would have killed two innocent babies?’
‘The fresh evidence that has been uncovered indicates they may not have been killed at all. Either of them.’
She shrugs. ‘I hope that’s true.’
‘But you don’t believe it is?’
‘I don’t believe in coincidences.’
It occurs to me that the jury at Melissa’s trial probably didn’t, either. ‘Did you keep in touch with Michael?’ I ask.
‘No.’ She lowers her head. ‘He thought it was better like this. I didn’t need to be tied down … tied up … involved in this, he said.’
It sounds to me more like he was using that as a convenient excuse to end his relationship with Clémentine, but I refrain from comment. ‘What about Bella? You said the two of you got on well. Did you keep in touch with her?’
‘No. She wrote to me – twice I think. She wasn’t at the trial, but she found out about her father and me. She was furious.’ Clémentine has tears in her eyes, but she keeps them locked on mine. ‘That was the last I ’eard from her. The last email she sent. After, I wanted to apologise, but I didn’t know how to contact her.’
It seems to me that in this day and age if you want to get in touch with someone, you can find a way, but I don’t push it.
As if reading my thoughts, Clémentine says, ‘I don’t think Bella uses the Internet now.’
Something feels off in all this, but whatever it is, it’s a dead end. Damn! I think Bella might have an important piece of this messy jigsaw puzzle. ‘Do you have any idea where I might find her?’
‘I don’t ’ave an address for her, if that’s what you mean.’ She laughs sardonically and I’m not sure why. I get the feeling she’s joking but I’ve missed the punchline. ‘The last time I called Michael on the phone, he said she was always in Bristol. In the centre.’
I frown. Then I get a flash from Madame Smith’s French lessons at school. “Encore” can be translated into “always” or “still”. Clémentine clearly thinks Bella still lives in the city centre. Perhaps Bella’s mother’s house is in the centre. Clémentine might not be aware that Bella left home. It’s not my place to tell her.
‘When was that?’ I ask, recalling her saying just now that Michael had severed all ties with Clémentine. ‘When did you last speak to Michael?’
‘Maybe three or four months after the trial had ended?’
I sigh. No one seems to know what has become of Bella. She moved out of her father’s house when Melissa was arrested. Then she walked out the door of her mother’s house and no one has heard from her since. She vanished four years ago, leaving no trace whatsoever.
‘Thank you. You’ve been very helpful,’ I say, trying to sound sincere.
‘Will you … will you see Michael soon?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Would you say hello from me? Give him my love?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I lie. Poor kid.
Then Clémentine straightens herself to her full height, as though discarding her relapse into the lovesick teenager she’d once been and becoming the capable career woman she was when she entered this room. ‘Were you having the intention to buy wine?’ she demands.
I end up buying two cases of Côtes du Rhône even though I have no idea how I’m going to squeeze twelve bottles of wine into our suitcases for the flight home and I hardly ever drink red wine anyway. Clémentine and I carry a box each to the hire car, where the boys are still playing with the dog.
‘Time to go, kids,’ I say. ‘Get the DVD player sorted out for the journey back.’ Putting the wine in the boot, I spot the packet of popcorn poking out of one of the shopping bags. I toss it to Alfie.
‘Lovely boys,’ Clémentine says. ‘I can tell you’re a terrific father.’
I don’t correct her. ‘Thank you. It was a pleasure to meet you. You needn’t worry, I won�
�t mention your name in print at all. May I call you if I think of something you might be able to help me with?’
‘If you want,’ she replies with a shrug.
On the journey back, I replay in my mind everything Clémentine said. I get the strange impression that she has given me a vital piece of information. She said something I should have picked up on, provided some crucial clue pointing the way to the truth. But I can’t put my finger on it.
Chapter 22
Kelly
August 2018
Bushy Park is in Totterdown, not far from where my mum lives in Knowle, so after lunch at hers, I hoof it, following the directions on the Google Maps app on my phone. I’d imagined Simon Goodman living in a house, for some reason, and I’m surprised. It’s a nice enough location, near the city centre. I just thought a fancy property in a safe neighbourhood like Horfield or Henleaze would be more up a high-ranking police officer’s street. No pun intended. Perhaps, though, he’s single and hates gardening and this ground-floor flat in Totterdown suits him perfectly.
I’m bang on time, so I open the gate, walk up the narrow drive and the stone steps at the end of it and ring the doorbell. It takes him a while to answer the door and when he does, he looks puzzled, as though he can’t quite place me.
‘Kelly Fox, The Redcliffe Gazette?’ It sounds like a question, so I try to be more assertive. ‘I made an appointment through you – by email – to talk to your son, Callum.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Goodman strokes his stubble. ‘I’m sorry. It slipped my mind you were coming today. I’m afraid Callum’s … not well.’
I know from Melissa Slade’s diary that Callum has had a bit of a breakdown and I wonder if that’s why Simon Goodman hesitated. Does he mean he’s not well mentally? Depressed? Or is he searching for an excuse to fob me off?
‘Right, well, I’ll send you another email, shall I?’ I can hear the irritation in my voice. I should probably keep him sweet, in case Jon and I need to talk to him again, so I fake a smile and add, ‘Have a lovely weekend.’
Perching on the wall of the church next to Goodman’s flat, I fish my phone out of my handbag. I notice that there’s only nine per cent battery power left. I charged up the phone last night but using Google Maps has drained the battery. Still, nine per cent should be enough for a quick call to my mum. I cross my fingers, hoping she’ll answer. She does.
‘Hi, Mum. Any chance you could pick me up in the car?’
‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Where are you?’
‘In Totterdown. Have you got something to note down the address or shall I text it to you?’
There’s no answer. I pull my phone away from my ear. The screen is black. It’s gone dead. Resisting the urge to throw my mobile on the ground and swear, I put it back in my handbag. I stand up to leave, but sit back down again as I hear the creak of Goodman’s front gate. Simon Goodman steps onto the pavement, leaving the gate open behind him. Then he turns right, away from me, and right again, and walks up the street that’s perpendicular to this one.
I’m still sitting on the wall when I see him a few seconds later coming back down the road at the wheel of his car. He hasn’t noticed me. Either he’s absorbed in his thoughts or he’s not very observant for a policeman. Once his car has disappeared from sight, I walk back up the drive and the steps to the front door of his flat and ring the doorbell again.
Doorstepping, this is called. When a journalist turns up at someone’s home and tries to get an interview out of them when they don’t want to talk. Although in this case, it’s the father who doesn’t want me to talk to his son. I feel like a tabloid paparazzo.
I give up after ringing three times, but as I turn away, the door opens a fraction and a guy five or six years younger than me sticks his head round the doorframe, no doubt trying to hide the fact he’s still wearing pyjamas at two in the afternoon. He has dark blond hair that could do with a cut and dark rings under blue-green eyes that would be striking if they weren’t so bloodshot. His skin has the pallor of someone who doesn’t get outdoors much, or perhaps he genuinely is ill. Despite all that, he’s kind of attractive if you’re into the bespoke blond bedhead look. It doesn’t do much for me.
‘Oh. I thought my dad had forgotten his keys,’ he says. His breath wafts towards me. Tobacco. And something else. He gives an involuntary giggle and it clicks: he’s stoned.
‘Callum? I’m Kelly Fox.’ I flash my press card like a police badge. ‘Your father arranged for me to talk to you this afternoon.’
‘I don’t think he mentioned it to me. Um … now’s not a good time.’ I get another whiff of his stale breath and try hard not to wrinkle my nose. Or gag.
‘It won’t take long,’ I say.
‘I’m … er … not dressed.’
His eyes travel down to my feet, then back up to fix on my cleavage. I’m wearing a low-cut T-shirt under a fake leather jacket, and suddenly I don’t feel sufficiently dressed myself.
‘I don’t mind,’ I say. ‘But I could make you a coffee while you freshen up if you like?’
His gaze shifts from my breasts to my handbag. ‘You got any aspirin in there by any chance?’
I suppress a smile. He’s slurring his words and it’s obviously an effort for him to speak. Add to that, he has a broad Bristol accent. He sounds like he’s doing an impression of a pissed pirate in pain. ‘I’ve got some paracetamol, if that’s any good?’
The fact I’ve got painkillers on me seems to sway him. He nods, then winces, like the movement has sent a bolt of pain through his head. Stepping back, he opens the door wider for me to come inside.
‘I’d prefer tea,’ he says.
‘Sorry?’
‘Rather than coffee. Kitchen’s through there.’ He points to a door to the left of the hallway. ‘Back in a bit.’
As I’m hunting through the cupboards for teabags, I hear water running. Callum has obviously hopped in the shower. I hope he gets a move on. I don’t know where his dad has gone and how long I’ve got, but I don’t think I should be here when he gets back.
I fill a glass with water and drop in two effervescent painkillers. Callum appears in the doorway, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and rubbing his wet hair with a towel. I hand him the glass and he slings the towel over the back of a kitchen chair.
‘Cheers. Found everything all right?’ he asks, opening a cupboard and taking out a packet of milk chocolate Digestives.
‘Yup.’
I follow him through the open door into the sitting room, carrying the mugs. He has sprayed himself with aftershave or deodorant and I almost cough as I breathe it in. He giggles again. He’s clearly still lit. Gesturing for me to sit on the sofa, he sinks into an armchair opposite me. I watch him gulp down the paracetamol and then open his packet of biscuits.
‘This should help get rid of the headache,’ he says, brandishing a Digestive in my direction.
I may as well get straight to the point. ‘I wanted to ask you some questions about your mum.’ His face darkens, but I carry on. ‘My colleague and I are covering her story for The Redcliffe Gazette, trying to get the miscarriage of justice out there as much as possible before her appeal.’
‘What makes you think it’s a miscarriage of justice?’ he asks.
‘Isn’t that what you think?’ When he doesn’t answer, I change tack. ‘How about telling me what she was like when you were little?’
‘She was great. We were a happy family. Until she left my father and rode off into the sunset with a wanker.’ His voice is flat, unemotional, but I think it’s an act, hiding his hurt. And I don’t mean the pain in his head.
‘Not a big fan of Michael Slade?’
‘You could say that,’ he says, his mouth full of Digestive.
‘Between you and me, I don’t think much of him either.’ That elicits a smile, which in turn causes him to scowl and groan. He bends forwards, leaning his elbows on the coffee table and cradling his head in his hands. ‘Good night, was it?’
‘You
could say that,’ he repeats. ‘Some mean shit, though.’ He rubs his head as if to illustrate his point. I wonder if he’s on a cycle of good nights to obliterate the bad days.
I glance around the room. Grey carpet. The sofa I’m sitting on has dark grey upholstery and red cushions. Two framed prints on the wall. In one of the pictures, a street scene, a red umbrella contrasts with a grey day. In the other one, a black and white print, a monkey is wearing a sandwich board with the words Laugh now, but one day we’ll be in charge. I recognise it immediately as one of Banksy’s artworks. You can find this very print in every gift or tourist shop in Bristol. The overall effect of the room is rather nondescript and very masculine.
One thing stands out. A large framed photo on the sideboard of Melissa Slade in her thirties, standing between Callum, who must be about eleven years old, and Simon Goodman, who looks less worn in the photo than he does now, an effect heightened by the lack of facial hair on his chin, perhaps.
‘Happy days,’ Callum says, following my gaze.
There’s a smaller photo next to it – a school photo. He’s not smiling in this one. He sees me looking at it.
‘I was thirteen in that one. It was just before my mother’s trial.’
He looks older in the school photo than in the family photo, but he still looks a lot younger than thirteen.
‘Did you attend your mum’s trial, Callum?’
‘Not as a witness, if that’s what you mean. They read out my statement to the court. My grandparents took me one day and we watched from the gallery, but then they decided it wasn’t a good idea – too traumatic for me or something – and I didn’t get to go again.’
‘And do you still visit your mum in prison?’
‘No. I used to go when Dad made me. Haven’t been for a while.’
‘Why’s that?’
He shrugs. ‘I don’t want to see her. She has ruined my life.’
That sounds a bit melodramatic, but I can relate to what he’s saying. I know what it’s like to grow up resenting one of your parents. If my father were still around, I probably wouldn’t want to see him, either. As if on cue, an image of his face appears, as sharp as if he were standing before me. He might not be around anymore, but I still see him: in colour, in detail, in my head. The less I think about him, the better I feel. I haven’t forgiven him.
The Guilty Mother Page 16