‘In what way has she ruined your life?’ I ask, focusing on Callum’s face instead.
He shakes his head. But then he says, ‘People judge me because of who she is. When everyone found out who I was at uni, my life became a living hell.’
‘People can be very unkind,’ I say.
‘I lost my sisters when they died, then my mother when she went to jail for it. But I also lost my stepsister.’
At these words, my heart clenches in a sudden stab of pain. ‘I know what it’s like to lose a parent and a—’
‘My friends abandoned me. And my girlfriend has dumped me. All because of her.’
I wonder if Callum always feels this sorry for himself or if the weed in his system is making him open up more than he normally would. He has been talkative, but he hasn’t actually given me anything I can use, either in an article or as a clue towards finding out the truth.
‘So, you’re not in touch with Bella anymore?’
‘No. No one knows where she is.’
I can’t get my head round that. ‘Isn’t anyone looking for her?’
‘I think everyone assumed that if she took off, she didn’t want to be found.’
This is one dysfunctional family. Even more fractured than my own.
‘I understand how the police might not have the resources to continue to search for her, although I think that sucks, but I don’t get how Bella’s own family could just give up.’
It’s only when Callum looks up at me through wide red-blue eyes that I realise I’ve spoken that thought aloud – and rather vehemently at that.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Subject close to my heart.’ I reach over to the coffee table to put down my empty mug and stay sitting forwards on the sofa, studying Callum. ‘What makes you think Bella took off?’
‘She was fucked up, man.’
‘Because of the twins’ deaths?’
He puts his half-eaten biscuit down on the coffee table and furrows his brow. ‘I think that tipped her over the edge. But she’d been teetering on the brink for a while.’
‘Did you get on with Bella?’
‘Yes. She was nice. Easy-going, you know. Bright. She had dark moods and she was quite introverted, but she could be fun.’
She sounds like a normal teen. ‘What about your mum? Did she get on with her?’
‘Yeah. Bella helped out with the babies and that. I think everyone liked her. Mike was always raving about how proud he was of her.’
‘Mike? Michael Slade, you mean?’
‘Yeah. Bella wasn’t there a lot. And sometimes when she was there, I wasn’t – I had to stay at Dad’s every other weekend. Bella lived with her mother, mainly. I think she preferred it at her mum’s.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Dunno. I liked it better at my mum’s at the time. More people around. Better than just Dad and me. You know? Perhaps she liked that it was quieter at her mum’s place.’
Sensing I’m heading into a dead end, I try to steer the conversation back to Melissa. ‘You said earlier it wasn’t just your mum you lost when she was sentenced. Do you think maybe your mum feels that she lost her daughters and then her son, too?’ I ask.
His face changes, his eyes becoming blank, his lips pursed. ‘She fucking asked for it. She deserves everything she gets. I hope her appeal fails and they leave her banged up for good.’
I can’t think how to respond to his outburst, so I wait for him to continue, but instead he lifts the mug to his lips with both hands to take a sip of his tea. He’s wearing a Black Sabbath T-shirt and my attention is immediately drawn to his left forearm. Pale white scars zigzag across it. Self-harm scars. He’s evidently messed up. Did that start after his mother was arrested? Or was he already like that?
‘Why’s that, Callum?’ He gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head. He’s holding my gaze, but he’s not going to answer me. I try again. ‘What makes you think she deserves to stay in prison?’
He lowers his head and I think I’ve lost him. But then he whispers, ‘She did it.’
‘You mean you think your mum’s guilty?’
A quick nod.
‘What makes you think she’s guilty?’ I make an effort to keep my voice even and calm. ‘Did she tell you that? Did someone else tell you?’
‘I don’t think she did it …’
‘But you just said—’
‘… I know she did. She killed Ellie.’
‘How do you know?’ He doesn’t answer. ‘How do you know that, Callum?’
I jump as I hear someone behind me. ‘Hello again. Kelly, isn’t it?’ I whip my head round so quickly I crick my neck. Simon Goodman is standing in the doorway. He looks from me to Callum. ‘I see you’re up and about, young man. Feeling better?’
‘A bit.’ Callum looks sheepish.
‘I should go,’ I say, standing up.
‘Yes, you should.’
Simon Goodman doesn’t move and I accidentally brush his arm as I squeeze past him. My heart starts to thunder as for a second, I wonder how much of the conversation he overheard. I half expect him to lunge at me and prevent me from leaving the house. He turns around and I can sense him behind me. He reaches across me and I give a little whimper.
Then he opens the front door and holds it for me. Stepping outside into the daylight, I curse myself for letting my overactive imagination run amok. It was all too much, too tense. Callum’s bitterness towards his mother. His belief that his mother killed his sister. Goodman bursting in on us like that.
The front door slams shut behind me. Taking a deep breath, I walk briskly down the drive and then slow my pace as I begin the walk back to my mother’s. Hopefully she’ll drop me home from there. Earlier I didn’t want to walk, but now I think it will do me good. I need to clear my head, untangle my thoughts.
Did Callum mean what he said about his mother being guilty? How could he possibly know if she was? Maybe he doesn’t know for certain and he was simply expressing his gut instinct. And why is nobody worried about Bella? Surely even if she did leave home of her own accord, someone must want to know where she is. She’s a missing person that no one is missing. Unless someone does know her whereabouts.
I’m still deep in thought half an hour later, sitting at my mum’s kitchen table, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in front of me.
‘A penny for them,’ my mum says, lowering herself into the seat opposite.
‘Hips playing up?’ I ask, noting her slow movements. My mum’s in her late forties – she was in her early twenties when she had my sister and me – but she has stiffness in her joints. Arthritis, maybe. She won’t see a doctor. She’s a little plump and forever on some fad diet, convinced if she were slim her aches and pains would disappear.
‘Never mind me. Tell me all about your interview with Melissa Slade’s boy.’
I fetch the biscuit tin and take out a packet of Hobnobs. We had devilled eggs with avocado and iceberg lettuce for lunch, in keeping with Mum’s latest food craze regime, and I’m starving now. Callum munched his way through at least five biccies while I was there, but he didn’t offer me one, the sod.
I relate my discussion with Callum to my mum, who is all ears. She always listens to what I say, but I’m surprised at the keen interest she has been taking in my job since I started investigating the Melissa Slade case. It’s bordering on morbid fascination. She grills me about it all every time I pop round.
I prepare myself for her volley of questions, but when I’ve finished, she is quiet and unsmiling. It must be all my talk about looking for Bella. I’ve made Mum think of Lily. Every time Bella’s disappearance comes up, I’m reminded of Lily, too.
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ I say. ‘I’ve upset you.’
‘No, you haven’t. I’m fine,’ she says, but I can tell she isn’t. ‘I do hope Melissa Slade gets justice. That woman’s been through enough.’
‘Do you remember the case, then? What do you remember about it?’
She heaves herself up, u
sing her arms to push on the table. ‘More than most,’ she says, picking up the washing basket from where it was sitting on the worktop.
‘You think she’s innocent, don’t you? What makes you think she’s innocent?’
‘She didn’t seem guilty, put it that way.’
‘What do you mean, she didn’t seem guilty?’
‘I meant … you know.’ My mum lowers her head, avoiding eye contact. She’s the one who brought this up and yet now she doesn’t want to talk about it for some reason. ‘Her picture on the TV and in the papers. She looked innocent … beautiful.’
‘Hang on! You can’t leave it there!’ I call after her as she walks past me towards the door from the kitchen to the hallway. ‘Talk to me.’
She turns around. ‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘I’m not allowed.’
‘Why not? What do you mean, you’re not allowed?’
‘I’m sworn to secrecy.’
And with that, she disappears, armed with her basket of clean clothes. I hear her footsteps as she trundles upstairs. I won’t get any more out of her on the matter. Not today, anyway.
Chapter 23
Jonathan
August 2018
‘So, I went to pay Callum Goodman a visit while you were off gallivanting in France,’ Kelly says, flopping onto her swivel chair and dropping her bag at her feet. Her eyes are bright with excitement.
Kelly often starts her sentences with “So”, which annoys the shit out of me, but I bite my tongue. At least she doesn’t do it in her copy. It amuses me that she has dispensed with any form of greeting, even though I haven’t seen her for over a week. ‘Uh-huh. How did you find him?’ I ask.
‘Google Maps,’ she says.
‘No, that’s not what I meant. I meant, what—’
‘I was joking. I thought he was self-pitying, screwed up and immature.’
‘He sounds adorable.’
She wheels her chair so close to mine that her knees brush my thigh. ‘He says Melissa killed Ellie,’ she says, lowering her voice.
‘Really? How does he know that?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘Didn’t you ask him?’
‘Of course I did! But his dad walked in on us at that point.’
Her expression is so serious I can’t help but laugh. ‘Great timing,’ I say. Kelly manages a smile, although I can see by the look in her eyes that this is no laughing matter for her. ‘Did you believe him?’
‘I think Callum believes his mother is guilty. Whether or not he knows for sure, I have no idea.’ She manoeuvres her chair back to her workstation. ‘And you were right and wrong, by the way.’
‘How so?’
‘You were wrong about August being a quiet month for news and right about Melissa Slade’s appeal becoming national news. While you were across the Channel, it’s all anyone has talked about here.’
‘Hmm. I saw. I picked up a paper at the airport when I got back.’
‘Not just in the papers. On TV, too. Everyone seems to be on her side this time.’ Without taking a breath, she adds, ‘So, how was France?’
‘Good. The boys and I had a great time. I took a detour. Paid a visit to—’
‘How come your wife didn’t go?’ Kelly asks before I can tell her about Clémentine. ‘Was she working?’ I frown. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s none of my business. That just came out. I shouldn’t have asked,’ Kelly gushes. She looks mortified. ‘I’ve overstepped the mark. You’re kind of my boss, after all.’
‘It’s OK, Kelly.’ I rake my hair with my fingers. I think Kelly nearly asked me about Mel a couple of times before. Once when she looked after Noah and Alfie so I could go out with Holly and the second time when I said I was going on holiday with my sons. ‘My wife is dead.’ My voice cracks as it always does when I talk about this.
Kelly’s mouth has fallen open. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says again. ‘I didn’t mean to be nosy.’
‘That’s all right. You weren’t to know.’
‘How did she die? Was she ill?’
‘No.’
There’s a pause. Kelly holds my gaze. I don’t ever talk about this. The last person I told was Holly and it took me several months before I was able to tell her all of it. But Kelly has a way of getting me to confide in her. And she has a right to know. She has looked after my boys.
I take a deep breath. ‘It was a hit and run on a zebra crossing.’
‘She was run over by a car, you mean?’
‘A van, actually.’
I expect that to be the end of the conversation, but Kelly asks, ‘Not deliberately?’
‘No. The driver was texting. He didn’t see her crossing the road. Mowed her down. She died in the ambulance.’ I clear my throat.
‘I’m so sorry.’ She places her hand on my arm.
‘Mel – my wife – was seven and a half months pregnant with our daughter Rosie.’ My words come out as a whisper. ‘Rosie died, too.’
‘Bloody hell.’ For a moment she says nothing else. I’ve shocked her into silence. Then she asks, ‘Did they catch the driver?’
‘Yep. His name’s Adrian Pike. He’s in prison. For now. Manslaughter.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Kelly says again.
For a few seconds we don’t speak. Then, just as I’m about to change the subject back to my trip to France, Kelly gets up and heads over to the vending machine, giving me a chance to compose myself. I watch her walk away, then look round the office. The renovation hasn’t come along much since I’ve been away, although there’s an overpowering smell of paint. At least it’s quiet this morning. No drilling or banging.
‘What’s happened to the builders?’ I ask, as Kelly comes back, handing me a plastic beaker of coffee.
‘I think Saunders said they were working on several jobs at once.’
‘Not that different to being a journo then,’ I comment.
Kelly chuckles politely. ‘You were going to tell me about something you visited in France.’
‘Not something. Someone.’
Kelly’s eyes widen and she gives a little squeal of excitement. ‘You went to the wine place. Did you see the au pair? What did she say?’
I fill her in on my conversation with Clémentine. I don’t tell Kelly that I was convinced Clémentine said something important that I didn’t pick up on. I’ve mulled over her words several times, replaying them in my head. I’m no longer sure that she said anything helpful at all. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that it was just wishful thinking on my part. I didn’t want my trip to the Château des Amoureux to be for nothing.
‘In the city centre, huh?’ Kelly says when I’ve finished. ‘Does Clémentine know Bella has left home? Do you think it’s her mum who lives in the centre of Bristol?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘That’s my next step,’ Kelly says, a determined expression on her face. ‘Finding Bella.’
‘Sounds like a Pixar animation.’
‘Ha-ha.’ Kelly isn’t amused. ‘Apart from the twins, there were eight people in the house the night Amber died. Between us, we’ve spoken to five of them – Melissa and Michael Slade, Callum, Clémentine and Jennifer Porter.’ She counts each of them off on her fingers. ‘I doubt there’s any point speaking to Rob or Sophia Porter, so that only leaves Bella on the list. She’s our last chance. If we find her, maybe we’ll find out what really happened to those babies—’
‘Maybe.’
‘—and that’s a good place to start. With her mum. So, what about you? What are you going to do?’
I scowl. I have no intention of continuing this so-called investigation now I’m home. I thought I’d made that clear to Kelly. I’ve been used. I played ball, setting the example by crying ‘miscarriage of justice’. It seems to have worked – Melissa’s case is receiving intense media coverage nationally and Melissa herself seems to be widely supported by the general public. Now it’s time for me to get back to what I do best. Local news. School fêtes, job creations o
r lay-offs and roadblocks are more my bag. I’m a hack at heart.
‘I’ve already told you, Kelly. I’m not interested in this,’ I say. ‘I’ve got work to do. Tons of it, in fact, now I’ve been away for a week.’
‘But we have to follow this up.’
‘Kelly, I don’t—’
‘Why did you go to see Clémentine Rouquier if you’re so anxious not to have anything to do with this?’
‘That was a mistake. It was a waste of time.’
‘Why doesn’t it mean anything to you?’
‘Why should it mean something to me?’ I’m shouting now, and an awkward hush descends on the office. I can feel the eyes of the other journos in the room on us.
Kelly doesn’t answer straight away, but I can tell she has more to say; she’s working out how to say it. I wait.
‘You’ve just told me your story, Jon. Your baby girl was killed. Melissa Slade’s baby girls died. Maybe they were killed, too.’
‘Thanks, Kelly, but I don’t need that pointed out to me.’
This is exactly what has been bugging me from the start. Do I have something in common with Melissa Slade? If she killed one or both of her babies, then we are poles apart, she and I. But if someone else killed them, then, yes, I should feel for her, for what she has gone through, what she’s still going through. I should fight for her.
I can’t come up with a counterargument, but I’m not about to give in to Kelly’s demands. ‘Why do you care?’ I ask her. I’ve turned down the volume a notch and everyone else looks away. The excitement is over. ‘What’s it to you?’ Kelly sighs and looks down. I hope she isn’t going to cry. ‘Kelly?’
‘Do you remember Lily Fox?’ she says, still refusing to meet my eyes. Her voice is no longer raised, either.
‘Lily Fox,’ I repeat the name. The same surname as Kelly. ‘No. Can’t say I do. Is she a relative of yours?’
Kelly swivels her chair to face her laptop screen. I wonder if this is the end of our conversation. She types something, then angles her computer towards me. She has brought up an article, illustrated with a photo of a beautiful young blond-haired girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old. I recognise her. Her picture was in all the papers.
The Guilty Mother Page 17