The Guilty Mother

by Diane Jeffrey

  ‘You wrote this,’ Kelly says, accusingly, tapping her computer screen with her index finger.

  ‘Lily Fox,’ I say. It’s coming back to me now. It was all over the news, local and national. ‘Was she your sister?’ Then I think I get it. ‘Was she your twin sister?’

  ‘Not my twin, no. She is my big sister. She’s two years older than me.’

  I look at Kelly blankly. ‘I’m sorry about your sister, Kelly. Did they ever find out—?’

  ‘No. My sister’s disappearance is the reason why I wanted to become a reporter. I can’t help thinking if her story had been followed up by a dedicated journalist at the time, well, maybe we’d know …’

  ‘But I don’t see what this has to do with the Slade case.’ No sooner have I spoken the words than it dawns on me. There are parallels in this case for Kelly, too. ‘Lily is the reason you want to find Bella.’

  Kelly nods.

  Now it’s my turn to sigh. I’m caving in. ‘OK. There is something I can do.’

  I send an email to Simon Goodman asking him if he can get me an address for Bella’s mother. She won’t be using the name Slade, and I have no idea if she has remarried or if she’s using her maiden name or even what her maiden name is. I know nothing about the woman. But I bet Goodman does. And if not, he’ll be able to find out. And that will give Kelly something to go on.

  Just as I hear the swoosh of my email as it begins winging its way to Goodman, my phone beeps with a text. It’s from Holly. My heart stops for a few beats when I see her name. I’ve been asking myself every day for the last three months if I should get in touch with her. Ever since she broke up with me. But I was too much of a coward to call or send a text.

  Dare I hope that she has been thinking of me, too? Or is she contacting me because she has something else for me on the Slade case? Holding my breath, I open her text.

  ‘Kelly, are you free this evening by any chance?’ I ask when I’ve read it.

  The boys protest that they’re old enough to spend an evening alone without a childminder, but I beg to differ. Noah might come out with some precocious comments sometimes, but he’s nowhere near mature enough to be trusted alone with his younger brother. Their objections stop instantly when I tell them Kelly is coming to look after them.

  Leaving the boys in Kelly’s capable hands, and leaving Kelly with strict instructions, I drive away to meet up with Holly. I’m trying not to get my hopes up, but I’m taking it as a good sign that she accepted the invitation to see me and I don’t want to blow this opportunity of putting things right. In the car, I rehearse my speech. I want to tell her I’ve missed her and that if she’ll give me another chance, I’d like to tell my boys about her and take it from there.

  I have a little difficulty finding somewhere to park, but I arrive early at the café/bar where Holly suggested we meet on Cotham Hill. I’ve never been here before, but it’s not far from Holly’s, so it might be one of her haunts. According to the blackboard easel outside, it serves pizzas and platters until closing at eleven p.m. and has vegetarian options, which will suit Holly. I peer through the window. It looks relaxed and convivial. Perfect.

  I see her sitting at a wooden table for two. Taking a deep breath, I enter the café. She smiles when she sees me, making my heart leap. She stands up to greet me and we kiss each other awkwardly on the cheek.

  We exchange niceties and order food, although I’m so nervous I’ve lost my appetite. More than once we start to speak at the same time, then stop, then start up again. We’ve forgotten how to be natural in each other’s presence, our attempts at small talk a jarring dissonance of false starts and uncomfortable pauses.

  ‘What’s the latest on Melissa Slade?’ Holly asks at one point.

  ‘My colleague – our junior reporter, Kelly – is working on that more than I am at the moment. She’s trying to track down the stepdaughter, Bella, who seems to have disappeared without a trace.’

  ‘How mysterious,’ Holly says. She changes the subject. ‘You’re looking tanned, by the way. Did you go on holiday?’ I can feel the tension between us lift slightly. Holidays and work. Safe subjects.

  I tell her about our holiday in the Camargue. I even reel off what Clémentine told me.

  ‘How about you? Did you go away?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I couldn’t take the time off work.’

  ‘How are things going at work?’ I ask. It seems like the next logical question and I can think of nothing else to say, but Holly’s face falls. ‘What is it, Holly?’ I reach over the table for her hand, although this feels inappropriate. She pulls her hand away. ‘You can tell me.’

  ‘Things have got bad again,’ she says.

  ‘I didn’t know things were bad before.’

  ‘Since Melissa Slade’s trial, I’ve been pushed around and I’m essentially being pushed out. I lost credibility with that court case. As a woman working in a man’s domain, it has been detrimental to my career.’ She says this without a hint of self-pity.

  ‘I’m sorry, Holly. I had no idea. You never told me about that.’

  She makes a dismissive gesture with her hand. ‘With Melissa Slade’s forthcoming appeal, it’s all got unpleasant again.’ Then she smiles, a little maliciously. ‘But with that hidden toxicology report, well … let’s just say I hope Sparks gets his comeuppance. I’m glad he’s retired.’

  ‘Perhaps I should look into Sparks,’ I say. ‘See what skeletons he has in his closet.’

  ‘Perhaps you should,’ Holly agrees, her smile widening.

  This whole conversation seems a little unreal to me and we lapse into an uneasy silence while we eat. I take in the room, the large round clock on the wall, which seems to have stopped, the wooden floor, the wooden tables and chairs, the dim lighting. Then I turn back to Holly. She locks her eyes onto mine. This is my cue. It’s time for me to say the lines I rehearsed in the car.

  It comes out in a rush. ‘It’s lovely to see you again, Holly. I almost called, on several occasions, but I bottled out. I was an idiot. I wasn’t sure how my boys would react to the idea that their daddy had a girlfriend. I’m still not really. But …’

  Holly’s eyebrows pinch into a frown. I can’t quite read her expression, but it halts me mid-sentence. Her frown deepens. Have I got this wrong? Why did she want to see me if she didn’t want to give us another chance? Have I been too presumptuous?

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ Holly suddenly blurts out.

  I open my mouth, then close it again. I have to replay those two words in my head a few times until they sink in.

  ‘Wow. OK,’ I manage eventually.

  ‘It’s yours. In case you were wondering.’

  ‘No, no, I wasn’t.’

  I reach across the table and take both of her hands in both of mine. This time she doesn’t resist. She looks down, at our hands linked together, and avoids my gaze. She’s scared, I realise.

  I have a sudden flash, a memory of Melissa Slade when I visited her in Haresfield Park, telling me her pregnancy with the twins had come as an unexpected surprise. I remember thinking if I found out at my age that I was about to be a dad again, it would be a complete shock. How ironic. Here I am.

  But this is definitely more of a surprise than a shock. I’m thrilled. I can feel a smile stretch across my face as a warm sensation of happiness overwhelms me.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

  Holly sighs. ‘Lots of reasons. I only found out after that evening in May when I suggested we should … take a break. I needed to get things straight in my head. And then, I wanted to see you, but I couldn’t see you and not tell you. I kept thinking about Rosie. I didn’t want to tell you too soon in case … not until I was past the twelve weeks’ stage, anyway.’

  ‘How far along are you?’

  ‘Just over three months.’ She looks up and sees my grin. She smiles tentatively then, too.

  ‘And everything’s going all right?’

  ‘Yes. I’m well and the baby is abso
lutely fine.’

  ‘That’s good to know. Just over three months. January? February?’

  ‘The very beginning of February. The due date’s the second. It must have been the last time we … you know … just before …’

  I let go of Holly’s hands and bring my chair round so I’m sitting next to her instead of across the table. I put my arm around her and she leans in to me. I can smell the familiar fruity scent of her shampoo. I close my eyes for a moment and breathe her in.

  ‘I have an ultrasound scan next week,’ she says into my chest. ‘It will be probably be too early to tell, but if you’d like to know the sex, I could ask then. Do you?’

  ‘Yes. No! I don’t know. I’d like to come with you, though. Can I? Can we do this together?’

  ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’

  ‘And I think it’s time you met my boys.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d say that, too.’

  Chapter 24

  Kelly

  August 2018

  Jon didn’t get back home too late last night after his meeting with Holly, but he obviously had something on his mind, so I couldn’t run my idea by him. I think it’s a good one, but I’m not sure he’ll approve, and I can’t suggest it to Saunders until I’ve told him about it.

  I’ve been thinking a lot about what Jon told me about his wife and the hit and run. Images of his wife keep streaming through my head. I know what she looked like from the photos of her with Jon and the boys in his house. I picture her walking across the zebra crossing, glancing up a split second before the van smashed into her. I hope it wasn’t like that. I hope she didn’t see the driver coming. I hate to imagine her feeling fear or pain. I wonder, too, if the driver glanced up just before he mowed her down. Did he slam on his brakes? Or did he only realise she was there at all when he felt the collision?

  I see people on an almost daily basis holding their phones to their ears or smoking at the wheel. This morning, looking out of the window of the bus on my way to work, I saw a woman doing her make-up while she was driving. The traffic was slow, but it’s not on. I felt a surge of anger rise in me. My mum often fiddles with the satnav while doing 75mph down the motorway.

  Distracted driving. I’d like to write a feature on it, comparing it with alcohol and speeding as a cause of fatal accidents, checking out statistics for the Bristol area and maybe even doing a survey to determine habits according to age groups or sex. But I can’t possibly do it unless Jon agrees.

  ‘I think that’s a terrific idea, Kelly,’ he says when I’ve pitched it to him.

  ‘You do? Are you sure you’re OK with it?’

  ‘Yes, of course. It will help raise awareness about the problem. I like the subjects you’re tackling. Homelessness, distracted driving. I think it’s great that you feel so strongly about issues like that.’ He pauses, then says, ‘But I’ve got something else you’re going to want to look into even more.’

  ‘Oh? What’s that?’

  He hands me a piece of paper with an address on it. I don’t recognise the name. But I know instinctively whose address this is.

  ‘Is this what I think it is? How did you get this?’

  ‘Simon Goodman. Luckily, he didn’t know it was for you. You’re not flavour of the month, from what he wrote in his email.’

  ‘Ah. He must have overheard more of my conversation with Callum than I thought.’

  ‘I think it has more to do with you doorstepping his son against his wishes. He would prefer it if you didn’t call back.’

  I look down, embarrassed, and my eyes fall on the address again. Mrs Margaret Brock, 5 Greenditch Avenue, Hartcliffe. ‘Where is that exactly?’ I ask Jon.

  ‘Hartcliffe? It’s south-east of here. Not the most coveted area of Bristol to live in. A lot of unemployment and rundown council housing.’

  ‘It’s not in the city centre, is it? I thought Clémentine said Bella lived in the centre.’

  ‘Not exactly, no. It’s not far, though. It’s an outer suburb, but maybe Clémentine did know Bella had moved out after all. Perhaps Clémentine meant Bella lived in the city centre after she’d left home rather than when she was living with her mum.’

  I bring up Mappy on my laptop and type in Greenditch Avenue. It’s about four miles away from here, so I text my mum, asking her to pick me up and take me there after work. I should take my driving test again one of these days, although after failing the test twice it might be time to give up. I’m lucky my mum never complains about taxiing me around.

  Mrs Brock’s home is a tiny terraced house that looks like it might once have been yellow. Now, though, the paint left still clinging to the façade is a dirty grey. The houses either side of it are in much better condition. On the outside, anyway.

  There’s no vehicle in the paved driveway.

  ‘It doesn’t look like she’s in,’ I say to my mum. ‘I’ll just check.’

  ‘I’ll wait in the car,’ she says.

  I walk up to the front door and ring the bell. To my surprise, the door opens almost immediately. A short woman stands before me, holding a cigarette in one hand and a ginger cat under the other arm. She’s wearing a long dark skirt and a shapeless charcoal jumper. She has yellow teeth and long hair that was last dyed black several months ago, judging from the length of her grey roots. Her cat’s the wrong colour, but other than that, she just needs a pointy black hat to accessorise and she’ll be all set to trick or treat next Hallowe’en.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Brock. My name’s Kelly Fox.’ I rummage through my handbag, trying to find my press card.

  ‘A friend of Bella’s, are you?’ She looks at me suspiciously.

  ‘Er … yes.’ Let’s go with that. I zip my bag closed and paste a smile on my face. ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘She’s not here. I dunno where she is.’ Mrs Brock starts to close the door in my face, but I put my foot out to stop her and push it open.

  ‘I won’t take up much of your time, Mrs Brock.’ I try to sound firm. I step towards her, forcing her to take a step back. ‘I’m just concerned about Bella.’

  I’m shocked at my own audacity. I’ve more or less barged into the house. Once in the hallway, I close the door behind me. It reeks of cigarettes in here. Mrs Brock reluctantly leads me into the living room, where the stench is even stronger. The room is thick with smoke. On the coffee table, I spot an overflowing ashtray next to a bottle of gin and an empty glass. Mrs Brock turns and follows my gaze. ‘It was a hard day,’ she says by way of an explanation, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘I needed a tipple.’

  Through the choking fug, the whiff of gin on her breath wafts towards me. A familiar odour. My childhood memories are tainted with the miasma of gin or rum. I don’t need to look at my watch to know that it can only be about five thirty.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mrs Brock? I feel like one. I could make it if you like.’

  ‘Thought you weren’t staying long,’ she mutters, stubbing her cigarette out in the ashtray. Then in a less hostile tone she adds, ‘I’ll do it. You sit down.’

  I perch on the edge of one of the armchairs, which has certainly seen better days. Mrs Brock returns a few minutes later carrying a mug in each hand. She plonks them down on the coffee table. Some of the tea slops over onto the table, but either she doesn’t notice or she’s not bothered. The table has burn marks and the mugs are chipped. My tea doesn’t look as if a teabag has been anywhere near it. Perhaps she won’t notice if I don’t drink it.

  I try to get into character. I’m supposed to be Bella’s friend. ‘Mrs Brock, I haven’t seen Bella for a while. Do you know where I can find her?’

  ‘I haven’t seen her for a while myself. The last time I bumped into her must have been a couple of years ago now.’

  ‘Where was that, Mrs Brock?’

  ‘Ooh, let me think. In the Old City, I think it was. Corn Street or Wine Street, maybe.’

  The Old City isn’t that far from The Rag’s offices in Redcliffe. I get the strange f
eeling Bella has been under my nose all along. ‘What was she doing?’

  ‘Just walking around, I suppose. I didn’t get to ask her. As soon as she saw me, she scarpered.’

  ‘Why?’

  Margaret Brock narrows her eyes at me. ‘Close friend of Bella’s, are you?’

  ‘I’m worried about her. I’d like to find her.’

  ‘She blames me.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Everything.’ Mrs Brock pours herself a generous gin and takes a slug. ‘You know what happened to her, do you?’ I freeze. I have no idea what to say to that. Fortunately, Mrs Brock doesn’t look up and see my startled reaction. She lights up another cigarette and inhales deeply. I notice her nails are dirty. ‘She blames me,’ she continues, saving me from having to respond, ‘for what that bastard did to her.’ She exhales smoke as she talks. ‘She accused me of turning a blind eye the whole time. She has never forgiven me for that.’

  ‘Did you have any inkling at all it was going on?’ I ask, improvising. Not what I want to know. What’s actually racing through my head is: What bastard? What did he do to Bella? I just don’t know how to word that without slipping out of character.

  But as though reading my mind, she ignores the question I asked and sort of gives me the answers I want.

  ‘I was going to leave him,’ she says. ‘When Bella told me, I promised to leave him. But he left me for that tart before I could.’

  My brain is whirring, trying to keep up. She must be referring to Michael Slade. He’s the bastard. That seems plausible. So the tart must be Melissa Slade. ‘You mean Melissa Sl … Goodman?’

  ‘That’s right. Her. The copper. The one that killed Bella’s stepsisters. Finished Bella off, that did. Sent her right over the edge.’

  Her words hit me like a well-aimed blow to my stomach, winding me, wounding me. I shudder as my father’s face swims into focus in front of me. Lily’s disappearance was what sent him over the edge. Literally.