But I feel it slip as my thoughts turn again to those two missing girls. What happened to Bella Slade? And what became of Lily Fox?
Chapter 26
Kelly
September 2018
People find different ways to alleviate their pain. Some join a support group or an online forum. Others find temporary oblivion in drugs. This, I suspect, is what Callum is doing. Jon’s grief is palpable sometimes. He finds it hard to let go, channelling his energy into bringing up his sons, but at the same time he has done his best to move on and he’s besotted with Holly.
And then there’s my parents. My father, who, to use my mother’s understatement of the year, was already “a bit partial to the bottle”, hit it even harder when Lily disappeared. My mum, well, she’s in denial. Still, after all these years. For her, Lily is alive somewhere, and it’s just a question of time before she comes home. With her arthritis, my mum struggles with the stairs and the house is too big for her, but she won’t consider moving. The fact that my sister would be a twenty-five-year-old woman now and probably wouldn’t think of Mum’s house as home doesn’t enter the equation.
She lost a lot, my mum. She lost her daughter and her husband. She swore not to lose me. And she has never lost hope. I’ve always thought that’s what gets you. The not knowing, the maybe, the what if. But my mother is fuelled by hope. So I’m not allowed to say would. It’s will. And it’s not if; it’s when. Is instead of was. Because that’s how my mum copes with Lily’s disappearance.
Mum and I are close. We were before, but I think the fact we’ve stayed so close has a lot to do with Lily going missing. Afterwards, there was just Mum and me. She pinned her hopes and dreams on me but she also doted on me, cared for me, gave all her love to me. We were frank and truthful with each other. We confided in each other.
And right now, I’m using that against her. I’m stinging her with the very words she used to say to me throughout my teens.
‘We always tell each other everything.’ I can hear the whine in my voice.
‘Yes, but I can’t tell you this.’ She’s sitting on the sofa, doing her cross-stitch, and she doesn’t look up.
‘Why not? I only want to know why you think you’re more clued up than most people on the Melissa Slade case.’ I’ve picked up from where we left off the last weekend I was here. ‘Just tell me why you remember it so well.’
‘I told you, I’m sworn to secrecy.’
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again as a thought strikes me. That’s what she said last time. Why didn’t she say I promised not to tell anyone? What’s with the sworn to secrecy crap? Who did she swear to?
I don’t remember much about Melissa Slade’s trial. I was eighteen. I’d just started university in Cardiff and even though I wanted to be a journalist, I didn’t follow the news that regularly. I was studying for an English degree and I had too many books to wade through. Too little time. It’s easy to shut out the real world when you’re a student.
I do remember my mum watching a news programme one evening after the trial had ended, though. I was home for a weekend, or maybe for Christmas – the decorations and the tree were up. I was sitting on the floor, hunched over the coffee table, working on an assignment, while my mum was sitting on the sofa. I remember her crying in front of the TV. She changed channels and then she poured herself a glass of sherry. She never drinks, my mother, not even a drop, because of my dad. But she always had sherry in the house at Christmas time for neighbours and guests. And she drank that evening.
My forehead pinches into a frown and my lips pucker. I’m trying to grasp a memory that’s hovering stubbornly just out of reach. It was a few weeks before the glass of sherry. A phone call when I was at uni. And then it comes back to me and floors me. My mother telling me that she’d received a summons. I can hear her voice as clearly as if she were sitting on the sofa telling me that now instead of over the phone … how long ago? The trial was in 2013. Five years ago.
‘You were on the jury,’ I hiss at my mother. ‘That’s why you said the other day that she didn’t seem guilty. It wasn’t because she looked innocent in her photo in the press. You saw her in the dock with your own eyes.’
‘Ouch,’ she says, pricking her finger on her needle. Or pretending to.
‘You told me you’d been summoned to do jury service, but you wouldn’t talk about it. You didn’t even mention for which trial. That’s it, isn’t it? You were a juror for the Melissa Slade murder trial?’
She carries on sewing as if I’m not even there. This isn’t like my mother. She doesn’t usually ignore me. My mind races through the relevant pages of Melissa’s journal. My mum must have been the juror Melissa Slade described as “matronly”. She thought my mum was about the same age as her and hoped she’d be on her side. Was she? She also wondered if my mum had lots of children. Little did she know. They had more in common than she could have imagined.
In a different diary entry, Melissa had described the shock end to the trial no one could have anticipated. The verdicts. The jury failed to reach a unanimous decision and returned two majority verdicts. Ten out of the twelve jurors said she was not guilty of murdering Amber, and ten out of twelve jurors found her guilty when it came to Ellie. Melissa wondered if the two women her age, the thin one and the plump one – my mother – had voted in her favour.
What happened there? Was this some sort of arbitrary compromise? We’re not sure, your Honour, so we’ll say guilty for one count, but not for the other? My mum could shed some light on this mystery, but she won’t.
I try again anyway. ‘Mum?’ I turn to her on the sofa, dipping my head to try and get her to look up. But she’s still avoiding eye contact. ‘What happened, Mum? Why were the verdicts different?’
She puts her embroidery down on her lap. ‘I can’t reveal what went on in the deliberation room.’ She sounds less resigned than before and I think she’s going to cave in.
‘Mum, this is me. I won’t print it, if that’s what you’re worried about. But I’d like to understand.’
She sighs, then shakes her head. She has never been one to blab, my mum, but we don’t keep secrets from each other. I sigh, too. I throw her a look, but she doesn’t catch it. Picking up the remote, I start flicking through the channels. I don’t want to hound her. If she won’t talk, frustrating as it is, I have to leave it at that.
Her voice, when she speaks, is barely audible. ‘For what it’s worth, I think she’s innocent.’
I snap the TV off. ‘Is that the way you voted?’
‘Yes. On both counts.’
Both of us are silent for a few seconds and I realise I’m holding my breath. ‘How did you—?’
‘It was all very confusing. The pathologist for the first twin, Amber, was adamant she died of natural causes. She was very convincing. But for Ellie, all the medical evidence pointed the other way. I suppose some of the jurors felt happier sitting on the fence that way.’
‘But even being found guilty on one count of murder meant a life sentence for Melissa Slade.’
‘I know that. There was a lot of pressure on us to reach a majority verdict,’ she says. ‘A lot of pressure for some of us to change our minds and our votes. Otherwise the court would’ve had to declare a mistrial.’ She pauses. When she speaks again, it’s in a whisper. ‘We’d already spent two nights in a hotel. I think a lot of people wanted to get home to be with their families. It was coming up to Christmas.’
‘So some jurors allowed themselves to be swayed. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘I wouldn’t put it—’
‘Who else believed Melissa?’
‘I can’t remember all of it. And even if I did, I don’t feel comfortable talking about it. I’m sworn—’
‘To secrecy. I know.’
‘I’ve got nothing new to bring to the table.’
I have one last question, though. ‘Was there no doubt in your mind about her innocence?’
‘Of course there was!
But it’s supposed to work the other way round, isn’t it? I didn’t think she was guilty beyond all reasonable doubt.’
I think that’s the end of it, but then my mum adds, ‘The woman lost her babies. She didn’t come over well on the stand. She was detached. Unemotional. But she didn’t strike me as evil. And I think that losing her daughters, even if she was in some way responsible, well, maybe that was punishment enough.’
I let that sink in.
‘It’s a remarkable coincidence,’ I say. ‘Me investigating the case you did jury duty for.’
My mum shrugs, picking up her embroidery hoop and resuming her sewing. ‘Not really,’ she says. ‘You’re a journalist. It was a huge news story. It happened locally. It was bound to crop up again one day.’
I wonder if my sister’s case will “crop up” again one day.
It’s raining and I wait for the shower to dissipate before I leave Mum’s. I’m going to walk home. It’s not far. Mum offers to drop me off, but I need some headspace.
I’ve walked a couple of blocks before I start to feel uneasy. It’s just a prickling of the hairs at the back of my neck at first, but my senses are immediately on high alert. Then I hear the tyres on the wet road and the purr of the engine. I’m being followed. I whirl my head round. I’m right. There’s a red car behind me, hugging the pavement and going so slowly that I know I’m not mistaken. I check again. The only cars around me are parked – no one is driving down this side road. There’s no one else out walking in this weather, either.
My heart tightens. Why is that car following me? It’s making me feel nervous, vulnerable. I steal another glance over my shoulder.
I know who it is. His car is unmistakeable. It’s a Mercedes Benz SLK. My father was a car dealer. He knew his cars and he went on about them so much that I learnt a fair bit, too.
Trying not to quicken my pace, I get my mobile out of my handbag and call my mum, but she doesn’t answer. I keep the phone pressed to my ear to give the impression I’m talking to someone. I’m hoping this will buy me time to think. What does he want? I reason if he wanted to run me over, he could have mounted the pavement. Is he going to somehow force me to get into his car? Why would he do that? Is he just trying to scare me?
Curiosity is going to get the better of me. I’m nearing a junction, where this lane joins the main road. I feel safer. There are cars, lots of cars, just a few feet away from me now. I open the Voice Memo app on my smartphone, and pressing the red button to record, I lower my arm to my side. Then, stopping dead in my tracks, I turn to face the car. He brakes and stops, too. I step out into the road and walk round to the driver’s window. He hesitates before lowering it.
‘Mr Slade, what are you doing?’
‘I thought it was you,’ he says, all fake surprise and chirpy.
‘Don’t play games with me, Mr Slade. This isn’t a chance meeting. You were following me. Why?’
‘You’re the one playing games, Miss Fox,’ he says. ‘Role-playing, in fact. Pretending to be a friend of Bella’s.’ I’ve been caught out. The alcoholic witch has squealed on me. ‘Stay away from my ex-wife,’ he hisses.
I know full well he means Margaret Brock, but I can’t resist it. ‘Which one?’ That makes him angry. His face reddens.
‘What is it you want to know?’ he asks. ‘Can’t you leave me and my family alone? What are you hoping to prove?’
I look at him. He makes my skin crawl. But not because he frightens me. He doesn’t. No, he makes my skin crawl because I find him repulsive. I look down at him as he sits in his car, his knuckles white as they grip the steering wheel. And I see a coward.
If he won’t tell me why he’s following me, he probably won’t answer the only other question I have for him. But I ask it anyway. ‘Did you sexually abuse your daughter, Mr Slade?’ He might not scare me, but I sound bolder than I feel even so. I study him for a reaction. His face turns from red to white. ‘That’s what I’m trying to prove,’ I say.
I expect him to deny it. Or not say anything at all. And indeed for several seconds he says nothing. He just gapes at me.
‘You’ll never prove that,’ he says eventually. ‘Bella will never talk to you. Even if you do find her.’
Then he drives off, turning into the main road without giving way and causing another driver to hoot his horn. I’m left standing in the middle of the road, staring after him, feeling chilled by his words, which play on repeat in my head.
Chapter 27
Jonathan
September 2018
Holly and I are making dinner in my kitchen when the shrill ringtone of my mobile makes us jump.
‘I hope that’s not my parents to say they can’t take the boys out tomorrow,’ I mutter, easing my phone out of my back pocket. Holly and I have planned to spend the day together. Just the two and a half of us.
Peering at the caller ID, I frown. It’s not like her to call me at the weekend. She has never done it before. ‘I’ll have to take this,’ I say to Holly, swiping the screen. ‘Kelly? Is everything OK?’
I can tell immediately that it’s not. She’s babbling breathlessly down the phone and I can’t make out what she’s saying.
‘Calm down. Start from the beginning. What’s wrong?’
I keep quiet, listening while she tells me the whole story. Hearing a sudden drumming at the kitchen window, I whirl round and find myself face to face with my own ghostly reflection, slashed by the rivulets of rain racing down the black pane. When Kelly has finished, I ask, ‘Where are you now?’ She shouldn’t be out alone in this dark night. She needs to get somewhere safe. And dry.
She gives me the name of a road that means nothing to me.
‘Do you want me to come and pick you up? Take you to your place or to your mum’s?’ I shoot a quick glance at Holly, who is chopping tomatoes. She nods at me.
‘No, that’s fine. I’ll be home in a few minutes. I’m all right.’
‘Maybe he just happened to be in the same area as you, Kelly,’ I say. I don’t really believe my own words. I’ve got a feeling Slade was stalking Kelly. ‘But if he does anything like this again, it might constitute harassment and we could go to the police. I will mention it to Simon Goodman, though.’
I think about how brave – and reckless – Kelly was, stepping up to Slade’s car and challenging him for following her, then daring to ask him if he’d sexually abused his daughter. ‘Tell me again what he said?’
‘He said, You’ll never prove it. Bella won’t ever talk to you even if you find her.’
‘Those were his exact words?’
‘I think so. I recorded it on my phone. I’ll play you the conversation on Monday.’
‘It does sound rather like he’s admitting it.’
‘He didn’t deny it.’ Her voice is breaking up now. It has started to rain her end, too. ‘Sorry, Jon, to bother you on a Saturday,’ she says. ‘I’ll leave you in peace now. I just had to talk to someone, you know? I think my mum has had enough for one day – she’s not answering her phone. And you’re the only other person I could think of.’
‘Kelly, you did the right thing calling me. I’m going to stay on the phone with you until you get safely home. OK?’
She doesn’t object. For all her bravado, I can tell her confrontation with Slade has left her shaken. Understandably. There’s a pause, then Kelly says, ‘Tell me about your day?’
The change in subject takes me by surprise. ‘Ah, well, Holly and I took the kids to Wookey Hole.’ I can hear the lift in my voice, and I turn to smile at Holly.
‘Oh, that’s right. How did it go?’
‘Well, it was wet, but a lot of it’s underground, so it didn’t matter too much. The boys enjoyed it.’
‘I remember going when I was little.’
‘They’ve developed it quite a lot since I last went. They’ve recently blasted open a new cavern.’
‘Ah. So, did you have free tickets to write a review?’
That makes me chuckle. ‘No, I
didn’t, actually. I got money off for booking online, but it still cost a small fortune! Well worth it, though.’
There’s a pause. I try to think of something to ask Kelly, to keep the conversation going. ‘Have you got enough battery in your phone to keep talking to me until you get home?’
‘Yes. I’m nearly there now.’
‘Good. How was your day, by the way? Until Slade ruined it, I mean.’ Walking over to the fridge, I pull out a bottle of beer. As I’ve only got one hand free, I go to crack it open with my teeth, but Holly snatches the bottle from me, finds a bottle opener in the cutlery drawer and does the honours. She hands me back the beer and I give her a silent kiss on the lips.
‘A bit weird, actually,’ Kelly says. ‘Can you keep a secret?’
I’m intrigued. I’m hopeless at keeping secrets. I can’t even surprise the boys – I have to tell them what I’ve got in store for them before it comes around. ‘Yes, of course,’ I lie, taking a swig of my beer.
‘I found out today that my mum was on the jury for the Melissa Slade trial.’
I almost spurt lager out of my nose, and instead I swallow it and choke. ‘What?’
‘My mum, she was a juror for the—’
‘Yes, I heard you. Are you sure? Ruby Fox? Kelly, I interviewed your mother after … you know, when your sister … Her photo was in the news. I would have recognised her in the courtroom.’
Kelly snorts. ‘Jon, no offence, but you have a crap memory and you’re not good with faces. It wouldn’t surprise me if you didn’t recognise your own mother.’
I laugh at that. ‘Fair point.’
‘Anyway, my mum put on a lot of weight after Lily went missing. She looked very different by the time of the trial.’
‘Oh.’
Then Kelly tells me what her mum told her about what went on behind the closed doors of the deliberation room and as she does, I know this is one secret I will keep. It helps explain the contradictory verdicts, but even if Kelly’s mum were to go into more detail, it probably wouldn’t help us to determine if Melissa truly is the victim of a miscarriage of justice. As I listen to Kelly, I get that familiar gut feeling that we’ll never find out for sure what happened to those baby girls.
The Guilty Mother Page 20