32
Martha
I dart a glance at Becky. She is looking straight at me, tears running down her face. I wonder how many tears she has shed, since it happened. Does Marc comfort her? Does he believe her?
Marc. My mind keeps coming back to him. I have seen him only twice since the night of.
The first time was at the hospital, once I got there. I hardly remember it. I remember only tiny pinpricks of that day.
I remember staring blindly out of the window for the entire flight home after getting the call. I had never before experienced utter and outright denial. Never. But all I could think of as I watched the ground become smaller underneath us was that I would get to the hospital and then I would sort it. I was the mother, after all.
And then. And then.
I remember the constant feel of my hand against my mouth, my breath hot against it. Was I still breathing? I was thinking, after two minutes, and four minutes, and six. Surely life had not gone on while my new baby lay dead in the morgue two corridors down from A&E, wheeled there in her cot – her final cot – just like that? It was two hours ahead in Kos, I couldn’t help but think, and perhaps, somehow, I could bend time so we went further back than two hours.
Three.
Four.
Twelve, I later learnt.
I remember a pair of eyes belonging to a doctor. She is on mute, the rest of her faded out. I think her hands are placating me, somehow, out of focus, but all I can see are those eyes. Those round eyes, a funny greenish grey.
I remember the curtain hooks above the bay where it happened. One of them was half-formed, a C instead of an O, and it swung more than all of the others when everybody brushed past. And there was a lot of brushing past. So many people. At times it felt like hundreds. The admin of death.
The death certificate followed much later. Oh, with that damning cause of death, that damning cause, Becky. Asphyxiation.
I remember Layla’s mouth. It had darkened – the blood pooling in her lips – so it looked gothic, like a blackened rosebud.
And yes, I remember Marc. He was skittish, nervous, shocked, but weren’t we all? When I arrived, he was holding Becky’s hands in his. Then they turned to me, together, and he told me he was sorry for my loss. It was oddly formal. Did he know something then?
The second time I saw him was one week after. One week post. He rang our doorbell at the most civilized time he could find: Saturday, at three o’clock in the afternoon. He was cordial like that, considered. I saw him through the spyhole in our front door, and stopped still, in case he saw me. His brow was wrinkled and he was bobbing on his toes, as he often did, flexing his feet, so his blond head kept dipping in and out of view.
‘Marc,’ I said when it became apparent he wasn’t going to leave.
I couldn’t open the door, but I stopped looking through the spyhole; it reminded me of the tunnel vision I experienced at the hospital when I saw the doctor. He didn’t answer me, and in the end I got my phone out to text him, my soon-to-be-ex-brother-in-law – why wasn’t there a simpler way to say the man my sister used to love? I saw the last message that was on there. He had asked for the dimensions of a chest of drawers we wanted to give away. I’d sent across that it was about eight of my handspans, and he had sent a row of hand emojis back, saying: Never mind, I’ll measure it myself soon. We never did sort that.
I really cannot discuss it, I texted him, standing there in my too warm hallway.
In typical Marc fashion, he simply said: Okay xx.
But now I look back on that and feel differently. It was too dismissive. Too easy. I’d let him off the hook. And that was that.
What if I contact him now? What if I speak to him, soon, and ask him if he’s telling the truth about that night?
My insides feel hollowed out, my arms shaky and numb. I never knew the things the treating A&E doctor had seen. I knew the basics. But I didn’t know the rest. The details of my baby’s skin – when I saw her she had been preserved, somehow. Washed with her own toiletries, brought from her changing bag – that’s the policy – and dressed back in a white Babygro that I always thought was her favourite. She smelt of Layla. The golden hair was just the same. The skin was cool, and waxen, but not that different.
My breasts felt full as I held her.
‘Right,’ Ellen the prosecutor continues. ‘What were you thinking had happened to Layla, at the moment she presented in A&E?’
‘At that stage, it could have been absolutely anything. My thought processes were: infection, trauma, metabolic disorders, seizures, cardiac events. Sudden infant death syndrome, though that is a diagnosis of exclusion.’ Amanda’s words are perfunctory, clipped, but her voice is low, her tone mournful.
‘And so, could you exclude any of those conditions at the time?’
‘We use a process called the surgical sieve. We think: was this acquired or congenital? And then we look at what happened – the heart stopped – and we work backwards, to work out why. But the answer is: we can’t confidently exclude them. There was no rash suggesting infection, but I ordered bloods and cultures to look for infections anyway. There were no outward signs of trauma – bruising, deformation. I understand a CT scan of the body was done as part of the post-mortem. There was no family history of seizures or cardiac events. And even if there was no family history, that’s not to say it’s excluded. So at that time, it could have been anything.’
‘Anything. I see. And how long do you think Layla had been dead, when she presented at A&E?’
‘She had rigor. It doesn’t set in uniformly in babies so it’s hard to say, but … hours.’
‘If Layla had suffered some trauma, is there a way you could know when it happened?’
‘No. I understand the pathologist will be using the Henssge nomogram to assist you with the time of death.’
‘Yes. Which will be explained later, jury,’ Ellen says. ‘But for now we must rely on the factual evidence, such as the testimony of other witnesses.’
Harriet folds her arms, watching but saying nothing.
‘So if Layla was killed at some point between eight and nine thirty in the evening, would that fit with what you saw in A&E? If she were, say, smothered and died immediately, at 9.20 p.m.?’
‘Yes, that would fit perfectly with a baby who presented as Layla did in A&E.’
‘Thank you, Amanda,’ Ellen says, shutting her folder triumphantly and sitting down.
Harriet stands up.
‘The defendant called 999 early in the morning, didn’t she?’
‘Yes. At eight, I believe.’
‘As soon as she found the baby.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Amanda says.
‘I’ll withdraw that,’ Harriet says, before anybody can object. ‘And you yourself didn’t note anything that led you to suspect violent action, when the baby came into A&E?’
‘No. I refer to the coroner, as I always do – as everyone has to do – when a baby has died.’
‘So you saw no evidence of fractures … no bruising. No red marks, across the mouth or nose?’
‘No.’
‘So there was nothing, really, to arouse your suspicions?’
‘No,’ Amanda says, making a futile sort of gesture, her hand lifting in the air and coming back down again immediately. ‘I wasn’t suspicious.’
‘And as you’re actually a witness as to facts, and not providing expert evidence, I shall leave it there,’ Harriet says, glancing at Ellen.
I look back over to the dock.
Becky’s features have relaxed slightly. Her jaw has stopped quivering. Her shoulders have fallen. I see her take a deep breath.
But, oh, Becky: the worst is still to come.
‘The prosecution calls Detective Sergeant Johnson,’ Ellen says.
It is just before lunch, and the lawyers look tired. The jury don’t. They look alert, keen to be finally getting into the details of the case. Not the neighbours or the social workers, curiously distan
t from the night in question itself. Here they are, mid-season in the box set of our lives, pleased to be getting some answers at last.
I see Becky’s body language shift, and mine probably does, too. This woman, Keysha Johnson, was the beginning of it. It began – and it ended – in A&E, of course, but the legal proceedings truly started with Keysha, and with the interviews, and then the charge.
I blink, looking at Keysha as she crosses the court. She is regal-looking, wearing a charcoal-grey suit with a turquoise silk blouse. She holds herself upright, like an actor in a play. Her hair is braided in perfectly straight lines. They could’ve been done with a ruler. Between the plaits, I can see her scalp.
She doesn’t look at the jury, or the judge, and certainly not at Becky, either. She takes her jacket off and lays it on the wooden shelf behind her, utterly at home.
‘Detective Sergeant Keysha Johnson,’ Ellen says.
‘Yes.’
‘You are the DS in charge of child protection at Sussex Police.’
‘That’s correct,’ Keysha says, tilting her chin slightly upwards.
‘You were the first police officer on the scene after Layla was brought to A&E and declared deceased, and then you went on to investigate the defendant, overseen by Superintendent Christopher Jones, whose evidence is agreed and won’t be presented here today.’
‘That’s again correct,’ Keysha says. She sounds almost bored.
‘I’ll leave you to talk me through it, then,’ Ellen says. ‘From the beginning, please.’
33
Detective Sergeant Keysha Johnson
Morning, Friday 27 October
When the call came from A&E this morning, she had answered it in a bored tone. Drunks, domestic violence, more drunks. Thursday was the new Friday, and so Friday mornings were now as bad as Saturdays. But no. A dead eight-week-old. And the sister was looking after her, and not the mother. In suspicious deaths of children, it was always the parents, in Keysha’s experience. These calls always involved the parents. The investigations always involved the parents. They would deny it, but that’s how it always came out in the end.
The atmosphere in A&E was strange. They should be used to death, she thought, but they didn’t seem to be. The consultant was red-eyed, leaning on her elbows over the reception desk, having an in-depth conversation with the triage nurse. Keysha was pointed in the direction of the aunt.
There she was. Rebecca: Call me Becky. A strange thing to say to a police sergeant, but she would let her off for now. Keysha was watching, though. She appraised her body language. Arms folded across her chest. Defensive. Yes, Keysha was watching.
Becky was tall and imposing, with bright, clear eyes, and had on a cardigan and jeans. No make-up. Middle class, Keysha observed dispassionately. It probably hadn’t been violent, then. A few years ago, she would’ve winced at such a sweeping generalization, but not now. It was simply the truth.
‘Becky, I know this is a very difficult time,’ Keysha said. ‘But I am going to need you to take me to the house where it happened.’
‘The house,’ Becky repeated.
It was funny. The woman was looking straight at Keysha, but there was nothing going on behind her eyes. Shock, Keysha supposed, though that didn’t exonerate anybody. Lord knows, criminals, too, are shocked by the results of their own depraved actions.
‘Martha will be here soon …’ Becky said, checking her phone. It was ablaze with messages.
Keysha frowned. She would have that phone off her, soon enough, once she got the warrant, and she would search it properly.
‘… she’s on a plane.’
The mother, Keysha guessed, though nobody thought to tell her. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But nevertheless, because an infant has died, there is a procedure to follow, and I am going to need you to come with me now.’
They travelled in Keysha’s car, in silence. Keysha’s phone in the glovebox vibrated once and she did her best to ignore it. It was less than five minutes to Becky’s house. ‘Here on the left,’ were the only words that Becky spoke for the entire trip.
The Scenes of Crime Officer met them there. She was standing outside, handbag held in front of her. She was a prim old woman, married forty years, and she photographed crime scenes every day of her working life. Keysha found her fascinating. Did she go home and tell her husband of the things she had seen that day?
Becky went inside with her, while Keysha waited in the car. It didn’t take them long. Keysha was dying to know the state of the scene, but she didn’t ask. She couldn’t go in. That was the Scenes of Crime Officer’s job. Hers was to sit here and wait. To think.
Next, she took Becky to the station. The first interview was exploratory. At least, that’s what they said. Becky didn’t want to come – she wanted to wait for Martha – but Keysha promised they’d have her back by the time her sister was home; that it would take less than an hour. The husband and son were waiting back at the hospital for her. The house was sealed off: a crime scene.
‘What happened?’ Keysha said in the interview. She didn’t bother trying to look friendly, these days. She was forty, and she couldn’t be bothered any more.
‘I was in with her. All evening. She cried all evening. I was texting Marc about it.’
‘Who’s Marc?’
‘My ex-husband.’
‘What did you do with your evening? You and Layla?’
‘Tried to stop her crying.’ She darted a quick look at Keysha. ‘Watched TV.’
‘Oh, what did you watch?’ Keysha said conversationally.
‘A film. A TV programme. About house-hunting.’
‘So a TV programme.’ Keysha tilted her head to the side.
‘Yes. All evening.’
‘Did you do anything else of note?’
‘Talked to Marc, on the phone, as well as texting. Nothing else. At all.’
‘When did you put the baby to bed?’
‘Elevenish.’
‘Right. What were you doing with her until then?’
‘Trying to stop her crying.’
‘Okay. How?’
‘Feeds. A bath. Walking …’
‘I see.’
‘And then my – our – son was brought home. He’d been at a sleepover and he hadn’t been … he had been scared. He’s an anxious type.’
‘And when was that?’
‘Around midnight.’
‘And then …’
‘I did one last check, later. Two … three? I had some wine. She was still grumbling. She hadn’t stopped, really. I fell asleep on the sofa. Woke up and checked her. And the next thing I remember is in the morning. I woke with a start, you know? When you’re used to being woken by the baby.’
‘Why were you used to being woken by the baby?’
‘I am – I was – Layla’s nanny. Unofficially. For a while. I’d had her the previous night as well … Martha’s husband was supposed to come home after the first night, but he stayed an extra night at a developers’ conference …’
Keysha blinked. ‘I see.’
‘And then I …’
Keysha waited. The silence seemed to fill the tiny interviewing room. Becky’s eyes started to water, but Keysha remained impassive: she could wait all day long.
‘I guess I sort of knew, then.’ Becky winced. ‘I mean, I didn’t. But I was worried. When she hadn’t cried. So I got to the spare room and she was … Jesus. She was dead. I called 999. Did CPR on her … her little …’
‘So the last time you checked Layla was – when?’
‘That time I told you about, in the early hours.’
‘And how was Layla then?’
Becky’s eyes moved to the side, avoiding contact.
Keysha clocked it immediately.
‘She was fine. Normal.’
‘And you would’ve expected to be woken between the small hours and eight, by her?’
‘God, yes, absolutely.’
‘But you weren’t.’
‘No. And I
was so tired and, I guess, quite drunk that I slept until eight.’
‘What do you remember about Layla at the one or two o’clock check?’
Becky’s head sank to her chest. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘I poked my head around the door. It was dark. She was quiet. I don’t know. I just … I just didn’t want to wake her. That screaming had been …’
‘What?’
‘Intense. So I just opened the door a crack. All seemed well. I thanked my lucky stars she was quiet.’ Becky gulped.
‘How much wine had you drunk?’
‘A bottle.’
‘Okay. So quite drunk, then.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is your memory of those small hours clear?’
‘No.’
‘No co-sleeping?’
‘No. None.’
Becky was taken back to the hospital, and, while it was fresh in her mind, Keysha took a note of their conversation. It always started with a timeline. Then she sat back in her chair, and looked at the papers through narrowed eyes.
Cot death, she hoped, despite herself.
There was nothing found at the scene. The officer showed the photographs to Keysha. A Moses basket, which was seized and tested but showed nothing suspicious. A changing table with a mattress on the top. A blanket. A cuddly toy on the floor. No signs of violence. No blood. Nothing unusual or out of place.
A week later, the call came. The post-mortem: the cause of death had been given as asphyxiation. Blood and blanket fibres in Layla’s lungs. Smothering, as far as Keysha was concerned.
Well, shit, she thought. She genuinely hadn’t expected that.
Was she losing touch with her instincts? She thought back to Becky in the interview. She’d been shifty, that much was true, but Keysha didn’t think she was a murderer. Well, not until now, anyway.
She looked again at the photographs of the Moses basket. Accidental asphyxiation was surely unlikely. Eight-week-olds couldn’t roll.
Had the baby actually been in Becky’s bed? A bottle of wine. Accidental smothering: that would do it. But she’d denied co-sleeping. If she’d said they’d co-slept, she wouldn’t have been charged.
No Further Questions Page 16