No Further Questions

by Gillian McAllister

  I boil the kettle to cover her screams.

  37

  Martha

  It’s time for the medical experts. The people who weren’t there at the time, but have views on what happened on that night, because my baby’s body is merely evidence to them. A specimen, a slab of muscles and bones and blood.

  There are two experts, one for the prosecution and one for the defence, paid hundreds of pounds each. Their words are expensive. I look across at Becky in the dock. She knows what happened, either through her own actions or because she knows what she didn’t do. I contemplate her. After a few seconds, she must sense me looking, because she looks straight back. Our eyes meet. Neither of us smiles. Neither of us looks away, either. We just look at each other, holding each other’s gaze, for a few seconds.

  Scott clears his throat next to me – a soft, familiar uh ah – and he moves his hand to my knee. I stop looking at Becky and look down at his hand instead. I place mine on it and wonder whose Layla’s would have grown to look more like. Scott’s hands are small and square, with neat, rounded fingernails. Mine are long. ‘Piano player’s hands,’ Mum always used to say, even though I was rubbish at music.

  Scott and I met at a dinner party, which is far too grand a term for what it really was. He was heartbroken, recently abandoned by an ex, and spent much of the evening talking about her. ‘There was just no warning, you know?’ he kept saying to me. Somehow, the friendly counselling I offered became something more and I remember thinking, one night, at age twenty-three: God, you will do.

  I didn’t think like that when he proposed. He makes me happy, I thought, picturing his freckled nose, the calm way he embarked upon tasks. He believed in equality, did half the housework, if not more. He never shouted at me, always asked me pleasantly how my day was. Yes. We were happy. We turned our mobile phones off every Wednesday evening – ‘hump day’ we called it – and cooked together. I’d fry the meat while he chopped the onions. The dishes got more elaborate – two courses, three – and the conversations deeper, less formal, as we lost self-consciousness, absorbed in the cooking. Every Thursday morning, I felt as though I had taken a holiday.

  But then, two weeks after the wedding, the day we got back from our Sardinian honeymoon, I woke in the night and remembered that thought I’d once had: You’ll do. I stared across at Scott in horror. His form was exactly the same. The same sleeping position. How could I have thought such a thing? I suppressed it, pushing it downwards like compacting soil.

  It’s funny how a single thought can come to define something – a marriage, a baby – but it has. You’ll do. And now, even though years have passed, and what it was then isn’t what it is now, I still repeat that phrase to myself, often, in the shower, or late at night when he’s away. You’ll do.

  Did I mean it? Were we doomed from the start, or did I once love him fully, completely? I don’t have a clue. In the haze of what’s happened since, and the grief, I find I don’t know. But we were three, and now we are two: he is everything I have.

  ‘The prosecution calls Julia Todd,’ Ellen says.

  Scott shifts on the seat – he’s tall, with long legs, and the public gallery is cramped – and we watch the consultant paediatric and perinatal pathologist make her way to the witness box. The courtroom is hushed.

  The pathologist.

  The post-mortem.

  The autopsy.

  I grit my teeth and stay sitting. I have to be here. I have to find out the truth.

  For Layla.

  38

  Julia Todd

  Afternoon, Thursday 2 November

  People were always surprised by what Julia did. She had stopped telling people, at parties and events. ‘Housewife,’ she sometimes said, letting Jim talk about his work in the library instead.

  She spent her mornings writing up reports and her afternoons dissecting young babies. That was the truth of it. But how do you tell somebody that at a wine tasting event? It shocked people. It was, she thought, because she was fat and old and wore glasses. How dare she enjoy gardening, Merlot, reading the Telegraph, and the clean slice of a knife down the centre of a corpse?

  She approached the metal table where that afternoon’s baby was laid out for her.

  She checked the record sheet. Layla. Layla’s skin was a pale grey, translucent. Entirely normal, though Julia spent so much time with dead people that living people sometimes seemed unusually flushed and warm to her. The flutter of a pulse, the steady rising of a chest: how unusual, how animal, she sometimes thought.

  She checked the ID and hospital number, then removed the white Babygro. She put it on the other long, spare metal bench. The babies always seemed so small on the bench, like putting them in a huge bed, but Julia rather thought the notion of tiny beds in a morgue would be much more depressing, somehow.

  Julia could see immediately that Layla was typical, but she checked anyway, for low-set ears, hernias. Abnormalities. She measured limbs. She worked quickly, but accurately, getting into the rhythm of her afternoon, like going swimming or riding a horse.

  It was an odd case, she had learnt when reading the notes that morning. The baby brought to A&E by ambulance, found by her aunt, moonlighting as her nanny. Off the record, the consultant, Amanda, had told Julia she had a bad gut feeling about her. Amanda was always having bad gut feelings, though – one of life’s overthinkers – so Julia didn’t pay too much attention to that. She started checking over the body for injuries, hoping to find none. She supposed she was hoping for sudden infant death syndrome: a death for no reason at all. Tough on the parents, but the best outcome of a bad bunch, like trying to pick the best way to get food poisoning.

  She deliberately hadn’t checked the scans. She liked to look at the body, first, the primary source, and then the secondary sources, to see if she agreed with them. There was no substitute for a body.

  She took a couple of steps back and looked at her. Not just in case she had missed something global in her careful, detailed inspection, but also because she wanted one last look at her as a baby, as a person, before she irrevocably changed her.

  She turned her over. But what was that, on the back of her ear lobe? A blueish tinge. She looked at it from this way and that, then noted it. It could be a birthmark. Or it could be an injury. It was unusual to find a bruise on non-bony soft tissue. And it was very suspicious: babies couldn’t bruise their own ear lobes.

  Her hands stilled. There it was, halfway through the autopsy. Evidence of suffocation. Blood in the lungs. Fibres. Shit, Julia thought. Shit.

  No matter how many times Julia saw such things, the hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention each and every time.

  Right then, she thought grimly. Now. We are looking at suffocation.

  She checked the scans. She couldn’t wait. She leafed through them quickly. Nothing on the tox screen. Blood cultures normal.

  She turned to the eyes. And there they were, as she expected. Retinal haemorrhages. Little, dotted red sunspots on the retina. Blood where there shouldn’t be. She checked the mouth, too. Bruised gums.

  It was one of the most obvious cases Julia had ever seen. And she was of the opinion that this could only mean one thing: Layla had died from being smothered, whether accidentally or deliberately, she couldn’t tell. But she had died because she couldn’t breathe.

  Something had obstructed her airways.

  Something or someone.

  39

  Martha

  I can feel that my eyes have filmed over, the courtroom blurred, but I am not crying, not really. Julia’s detached way of talking has helped to delude me. It is not Layla she’s talking about. No. It is someone – something – else. We’ve had the funeral. It’s gone. I’m glad I didn’t know then what had happened to her in that post-mortem.

  I try again – I’ve tried so often – to recall whether or not Layla had a birthmark behind her ear. I’ve looked at hundreds of photographs of her, but none capture the correct angle. I’ve gone over
and over my memories of her, but I can’t recall. I just can’t. I am the world’s worst mother.

  ‘Thank you, Julia,’ Ellen says. ‘It is agreed between the parties that the experts who examined the pathologist’s slides – the ophthalmologist as to her eye injuries, for example – will not be questioned. Their evidence is not in dispute.’ Ellen says it more to the judge than anybody else. ‘I wasn’t sure, Your Honour, when to address that agreement with the jury.’

  ‘That’s fine, Ms Hendry.’ He turns to the jury. ‘Does everybody understand this? The evidence you are hearing has been agreed by other experts. We have deemed only Ms Todd’s evidence to be relevant, because the other findings have confirmed her views, and we wished to avoid a parade of experts in the court, confusing matters.’

  The jury nods at him, one uniform mass of heads.

  ‘Okay then,’ he says, turning back to Ellen. ‘Please resume.’

  ‘Alright, Julia. Almost done,’ Ellen says. ‘Let’s just be clear about these findings.’

  ‘Let’s,’ Julia says, pleasantly, as if they were discussing what they would eat for dinner that evening. ‘I found evidence of asphyxia in Layla’s post-mortem.’

  ‘What evidence?’

  ‘Each piece?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ellen says slowly, slightly exasperatedly, I think.

  ‘She had blood in her lungs, together with fibres. She had little haemorrhages around her nose, mouth and eyes, which indicate struggling to breathe, or a physical struggle. She had bruised gums.’

  ‘And the significance of this is …’

  ‘They all point to asphyxia. And the bruising can indicate smothering.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because pressure is applied.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Ellen says, clicking her pen and looking down at her notes. She lets the pause yawn. She lets the jury digest it.

  ‘Let’s talk about the bruised ear lobe.’

  ‘Yes. Layla had a blueish mark on her ear lobe, at the back.’

  ‘What can this be an indicator of?’

  ‘Non-accidental injury. It’s unusual for areas of soft tissue to bruise in this way. Layla wasn’t mobile, so I would expect her carers to be aware of what had caused it.’

  ‘What could a bruise there be caused by?’

  ‘Not many things. Trauma. Inflicted by someone or something.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Becky and I went through a phase, when we were sixteen and thirteen or so, of leaving notes for each other at home, on one of the pillars on our landing. They never said much of anything. They were more diary-like, about our days and our thoughts on school. I try to find something damning in the memory now. I am always doing this, these days. Re-examining the past in the light of our current situation. Were her notes angry? Were they sociopathic? Once, we were passing on the landing, me heading into the bathroom, she coming out with a towel over her hair, steam curling around her shoulders. I could see the water evaporating off her hot skin, like water in a hot frying pan. ‘I owe you a note!’ she said in that way of hers. There was nothing malicious about it. Nothing angry, nothing suspicious. She signed them with hearts next to her name.

  I look across at her now.

  ‘Now one more question. This is very important, Julia. The attending A&E doctor took baby Layla’s temperature. You have seen that temperature, and you have also seen a report from the Scenes of Crime Officer who has not given oral evidence. That report shows the ambient room temperature, which is an agreed fact between the prosecution and defence.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And so, in your report, tell us how you have arrived at the time of death in the case of Layla.’

  ‘When you know the weight of the deceased, the ambient temperature of the environment they died in, and you have a temperature reading taken at some point after death, there is an algorithm called the Henssge nomogram which enables you to tell at what time the baby died.’

  ‘And what time of death did your calculation give?’

  ‘Between eight and nine thirty,’ Julia says, pushing her glasses up her nose. ‘It’s impossible for it to be after nine forty.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of the differential between the ambient temperature of the bedroom and Layla’s temperature on arrival at A&E. It places the time of death between eight and nine thirty, but it would be impossible to be later.’

  ‘How sure are you?’

  ‘One hundred per cent. There is no way Layla was alive after nine thirty, nine forty.’

  ‘And at between eight and nine thirty only Becky was in charge of Layla,’ Ellen says to the jury. ‘Becky alone.’

  ‘Okay,’ Julia says.

  ‘And ten past nine was right after the neighbour heard the defendant shout at the baby,’ Ellen says.

  ‘That’s hearsay,’ Harriet objects.

  ‘Thank you. Nothing further.’ Ellen smiles at Julia and ignores Harriet: they’re old pals.

  Harriet stands up. She seems about to speak, then stops, running a finger down a sheet of paper in a binder and taking a breath.

  ‘Ms Todd,’ she says. ‘I only have a few questions.’ Her voice is strong, loud, in the courtroom, but she wipes her brow.

  I wonder what Becky’s said to her.

  ‘The bruise. What else could this be?’

  ‘A congenital mark called a Mongolian blue spot. It’s a birthmark.’

  ‘Is there any way to tell whether it’s a bruise or this blue spot?’

  ‘Not now Layla is deceased,’ Julia says, bowing her head. ‘A bruise would fade if she were living. A birthmark wouldn’t.’

  ‘And without photos of the back of Layla’s ear, or recollection from the parents – who say they don’t know, can’t remember, understandably – it’s impossible to say. And it’s impossible for you to say, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You say the toxicology screen was normal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There was no evidence of Calpol’s active ingredient, paracetamol, in Layla’s bloodstream?’

  ‘No, none.’

  ‘And so certainly not an overdose?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And finally, if Layla had somehow rolled over and became stuck in the Moses basket … if she hadn’t been able to turn her head … would her injuries look like this? The bleeding around the eyes, nose and mouth? The bruised gums?’

  ‘Yes. Maybe. It’s very hard to distinguish between accidental and homicidal smothering. But these do indicate … pressure applied.’

  ‘Nothing more from me, then,’ Harriet says, but she remains standing, allowing Julia’s words to linger in the courtroom.

  Impossible to tell. It could be a horrible, tragic accident that we will never understand.

  It is over. The pathologist is led out by the usher.

  I look straight at Becky. I’m not watching her, as I have been for the rest of this case, instead just exchanging a glance with her, as is natural to me, to us.

  She is turning her head to look at me at the same time and our eyes meet. And there it is. That understanding. She widens her eyes and—

  No. I cannot do this. I cannot connect with her. Not until I know. I think of my notes that I hide from Scott, back at the flat. Reams and reams, copied out from the internet, about wrongly accused women: women whose babies died for no reason, whose babies had accidents. Women released from prison years later, exonerated but unbearably damaged. But that’s not her. Not yet. I can’t exchange glances with her like this, and certainly not in open court. But I can still feel her gaze on me and I can’t help but dart a glance up again. God. She looks awful.

  What’s her barrister going to do about it? What’s their explanation for this damning evidence that’s been given? There was blood where it shouldn’t have been in my baby’s body. Somebody made that happen to my baby’s tiny eyes, nose and mouth that I grew inside myself, every single cell.

  The bruised gums.

  The fibres in
her lungs.

  The overheard shouting.

  Like finding the knife, the body, and Becky’s DNA on the fucking handle. How could it be an accident? How could it not be Becky?

  And yet, against all the odds, something seems to rear up in my gut and speak: It wasn’t Becky.

  There was somebody else there that night. I think back to what Marc said: came over.

  She wasn’t alone. He was there.

  I need to see him.

  40

  Becky

  4.00 p.m., Thursday 26 October

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  I promise myself I will go back in again when I get to fifty. I’m sitting in my car. Well, hiding in my car, really.

  I don’t understand why it is like this. Xander was such a fantastic baby. The judgement I felt towards other women, women whose babies were non-sleepers, whose babies wouldn’t accept dummies, bottles, who wouldn’t be weaned. Xander was easy; he did all of that. And, even then, it was too hard for me and Marc. We drifted apart. But then I cheated, severing us entirely from each other.

  We ended in separation, like so many couples before us. I remember his clear blue eyes meeting mine as we said our wedding vows. I would’ve put money on us. We used to laugh so much. That was the healthiest way through life, we agreed.

  But then he changed. Not fully. But a little bit. Some of the time. He developed an edge which I’d never seen before. ‘Get to your bedroom and out of my sight,’ he once said to Xander, after he’d discovered Xander had lied about having spent his pocket money on fidget spinners. It hadn’t been fair, and I’d told him as much, and he’d thumped the arm of the sofa, not looking at me, his jaw set. I’d opened a bottle of wine that night. That beautiful tannin lining my mouth, staining my lips. And, later, that lovely numbing effect.

  Layla is upstairs, crying, and I am in the car, breathing. It’s 4.00 p.m. and Xander is with his dad after school. I have tried everything with her. I googled it.