‘I’m all ears.’
‘Are you at work, by any chance?’
‘Yes, of course. Why do you ask?’
‘I was wondering if you could get your hands on an old report for me.’
‘A coroner’s report?’
‘Yes.’
‘That depends. How old? Was the post-mortem done here? Can you give me the name of the deceased?’
‘Yes, the post-mortem was carried out in 2012 by your office. The name is Ellie Slade. The Slade baby?’ There’s another silence, longer this time. ‘Holly, can you hear me? Holly?’
‘Yes, I’m still here. I’ll try and get hold of Ellie’s report for you. It shouldn’t be a problem. I can definitely show you the one on Amber’s death if that’s of any use. She died a few weeks before her twin?’
‘I’m aware of that,’ I say, ‘but Amber’s death wasn’t—’
‘I know. I’m the one who did Amber’s post-mortem,’ Holly finishes. That shuts me up. It hadn’t occurred to me that Holly might have been the pathologist who did the report. She and I met long after Melissa Slade’s trial and we’ve never discussed it. I wonder why she carried out Amber’s post-mortem, but not Ellie’s.
Holly promises to see what she can dig out and when I’ve said goodbye, I google the restaurant on my laptop. Damn it! It doesn’t look veggie friendly. I opt for a Thai restaurant in Clifton instead. Holly lives in the suburb of Cotham, so Clifton will be as handy for her as Redland. Distracted by Holly’s involvement in the Slade case, it takes me longer than it should to make the reservations online. Then I text Holly the address of the restaurant. But when I ring Nina to ask her to look after the kids, she’s unavailable.
‘Bollocks!’ I mutter, ending the call.
‘How old are they?’ Kelly asks, making me jump. I hadn’t realised she’d been listening in.
‘Who? My boys?’ I swivel round in my chair so that I’m facing her. ‘Noah’s twelve and Alfie’s nine.’
‘The offer’s still open,’ Kelly says.
‘What offer?’
‘I’ll babysit if you like.’ Kelly is looking at me earnestly.
I’m not sure who else I can ask, but I hesitate even so. Perhaps it’s because I’ve never liked to mix my private life with my professional life. Or maybe it’s because she used the word “babysit”, which my sons would object to. Or is it because I doubt her capabilities?
‘I could use the cash,’ Kelly adds.
I’m about to ask if she’s had any experience childminding, but I check myself. ‘Thank you, Kelly,’ I say instead. ‘That would be great, if you’re sure you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all. So, is Holly your wife, then?’
‘Er, no, my wife …’ I trail off as I notice Kelly peering at my wedding ring. She doesn’t know, and she doesn’t need to know. ‘Holly’s just a friend,’ I say. ‘Here, you may as well have this.’ I hand her the voucher I’ve been fiddling with.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s for two free meals at a posh French restaurant that has just opened in Redland. You’re not a veggie, are you?’ I realise I didn’t ask before buying her the bacon sarnie the other day.
‘No way. I love meat.’
‘Is there someone you’d like to take out to dinner?’
‘I’m single at the moment.’
‘Oh. Well, do you have any brothers or sisters? Or what about asking a friend?’
Kelly’s face clouds over and I wonder if I’ve said something to upset her. ‘My sis …’ She doesn’t finish her sentence. Then her smile comes back, although it seems a bit forced. ‘My mum likes juicy steaks. I’ll treat her. Do I need to write up a review?’
‘You got it.’
‘OK. Cheers for this.’ She waves the voucher at me, winking conspiratorially.
I spend the rest of the afternoon updating stories from my patch, making phone calls, proofreading Kelly’s copy for the next print edition and writing up my notes on Melissa Slade.
The whole time I’m working, I have Holly on my mind. Holly is sexy, smart and funny. She’s perfect for me. She’s perfect, full stop. I met her through an online dating website and when I first started seeing her, I was slightly put off by the thought that the hands touching me had been manipulating dead bodies all day. But Holly made me laugh; she made me feel like myself again. But a year and a half later, I’m still holding back.
She’s kind and patient, she loves kids, although she doesn’t have any, and I know she’ll make a great stepmum. But I’m not sure if my boys are ready. Until recently, Alfie still crept into my bed in the middle of the night and Noah has only just started bringing home good marks and reports again from school. I was so devastated after Mel’s death that the boys suffered not only because they’d lost their mum, as if that wasn’t bad enough, but also because their father was struggling to look after himself and consequently doing a lousy job of taking care of them. We seem to be finding our feet now. I’m worried that if I bring Holly into the equation, it might upset the balance. And I don’t want my boys to think I’m replacing their mother.
An instant message pops up from Claire and so, banishing Holly from my mind, I get up and head for the Aquarium.
‘How are you getting on with Melissa Slade?’ Claire says without preamble as I close the glass door and breathe in the smell of stale cigarette smoke.
I consider her question. It’s strange, the way she has formulated it. I feel an aversion towards Melissa Slade, even though I’ve never met her. Perhaps, given what happened to me, I should feel a connection. I have something in common with Melissa Slade, but it seems to have sprung from a very different experience. I hope I never do meet the woman. I don’t think I’d get on with her at all.
‘I’m not much further along than when we discussed it the other day,’ I say. ‘I’ve spoken to Simon Goodman, her first husband. He could be a useful contact, I think, as long as we stick to the facts and don’t paint his ex-wife in a bad light.’ I tell Claire about my brief conversation with the superintendent.
‘It’s a bit thin for the moment. We’ll sit on this for a while until you’ve talked to a few more family members. What about the husband?’
‘You mean Michael Slade? He’s an ex-husband now too. He’s next on the list.’
‘OK. Try and find something The Post won’t. There’s a story in here somewhere, I can feel it, and I don’t want them breaking news before us. Timing is everything. Keep me in the loop.’
‘Of course.’
‘That’s all.’
Back at my workstation, I attempt to find out where Michael Slade lives. I try my usual People Finder website, then Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. Nothing. There are several Michael Slades, but none of them is the right one. The man seems to have gone underground after Melissa’s trial. His name barely pops up again, even around the time of the appeal.
Out of ideas, I fire off a short email to Simon Goodman, feeling sure he’ll know where Slade lives. An hour later he writes back, asking me to ring him and giving me two or three windows to call him over the next couple of days. I sigh, frustrated and confused as to why he won’t answer my question by email.
The rest of the afternoon goes by quickly as I have a mountain of work to get through. It’s ironic that our print edition has never had a lower readership and yet